‘Good evening, masters,’ he said. He spoke haltingly as if he was not used to human speech, but there was something familiar about him. ‘Of your mercy, allow a poor man a place by your fire. . and a morsel of your meat, if you have some.’ I looked at Bernard, who merely shrugged, and moved his legs to allow the man to come around to our side of the fire into the shelter of the oak tree.
‘We have no food,’ I said. ‘But you are welcome to the comfort of our fire.’ He came into the shelter of the oak tree, put down his club, squatted down and held his hands out towards the fire. His arms, too, were painfully thin and covered with old scabs and fresh scratches. I eyed him suspiciously. I couldn’t rid myself of the idea that we had met before. Nottingham, perhaps?
After a few minutes silence, in which Bernard appeared to have fallen back to sleep, the man said: ‘May I ask, master, what brings you young folk into the forest on such a cold night — and without food or horses?’
‘That is our business,’ I said stiffly. ‘Not yours.’ I didn’t want to tell him anything about ourselves. There was something about him, a feral quality, that put me on my guard. And I silently vowed that I would not fall asleep while he was in our company.
‘It is your business, master, and I’m your guest. I’m sorry for my impudence, and I beg your pardon.’ He looked shy and embarrassed as he said this, and I felt a little guilty for being so gruff with him. But I was still not easy having him with us inside the hollow tree. And I was more and more certain that we had met before. ‘I’m going to sleep now, master, by your leave,’ the man said. And I nodded at him and tried to smile encouragingly to make up for my earlier discourtesy. He looked at me a little longer than was quite comfortable and I noticed his eyes, a light brown almost yellow colour, and then he curled up in his wolf-skin cape, for all the world like a large skinny dog, and went to sleep.
Bernard was snoring lightly by now and Goody hadn’t moved a muscle since the strange man had come into our camp. She was still wrapped from nose to toe in a cloak and lying unmoving at my feet. I put another log on the fire, gathered my cloak around my shoulders and determined to stay awake.
Sometimes a man’s will is just not enough. It was warm in our little tree shelter. The fire stones reflected heat into the wooden chamber and the sound of Bernard’s gentle breathing had a soothing effect. The horror and then terror of that long day no doubt also had their impact and soon I felt my eyelids drooping. I got up, walked around in the cold outside the shelter; scrubbed my face with snow. But when I sat down again my head began to droop once more. And I slipped into a strange dream world.
I was riding behind Robin in a cavalcade of soldiers. I galloped at his left shoulder, the position of honour. Before me, above me, his banner fluttered bravely in the wind: a grey wolf’s head on a white field. I gazed at the stylised image of the wolf’s mask on the flag as it rippled in the breeze and then, suddenly, the image changed and the animal face came alive, the black and grey brush-strokes on white linen became real fur, sharp pointed ears and snarling teeth and the animal was glaring at me. And then, with a roar it leapt, straight out of the banner, straight towards me. And I awoke with a start.
The strange man was standing over the sleeping form of Bernard holding his club in one hand. As my eyes opened, the weapon swept down and cracked into the trouvere’s head. I shouted something wordless and fumbled at my belt for my poniard. He turned and I was shocked by the transformation from the meek man humbly begging my pardon a few short hours ago. He had become a fiend, a beast: his yellow eyes glittered in that grey-bearded muzzle of a face, his mouth was slightly open and a thread of drool hung from his lips. ‘Meat,’ he said, almost in a whisper, ‘fresh meat. And it just walked into my house, without a by-your-leave, and made itself a fire. A fire to cook itself on.’ He laughed, a dry maniac cackle. I knew then that the Devil had entered him and he was mad. He advanced towards me in a crouch, the club held in both hands, the thick end swaying from side to side. ‘Come to me,’ he said. ‘Come for supper.’ And he laughed again. My hand was wet on the handle of the poniard; I stood erect and watched the movement of the club. It was hypnotic, and it was only by using considerable force on myself that I wrenched my gaze upwards to his eyes. I was scared, trembling with hideous ancestral fears, but I knew enough to wait, and watch those terrible yellow eyes for an indication of his attack.
Goody woke up and pushed her head out of the cloak. She was lying on the floor between me and the wildman. He stared at her. ‘Pretty, so pretty,’ he crooned. ‘So sweet and juicy. Welcome to my kitchen, little miss.’ He sucked the thread of saliva back into his mouth and swallowed it, smacking his lips. I took a pace forward, poniard extended in my right hand, so I was standing over Goody, but in doing so I stumbled slightly and was unbalanced. And then he moved — as fast as lightning. He feinted to my head with the club, a straight jab with the blunt end, and, when I pulled my head back out of range, he changed the stroke and the hard wood came crashing down on my right wrist. The poniard dropped to the floor and skittered away to the wall of the tree shelter. Then he leapt at me and, with Goody’s cloak tangling my feet, we both crashed to the floor.
He was amazingly strong for such a thin man; perhaps it was the strength of madness, for as we rolled on the ground he kept me pinned easily and he was trying to bite me, on the face and throat. I kept him away but with only the greatest difficulty. I could smell his breath, a strange faecal odour, and his yellow eyes blazed like candles in his snarling face. Fear was my friend — I locked my hands around his neck and, made more powerful by my terror, I held on for grim life, while he thrashed and kicked and scratched at my face and body. But he was too much for me, and he broke my grip and rolled on top of me, red mouth gaping, drooling and searching for the big veins in my neck. And I could only keep his sharp teeth from my life by pushing weakly on his sweat-slicked chest and shoulders. My grip was slipping and his face closing into my soft flesh. I screamed: ‘Goody, get the poniard!’ And with a heave that took all of my remaining might, I flipped him off my body and managed to pin one of his arms with my knee as he writhed on his back on the ground. I grabbed his free right arm with my left and for a second stared down at the hideous face of this beast-man. His eyes left mine and suddenly looked beyond me, above me to my right, and then I felt the rush of air past my face and two thin girlish arms, locked around the handle in a double grip, plunged the poniard hard down punching through his left eye and beyond into his tortured brain. The beast jerked once, twice, and then was stilclass="underline" the body limp, the arms spread wide in the shape of a crucifix. . the head nailed to the earth floor by a foot of cold Spanish steel.
I fell back panting with exertion. Goody rushed into my arms and I held her rocking slightly and gazing at the dead man — for truly in death he was no longer an animal. Just a man, dead. His wolf kilt had ridden up over his hips during the fight and I noticed that between his legs there was. . nothing. Just a dark ugly scar. It was then that I recognised him: it was Ralph, the rapist who had been beaten, mutilated and exiled from Thangbrand’s in my first few weeks there. Well, requiescat in pace, I thought. May God forgive you for your many terrible sins.