She led me through a part of the castle that I hadn’t known existed. Down corridors, and up stairs, through twisting cob-webbed ways, until we paused finally in the shelter of a little annex at the head of a narrow passage that sloped downwards. I peered round the corner and saw that at the end of the passage there was a small wooden door in the castle wall. ‘Thomas is waiting outside, beyond that door,’ whispered Marie-Anne. That was the good news, but I could see that, on this side of it, there was a very large problem. Two problems to be precise.
Seated on two wooden stools, playing dice by the light of a guttering candle, were two strapping men-at-arms with swords at their waists. One of them I recognised as the man who had brought the brazier into my torture cell, and held my arse cheeks apart while my dignity was ripped away. The other I did not know, but there was a good chance after the fuss in the hall the day before, that he would know me. Marie-Anne whispered: ‘Maybe, if I could distract them. .’ But I shook my head. I could feel a tide of purple rage rising from my bowels up into my chest. I had been tied up, stripped, burnt and humiliated; tortured and forced to speak against my will. But now my hands were free. My head felt dizzy with what I knew I was going to do, but a great wild joy was growing inside me. ‘Thank you, Marie-Anne,’ I whispered, ‘I thank you with all my heart for what you have done, but I must do this myself.’ And pulling the deep hood on the monk’s robe forward to cover my face, I stepped out into the passage way and walked confidently towards the soldiers, hands held together in front of me in the attitude of prayer.
My steps were light, but my heart felt huge in my chest and I was aware of every inch of my body, from my poor burnt ribs, and the blistering inside my bum cheeks, to the sweat on the skin of my fingertips. I felt as if I were buzzing like a swarm of bees with dark, joyous fury.
As I approached the two men-at arms, they rose from their seats; one of the men scooping the dice and hastily putting them away in his pouch so that a man of God, as they assumed me to be, would not know that they had been gambling.
‘Can we help you, Brother?’ asked the man on the left, the taller of the two, the man who had been in the torture cell. I walked right up to him and tilted my head back as if to peer shortsightedly up at his face, and then as fast as a snake I went up on to my toes, whipped my head forward and smashed it into the bridge of his nose in a short hard arc. It was a colossal blow, with all the anger at my recent humiliation ringing through it and, coming from what appeared to be a monk, it was totally unexpected. I could feel the crunch of bone and gristle as my forehead powered into his face and and he dropped like a stone at my feet. Then I turned, the blood roaring in my veins, and launched myself at the second man, grabbing him by the shoulders and trying for a second massive headbutt, as effective as the first. His mouth was wide in total surprise, but he moved his head sideways just before my strike and all I achieved was a glancing blow as my forehead raked across his cheekbone. Then we were both on the stone floor, grappling like madmen. My rage found an outlet and I knew I was screaming incoherently as I pounded again and again at his head with both my fists in turn. But he was stronger than me and, like myself, he was no stranger to street fighting. As we rolled on the hard floor he caught my forearms, crushing them in his meaty hands, ending the rain of blows that had left his face bloody and bruised. So I brought my knee up into the fork of his legs, my kneecap driving hard into the pelvic bone and, catching him by surprise, I mashed his balls between that bony mortar and pestle. He screamed in agony, doubled up and tried to protect his ruptured privates with his hands, which meant releasing my arms. So I grabbed a hank of his long, greasy hair and smashed his head down as hard as I could against the stone floor. He was only mildly stunned, but it was enough and I took his head with both hands by the ears and smashed it twice more against the flagstones. His eyes rolled back in their sockets and suddenly I was on my hands and knees, panting, my burnt ribs bleeding, and looking down at two battered, unconscious men. Neither had had time to even draw their swords. I staggered to my feet, waved goodbye to Marie-Anne who was goggling at me with her pretty mouth wide open, unbolted and pulled open the door and stepped out into the cool night air — and tumbled straight into the arms of Thomas.
He glanced at the unmoving bodies of the men-at arms with a look of disbelief, closed the wooden door tightly behind me and said: ‘Can you walk?’ And, half supporting me, he led me down the steep path from the castle and into the dark narrow streets of Winchester itself.
For two days I hid in a back room of the Saracen’s Head, nursing my wounds with a concoction of goose-fat and herbs, waiting for the one-eyed man’s return. Thomas had collected my poniard and sword from the castle and returned them to me before disappearing off to gather information from his contacts. I wore my weapons night and day — even when I slept. Something had changed in me since that terrible night of fire and pain. I was harder; something of the boy had been burnt out of me. But I also knew myself better. I knew that I would have told them anything if Robert of Thurnham had not intervened when he did. So I vowed I would not be taken alive again to undergo more of that treatment. I would die first. On the morning of the third day, Thomas came with news.
We sat at the rough table in the common room of the tavern, eating bread and cheese. He was silent for a few moments and then he sighed and said, ‘First things first: the King is dead. God rest his soul. He died ten days ago at Chinon and his body is being taken to lie at rest in the abbey at Fontevraud. Duke Richard will take the throne now, when he decides to return to England. But that could be months away.’
I was shocked. I had known the King was ill but for my whole life Henry, God’s anointed ruler, had been a fixture of my world. I could hardly comprehend that he should be no more.
‘The castle is like a kicked ants’ nest,’ said Thomas, ‘with messengers coming back and forth. Eleanor has been formally released by FitzStephen, though she is staying at Winchester for a few more days.’ He paused, sighed and said: ‘But I have worse news than the King’s death.’ He breathed out heavily again. ‘The lady Marie-Anne has been taken. Sir Ralph Murdac and his men snatched her while she was out hawking with her ladies yesterday morning. We think that little black-haired shit-weasel is, as we speak, hurrying to Nottingham with our master’s lady. And when he gets there he will marry her.’
‘But she would never consent,’ I said. Thomas laughed, a cackle entirely without mirth. ‘Consent? She’ll have no choice. Murdac has enough priests in his pocket to marry them whether she consents or no. He wants the Locksley lands and, with the King dead, well, there is no power to stop him. If they are married by the time Richard is crowned, he will not separate them. Murdac will be a powerful man and Richard may wish for his support. If she continues to refuse the marriage, he will force her, maybe even have his men rape her. Her honour would then be destroyed and no one would have her. Even Robin might feel differently if he knew she had been Sir Ralph’s and half a dozen of his randy soldiers’ bed-partners, whether she was willing or not.’
‘I’ll murder the bastard.’ I felt the scabs on my burnt torso split. ‘I’ll cut his fucking head off.’ I was panting heavily, somehow standing over Thomas and my sword was in my hand. I said: ‘I must go to Robin now, and we must ride to Nottingham immediately!’
Thomas was infuriatingly calm: ‘Yes, we must go to Robin. But we need to think a little first. Murdac would rather have a willing bride than one whom he has violated. So we probably have a little time. Sit down before you do yourself an injury. We need to think about your traitor. My friends are bringing horses and provisions for the journey, but until they arrive, calm yourself and tell me who the traitor might be. Think! Who is he, Alan? Start from the beginning.’