I forced myself to sit down and breathe calmly for a few moments; I could feel hot streams of fresh blood running down my sides. Then I began to think.
‘After the massacre at Thangbrand’s, we thought the traitor must be Guy. But Murdac’s letter to the Queen boasting of an informant was dated February, and so it cannot be him. Guy left Thangbrand’s in December.
‘Next: I think the massacre was designed to kill or capture Robin, who was supposed to be there at Christmas time but who was, in the event, delayed, and therefore the informant must have been someone who believed that Robin would be there at Christmas. Who knew so much about Robin’s movements?’
‘Someone close to him,’ said Thomas.
‘I think it must be one of four people,’ I said, ‘his lieutenants, his inner circle: Little John, Hugh, Will Scarlet or. . Tuck. So, who would want to see Robin destroyed? Little John. . well, it was Robin’s fault that he was made an outlaw. He had a comfortable billet at Edwinstowe as master-at-arms, Robin ruined all that when he murdered the priest. Robin forced him to become an outlaw.’
‘I just can’t see it,’ cut in Thomas. ‘John would die for Robin. He loves him like a brother.’
‘Which brings us to Hugh. I don’t believe he would betray his own brother. Robin saved him from a life of ignominy as a penniless hearth knight. Now he has power, money and he worships Robin, too. Just watch them together. So I don’t think it could be him, either.’
‘Will Scarlet, then?’ said Thomas. I thought for a moment.
‘He was a great friend of Guy’s as well as his cousin.’ I said. ‘And Guy could have made contact with him after he joined up with Murdac. He could have been passing on messages, for money or the hope of a pardon. But I can’t believe it. Will’s just not. . well, not bright enough to be an agent of the enemy, to burrow into Robin’s confidences, to trap him.’
‘So that leaves Tuck,’ said Thomas, with a leaden formality. And I grimaced.
‘I don’t want it to be Tuck,’ I said. ‘I love the man; he’s been so good to me. But, in all honesty, I can easily think of a reason why he might wish Robin ill.’
I didn’t know quite how to put this. So I said to Thomas: ‘Are you a good Christian?’
The ugly man smiled. ‘A Christian, yes, but not a very good one. Ah, now I see what you are driving at. Robin and his midnight woodland frolics: “Arise Cernunnos!” and all that pagan bollocks. I know Robin experiments with the old religion. Witchcraft, some call it. I heard he even sacrificed some poor sod, nearly cut his head off. But I don’t think he really believes in any of that nonsense. He just does it to add to his mystique with the country folk. To give himself an aura of supernatural power. Do you think that would give Tuck cause to betray him?’
‘I heard them arguing about it. It nearly came to blood-shed, ’ I said. We both fell silent for a while and then our musings were interrupted by a loud banging at the door. I stood up with a start and half drew my sword. ‘Steady, Joshua — that will just be Simon with the horses,’ said Thomas.
Simon had brought four horses for me and Thomas, all fully provisioned with grain for the animals and food and drink for us. The plan was for us to ride without stopping for Robin’s Caves but, in the event, the weather was so bad, constant rain and gales, and we made such poor progress through the mud, that we were forced to stop about halfway at an abbey near Lichfield, through sheer exhaustion. That day’s journey had been a nightmare for me. My scabbed sides and the burn on my arse gave me a great deal of trouble as I bounced about on the back of a horse at Thomas’s relentless mile-eating pace. In the end, despite my desire to get to Robin as soon as possible, I felt utter relief when we trotted through the gates of the abbey, sore, hungry and sopping wet. The monks asked no questions of us. We were fed a bowl of hot bean stew, our horses were rubbed down and after the brief, sparcely attended service of Compline in the gloom of the abbey church, I sank into an exhausted sleep in a narrow cot in the travellers’ dormitory. The next morning, still damp but much refreshed, though my burnt sides were still hurting like sin, we set out on fresh horses, determined that we would be with Robin by nightfall. And by late afternoon, our nags worn near to death, we were stopped by one of Robin’s patrols ten miles south of the Caves, and brought to see the man himself.
Robin, looking almost as haggard as Thomas and I, was seated at a table with a very thin man in a dark robe — a Jew, I realised with a shock like a face full of ice-cold water. He was the man I had seen in The Trip To Jerusalem, the man who had identified David the armourer for Robin and me to rob. The Jews of Nottingham, few as they were, were much despised. We called them Christ-killers and accused them of secretly kidnapping babies and using them in foul rituals. For a second, I wondered if Robin was involved in some Satanic business with this man; I would believe anything of him after witnessing that unholy blood-rite at Easter. But then I realised that their meeting was of a much more mercantile nature. As we approached the table, Robin pushed two heavy money bags towards the lean Jew and made a note on a scroll. All was made clear. This was a part of Robin’s business that I had not encountered before: usury. He lent money, ill-gotten gains from robberies, to the Jews of Nottingham and they lent it out to Christians at a steep rate of interest. Robin provided the initial funds, I had heard, but he also offered the Jews a measure of protection. If a man would not pay, Robin would send some of his hard men to visit, to make the point, forcibly, that a debt, even to a Jew, must be honoured.
Robin looked up and saw us for the first time. He smiled wanly. He looked as if he had not slept for days. ‘Thomas, Alan,’ he said. ‘Greetings. You know Reuben, of course?’ We both bowed stiffly to the Jew, who smiled back at us. He had a dark, lined, leathery, but immensely likeable face; black hair and a short, neatly trimmed beard. His twinkling brown eyes radiated goodness and, God knows why, but I immediately trusted him. ‘Am I correct in thinking that I am addressing Alan Dale, the famous trouvere?’ Reuben said, rising to his feet and making a bow in return to ours. I blushed; I knew he was teasing me but it was done with such good humour that I did not mind. ‘Not famous yet,’ I said, ‘but I am hoping, one day, to become at least competent.’
‘Such modesty,’ Reuben said with another smile, ‘a rare and valuable quality these days in the young.’ He bowed to Thomas, who grunted something unintelligible. ‘Sadly, my friends, I must now leave you,’ said Reuben, and he scooped the heavy money sacks from the table as if they were filled with air. I realised that he must be very strong for such a lean man. He bowed low to Robin, who stood and returned the bow, as if to an equal, and then the Jew walked out of the cave, packed the silver in his saddlebags, mounted his horse in one lithe movement, and cantered away into the dripping night.
At Robin’s invitation, we sat at the table. He looked at our mud-splattered, exhausted faces and said: ‘You’ve come to tell me about Marie-Anne.’ His voice seemed strained, his whole body drooped with misery. We nodded. ‘I know about that,’ he said. ‘Reuben told me. We are riding for Nottingham at dawn. But. . but there’s something else, isn’t there?’ I nodded again and, haltingly, I outlined my theory about the traitor in the camp. Robin listened in silence. As I finally came to a stop, he sighed, a long deep shuddering exhalation. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘Well, thank you for bringing this to me, Alan. It’s something I’ve suspected for some time, since Thangbrand’s in fact. And I think I may know who our man is.’ He sighed again. ‘I must ask you two, on your honour, not to speak to anyone of this.’ He stared at Thomas and then at me, his silver eyes boring into my head. ‘Say nothing about this to anybody,’ he repeated. We both nodded. And he continued: ‘But first we must recover Marie-Anne; so get some food, get some sleep and be ready to ride at dawn. It’s good to have you back, Alan,’ and he smiled at me, his silver eyes glowing in the candlelight. It was a brief glimpse of that golden, carefree smile of yore, shining like a beacon through his misery. At once I felt the old familiar glow of affection for him.