The whole of Robin’s force — just under four hundred archers, cavalry and spearmen — was drawn up at the harbour side to witness the punishment. It was a gloomy day, the fat grey clouds lightly spitting rain from time to time, a weak sun only rarely peeping through. The prisoner, a sailor called Jehan from my own hated ship the Santa Maria, had been gambling with a local fisherman. He had lost his dice game and owed the Griffon five shillings; more than he could afford. And so he had refused to pay the man, claiming that, as a pilgrim heading for the Holy Land, his debts should be frozen until he returned from his sacred journey. It was a cheeky way to avoid his debt, for it was true, the Holy Father, the Pope himself, had ruled that the debts of anyone on this Great Pilgrimage should be suspended until the debtor returned home. But that was a move designed to encourage knightly landowners with great mortgages to go off to fight for Jerusalem. His Holiness clearly did not intend his words to allow shifty gamblers to welsh on their agreements. The Griffon fisherman had complained to the Knights Hospitaller, who controlled his part of Messina, and they had reported the matter to the King; and Richard was determined to make an example of the poor man. Jehan should have paid up or, better still, heeded King Richard’s decree that outlawed gambling with the Griffons.
He was to be keelhauled — a harsh punishment that involved dragging the prisoner’s living body under the keel of a ship from one end to the other. And it is much worse than it sounds: after months at sea the keel of any ship is covered with tiny barnacles, sharp rock-like structures less than a quarter of an inch in height but rough and spiky enough to cut through skin and muscle if a naked body is dragged against them. The second danger, of course, is drowning. The man must hold his breath under water while undergoing the agony of being dragged over the keel-barnacles. Many drowned during this punishment; and those who did not were left appallingly lacerated. King Richard had ordered that this man must undergo keelhauling three times on three successive days. It was, in effect, a death sentence.
The man was stripped down to a pair of linen breeches, his hands and feet tied and attached to long ropes. He lay forlornly, eyes closed, skin puckered with cold, at the prow of the Santa Maria, which was moored about twenty yards from the quay, while a priest recited prayers over his thin, shivering frame. The rain began to fall harder.
Our men stood there in silence. Nobody had complained too much about the punishment: Jehan had been stupid and the consensus was that the punishment, while brutal, was not unfair. We had all been warned about gambling; Jehan had ignored that warning and then, much worse, had tried to welsh. The men hated a welsher. Besides, although we knew him, he was not truly one of us; just a Provencal sailor, hired in Marseilles to crew the ship.
I was standing on the harbour wall, chewing on a chicken leg, with William beside me, and thinking about Nur. At my feet was a yellow cur, a foul limping street dog from the stews of Messina; half its fur had been eaten away by mange, exposing scabbed pink skin; its ears were no more than ragged tatters after many a ferocious canine battle and it had but one yellow eye. But the hideous dog seemed to be strangely attracted to me. It had followed me all the way from the monastery as I walked down to the harbour and I could not seem to shake it no matter how many times I kicked at it or shooed it away. It was a bitch, I noticed, and she just stared up at me from her position at my feet on the rough stone of the harbour with her pathetic yellow eye, quietly loving me. It occurred to me that she looked at me in exactly the same way that I looked at Nur.
‘Gi-gi-give her your chicken bone,’ said William. ‘That’s a-a-all she wants, give her the bone and perhaps she will go-go-go away.’ William was always a kindly fellow, and I thought that his plan might work, so I tossed the chicken bone to the smelly yellow mongrel at my feet. The dog snatched the bone out of the air with an amazing swiftness and darted away through our legs. Well, I thought to myself with a smile, so much for love!
On the Santa Maria, Jehan had been picked up, head and feet, by two of his fellow sailors, with two more holding the ropes. With very little ceremony, they threw the man over the prow and with one man holding the rope attached to his feet and another on the rope attached to his arms they began to walk quickly along the two gunwales of the ship, dragging their ropes behind them.
‘Stop!’ a deep voice boomed from the stem of the ship. ‘Stop, you vermin, in the name of the King!’ It was Sir Richard Malbete. He had been given a new role by Richard — he was now the knight responsible for discipline and punishment in the whole army. It was an office that fitted his black soul like a glove. But it troubled me to see the Beast getting close to King Richard and being given responsibilities by him.
At Malbete’s command, the two sailors pulling their unfortunate fellow under the ship stopped dead. I could only imagine what the poor victim was feeling, unmoving, bleeding from a hundred cuts and slowly drowning under the keel of the Santa Maria. ‘You go too fast,’ rumbled Malbete. And summoning two of his men-at-arms, he had them draw swords and stand in front of the rope-bearing sailors, walking backwards along either side of the deck, only allowing the men dragging the victim to advance at a very slow walking pace unless they wished to impale themselves on the swords. Finally they reached the stem and, sheathing his sword, Sir Richard Malbete indicated, at last, that the sailors might pull up their colleague.
The victim was a mass of oozing cuts from his forehead to his shins; he had lost one eye, his nose was split and squashed against his face, and there were deep cuts across his belly and chest where the barnacles had sliced deeply. He looked as if he had been scraped repeatedly and deeply across his body with a particularly sharp rake. But he lived. He vomited what seemed like a gallon of seawater on to the deck, and while his friends among the crew swabbed gently at his wounds and tried to bind them, he coughed and flopped on the wooden deck, leaking gore like a gutted mackerel.
‘Tomorrow at noon he goes again,’ said Malbete. One of the sailors looked fearfully up at the Beast. ‘Begging your pardon, sir, but he’ll not survive another ‘hauling,’ he said in a respectful tone. The tall knight shrugged. ‘Tomorrow at noon,’ he said again and easily swung himself down into a skiff to be rowed the few yards ashore.
The sailor was right. The poor man did not survive the second keelhauling, and was dragged, bloody but quite dead, from the water at a little past noon the next day. I did not see it, for I was tending to my master. And feeding the yellow dog, who because of her skinned and battered appearance had been nicknamed Keelhaul, or Keelie, for short.
Keelie had not deserted me, as I had assumed — she reappeared as William and I were leaving the harbour after watching the punishment, and she followed us all the way back to the monastery. She had a pleading look in her eye, clearly wishing for another chicken bone, and though I shouted at her and even threw a half-hearted stone, she would not abandon me. So I decided to poison her. Well, not quite poison her but to feed her a small portion of everything that Robin ate. She would become his canine food-taster.
It was a plan that proved popular with Keelie. We tethered her with a rope around her skinny neck in a corner of Robin’s chamber and fed her choice portions from Robin’s bowl. It was William’s duty to take her, on her rope leash, out into the monastery garden morning and night and, after a few mistakes, when she soiled the floor of Robin’s chamber, she soon learnt where she was to go about her natural functions.
Regular feeding did wonders for Keelie. She quickly put on flesh and her fur began to grow back over the awful, naked pink skin. Her pathetic eye began to look brighter and, after a week or so, she developed a spring in her step that resembled that of a normal, healthy young dog. She looked well.
The same could not be said of Robin. Three days before the keelhauling he had eaten a piece of candied fruit peel from a bowl on the table in his chamber and he had become very ill immediately. No one could remember when the bowl had appeared on the table. The cooks and servants of the monastery had denied all knowledge of it, and there were dozens of candied-fruit sellers in the old town of Messina. The fruit could have been bought by almost anyone and, when Robin was not in his chamber, the room was not guarded so any man or woman in the monastery could have slipped in and placed the bowl of poisoned fruit there.
Immediately after eating the sugar-coated slivers of fruit peel, Robin experienced a tingling feeling, and then numbness on his mouth and tongue. He managed to tell Reuben, who had been summoned once again in his role as Robin’s physician. The numbness of the mouth was followed, Robin whispered to his Jewish friend, by nausea, vomiting and the flux, and a burning pain in his stomach. When Reuben had examined him he found that his pulse was dangerously slow, the heart struggling to beat. And Robin lay, grey, eyes closed and unmoving as his body valiantly struggled to rid him of the evil humours in his system.
Reuben could not immediately identify the poison, but he also seemed distracted as if his mind lay elsewhere; the King sent Robin a golden drinking cup which was set with four emeralds, and a message that he had been informed by the finest doctors in Sicily that the emeralds would serve to purify any poisons in wine. ‘A unicorn’s horn works just as well,’ muttered Reuben when he saw the cup. I did not know if he was being serious or not but he allowed Robin to use the cup to take large quantities of well-watered wine, brought to him by William. Father Simon came and filled the room with the sound of his mumbled Latin prayers and the smoke of costly incense to purify it of any harmful airs, and once again I smelled the pungent fragrance I had smelled in Reuben’s house so long ago in York.
‘What is that churchy smell?’ I asked Reuben when Father Simon had finished his endless beseeching of God for Robin’s deliverance from the Devil’s grip.
‘It is frankincense,’ said Reuben, not quite meeting my eye. ‘Do you not know it? It is burnt in every great church in Christendom. I would have thought you Christians would be entirely familiar with it.’
‘I know its scent, I was just not familiar with the name.’ I said with a touch of hauteur. I hated it when my low-born ignorance was unearthed. ‘So, frankincense, then,’ I said tasting the word as if it were a fine wine. ‘Does it come then from France?’
Once again Reuben gave me a slightly strange look. ‘Have you been talking to him about this?’ he asked, nodding at the sleeping form of my master on the bed — who but for the very slight movement of his chest looked as if he were dead.
‘No, we’ve never mentioned it. So does it come from France; is it the incense of the Franks?’
‘No.’ Reuben said nothing more. I stayed silent, too, and just stared at my friend, willing him to go on.
‘Oh, well, if you must know everything,’ said Reuben grumpily, ‘it is called frankincense because it is the ‘true’ or ‘pure’ incense. It is worth more than its weight in gold, far more, and it comes from my homeland Al-Yaman, in the far south, beyond the great deserts of Arabia.’ Then he turned back to his patient and ignored me. I sat down on a stool and thought for a while about frankincense. Was it truly worth more than its weight in gold? And every great church in the whole of Christendom was burning it at every holy service? Somebody was making a lot of money from this ‘pure’ incense. I realised that I had been staring at Robin’s battle standard, which was hanging on the wall of his chamber, for some time: the image of a snarling wolf’s head in black on a white background that always seemed to be leaping out of the cloth towards me.
An idea suddenly struck me, like a bolt of lightning. ‘Reuben,’ I said, ‘could… could it possibly it be wolfsbane that is poisoning him?’
Reuben, jerked his head round and stared at me. ‘Oh my God, I’ve been a fool,’ he said. ‘An utter fool. I was thinking of more exotic Sicilian poisons. Or something subtle and Persian…’
Suddenly he seemed to come to a decision — he turned back to Robin and very gently began slapping his face.
‘Robert, Robert, wake up; I need to see your eyes,’ said the Jew. As Robin struggled up from the depths of sleep, Reuben peered into his eyes. He seemed satisfied by what he saw and turned to me.
‘He has been poisoned with aconite; as you correctly guessed, what we would ordinarily call wolfsbane. So I need you to find some foxglove,’ he said. ‘It’s the only thing that I know can cure him. And don’t let him have any more wine. Just boiled water from now on.’
I looked at Reuben doubtfully. Foxglove was a known poison; why would he want to give a man who had already been poisoned more poison? And where on earth was I to find an English flower in Sicily?
Reuben must have seen my indecision. ‘Go to the herbalist in the old town, the shop next to the butcher’s in the main street. Mention my name, he is a good fellow and we have met several times to discuss medicinal matters; tell him that I need an ounce of powdered digitalis leaves. You will remember the Latin name? Digitalis — like fingers. Hurry boy, your master is dying.’ And so I went.
I found the herbalist easily, and procured the powder. But it was with some misgivings that I gave the little packet to Reuben, and watched him brew up a concoction of boiling water, honey, sage and the digitalis powder. He saw me watching suspiciously and gave me a hard stare. ‘Leave us, boy,’ he said. ‘Let your master have some peace to get well.’
I left, but I could not shake the dark thoughts that were gathering in my mind about Reuben. Could he be the one who was trying to kill Robin? It was impossible, surely. Robin had saved Reuben at York. But then, the dark side of my mind argued, Robin had also been indirectly responsible for the death of his beloved daughter Ruth.
Until that moment, I’d half-assumed that the poisoning had been accomplished by some wretch in the pay of Malbete. He had directly threatened Robin, and me, on the night Messina was sacked and I found Nur. I could easily imagine the Beast suborning a man-at-arms with money and the promise of a good position in his service, slipping him a box of poisoned candied fruit, and laughing into his wine at the reports that Robin was at death’s door. But a dark maggot was eating away at my trust; could it have been Reuben? No, never — Reuben was loyal to Robin. He would never stoop to poisoning his friend. If he had a problem with Robin he would either leave him or, if it was a serious matter of honour, challenge him to fight. But poison? Never.
But, argued my distrustful maggot, he knew about poisons and medicine — did he not just admit that he discussed such matters with the herbalist in Messina — and he didn’t recognise that the poison was common wolfsbane, which was odd… unless he did know that it was wolfsbane because he had given it to Robin himself, and now he was giving him another poison — foxglove! I was on the point of rushing back into Robin’s chamber and confronting Reuben with an open accusation when reason was restored to its throne and the maggot banished to its fetid hole. Reuben was loyal; Reuben was a true friend. Besides, there was nothing I could do. I had no proof. If I accused Reuben, he might take offence and stop treating Robin, who might then die. For all I knew, foxglove might well be a miracle cure
…
In the end, I did nothing but prayed hard for Robin’s speedy recovery in the cathedral and vowed to visit my master regularly to check his health. If he sank any lower, perhaps I would consult the King’s personal physician. If he died, I would take bloody revenge on the Jew.
In the event, Robin began to recover. Slowly, at first, his pulse became stronger and more regular. His colour improved and within three days he was able to sit up in bed and sip the hot concoctions that Reuben prepared for him. I was terribly relieved and happy: Reuben was not the poisoner and, thanks to his care, Robin would live. But I had another reason to be filled with great soul-filling joy: Nur and I had become one.
One evening I came late to my cell, after sitting with Robin for several hours, to find William looking worried. He was waiting for me outside the door of the little chamber.
‘I, I, I think there is so-something wr-wrong with Nur,’ he said as he saw me walking up the corridor towards him. ‘She’s cr-crying her eyes out but I can’t understand what the pe-pe-problem is.’
I walked into the monk’s cell and saw Nur sitting on the padded stone shelf that served as my bed, wrapped in my warm green cloak. Her eyes were red and the black kohl that she used around them was streaked down her cheeks. She looked like a little lost girl and my heart melted inside my body. When she saw me she burst into a fit on uncontrollable sobbing and in two steps she was in my arms. ‘You… have… no… love… for… me…’ she said between gasping sobs. She said it like a phrase that she had leamt by heart, parrot-fashion. And I believed I knew who had taught it to her: a certain meddling Jew, who was also a wonderful, miraculous, life-giving friend. I held Nur tenderly and stroked her silky black hair, smoothing it over her head and down her long back. My hands discovered that she was naked under the cloak, and I just had time to gruffly dismiss William, who was gawping at us from the doorway, and watch him leave and gently shut the door, before I surrendered to the searing passion that had been raging inside me for so many weeks and crushed her soft mouth against mine.
What can an old man write about lovemaking? Each new generation believes that it has discovered it for the first time and that its elders are utterly grotesque in their coupling. But even though I am old now, I was not then, and I remember the first time that I made love with Nur as perhaps the most beautiful, moving, deeply wonderful night of my life.
After the initial kiss, which was like a long draught of sweet wine, we tore at each other like wild beasts in our passion. She ripped my clothes from me and I mounted her without hesitation and felt the exquisite plunge as I slid deep inside her, the heat roaring in my loins, her legs wrapping around my waist, her soft breasts crushed against my chest. I was swiftly swept away in a whirlwind of pleasure; I bucked and plowed and kissed her, teeth clashing, whenever I could find her mouth, the unbearable pressure building beneath my balls as I teetered on the brink of explosion, each stroke more exquisite than the last, until at last I erupted in a series of gasping shudders deep inside her.
That night lasted for the blink of an eye, and will stay for ever in my memory. Time had no meaning when I was with her, inside her, beside her and, in the breaks between each bout of lovemaking, we kissed long and deep, as if we were sucking life itself from each other’s sweet lips. After we had made love twice, Nur began to show me a little of the arts she had leamt in the big house in Messina. With her tongue and fingers, kissing and licking and stroking in every secret place, she brought me to the point of ecstasy, and then let me subside before it was too late. Again and again, I was made breathless by her wanton, silky camality, her suppleness, and her willingness to bring me pleasure by every means possible, including some delightful practices of which I had never even dreamed, and which I was fairly sure would have been thoroughly condemned by any priest or monk. Near dawn, we lay in each other’s arms, spent, and I stared in wonder into her fathomless dark eyes, her slim, infinitely precious body in the circle of my arms. We did not speak, for my Arabic had not progressed much beyond the formal greetings, and Nur had only that phrase of French that Reuben had taught her, but in that moment we needed no words. We lay together in a bubble of love, wrapped safe in each other’s tender gaze.
I believe I reached a pitch of happiness in those early morning hours, after our first night together, with the monastery silent around us and that dark head sleeping on my shoulder, the like of which I have never reached again. My body felt empty and yet so full of joy; light of soul and yet weary beyond belief.
After that wondrous, magical night she came to me again the next evening, and the next. William was banished to the monastery dormitory, which he told me was occupied by a lot of snoring, farting men-at-arms, but the boy bore his exile with fortitude and I caught him smiling at me on several occasions, happy for my happiness.
Sir James de Brus made no comment about my new situation, but I knew that he knew, and he seemed to show me a greater respect as I honed my technique at the quintain and on the practice field. One day, as we were just finishing our routines, I noticed that Sir Robert of Thumham had been watching, with an entourage of knights. We rode over to him, and he greeted us both with a cheery salute.
‘Your skills are coming along very nicely, Alan,’ said Sir Robert in a friendly tone. ‘You are almost as good with a lance as a well-seasoned knight.’
‘Thank you, Sir Robert,’ I said, bowing from the waist. ‘But I think the skill resides mainly in my horse, Ghost.’
Sir Robert laughed. ‘Nonsense; I’ve had my eye on you for some time now and I see the makings of a first-class chevalier. If you can impress the King on the field of battle in the Holy Land, who knows — maybe, God willing, he will one day grant you the honour of knighthood, of serving him as one of his household knights; the elite of the army. Your father was from a noble family, I believe, and you hold some land of the Earl of Locksley?’
I nodded, surprised that he knew all this, and very pleased. It had never crossed my mind that I would ever make it into the ranks of the knighthood, to be Sir Alan of Westbury. In my own head, I was still a ragged cutpurse from the stews of Nottingham, an orphaned thief and outlaw. It was a wonderful thought and I beamed happily at Sir Robert.
‘The King is already impressed with your courtly talents,’ he went on. ‘He likes you; he much admired your rendering of Tristan and Isolde, a month or so ago. In fact, I come directly from him, bearing an invitation to dine with him on Christmas Eve. The King wishes you to sing for his party. How about that?’
It was a great honour, but as often happens to me in the presence of great men, I was unable to think of a suitable reply. So I muttered something about how grateful I was and bowed once again.
‘The day after tomorrow at noon, then. In the new castle,’ he said nodding up at the dark bulk of Mategriffon, which loomed over us. Then he smiled, turned his horse and, followed by his knights, he rode away.
‘That is a rare privilege,’ said Sir James. ‘To dine with the King. You’d best make sure you don’t disgrace yourself.’
He was right, and I had to perform, too. I bid him a swift farewell and hurried back to the monastery to begin working on the music; I needed to create something really special, I said to myself. But inside my head the words Sir Alan Dale, Sir Alan of Westbury, and Alan, the Knight of Westbury, were darting about like a flock of sparrows trapped in a hall.
Robin was pleased for me when I told him I would be playing for the King. He was out of bed and feeding Keelie with scraps from a plate of boiled mutton. He had lost a lot of weight but seemed cheerful considering how close to death he had been. ‘I’ve decided that I should have more fun,’ he declared. ‘Life is short and death awaits us all, and as I am doubtless damned for all eternity for my many sins, I have decided that I will have some pleasure before I face the fires of Hell. So come on Alan, let us drink a flask of wine together and you can play something for me.’
And so I indulged my master. And we passed a very pleasant evening, singing, drinking, making merry. At midnight, when my head was swimming and my hands were stiff and cramped from the vielle, I laid down my instrument and made to leave. Nur would be waiting for me in my cell and I longed to be naked with her under the blankets.
‘Alan,’ said Robin, as I had risen and was making unsteadily for the door. ‘Sit down again for a moment. I want to talk to you.’ I duly sat down again on a stool by the big table. ‘I want you to do something for me,’ Robin said, and he seemed entirely sober, his eyes shining in the candlelight. ‘I want you to find out who is trying to kill me. Discreetly and quickly, find out who it is, and report back to me. There have been three attempts in the past year, and by sheer luck, I have survived them all. But I will not always be so lucky. If you wish to serve me well, find the man responsible.’
I had been half-expecting something like this. Robin was right; the situation could not go on with a killer running loose, undetected in Robin’s familia.
I nodded my acceptance at Robin. And he said: ‘Tell me what we know so far of the three attempts…’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘the first attempt, in your chamber at Kirkton, was made by that archer Lloyd ap Gruffudd — Owain has discovered from his enquiries in Wales that Lloyd was promised the hundred pounds of German silver by Murdac’s man, and also that his only son’s life had been threatened if he did not kill you. Obviously, he’s dead but his wife back in Wales was quick to tell Owain’s man everything she knew; she wanted to be sure there would be no reprisals from us. Owain sent her a handful of coins for her honesty and has brought her and her son to live at Kirkton Castle where they will be safe. So Lloyd is dead, but the lure of Murdac’s blood money could be inducing anyone, any archer, man-at-arms, or even knight to try to claim it.’
‘I wish I could claim it myself,’ said Robin gloomily. I knew that he was growing very short of money; the King had yet to pay him a single penny piece, and the money he had borrowed in England was nearly gone — but I did not wish to be distracted from the discussion of the assassin and so I ignored his comment and said: ‘We also know that, who ever it is, it is someone close to you because both times, with the snake and the poisoned fruit, the killer had easy access to your private chamber or pavilion, therefore it is someone whose presence there would not be commented on. But that still doesn’t narrow the field. Almost anyone who serves you could find an excuse to come in here; they could say, if asked, that they were delivering a message from Owain, or Little John, or Sir James, for example. So that doesn’t help us much.’
‘Well, that stops now,’ said Robin decisively. ‘From now on, the only way to get in touch with me, to speak to me, to see me is through you… and through John, I suppose. I can’t believe John Nailor would want me dead after all these years. In fact, if he did want me dead, I’d already be dead.
‘So,’ my master continued, ‘all contact with me must go through you and John. You bring me my food, tasted by Keelie, of course,’ and he smiled at the yellow bundle that was curled up peacefully in the corner of the chamber, ‘you bring me my wine, any orders for the men go through you, anyone who wants to speak to me talks to you or John and you relay that to me. If I leave this place, either you or John accompanies me at all times. Is that clear?’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘but it all this really necessary? It’s going to look very odd — and the men won’t like it. They will feel you don’t trust them.’
‘Can’t be helped,’ said Robin. ‘The more quickly you find out who the assassin is, the more quickly we can stop this charade. Have you any ideas?’
‘I have a feeling the assassin may be a woman,’ I said. ‘And I’m not truly convinced the motive is Murdac’s money. It may well be Sir Richard Malbete. When I ran into him in Messina, the night after the battle, he promised me that he would have his revenge on you — and me.’
‘It could be Malbete,’ he said, musingly. ‘But that would mean the attempt in France was still made by somebody else, as the Beast did not join us until Messina. Could there really be three assassins — one in Yorkshire, one in France and one here? I can’t see it. It must be one person.’ He rested his chin in his left palm and stared into space for a while.
‘Why do you think it might be a woman?’ Robin asked after a while.
‘Because of the nature of the attacks,’ I said. ‘They are underhand, silent, sneaky: a snake in the bed, poisoned food; that’s not the work of a man, a soldier.’
‘I think you may have an exaggerated idea of the honour of our fighting men,’ said Robin with a laugh. ‘And while I hesitate to boast of my prowess, the odds against killing me, man to man, face to face, each of us armed are reasonably long. And even if he could do it, it might take time to dispatch me, and, who knows, the renowned swordsman Alan of Westbury, might come to my aide.’ He was teasing me. ‘No, if you have to kill someone, poison is as good a way as any.’
I said nothing; I couldn’t explain it, but I felt sure that the assassin was not a warrior. I could not think how to express it properly to Robin, so I held my tongue on the matter. Instead, we discussed the practicalities of Robin’s plan to isolate himself, and how it would work on a daily basis.
As I was leaving, Robin grasped my arm. He said: ‘I know that we have not always seen things the same way; I know that sometimes, for whatever reasons, you are angry with me; but I want you to know that I appreciate your undertaking this task, and I’m aware that, if you succeed, I will owe you my life.’
As I stared into his face, I thought of Ruth, and the man whose life was sacrificed to appease a false woodland god in our outlaw days, and a dozen other cruelties that Robin had practiced in pursuit of his personal goals — but in that moment I could not find any of the anger I had felt in the past.
And then I thought of all he had done for me, of the number of times he had saved me, in battle and by altering the course of my life; of the lordship of Westbury, of the friendship he had shown me, of my position of honour among the ranks of his tough men-at-arms.
‘I am doing nothing but my duty as a loyal vassal, and nothing I do not owe you a hundred times over,’ I said with genuine feeling in my voice. And gripped his forearm and left before my emotions undid me.
The King was in a festive mood as we gathered in the great hall of Mategriffon Castle for his revels. A great fire roared on two giant flagstones in the centre of the hall, the sparks flying upwards to disappear in the dark bank of smoke in the ceiling which only slowly dissipated through the openings, high up at the sides of the hall roof. Tables were set out in a horseshoe shape around the great fire, which gave the meal a cosy family feeling that was seldom seen in at a royal feast. At the centre of the head table sat the King, who was calling out toasts and greetings to his guests — there were no more than two dozen of us — and urging them to taste the choicest cuts of meat on the silver platters scattered about the table. Beside the King, to his right in the place of honour, sat Tancred, King of Sicily, a wizened little monkey of a man with a ribbon of dark hair scraped over the top of his bald head in an attempt to hide his dearth of locks.
I sat at one of the tables at the side, next to Sir Robert of Thumham, whom I greeted with happiness, and a surly French knight that I did not know. We addressed each other politely, the Frenchman and I, but with a lack of genuine interest; anyway, in the presence of kings, it is more rewarding to pay attention to the greatest man in the room. Richard joked and laughed and devoured great quantities of suckling pig, ripping the meat from the ribs with his strong white teeth, and after an hour or so of gorging, he wiped the grease from his chin with a crisp linen napkin and after toasting me with a goblet of wine, he invited me to perform for his guests.
I had written something especially for that evening, which was infused with my love for Nur; although of course I could not proclaim that I was in love with a slave girl who had been a rich man’s plaything. So I made up a standard tale of love for a great lady, far above my station, whom I could only adore from afar. If I remember rightly, it began: ‘My joy summons me
To sing in this sweet season
And my generous heart replies
That it is right to feel this way…’
It was accompanied with a straightforward but pretty tune on the vielle, the music never overpowering the lyrics, but adding to their beauty and twisting a melody around the lines of poetry.
Richard adored the song. He loved it so much that he wanted to be part of it, to own it, even to claim it for himself. A second vielle was fetched — I think it belonged to that old troublemaker Bertran de Bom — and while a servant was tuning it, Richard paced up and down the hall muttering to himself, and scowling. Then he swung round on me and, giving me a beatific smile, said: ‘I have it, Blondel. Verse and verse, yes? Turn and turn about?’
I believe he had forgotten my given name at this point, caught up as he was in the act of composing, and that was why he gave me a nickname that referred to my blond hair, but I was not going to complain. I was to swap verses with my King. Was there any greater honour for a young trouvere?
Richard made me begin again, and once more I sang the first verse: ‘My joy summons me
To sing in this sweet season
And my generous heart replies
That it is right to feel this way…’
When I had finished the line and the accompanying musical chords, the King took over. Bowing his vielle a little stiffly, he repeated the refrain and then he subtly altered the phrasing and sang, to the same timing as my verse: ‘My heart commands me
To love my sweet mistress
And my joy in doing so
Is a generous reward in itself…’
It was very witty, the use of my own words — joy, sweet, generous and heart — but in a different order to convey a similar message, and I’ll confess that I was slightly taken aback at my sovereign’s skill as a poet. It had taken me all day to write the song, but Richard’s response had come in less time than it takes to put on a pair of boots. But I rallied quickly and when he had finished I replied to his verse with one on my own, with a little twist in the tail. It was a cheeky thing to do, nearly insolent, and I knew it, but I sang: ‘A lord has one obligation
Greater than love itself
Which is to reward most generously
The knight who serves him well…’
I was not looking for gain myself, truly I was not, but I dearly wished the King would pay Robin the money he had promised him. So while using a common trouvere’s theme — the duty of a good lord to be generous — I also wanted to get a subtle message across that would benefit my master Robin and help him out of his financial difficulties.
King Richard was not troubled in the slightest by my verse, and after a line or two of vielle music, improvising on my theme, he returned with: ‘A knight who sings so sweetly
Of obligation, to his noble lord
Should consider the great virtue
Of courtly manners, not discord.’
And with a great flourish of his horsehair bow, Richard played the final notes and set down his vielle. The applause was deafening. It was a brilliant rebuttal of my verse, and Richard was rightfully pleased with himself. He grinned at me across the tables laden with half-eaten food. And then, he turned to his left and forced an elderly English knight out of his place so that I might sit beside him. When I was ensconsed in a huge oak chair next to my sovereign, he filled a jewelled cup with his own hand and gave it to me, and as I drank he said: ‘Bravo, young Blondel, one day we will make more music together, you and I, perhaps a duet beautiful enough to tame the Saracens, even Saladin himself, eh?’ And he grinned at me, blue eyes twinkling, white teeth gleaming in the candlelight. I could think of nothing to say but merely nodded, murmured, ‘Yes, sire, as you wish,’ and sat back in the great chair basking in his good favour.
Then he leaned in close to my ear and said: ‘And you may tell your master, the cunning Earl of Locksley, that I have not forgotten my debt to him — and he shall have his precious silver in the morning.’