When Dickon came to see me the next morning at the hall in Westbury, I had seated myself in a high wooden chair, with my naked sword across my knees. He looked very old standing there in front of me: his thin face had a yellowish tinge from drink, what little hair he had left was milk-white; the empty sleeve added to his forlorn air.
I sat there in silence for a long while, just glaring at him, while he shuffled his feet and began to look more and more uncomfortable. Then he spoke: ‘You called for me to see you, sir,’ he said in a wavering, frightened voice.
I let his words hang in the air for a few moments and then said: ‘Tell me, Dickon, how did you lose your arm?’
He was taken aback by my question. ‘But, sir, you know full well yourself,’ he said. ‘You were there with me at Arsuf. You know that I lost it to one of those dirty heathens with a great big curvy sword. Surely you remember!’
I did remember. I remembered Dickon as a bright-eyed young archer, not much older than me, a rare Englishman in those ranks of tough Welsh boys. I remember him taking his wound, a scimitar cut, in the fight with the Berber horsemen, and his cheerfulness afterwards, in spite of the pain, when I visited the wounded the day after the battle and brought food and water to them.
‘You served with Robin Hood, then; before he was made Earl, in Sherwood?’ I said.
‘Yes, sir, as did you.’ Dickon was now completely confused. I could see that he was wondering whether old age had stolen my mind.
‘What would Robin do to an outlaw who stole from him?’ I asked quietly. And suddenly, all the blood drained from Dickon’s face as he was transported back more than forty years to the wild days in the forest when my master ruled his men by naked terror.
‘I was trained by Robin — he taught me much about crime and its suitable punishment,’ I said, my voice as menacing as I could make it. Then I stood up, hefted my sword and walked over to Dickon. He fell to his knees, trying to beg for mercy but his mouth was too dry to allow him to speak. I put the sword tip against the stringy bicep of his one remaining arm, resting the sharp point gently against it.
‘Believe me when I say this to you, Dickon,’ I continued. The poor man kept glancing down at the sword and then up again to my face. ‘If you steal from me again, if you take from me so much as a crust of dry bread, I will hack off that one remaining arm and feed it to my pigs. Do you hear me?’
Dickon nodded. He was actually trembling with fear.
‘But, like our old master Robin, I do not care much for courts of law, and so I will not prosecute you in the manor court, nor the King’s court for the theft of my piglets; but I will fine you a shilling to recompense me for my loss. This is my judgment as the lord of this manor, and this is also the agreement between us as former comrades. Do you swear to abide by it?’
He licked his lips and croaked: ‘I swear it.’
‘Very well then, you may go.’ And I watched him lurch to his feet and stumble out of the hall door.
I knew that Marie would be angry that I had let him off with a small fine; and Osric would be very puzzled. But, my master Robin, although now rotting in his grave, would have approved. Dickon had fought bravely with me in the Holy Land; he had suffered with me there, and for forty years after he took his wound he had faithfully tended my pigs here at Westbury, year in, year out, rain or shine. I would never have seen him hanged for a piglet or two; and neither would Robin.
It is simply a matter of loyalty.