The Death of Robin Hood

by Angus Donald

  And then I heard the trumpets.

  Lord Fitzwalter’s mounted men, a full conroi of thirty knights poured on to the bridge, thundering in from the southern side, horses at full gallop and lances couched. The whole structure shook with the force of their charge, the very planks bouncing beneath my feet. They smashed into the enemy and cut through their mass like a plough turning earth in the furrow, King John’s mercenaries leaping for the rail on either side, desperate to escape the deadly spear points of the pounding cavalry and willing to risk the river if it meant they would not be crushed to red offal beneath the churning hooves.

  The trumpets sounded again.

  The men in front of us were miraculously gone but Mastin, myself and the one surviving archer pressed ourselves back against the rail, all crying, ‘A Locksley! A Locksley!’ to identify ourselves, fearful the cavalry in the madness of their victory would cut us down too.

  I saw Miles, bare-headed, his long fair hair flying out behind him, clatter past on a pure white stallion, his lance-point red and glistening. He set himself at a big fellow, wounded in the leg, who was limping away through the northern gateway, just yards from quitting the bridge. Miles’s lance dipped and he plunged it into the running man’s back with a cry of triumph, the force of the blow lifting the man in the air, his feet kicking ludicrously as he tried to run.

  In the middle of the bridge, the knights were cutting down the last of the enemy, those too slow or too fearful to trust themselves to the river. Screams for mercy, hands waving in a vain attempt to ward off the chopping blades. Horses reared and plunged, their hooves shattering skulls and limbs and sinking into a writhing carpet of bodies. In the flickering light of the conroi’s torch bearers, the bridge seemed littered with dying men, the whole area drenched with blood, as if vast barrels of gore had been poured on to it. A man gashed by many swords slipped over the rail and splashed down below. The last enemy to escape.

  The bridge was still ours. In the dark water below it, I could hear the slosh of oars and the panicked shouts of men, and on the fringes of the light the shapes of small boats, the rowers straining to carry themselves away as swiftly as they could.

  Then I smelled it, a choking acrid taste in the back of my mouth, and the first thin tendrils of smoke leaking upwards through the cracks between the blood-soaked planks, snaking over the bodies of the dead. Now a trickle but within a dozen heartbeats a stream, then thick grey plumes appearing from both sides of the bridge. An orange glow from underneath, like walking past the mouth of a forge.

  ‘Fire!’ I shouted. ‘They have fired the bridge!’

  Chapter Five

  Two days later, early morning in October, grey and dismal, and my lord and I were playing chess in the grand hall of the keep of Rochester Castle using one of the slim windows on the northern side to light the board.

  ‘We won, didn’t we?’ I said to Robin. ‘We beat them off. The cavalry destroyed at least half of them. The victory honours must go to us, surely?’

  ‘Depends what you mean by victory,’ said Robin. ‘If you look out that window, you can see that they achieved exactly what they set out to do. King John charged them with destroying the bridge, cutting us off from aid from London, and it is destroyed.’

  I glanced out of the narrow arch and saw that what he said was true. Where the bridge – the only practical crossing of the Medway for fifteen miles – had once stood was now a large expanse of brown water, with two charred gatehouses and the skeletons of a dozen blackened rowing boats littering both muddy banks.

  ‘That was a victory for King John, I would say. But this one is mine,’ said Robin, moving his queen and trapping my lonely king behind a wall of three pawns. ‘Checkmate, I believe.’

  I looked at the board dumbfounded. I hated playing this stupid, dry-as-dust game with him. Mainly because he beat me almost every time.

  As Robin began to reset the pieces, I said: ‘So you think we are now beyond help from London?’

  ‘The destruction of the bridge has certainly made it harder for aid to reach us,’ he said. ‘But it’s not impossible. If Fitzwalter is determined enough he could ford an army at a couple of places upstream. And if he could commandeer enough small boats …’

  Lord Fitzwalter, our leader, captain-general of the Army of God, had ridden across the burning bridge with a pair of his knights almost immediately after the enemy had been cleared by his charge. He had paused only to confer with Robin, who had wisely pulled his archers off the bridge just before the cavalry charge.

  ‘If I am going to go, I must go now,’ Fitzwalter had said to my lord, just as I was striding over to Robin to congratulate him on his timely escape and our victory. Robin had looked at the flames, now licking up the bridge’s support pillars, even dancing along the rail, but said nothing, his face as blank as a stone.

  ‘I have to go, Locksley,’ said Fitzwalter. ‘But I will return with a sizeable relief force and as much food as you could hope for. You have my word on it. And it must be me who goes. Who else can persuade the barons in London to part with sufficient men and provisions?’

  ‘Go then,’ said Robin. ‘But know, sir, that I hold you to your word.’

  ‘Good, look for me in a couple of weeks or so. I know that you and d’Aubigny between you can keep out the King till then. I have confidence in you, my friend. I will rest easy knowing that Rochester is in safe hands.’

  ‘Just go, man,’ said Robin, turning away. And Lord Fitzwalter did, trotting his horse through the drifting smoke across the bridge with the two knights at his back.

  Robin frowned, scratched his fair head and tentatively advanced a pawn, threatening my knight in the centre. The moment he lifted his fingers from the piece, I pounced. I slid the knight two squares forward and one left.

  ‘Ha ha!’ I said, trying not to sound too pleased with myself. ‘I have you now!’ The knight threatened both his bishop and his queen. And when he duly moved his queen out of danger and I took his bishop, he would be in check. Two moves after that and it would be mate. The second game was as good as mine.

  I looked at my lord’s face to see how he would take this unexpected reversal in his fortunes and was irritated to see that he was not paying either me or the board the attention it surely deserved. He was looking beyond my shoulder at one of the open doors that connected the two halves of the great hall.

  Rochester was an unusual castle in this respect. It had a massive square keep, on three floors, with strong towers at each corner, but the great hall was divided into two parts by a thick stone spine wall running down the centre punctuated by two stout iron-bound oak doors and a portal opening on to a well shaft. I turned on my stool and saw that the second chamber was in turmoil, servants were running here and there, mailed knights were calling for their squires and striding through the open doors.

  Cass appeared at the chess table. ‘Sir, the enemy have been sighted. King John is approaching the walls,’ he said.

  Robin was on his feet. I got to mine more slowly. ‘Come, Robin, let us finish the game,’ I said. ‘You have seen the King before, many times.’

  ‘In what strength?’ he said to Cass.

  ‘I cannot truly say, sir. Many hundreds of knights. Horse, baggage, siege engines, I think. Thousands. His whole army, I believe.’

  Robin was already moving across the hall.

  ‘Wait,’ I shouted. ‘Just a few more moves. You can’t leave now.’

  He was gone. I remembered myself, felt ashamed. I beckoned a servant.

  ‘No one is to touch this board,’ I said. ‘No one – on pain of death. Do you hear me? I am quite serious. Do not clear away this chessboard.’

  The man nodded and I clapped him on the shoulder and hurried after my lord.

  When I had puffed my way up to the roof of the south tower – I was no longer in the first flush of youth, to be honest, and at forty years of age, after decades of war, running up stairs was becoming something of an ordeal – I found the square space crowded with
knights, men-at-arms and the castle servants. I nodded to a few of the knights that I knew – Osbert Giffard, William d’Einford and Thomas de Melutan – and forced my way through the throng to find a place beside Robin and Cass, on the eastern side, overlooking the cathedral. Far below us the curtain wall that marked the exterior of the outer bailey was also lined with men and women, all staring out over the walled town of Rochester. It seemed everyone in the castle had stopped whatever they were doing to come out and watch.

  And what a sight it was: a huge cloud of dust kicked up by a column of marching men, about five or six miles away to the south-east, on the main road from Dover. Broad standards flew above the moving mass and here and there was the glitter of weak sunlight on steel spear-tips. The men who had attacked and burned the bridge were just an advance party: this was the main force, the full strength. Around the central column were horsemen, many hundreds of them, riding through the fields on either side of the road, their surcoats and the cloth trappers of their horses brilliant against the drab fields of stubble. It was an army on the march, a horde some three thousand strong, I would guess, heading straight for us.

  The King had come to Rochester.

  As we gazed out at the advancing column, with men-at-arms, and even some knights, on either side of us muttering fearfully at the size of the King’s army, I felt a jostling ripple in the crowd about me. Pushing lesser men out of his path without the slightest compunction, a huge figure in a black velvet tunic trimmed with silver thread forced his way through to Robin’s side.

  William d’Aubigny, lord of Belvoir, leaned his ham-thick forearms on the battlements and stared impassively out at the advancing foe. His vast leonine head was extended to the fullest on his thick neck, as if to help him see a few inches further, and I noticed that the curls of silver-grey hair falling to the collar of his tunic matched the bullion trim of his attire perfectly. He was a man who had seen more than sixty summers yet he was as strong and as brisk in his speech as a man half his age.

  He let out a long gusty breath. ‘I had hoped we’d have more time, Locksley,’ he said. ‘At least a day or two more. But he’s here now and so the dance begins.’

  ‘We are ready, are we not?’ said Robin.

  ‘Depends how long Fitzwalter takes to get back here.’ D’Aubigny turned suddenly to face the murmuring crowd behind him, and all the talk stopped dead.

  ‘Every man who does not have business here is to leave. Off this roof. Go on. It’s not a fair-day show, it’s not an Easter parade. Be about your duties now. Be off.’

  The crowd began to disperse down the spiral steps to the floors below.

  ‘Give me a moment of your time, Locksley. I want a word. You too, Sir Alan, if you are not needed elsewhere.’

  Cass looked enquiringly at his lord and I saw Robin give him a quick sideways nod to indicate that he should leave.

  A few moments later and we three were alone on the roof, the wind suddenly fiercer and the height of the tower more apparent.

  Robin said: ‘The town won’t hold even a day against those numbers, sir, you know that, don’t you.’

  ‘Yes, Locksley, I know. We can’t feed those extra mouths in the castle either. The townspeople must go. I need a willing knight for a hard task.’

  He looked at me.

  ‘I’m told you did very well on the bridge, Sir Alan,’ he said. ‘My compliments. You know how to deal with an enemy, clearly. But how are you at dealing with obstinate townsfolk – or self-righteous churchmen?’

  The question confused me momentarily.

  ‘What are you asking of him?’ said my lord, with an edge in his voice.

  ‘I know he’s your man, Locksley, but I want Sir Alan to clear out the town, send the people away – unless any of the able-bodied young men choose to fight with us – get them to head south, to Boxley Abbey, while there is still time. I want a good man to lead them south and install them with the abbot. They should be safe enough there, under the protection of Holy Mother Church. Thing is, they won’t want to go. They must be made to go.’

  I understood then what d’Aubigny was asking.

  ‘Would you do it?’ Robin asked me.

  I shrugged. ‘Certainly – but do you not need me here?’

  ‘I have nigh-on a hundred knights,’ said d’Aubigny, ‘one fellow more or less—’ He stopped, fearing he had insulted me: ‘Although, of course, we would undoubtedly miss your valour on the walls … In truth, there is something else I require you to do. Something important. Once you have shepherded the townspeople safely to Boxley, I want you to ride to London and wait on my lord Fitzwalter. Tell him the King is at Rochester in his full strength and we need him back here as soon as he can arrive.’

  ‘Fitzwalter knows that already,’ said Robin.

  ‘Yes, he does. But this is a real chance for victory. If Fitzwalter’s army can fall on the King while he is outside these walls, still disorganised and spread out from the march, we can sortie and crush John like a walnut between two stones. I need a trusted man who knows Fitzwalter well, who has his respect, to spur him on. I believe Sir Alan is that man.’

  I looked at Robin. ‘Will you do it?’ he said.

  What could I say but yes?

  I passed through the great hall on my way to collect my mail, arms and a few necessaries, and looked longingly towards the window on the northern side. I could clearly see the chessboard, the pieces in exactly the same position as Robin and I had left them. It occurred to me that even when you know for certain you are going to win the game, fickle chance can sometimes snatch victory from your grasp.

  Robin, Cass and twenty archers came with me as I passed out of the main gatehouse in the curtain wall of the outer bailey. When the huge iron-bound gate boomed shut behind us, I felt a chill of apprehension. It is no pleasant feeling to be locked out of a safe refuge with a vast army bearing down on you. Cass was to accompany me; his knowledge of the county of Kent – even though his family manor was a good twenty-five miles to the south – would prove helpful, Robin had said, as he commended his red-headed squire to my care. My lord had also agreed to help with the townspeople; he had orders from d’Aubigny to seize any food that he could from the town and bring it into the castle.

  I made the proclamation from the back of my horse outside the western door of the cathedral. It was not hard to attract a crowd – word of King John’s arrival had spread and the streets were thronging with anxious townspeople, chattering and calling questions out to each other. It was a dry, grey day, but with a biting wind that reminded me that winter was no more than a few weeks away. I kept it short – brutally short, you might say. I told them I would be leading all the people who would come with me to Boxley Abbey, where they would be safe. They were to take only what they could carry. I told them the town must fall to the King’s forces and their lives would be in grave danger. They would not be admitted to the castle unless they were willing and able to fight. Then I told them I would be leaving within the hour.

  As I made my little speech, I could see Robin’s muscular archers already going house to house, turning the occupants into the street, sometimes none too gently, and emerging with arms full of loaves of bread, sacks of grain, smoked hams, cheeses, anything edible they could find and carry away.

  There was a good deal of grumbling from the crowd. One pinched-faced man in a red hood shouted that it should be my task to protect them, to defend the town against their enemies and, if I would not do that, to give him sanctuary in the castle. I told him if he wished to enter the castle he should present himself at the gate and enlist as one of Lord d’Aubigny’s men-at-arms. He could then take his place among the defenders on the walls. That silenced him.

  Some of the cathedral monks echoed Red-hood’s plea, saying that we should protect their house of God. It was my clear duty as a Christian knight, one cried. I told him God would surely protect his own, if he saw fit, and that my duty, my lord’s command, indeed, was to save as many people as I could from the mal
ice of John’s foreign mercenaries.

  ‘King John is almost at your gates,’ I said. ‘Many of you will have already seen his host from the walls. These are ruthless men. Killers without pity or remorse. The simple truth is that the castle cannot shelter you all and hold out against the tyrant. It would be starved into submission in days. Only men who will fight shall be admitted. If you will not or cannot fight, the choice before you is stark. Come with me and live. Or stay and allow your wives to be defiled and your children to be slaughtered before your eyes. You must make that choice now.’

  I spoke the truth yet I did not feel entirely comfortable with my words. I knew that it was indeed the duty of the lord of a castle to defend the townspeople – but I have been at sieges where the ‘useless mouths’, the non-combatant weak, old and sick, have been admitted, and it does not end well for anybody. In all, it truly was better to get these people away from the fighting. As fast as possible.