The Death of Robin Hood

by Angus Donald

  ‘You heard the wretched fellow, Sir Alan,’ he said, irritated. ‘Even if he is making more of the matter than he should, as spies will do, John has clearly been reinforced by perhaps as many as a thousand men. This is not the first report of this that I have heard. We have no chance against the King at Rochester.’

  ‘That is not so,’ I was shouting too by now. ‘We have surprise on our side. If we march all night and attack tomorrow, before they know we are there, we can drive them from the walls in utter confusion and—’

  Every man in the tent was staring at me. Fitzwalter’s tired face was the colour of a peeled beetroot. ‘You forget yourself, sir. I am commander of this army. And I say that we must retreat in the face of superior numbers.’

  ‘I say we cannot leave the men in the castle to die!’ I think I may even have clutched at the collar of Fitzwalter’s mantel in my passion. ‘You must find the courage to go on, sir. A swift march, a dawn attack—’

  ‘You would do well not to question my courage, sir,’ said Fitzwalter, pulling his cloak free from my grasp. ‘I will hear no more of your wild talk. I command here. Not you. And I command you to quiet yourself and leave my tent this instant.’

  ‘Sir, those men in Rochester are my friends. Yours, too.’ I was trying to be reasonable, trying to find some lever that would move him. ‘They are loyal men of the Army of God. And you gave your solemn word that—’

  ‘Get him out of here,’ Fitzwalter said to someone beyond my shoulder and before I knew what was happening, a powerful grip shackled my chest and my thighs. My feet left the ground and I was bundled like a bag of dirty laundry out of the tent by two huge knights.

  Outside the flap, I picked myself up – a pair of guards levelled their spears at me, while the two knights who had ejected me growled a warning, hands on their hilts. A dozen biting phrases came to my lips. I wanted to haul out Fidelity and throw myself at all of them. But it would have been useless and I knew it. So I said nothing; did nothing. I stumbled away, sightless, on unsteady feet, with a black cloud of despair descending. My task had been to bring Fitzwalter and his army to the relief of Rochester Castle and the salvation of my friends. My friends who were now trapped inside with several thousand of King John’s men around their walls.

  I had failed.

  Chapter Eight

  I wept then in sorrow for myself and my friends as I wandered through the camp back to my horse. I leaned my head against its warm flank and the tears ran down my cheeks. I could not for the life of me think what to do. I could not move Fitzwalter, I could not force this army to march. I did not wish to return to London and my lonely lodgings. I had half a mind to ride for the north to be with my son Robert and guard him if the King’s men attacked Westbury or Kirkton. But it would have felt like desertion. I could not just go home. I have rarely felt so directionless – but the plain truth was that my lord, Miles, Thomas, Mastin, the Westbury men, William d’Aubigny and all the good knights in Rochester were counting on me to come to their aid with a relief force, and I had failed.

  I have found that sometimes, when one is mired in despair, it is better to do something, anything, rather than to do nothing. So I slowly climbed on to the back of my mount and threaded my way through the camp. Even now, at dusk, it was stirring itself to leave, with servants bustling about, knights calling their squires, all seemingly eager to return to their debauchery behind the walls of London. I walked the horse over the shallow ford across the Darent and spurred out the other side in the growing dark.

  When neither I nor my beast could see, I tied the animal to an oak tree, just off the main road, and sat with my back to its rough trunk to think. It seemed the very least I could do was return to Robin and report this catastrophe; the garrison must be told that no help would be coming from London. And, to my surprise, I found a glimmer of hope in that. The usual conventions of war allowed a garrison that had no hope of relief to surrender with honour to a besieging force. Perhaps some deal could be struck; perhaps, if we renewed our homage to the King, swore to be his loyal men once more, we would be allowed to depart with our arms and return to our homes. In truth, I longed for peace, for Westbury, Robert and my own hearth. With that pleasant thought in my head, I fell asleep.

  The next morning, after breaking my fast with a heel of almost-stale bread from my saddlebag and a drink from a nearby brook, I set out once again: but not for Rochester. I pointed my horse’s head more to the south and began to make my way through the lush pasturelands below the Thames towards Boxley Abbey. I saw a few bands of mounted men from time to time, King’s mercenaries out foraging no doubt, but managed to avoid them, dismounting behind hedges and spurring into small copses till they passed. I crossed the Medway at Aylesford and took the last miles to Boxley at a canter.

  I reached the abbey that afternoon after a hard ride in the midst of a driving rainstorm, my horse and I just about as miserable and wet as we could be.

  But the abbot’s welcome was once again as warm as a mother’s embrace. The abbey was still crowded with the townspeople from Rochester: almost every space conceivable seemed to contain a ragged family group. The church was filled to overflowing, the stables, even the rafters of the main barn had been planked over to form a high sleeping space beneath the roof. Nevertheless, the abbot was pleased to see me and fed me hot bean stew and listened with compassion to my tale of woe.

  ‘I applaud your mission,’ he said finally, ‘and you shall have all the help I can give. The sooner that peace is made with the King, the sooner these poor people can go home and pick up their lives again – and I do not speak purely from self-interest, although they do eat like hogs. God’s love is peace and our kingdom must not be subjected to the ravages of war if it can possibly be prevented.’

  I asked him a boon then. I wished him to hold my baggage, my armour and helm, my sword and my horse, for I knew I could not take them in the task at hand. Even so, I was loath to leave Fidelity in another man’s hands.

  ‘I mean to enter the castle by stealth,’ I said. ‘And if I approach arrayed for war, John’s men will kill me before I can deliver my message.’

  ‘God will guide your path, my son,’ the abbot said.

  I spent much of the next day sleeping, and in the afternoon spoke to some of the townspeople, gleaning their intimate knowledge of the area and what they knew about the dispositions of the King’s forces. In the evening, having bid farewell to the abbot, and dressed in dark hose and tunic, a long black countryman’s cloak and hood, I set off on foot for Rochester.

  Perhaps God really did guide my path for it was a bright and cloudless night, with a three-quarter moon that gave ample light to see the road before me. On the way, I ran over what I would say to Robin and d’Aubigny, when – if – I managed to find a way into the besieged castle. There was no joy in the message, all I could do was counsel immediate surrender. And I was dreading the prospect of admitting the failure of my mission and advancing such a dispiriting conclusion.

  Not long after midnight I found myself in the same small wood that had sheltered the townspeople on our escape two weeks before. As I peered into the darkness from the edge of the trees, I could see the campfires of King John’s army spread out before the walls – thousands of tiny pinpricks of orange light, like sparks from a bonfire, in a great sweep to the south of the castle and curling away eastwards. There was light too glimmering from the town itself, which I assumed meant that it was now occupied by the enemy. The spy had been correct: the forces arrayed against the castle had swollen from their original numbers. But some of the townspeople, those bold enough to venture to Rochester and steal a glimpse of the enemy host, had told me that the King’s army was mainly to the south and east. North and west of the castle, where the river curved round close to the walls of the outer bailey, was largely free of enemy troops. That made sense. Any King’s man between the walls and the river would be in easy range of a bowman on the walls, and with the bridge destroyed, there could be little chance of a re
lief force coming from that direction.

  I headed due north towards the river, keeping low and watching carefully for any sign of life. Although I had left my sword and mail with Abbot Boxley, I was not completely unarmed. A long, thin blade in a black leather sheath was strapped to my left forearm. It was a misericorde, a dagger for close-quarter killing, and very lethal in the right hands; yet it was covered by the sleeve of my tunic and would not betray me as a fighting man, unless I was captured and searched. I loved that weapon – I can find no other word for it but love – it was sleekly beautiful and made entirely of oiled black steel in a cruciform shape, with a razor-like cutting edge and a needle point that could easily punch through the links of iron mail. The handle was a series of rounded cubes that fitted snugly into my right hand. It had been given to me by Lord Fitzwalter himself and while the very thought of the man, his treachery towards my comrades, the breaking of his solemn word, made my blood seethe, the touch of the cool steel against the skin of my wrist and its gentle weight on my arm gave me both the courage and strength to continue.

  The river was a dark snake before me, moonlight reflecting from the gentle ripples like a thousand silver scales, and I could see no sign of life on either bank, except for several hundred yards up to my right, where a dozen camp fires glowed. Suppressing a shiver, I slid down the muddy bank and with as little noise as possible, lowered myself into the water.

  God it was cold. The water soaked through my woollen clothes, weighing me down, sheathing me with its chill. I dipped my head under and smoothed the hood over my head and shoulders. I smeared a handful of foul-smelling mud across my face to darken my pale skin, then began to swim across to the far bank. I wanted to be as far from the campfires as possible.

  The swimming was surprisingly easy, for the current carried me naturally down towards the sea, and I lay on my back and made only a few strokes from time to time to keep close to the northern shore. As I passed the encampments of the enemy, I turned on my front, keeping my head low, only my nose above the water line, and watched the blundering of black shapes around the tents and heard the low laughter of sleepy men-at-arms and a snatch of a peasant song in Flemish. I saw the flare of light as a man threw a billet of wood on the fire. I drifted silently and safely past. My whole body was numb with the cold; it ate into my marrow and knotted the muscles of my back. I would have given a fat purse of silver, just then, to be sitting by that blaze, passing a jug of warmed ale, gnawing on a mutton chop and joshing merrily with my comrades.

  But my comrades were behind the tall shadowy walls, inside the great stone bulk of the keep that I could clearly see grey on grey in the moonlight, with, yes, little bars of jolly yellow candlelight beaming from the arrow slits. The bridge, what remained of it, was up ahead, ghostly ruins with a few stark uptilted timbers like accusing fingers pointing at the night sky. I swam a dozen swift strokes to the southern bank, fighting the tugging current that would have swept me past, and pulled myself on to a spit of muddy shingle. I lay there quiet for a dozen heartbeats, listening, watching, as my body began to shake involuntarily and my teeth clashed wildly in my head. Something splashed in the water behind me, a leaping fish or a night-hunting owl. I waited for a count of twenty, then stood fully upright.

  The wall of the outer bailey was forty yards in front at the top of a steep grassy slope. I saw the shadow of a sentry pass along the walkway. I considered trying to scale that wall but it occurred to me that I would most likely get a crossbow bolt in the eye for my pains, if I were seen. And the main gatehouse, the barbican, was up ahead, over a hump of land, beyond my view. If I could attract the attention of a sergeant, someone with a scrap of wit, I could identify myself and – I hoped, I prayed to God – merely knock at the small door inset in the massive gates and be admitted. That was the plan, anyway.

  I scrambled up the slight rise of the shoulder of land and looked down on to the flattish section of turf between the northern gatehouse and the ruins of the bridge. I could clearly see the barbican, one of two heavily fortified entrances to the outer bailey of the castle, and the light coming from the arrow slits above the heavy doors. I began to slither down the other side, and stopped. Something was very wrong.

  On the stretch of scrubby land between the walls and the river I could see a square black shape that I swear had not been there before. And I could hear the murmur of voices. Indistinct, but English-sounding. Surely the men in the castle could not have built a barn or a stable outside the walls? That would be madness. A doorway opened inwards into the black structure and I saw a man emerge, black against the red brazier light. He turned and said something to someone behind him, a jest evidently, as the response was laughter. It was not English, however it sounded. It was Flemish. All fell into place: this was a guard hut constructed by the enemy as a shelter from arrows and bolts from the castle to allow a section of men to watch the barbican and the ruins of the bridge unmolested.

  I was squatting near the foot of the shoulder of land, just ten yards from the hut, and the fellow was coming towards me, his steps blundering and uncertain in the darkness. I tucked my head between my knees, my right hand slipping into my left sleeve, and trusted to my dark hood and cloak and my stillness to hide me. The fellow was singing softly to himself. My heart was hammering against my ribs, banging out the familiar rhythm of the moments before combat. I dared not breathe. He walked right past me, not five yards away and headed to the river, his boots crunching on the shingle. There, he proceeded to fumble in his hose and then release a happy sigh and a stream of urine that tinkled merrily into the water.

  Should I wait till he returned to his friends and try to slip past? No, I would have to call out to the barbican in order to be admitted, perhaps loudly enough to rouse the guard. I would certainly be heard in the hut. If I were not allowed into the castle swiftly, I would be caught between the walls and my enemies. How many men would be in the guard hut? Not many. Two, three? No more surely?

  The decision was made.

  I stood tall. Ten swift, quiet paces took me to a spot just behind the man’s back. He was still happily pissing away and singing softly. I snaked my left hand around his head, slapped my palm over his mouth and, in the very same instant, shoved the misericorde’s needle point into the hollow at the base of his skull, just above the spine. He tried to cry out but the sound was muffled by my gripping left hand. His whole body spasmed, arms and legs flailing. I ground the blade, left, right, inside the cavity of his skull and he went completely loose and then I was supporting his whole weight with only my grip on his head. I lowered him as quietly as I could to the muddy riverbank, pulled the misericorde free of his skull and wiped the mess on his tunic. I glanced quickly behind me at the hut.

  The door was closed. A dead man lay at my feet. There was no other way to go but onward.

  I slipped the long sword from the sheath at the dead man’s waist – a good ordinary blade, not up to Fidelity’s standard, but perfectly serviceable – and strode over to the hut, misericorde in my left hand, borrowed weapon in my right.

  The door opened to one determined blow of my right foot – and I was inside. A blaze of light seared my night-wide eyes. But I could just make out five men: two asleep on low cots on either side of the space, three seated on stools in the centre around a brazier glowing cherry red. They were slow to react. Gaping at me like cretins, not even giving a shout of alarm before I was on them. I booted the brazier over, dumping its red coals into the lap of the man to my left, at the same time my sword licked out and punched into the belly of the right-hand man. The one in the centre jumped towards me … and as he came forward he received the misericorde, a round-arm blow, smack in his left eye. Two men down. I pulled both blades free. The fellow on the left was screaming, scooping burning coals from his tunic and hose with his bare hands. The stink of seared flesh filled the hut. I ended the fellow’s pain by splitting his skull with the sword, a single downward chop.

  I heard a roar behind me. The man on the cot h
ad seized up a wicked-looking axe and was coming at me swinging. I ducked and swept at the back of his left knee with the borrowed sword, and left him sprawled, cursing and bloody on the floor. The fifth man on the cot on the other side of the room was only now awakening. He lifted his head from the pillow and frowned at me stupidly – and died. I flipped the grip on the misericorde, stepped in and slammed it into the middle of his chest, a hammer blow that pinned him to his bed. He gurgled, coughed blood and lay still. The axe man was still moving, scrabbling across the floor to reach his long-handled weapon, shouting out with pain from his ripped leg tendons. I tugged the misericorde free of the dead man’s ribs, stepped over to the axe man, pinned his out-reaching wrist with my boot, and thrust down hard into his back with the point of the sword.

  Five men – all down within the space of a dozen heartbeats.

  And Miles had called me an old man!

  I was panting though, heart bumping manically against my ribs, and my hands were trembling wildly. I stood dripping in the middle of the hut, a red blade in each hand, looking at what I had wrought. The joy of victory coursed through my veins, as intoxicating as hot, strong wine. The belly-stabbed man, still on his stool and folded over his lethal wound, groaned. I stepped behind him and sliced through the fat artery at the side of his neck with my misericorde. The mercy strike. The blood pumped and pulsed, splattering my soaking tunic. He slid from the stool into a heap on the floor.

  I was alive – as filled with bounding life as an eighteen-year-old. Five of my enemies were dead at my feet. With a sixth outside by the river. I lifted both bloody weapons high in the air and felt the spirits of a thousand dead English warriors nod and grunt their approval, their shades no doubt summoned by the smell of fresh blood. But this was no time to relish my triumph. Above the stink of gore and piss, old ale, stale farts and singed flesh, I could smell smoke. A pile of dirty linen, ignited by the spilled brazier, was smouldering in the corner of the room, red flames beginning to lick up the walls.