The Death of Robin Hood

by Angus Donald

  And my lord began to sing. He had a fine voice and it echoed most pleasingly off the walls. That is how we spent the rest of that long, long day: sitting on the cold floor of that side chapel in Rochester Cathedral singing the old songs of England, with me pitching in as best I might over the pain of my leg and the archers joining in the choruses with a surprising and even sometimes tuneful vigour.

  We never heard another peep from the stomach-wounded man in the next bay. Praise God.

  At sunrise, we were fed again and a barber-surgeon came round asking if any man required his attention. He was a grubby fellow, his clothes stained with blood and slime, and he reeked of ale and armpits. He had a string of dirty yellow molars hanging around his neck, a sign of his other trade as a tooth-puller.

  I declined his attentions: Mastin, who had doctored many a wounded man in his time, had set my leg well and I did not want this wretch pawing at his handiwork.

  Shortly before noon, they came to bind us. It came as no surprise. For all morning we had heard the work of hammers and saws, and the whisper came round that a wide platform was being built in front of the cathedral. I said nothing but I could not forget d’Aubigny’s tale of the men, women and children whose hands and feet had been lopped on another such platform at the beginning of the siege.

  When our hands were all bound with rough ropes, we were herded into the nave, more than a hundred men. I hopped along, my roped arms looped over Thomas’s shoulder and using his tough frame as a crutch. I saw d’Aubigny a dozen yards away and it was evident that he had been beaten for he limped and his face was a mass of cuts and contusions. He would not meet my eye. Before the sacred altar was a knot of noblemen in bright, clean clothes, silks and satins, velvet and furs – the King’s courtiers – jewellery glittering at their necks and their fingers were thick with gold rings. And lolling in the archbishop’s chair in the middle of them, shorter than the other men, but even more splendidly dressed, was the King himself. He was joking with a tall, grey-bearded man-at-arms, the only unbound person of rank there who looked like he might have actually fought in the battle that had humbled the castle, a man whom I recognised as the renowned French knight Savary de Mauléon, Viscount of Thouars.

  He had been a loyal vassal of Arthur, Duke of Brittany, who was captured with Mauléon at the battle of Mirebeau – a victory for King John that was almost entirely Robin’s doing. John had taken Mauléon prisoner and thrown him into the dungeon at Corfe Castle, his fearsome stronghold by the sea in Dorset. But, for some reason, John had decided to pardon the man – and had accepted his homage – and now he was one of the King’s greatest commanders. I had not known that Mauléon was opposing us at the siege – but I supposed it made little difference now.

  The King was in high spirits, his blue eyes glinting like wet glass. He was a goodly age then – at forty-nine, just a year younger than Robin – and his once-russet hair was thinning and grey, his face pouchy and lined. Despite these signs of age, he seemed animated by a much younger spirit as if through some devilry his younger carefree self was still inhabiting his ageing body.

  ‘Ah-ha, d’Aubigny,’ he said, catching sight of our bruised commander. ‘There you are! You look like you’ve been in the wars! Oh, ha-ha-ha!’

  His voice sounded like the croaking of an evil frog yet the dazzling courtiers around the King exploded with mirth, clapping each other on the shoulder, pretending to weep for the exquisite joy of the royal jest – all except Mauléon, who gazed up at the cathedral’s high arched ceiling as if seeking strength from the Almighty.

  To this deeply stupid remark d’Aubigny merely gave a gruff ‘Sire’ and a nod of the head.

  ‘And there’s the Earl of Locksley – the infamous outlaw, as was. The notorious Robin Hood that the villeins all sing of in the taverns. Well, no more an outlaw, no more a rebel, we have tamed you! And is that your man Sir Alan Dale? It is, by God’s bones, the man who tried to cut my head off with a hidden little knife at St Paul’s! Well, it’s his head on the block now. Ha-ha-ha!’

  And so on. The King went on to name and mock a dozen other knights, making asinine jests at the expense of each one in turn. It seemed hardly a man there had not sparked the King’s ire at one time or another – and John had not forgotten a single slight, the smallest insult, nor the most inconsequential debt.

  After a while even the King seemed to grow bored of his childish game. He croaked, ‘Quiet!’ at the giggling courtiers and frowned at the crowd of bound and bloodied rebels standing before him.

  ‘You all defied me,’ he said sternly, when the sycophantic laughter had petered out. ‘You all swore to be my loyal men and then you raised the bloody flag of rebellion and challenged me in one of my own castles!’ He sounded incredulous at this accusation, as if no fighting man had ever taken up arms against a king before.

  ‘Time and again, I have shown forbearance in the face of your outrageous contumacy, I have shown compassion, I have shown infinite kindness …’

  I very soon became bored with this mummery – there could be no good end to the King’s speech, none at all – and I began to look about me. The walls of the cathedral were lined with knights and men-at-arms. I wondered briefly if I could slip my bonds and seize a weapon. It was no use. I couldn’t walk a step unaided on my broken leg.

  The King was still speaking: ‘… I promised you mercy and you shall indeed receive mercy at my hands.’

  He paused and every man in the cathedral held his breath and waited for the judgement.

  ‘Every man-at-arms of common stock, every villainous archer, every ignoble servant of a noble knight, every peasant spearman, even the very meanest churl … shall be released immediately.’ The King was smiling like a cream-fed cat, play-acting the munificent monarch.

  ‘They shall be set free this hour, henceforth to serve whomsoever they shall choose.’

  I was utterly surprised, to be honest. This was indeed mercy. Generosity, even. It was the very last thing I had expected from John. The Flemish men-at-arms were moving into the crowd, picking out the common soldiers and herding them towards the rear of the cathedral. I saw Mastin being dragged away by two spearmen and heard him say, ‘Get your dirty paws off me, you goat-fuckers!’ before being silenced with a buffet to the face.

  Robin called out: ‘Get our men back to Kirkton, Mastin, tell Hugh of our fate. Tell Marie-Anne that—’

  But Mastin was being hustled down the aisle and was almost out of earshot. A muffled cry of ‘Don’t you worry, sir, I’ll fucking tell ’em,’ came back towards us.

  When all the men of common stock, as the King put it, had been cleared from the cathedral, only the knights and noblemen remained. They were a shuffling, murmuring crowd, craning their necks towards John expectantly, with new hope shining in their eyes.

  The King called for silence.

  ‘The rest of you, you men who claim noble blood, who glory in your valour, your titles and your ancient names, all you who hold lands in my realm …’

  The whole cathedral was as silent as an empty tomb. I shifted my weight on Thomas’s shoulder. My leg was burning as if it had been dipped into the flames of Hell.

  ‘You men,’ the King croaked, ‘shall be taken from this House of God, out into the good light of day, and there you shall be hanged by the neck until you are dead like the rebellious scum you are. It shall be a lesson to all who dare oppose me.’

  The cathedral erupted into uproar, every man shouting, some wrestling with their bound hands, others calling unto God, and I realised I was yelling out to the King: ‘You swore we would receive mercy, you traitorous bastard, that was the condition of our surrender. Mercy, you said, you black-hearted devil—’

  ‘Quiet!’ bellowed the King. ‘I will have quiet. Be still there, you scum.’

  Some Flemish knights around the walls were drawing swords. Others were beating the nearest prisoners into silence. Eventually some order was restored.

  ‘I did indeed promise you mercy. And you have recei
ved it. You’ve been mercifully fed, your wounds mercifully tended to, your men-at-arms’ lives have been mercifully spared. Now you will receive the mercy of a swift death. Take them away!’

  Part Two

  Joyous news! The King has come to Newstead Priory. His Royal Highness Henry of Winchester graciously agreed to pay our humble priory a short visit. We knew for some days that Henry was in residence at his palace at Clipstone, not eight miles north of us, an hour’s ride. He had been taking his ease there after the trials of his ill-starred campaign in Poitou, feasting his friends and hunting the fat red deer of Sherwood. However, we received a message only yesterday from Lord Westbury – the only grandson of Brother Alan, and one of the King’s closest advisers – informing us that the King would pay a private visit to our small House of God and that he wished to speak with Brother Alan on a matter of some import.

  I praise God that we have been so honoured: the King is a pious man and has made munificent gifts of silver and lands to other Houses. Perhaps, perhaps … but it would not be right to pray for His Highness to show his royal generosity to us. We must be grateful that he has taken notice of this small and remote community, and allowed the light of his countenance to shine upon us. Nevertheless, the whole priory has been a storm of excited activity – we are far too poor to offer dinner to our good King and all his multitude of lords and servants – it would beggar us to give every man a morsel, but there must be something to offer and the monks have been all in a frenzy, baking sweet pastries, unwrapping cheeses and bringing up the best barrels of wine so that if the King himself expressed hunger or thirst we would be able to assuage it swiftly. It would not do to shame ourselves and our House before royalty!

  I told Brother Alan that he must prepare himself for the visit and rise, wash and dress himself, so that he could be presented in a respectable manner in the chapter house. The visit seems to have put heart into the old man. When I came for him last night, he nodded and began to struggle out of his blankets. ‘Been a while,’ he muttered as I wrapped him in a thick woollen robe and led him towards the wash house. Then he said something rather strange: ‘I hope the blessed boy doesn’t expect me to sing again.’

  I do not know what Brother Alan meant by that but then sometimes his mind wanders and he believes himself to be in another time and place. I thank God for it, otherwise I would not have the pleasure of hearing and recording his tales of his younger self. And while his mind might sometimes be foggy in this present moment, his clarity of the past is remarkable.

  We all turned out in the courtyard – the monks, the servants, almost every man of Newstead – to welcome the King this morning. And while I was awed to be in the presence of royalty for the first time, I was also silently counting heads to see if we would have enough food and wine for everyone in his retinue. Twenty-seven. A manageable number, praise God.

  The King himself was a man of medium height, but thick-chested and with powerful arms. He wore a surcoat of red and gold, and a simple coronet made of a thick band of gold set with rubies. His face was open and pleasant, and seemed to shine with happiness and good humour, save for his left eye, which appeared to droop a little lower than the right, giving him a sleepy expression. We greeted him with a prayer for his health and then four of the monks sang an anthem, composed for the occasion, which lauded his nobility, his piety and the justice that he brought the land. The King seemed much moved by it and when it was over I thought I saw the glint of genuine tears in his eyes.

  Old Brother Roger stepped forward with a platter of honey cakes, almond tarts and candied fruits – he had spent the whole of the night in the kitchens and his face this day was green with exhaustion. Nevertheless, he proudly held out the tray holding his delicate works and in a tiny, whispering voice invited the King to taste one.

  ‘Not just now,’ said the King, slapping his gloved hands together and looking around the faces of the assembled monks. ‘We have a fine dinner being prepared for us at Clipstone and I would like to speak to Sir Alan Dale – Brother Alan, that is – without delay. We must be away within the hour.’

  ‘He is waiting in the chapter house, Sire,’ said Lord Westbury, indicating the way with an outstretched arm. ‘He is infirm, alas, and cannot stand for very long.’

  I saw Brother Roger’s face fall – the fruits of his long night’s labour scorned. And, to my amazement, the King noticed it too. He stopped mid-stride and turned back to the elderly monk and his heavily laden tray.

  ‘On second thought, I think perhaps I will try just one,’ said the King. ‘They do look most extraordinarily tempting.’ He reached out and seized a honey cake, taking a large bite. As the King made muffled noises to express his delight at the cake, he was ushered through the courtyard towards the chapter house. I heard a beaming Brother Roger whisper, ‘Most extraordinarily tempting’ to himself over and over again.

  Inside the chapter house, Lord Westbury had his grandfather by the elbow and was helping him to kneel in the presence of the King. Henry affably waved him to stand, indeed to sit on the stone bench that ran all around the four sides of the room. When Brother Alan was seated, the King plumped down beside him, with Lord Westbury on Brother Alan’s other flank, and asked after his health.

  ‘I am as well as can be expected, Sire, at my age,’ said Brother Alan, smiling at his King. ‘At more than three score years and ten, I have no complaints and I am well looked after here – although it is but a poor House.’ I swear on my soul the ancient monk caught my eye and actually winked at me. ‘Yes, a very poor House of God and sadly without a great and generous lord to support it.’

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ said Henry drily. He knew when he was being softened up for a request for funds.

  ‘Well, you are no doubt wondering why I have come to see you. And I hope I will not take up too much of your time, but Lord Westbury here tells me you are the man who can tell me about this Robin Hood character – he remembers the stories you told him when he was a child. I have encountered songs and tales about this fellow all across England – and at my courts of law no less than five impudent felons have claimed to be the man himself – two in Leicestershire, one in Yorkshire, one in Derbyshire, even one in Kent. My question to you, good brother, is this: who is this Robin Hood fellow and why does every common wife murderer and horse thief from Dover to Durham claim with such pride to be him?’

  Brother Alan made an odd grunting noise and his body rocked back and forward on the bench. I wondered if he were having some sort of fit, if the exertions of this happy day had proved too much. Then I realised that he was laughing.

  ‘You find this amusing?’ said the King in a voice that seemed to suggest that a man who laughed at him would very soon regret it.

  ‘No, Sire, not … amusing,’ wheezed Brother Alan. ‘But it is passing strange, as I hope you will admit. Because, Sire, you have already met him – the true Robin Hood. You met the man himself long ago, thirty years ago – when you were but a slip of a boy.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  The mercy of a quick death? King John’s verdict was a mercy, in a way. I would not have my feet and hands hacked off and be forced to spend the rest of my days as a beggar man, whining for scraps of bread from passers-by, frightening children with the ugliness of my deformity, unable even to wipe the filth from my own body.

  I looked at Robin. He was staring mutely at the King. His eyes were the colour of wet slate. And even I who knew him well was shocked by the cool intensity of hatred in his stare. That man is marked for death, I thought. Robin will surely kill him. Then I realised how absurd that notion was. However hard he glared at the King, Robin could not destroy him. In a few moments, my lord and I would be kicking our last at the end of a rope. We could only hope that our sons would take our revenge for us.

  Oblivious to Robin, the King was smirking like a child who has been promised a sweetmeat, delighted by his own duplicity. Then I saw that Savary de Mauléon, that grizzled Poitevin lord, was moving towards him, pushing throug
h the bright silks of the courtiers, his face grim as a Nottinghamshire midwinter.

  ‘Sire,’ he said quietly in French. ‘You cannot do this. You cannot hang all these knights out of hand, rebels though they undoubtedly are.’

  ‘Why the hell not?’ said the King in the same language.

  ‘I should speak to you now of decency, of fairness and the Church-blessed code of Christian chivalry, but I will not waste my breath,’ said the grey-bearded baron.

  The King scowled at him. For a moment I thought he would order him struck down, hanged with the rest of us. Then John smiled. ‘My trusty Mauléon – what a fellow you are for plain speaking. But that is why I keep you at my side. Flatterers are a penny a dozen.’ He flicked a careless hand at the throng of gaudily dressed courtiers around him. They tittered obligingly. ‘Tell me, then, my blunt but loyal liege man, tell me why I may not hang these dogs.’

  ‘Sire, I mean no disrespect. I vowed to serve you and I must serve you to the best of my abilities. And I counsel you, for the good of your own cause, not to murder these men. We have won this battle, yes. But this war is not over. I do not think it will be over very soon. There are many barons such as these who have not yet come to your side.’

  ‘I’ll hang them too,’ croaked the King.

  ‘Sire, if you do, Fitzwalter and his rebel friends will surely hang any of our men who find themselves in his hands. It will become a war without quarter given to any knight on either side. Will the barons who are wavering flock to your standard if they know that to be taken in battle means certain death? I think not. In this game of chivalry that we play, a move that may prove fatal is to be avoided at all costs. If you hang these men, few barons will join you. Maybe none. How then shall we find the numbers to crush this foul rebellion?’

  ‘But I want to hang them. I want to hang them all.’ The King’s tone had turned querulous – a child again, now denied his promised sweetmeat. I felt a flicker of hope in my heart. We had a champion with the ear of the King.