by Angus Donald
Then she walked out of the stall.
I stared at the cup for a long, long time. It seemed to be challenging me. Am I a fool? I thought. Am I once again making a fool of myself over this damn woman?
I picked up the cup, sniffed it. It held the smell of high summer, of meadow flowers, bees and warm sunshine. It smelled of happiness.
‘Are you afraid?’ the voice in my head asked. I knew that I was. So I put the warm cup to my lips and drank the whole measure in one swallow.
Chapter Twenty-five
I slept like a dead man and awoke mid-morning, thick-headed but very much alive. Whatever Tilda had put in the drink, it was a powerful cure for while I snuffled and sneezed that day and the next, I could feel my cold waning.
I washed my face and hands and combed my hair. I shared a beaker of ale and a slice of buttered bread with Robert and half-listened to his news of some disturbance in the baggage lines during the night. But I paid scant attention to his chatter, then, for my mind was on other things. I ruffled my son’s hair in farewell and went in search of Robin.
I had an apology to make.
I found my lord in the great hall of Rockingham in the midst of a storm of royal displeasure.
‘I want the wagon guards hanged for their negligence, every man jack of them,’ the King was saying as I slid in to the hall. ‘Hang them all – at once.’
‘Oh for God’s sake,’ said Savary de Mauléon, not quite under his breath.
‘You have something to say to me, Mauléon?’ said the King.
‘Sire, I do. We do not have enough men to start hanging every poor fellow who is bested in a skirmish. The guards resisted the marauders as best they could and then retreated in order to save their own lives. There were hundreds of Scotsmen, the captain tells me, and it was dark and they were masked like fiends and howling like the savages they are. The guards came straight here for reinforcements, and my men were able to drive the enemy away before they could make off with more than a wagon or two and some of the packhorses, a few sacks of grain.’
‘They failed in their duty to their King,’ John said. ‘They must be punished.’
‘Sire, perhaps we could discuss the order of march to Lincoln,’ said Robin.
‘We’ll discuss your grand plans for Lincoln, Locksley, when we have settled this matter.’
‘Hang a few guards if you wish to, Sire,’ said Robin cheerfully. ‘But consider what that will do to the morale of the rest of the army. Will that make it more likely or less likely that undecided men will come to your banner?’
The King glared at my lord. Robin had made the exact same argument to John that Savary de Mauléon had made after Rochester. The argument that had saved his – and my – life. I saw Mauléon, behind the King’s back, grinning openly at Robin.
‘Well, what do you suggest that we do, Locksley? You who think you have all the answers. Tell me. And this had better be good.’
‘I think you should appoint a Master of the Royal Baggage. Someone senior, a man of high rank, and make it his sworn duty to defend the wagons, the stores and the royal treasury with his own men. He would be responsible for their safety and answerable only to you. If he fails in his duty, you could hang him, if you like.’
John looked at Robin. There was a sly gleam in his eye.
‘Someone senior, you say. A nobleman of high rank?’ The King chuckled. ‘Very well – I hereby appoint you, Robert of Locksley, Master of the Royal Baggage. You and your men will defend our wagon train to the last man. And it will be your life that is forfeit if so much as a silver thimble is stolen while you hold that position. What say you to that!’
Robin appeared aghast. ‘Sire, ah, Sire …’ he stuttered. ‘You do me too much honour. But surely another man—’
‘I may indeed be doing you too much honour but you will accept this task and you will protect my goods and chattels with utmost care and diligence – or it truly will be your head in the noose, mark my words.’
‘As you command, Sire,’ said Robin, bowing low.
‘Now, to the monks of Crowland Abbey – they have defied me long enough. I want their lands ravaged, I want their villages, mills, storehouses and barns burned to the ground. I want the wealth of that fat lump, Abbot Henry de Longchamp, in my coffers and him on his knees before me begging for my mercy.
‘Sire, it is a much-revered House of God,’ said Robin. ‘The monks of Crowland are well known for their care of the sick and generosity to the poor and needy—’
‘I don’t want to hear another word out of you today, Locksley – Mauléon, this is your task. Get your men to Crowland and bring me their wealth. Immediately, today.’
Savary de Mauléon opened his mouth to speak.
‘No,’ shouted the King. ‘I don’t want to hear it. You have your orders. Go! Get you to Crowland, sir.’
The Poitevin lord’s face was a picture of frustrated fury. But he uttered not a word, merely bowed to the King and stalked out of the hall.
‘Shall we discuss the order of march to Lincoln, Sire,’ said Robin quietly when Mauléon had gone.
‘Oh, you organise it, Locksley. I am too fatigued to wrangle with you any more. I’m sure you have it all planned out anyway. We ride tomorrow at dawn. Just do not forget your new honour, eh? I meant what I said about your head in a noose. You will guard that baggage train with your life. Understand? You may leave me now.’
I caught up with my lord in the antechamber and begged his pardon for my rudeness the day before.
‘It is no matter, Alan. Put it behind us. We have a great deal to do today.’
He seemed disproportionally cheerful. As we walked into the courtyard, I noticed my lord was humming. He did not appear the least put out that he had just been given an extra duty that might see him hanging by the neck from a gibbet before too long. Then I remembered my conversation with Robert that morning. And everything became crystal clear.
‘I gather then that the Scots have raided our baggage train,’ I said.
‘So it would seem,’ said Robin.
‘And yet the latest reports say that Alexander’s army is some hundred miles north of us now. I wonder how they managed that feat.’
‘Yes, it is something of a mystery.’
‘And do I understand that these mysterious marauders were masked? So that not one of them could be recognised – as a Scottish knight, I mean.’
‘Alan,’ Robin growled. ‘Have a care what you say next!’ It was a warning.
‘I make no further comment on the matter, my lord. Except to say that sometimes, just sometimes, it is a very great pleasure to serve you.’
It took us three days to march on Lincoln. And while I was prepared for a hard fight at the end of our journey, it was with a sneaking relief that I learned of Gilbert de Gant’s abandonment of the siege. The newly made Earl of Lincoln had fled north on the news of the King’s approach. Robin and I rode with the baggage train, twelve heavily laden wagons and fifty or so packhorses holding the King’s belongings, his clothes and jewels, the silver plate for his table, his private dismantled chapel, the chests of coin from which he paid his mercenaries, the tax rolls of the clerks of the exchequer, carpets, bedding, shoes, spare armour, sacks of wheat, barley and oats, barrels of salted meat, flitches of bacon, stacks of round yellow cheeses, boxes of fruit, chests of spices – and fifty tuns of good red wine. Robin’s eighty men rode on either side of the train in two lines, Robert and Hugh each commanding a file of men. Tilda sat high on a cart full of tapestries and bedding, wrapped in a great travelling cloak, back straight, chin high, as haughty as a queen. Boot’s huge form strode along beside her vehicle, a thick oak cudgel over his massive shoulder, as if he were her personal bodyguard and not my son’s – for Robert was not the only member of my household who seemed to have fallen under her spell. She ignored me and I avoided meeting her eye. I was somewhat embarrassed by our night-time encounter. I had behaved boorishly, it seemed to me, when she had tried to do me a kindness. Yet I could not quite b
ring myself to thank her for the cup of healing herbs that had alleviated my cold.
The King and the bulk of the army – still mostly composed of mercenary Flemings, although the numbers of English knights in the King’s train had increased considerably since the muster at Tonbridge – rode far ahead of the slow-moving ox-drawn wagons, and so we struggled through the mire created by several thousand men and horses that marched before us.
On the second day, after noon, we heard the thunder of horses coming from the east – a score of mailed knights riding in, and fast. Robin had me gather a strong force of his men-at-arms and we wheeled to face them in no time at all, ready to drive off any marauders – my lord was taking his new duties as Master of the Royal Baggage seriously, I noted – but it was a false alarm. It was merely Savary de Mauléon and his mud-spattered men returning from Crowland Abbey.
Mauléon reined in, halted his men, greeted Robin cheerfully and nodded at me.
‘I see the big man has you doing all the donkey work, Locksley,’ said the Poitevin, waving a hand at the lumbering column of wagons. ‘About time you did more than tease him in the council chamber.’
Robin smiled serenely. ‘So you’re back from burning a kindly old churchman out of his House of God, slaughtering the monks, raping the nuns – good work, Mauléon. A fitting commission for a man of your quality.’
Mauléon scowled. ‘I couldn’t do it, if you must know, Locksley.’
‘Truly?’
‘Yes, I went to see the abbot and told him what I had been ordered to do. We came to an accommodation.’
‘You disobeyed our lord King!’ said Robin, pretending to be shocked.
‘Abbot Longchamp gave over to me five chests of silver in exchange for the promise that I would leave his lands in peace. That should keep John happy.’
‘A solution after my own heart,’ said Robin. ‘Blackmail rather than bloodshed – I thoroughly approve, Savary. I just hope our beloved King feels the same way.’
‘You’ll help me persuade him?’
‘Of course.’
Mauléon raised a hand in farewell and he and his men galloped up the road to join the main column.
Lincoln was a beautiful and pleasingly laid-out town – I knew it slightly, of course, it being close to Nottingham, but I had never before spent more than a day or two there. It was built on the junction of two mighty roads – Fosse Way, which led hundreds of miles south-west to Exeter, and Ermine Street, the main artery south to London – on the high north bank of the River Witham. In truth, Lincoln was two towns: an upper town, which held the castle and the cathedral and the houses of the richer denizens, the famous Lincoln wool merchants, and a lower town, walled off from the upper and containing workshops, storehouses, a plethora of taverns, houses of ill-repute and the poorer sections of the community. The grandest building in the lower town was the Jews’ House, a large stone building brightly painted in red and gold to demonstrate their loyalty to the crown and nestled just south of the dividing wall. In shape, Lincoln was an oblong, or two squares one on top of the other – the upper and lower towns – and walled all the way around in stone.
We approached from the south and drove the wagon convoy across the grand bridge over the river into the lower part of town. To our right was a wide area of water, a port with a few small ships that traded as far as France and the Low Countries, and this was the method by which the French had supplied their troops besieging the castle. As I crossed the bridge, I noted the port was unusually empty – the French craft had all set sail for safer harbours as soon as they heard of the King’s imminent arrival. Once across the water, we carried on driving our wagons almost due north up the steep rise of the main street that led to the walled upper town, where the cathedral, on the right, and the castle, on the left, straddled the road: the twin bastions of God and the King, overlooking the common stew of grubby humanity below.
There was little sign of de Gant’s occupation forces until we approached the castle walls. Here were scorch marks on the walls and empty spaces where some meaner dwellings and workshops had been pulled down to create space for crossbowmen to loose their weapons against the fortress without hindrance and men-at-arms to muster for an assault. The castle towered over this cleared space and, looking up at its sheer stone walls, I could see why Gilbert de Gant had made no headway. Once we had reached the summit – it was no easy task to get the stubborn oxen and the wagons up the steep hill, I may tell you – we turned and entered the castle through the East Gate. Inside the walls, in the wide, almost-square bailey, we secured the wagons in a series of huge barns by the northern ramparts.
Then Robin and I went in search of the King.
We found him, as expected, with his lords, knights and mercenary captains, and the usual bright crowd of sycophantic hangers-on, in the great thatched hall in the middle of the bailey sitting down to a feast. Robin and I hastily washed the smell of ox from our hands and took our places as latecomers on the lesser tables. As I ate hungrily – it had been a hard morning – I noticed Robin looking at the faces on the high table next to the King.
‘See there, Alan,’ said my lord. ‘The young fellow next to Savary de Mauléon? In the blue tunic? Do you know who that is?’
I didn’t – and didn’t much care. I was excavating the delicious dish of pigeon pie that was set before me.
‘That is John Marshal, the Earl of Pembroke’s brother’s son.’
‘William the Marshal’s nephew?’ I said. ‘I thought he was with the rebels.’
‘Evidently no longer,’ said Robin. ‘And there is the Earl of Salisbury, King John’s half-brother, also now welcomed back into the fold. There, too, is the Earl of York, next to Nicola de la Haye – the fine-looking old biddy. Do you know what this means?’
I could guess, but I allowed Robin his moment. I helped myself to another huge scoop of the pie.
‘It means, my greedy friend, the tide has turned. Three major players have come back over to the King’s side. I heard there were factions in the ranks of Prince Louis’s men – English knights quarrelling with French over the division of the land after the conquest – but I had not realised so many had changed allegiance. Our enemies are divided and our hand is strengthened.’
‘It would be nice if Miles and Thomas had a change of heart,’ I said, wiping the gravy from my chin with a napkin. ‘But I suppose it is too much to ask – at least in Thomas’s case.’ I had spoken without thinking and Robin turned on me abruptly.
‘You know why Thomas left?’ he said. ‘Tell me, Alan, why did he go?’
I blushed to the roots of my hair. ‘I … I cannot. I swore I would not tell.’
Robin’s eyes glinted silver. ‘It is to do with me, is it not? Thomas thought I would harm him somehow or his family. What did he think I’d do?’
I got to my feet; I could not face Robin’s inquisition and keep my word to Thomas. ‘I must go,’ I said, putting down my napkin and finishing my cup of wine.
‘Alan – I understand that you wish to keep your honour. And you love Thomas, I know that, as do I. But think on this: by not telling me what Thomas feared, you may be endangering him. Think about what is best for him – being my friend or my enemy. One day soon we may have to face him in battle, have you considered that?’
And Miles, too, I thought, but did not say it aloud.
‘He might die under my sword – or yours – if he remains with the rebels,’ continued my lord. ‘If the King can bring these men back to his banner, I swear I can do so as well.’
I could face no more of Robin’s assault and, mumbling an apology and claiming that I had urgent duty elsewhere, I left the great hall and stumbled blindly out into the bright light of the castle courtyard, my heart in turmoil.
The world seemed to be spinning around me: what Robin had said was true. My silence was keeping Thomas, and maybe Miles, too, at odds with Robin, in the enemy camp, and that could not be for the good. Yet I had given my word. It was all horribly wrong. Here I
was, serving a King I despised, supporting a cause I did not believe in and putting myself in opposition to Miles and Thomas. The tide was turning, Robin had said, the King was growing in power. I would gladly help him drive the French from England but what about my friends? How would they fare if King John was made secure again on the throne of England? How would England fare?
I could not resolve the division of my loyalties over my vow to Thomas. But there was one snarled affair, nagging like a bad back tooth, that I certainly could remedy. The world stopped spinning. I marched over to the barns where the royal baggage was housed and found Robert, now in command of a score of men-at-arms, who had been given the task of guarding the wagons.
‘Where is Tilda?’ I said. ‘I need to speak with her.’
My son looked at me speculatively. ‘She’s with the washerwomen, over by the vats. On the far side of the courtyard, yonder, by the well.’
I turned and headed in the direction he had pointed. As I walked away, I heard him clearly say, ‘About time, too.’
Chapter Twenty-six
I found Tilda, as Robert had promised, with the washerwomen, in a makeshift enclosure walled by flapping linen sheets hung on lines to dry. She was red-cheeked and sweaty, a black tendril of hair plastered damply to her cheek, a huge bundle of linen in her arms. A dozen women were all around her, swapping news and jests, and dumping great masses of dirty laundry into huge copper vats bubbling over small fires and stirring them with long ash poles. Steam billowed and rippled above the vats. The air inside that castle of white cloth was as muggy as on a summer day before a thunderstorm, and I felt the same sense of impending violent release. All the chatter had stopped when I pushed aside a dripping sheet and entered the washerwomen’s steamy lair. And when I found myself face to face with the woman I wished to speak to, I too was struck dumb.
Tilda curtseyed awkwardly, the bundle of linen making her clumsy. ‘Sir Alan,’ she said, ‘did you require something? Do you need something to be washed?’