The Death of Robin Hood

by Angus Donald

  ‘We have sewn him up, inside and out,’ she said. ‘And packed the wound with healing herbs, moss and spiderwebs and bound it tightly. He still lives but he has been in a deep slumber since we began. I cannot say if he will awaken or not.’

  ‘Can we see him?’ I said.

  ‘There is nothing to see: he is asleep, he breathes. Anna is sitting with him. You had best not take the chance of disturbing him. But Marie-Anne sent me to tell you that she would like to speak with you, if you are at liberty.’

  I found Marie-Anne behind the infirmary in the cloisters, a covered walkway around a square garden in which more of the herbs used for healing were grown. She was pacing slowly up one side of the space and I waited for her to reach me.

  ‘Walk with me, Alan, please. I cannot bear to sit still.’

  We paced the long walkway on all four sides, slowly but with a steady, measured step. I did not think it my place to begin our conversation and so I said nothing as we walked side after side, around and around.

  ‘Tell me, Alan, of those final moments with Miles and Robin, tell me of the fight on the steep hill at Lincoln.’

  So I did – at length, in detail, emphasising that Robin had sheathed his sword as a gesture of reconciliation; that he had not wanted to threaten Miles, even when his son stood before him with a drawn blade.

  Marie-Anne wept as I told the tale. She said: ‘He did not need his sword – he had you beside him. You have always been his sword. You are the swift sword that cut down my little boy.’

  I did not know what to say. It was true. We walked on in silence.

  ‘I am being unfair to you, Alan, I know,’ she said at last. ‘But grief is unfair – to me, to you, to everyone who feels it. In a few moments, in a foolish quarrel over nothing very much, I lost both my son and my husband. And here you stand, hale and whole, having failed to protect my man, your lord, and having killed my son.’

  She stopped walking and looked up at me with her tear-stained face: ‘I should hate you, Alan Dale – you have single-handedly destroyed my life. But … but I cannot.’

  To my profound surprise, she reached out her arms and enfolded me in a tight hug. As I wrapped my arms around her, my own tears began to flow like a river.

  From that moment onward Marie-Anne sat beside Robin day and night, holding his hand, occasionally spooning a little herb-infused water into his dry mouth and massaging his throat until he swallowed. Anna and Tilda changed his bandages twice a day, carrying away long folds of linen stained with blood and bright yellow pus. I put my head round the door every few hours asking Marie-Anne if there was any change.

  On the third day after the operation, Robin opened his eyes, looked at Marie-Anne, smiled briefly, then fell back into a deep slumber.

  On the fifth day, when we had all but given up hope, he opened his eyes again. Marie-Anne gave a shriek of happiness and I, who happened to be passing the door of the infirmary, shot inside, to see Lady Locksley fervently kissing the forehead of the patient and murmuring endearments, while Robin looked around, trying, I would say, to work out where he was.

  His eye fell on me, standing halfway across the room, grinning at him like a mountebank. ‘I’m alive,’ he said. ‘Unless we are all dead and this is your Christian Heaven.’

  ‘You’re alive, my love,’ said Marie-Anne, kissing him. ‘You are truly alive.’

  ‘Can you give me some wine, my mouth is horribly dry,’ said Robin.

  ‘No wine, no ale, I am afraid, my love, just water boiled up with herbs,’ said his wife. ‘The Prioress’s orders.’

  ‘Herb water, then. I take it I’m at Kirklees?’

  ‘Yes, lord, we brought you here after Lincoln,’ I said.

  Marie-Anne helped him sip from an earthenware cup. Robin looked over at me when he had taken his medicinal drink; he smiled warmly and then his expression clouded over. ‘Miles is dead, isn’t he?’

  I nodded and saw my lord’s face collapse in grief. His head sank back on the pillow and he closed his eyes.

  ‘You need to rest, my love,’ said Marie-Anne. ‘Rest and grow strong again.’

  * * *

  They moved Robin up to one of the towers of the Priory for his convalescence, a small circular room overlooking the vast green parkland to the east. From the window, roe deer could be seen on occasion through the trees, and in the mornings the summer sun shone on the chair where Robin would sometimes sit for an hour or so. He grew stronger, week by week, the wound in his stomach drying and healing to a long pink scar. By early August he was able to walk a few steps – but he tired easily and often the hour a day I spent with him, playing chess or just talking quietly, seemed to utterly exhaust him.

  We had news of the war in those long summer days. The victory at Lincoln had destroyed French power in the north of England. We had captured large numbers of enemy knights and killed a good deal more. Many of the fleeing troops had been ambushed by English peasants as they retreated south to London and few arrived at the capital alive. Young King Henry’s cause was triumphant all across the north and the west; only London and the south-east were held by the French prince, and Louis’s grip on them was tenuous. William the Marshal, we heard, was preparing to assault London and finally seize back the capital from the rebels who, since the capture of Lord Fitzwalter at Lincoln, had been lacking an effective leader.

  Fitzwalter himself and many other rebel lords were being held in chains at Lincoln Castle. Many voices at court cried that he should be put to death for treason, but King Henry (or perhaps the Marshal) insisted on leniency for all former enemies to help to heal the wounds of the civil war. Thomas would receive a fat ransom for capturing Fitzwalter, when it could be arranged with the rebel lord’s remaining family, and the erstwhile captain-general of the Army of God would then be released from prison on condition that he took the cross and vowed to depart for the Holy Land on a pilgrimage.

  I saw little of Tilda in those days and weeks. I was busy running errands for Robin and Tilda had resumed her old position in the Priory and was dealing with the sick and ill from the whole district around Kirklees. When we did meet, there was nothing but tenderness between us. In this House of God, this nunnery, as unmarried folk we could not share a bed, yet we did allow ourselves to kiss and take walks together in the grounds. A public display of our love, I soon discovered, was not well received. One day, in the kitchens, I came across Tilda preparing some food for some of the local sick and took her into my arms, kissing her sweet lips. She was responding with enthusiasm, when we heard a loud crash behind us and broke the embrace to see the Prioress standing over the shards of an earthenware pot.

  ‘Get your filthy hands off her, Alan Dale. This is a kitchen not a bawdy house,’ Anna said, anger crackling in the air about her. ‘And you, Tilda, should be ashamed of yourself: a pregnant nun carrying on like a scarlet whore in this house. Shame on you both!’

  Tilda and I giggled about it afterwards, like naughty children caught stealing fruit.

  Robin grew stronger and soon he was able to walk in the sunshine in the Priory grounds. And yet his diet was still restricted to boiled herb water and the plainest of grain pottages, by the order of the Prioress. However, he did persuade me to smuggle Mastin’s huge bow and a full bag of arrows up to his room.

  ‘I need to stretch my muscles, Alan,’ he said, ‘and pulling a bow cord is the best way for me to get back in trim. Besides, those deer out there are thicker than fleas on a blind beggar’s dog. I don’t think these lands have been hunted for a generation. When I am stronger I’m going to put a bit of venison on the Priory table – and then defy grumpy old Anna to stop me eating it!’

  His words were as bold as ever, but in truth he was a shadow of his former self. He slept more than half the day and thrashed feverishly all night. He was still as thin as a spear shaft, and his cheeks and hair were as white as fresh snow, and though he tried manfully to draw the big bow, he could barely pull it back halfway.

  In September, came the be
st news of all. Prince Louis had suffered a devastating defeat at sea near the port of Sandwich, in which ships bringing supplies to the beleaguered French forces in London were attacked and sunk by none other than Hubert de Burgh, the hawkish defender of Dover Castle. The French Prince, now abandoned by nearly all his English allies, agreed to a formal treaty in which he relinquished his claims to the throne of England and returned to his native land.

  We had won. King Henry was the undisputed master of this land. The long bloody war between the barons and the crown was finally over. Soon, Robin and I could go back to our homes, to Kirkton and Westbury, and, I earnestly prayed, be allowed to live the rest of our lives in peace.

  Robin and I were playing chess. And, for once, I had him. One move and my queen would swoop down and, protected by my knight, nestle up next to his king in the deadly embrace of checkmate. I looked at Robin across the board. Did he suspect? He seemed happily distracted by the glad tidings we had had from the south.

  ‘This is news that deserves celebrating properly, Alan,’ said Robin. ‘Send down to the kitchens for wine and meat. Come on. It can’t hurt just this once. We must toast the King and his splendid victory with proper victuals. I don’t care what the Prioress has to say about it, if I never see another cup of herb water again it will be far too soon.’

  ‘I’ll go after this game,’ I said.

  ‘Come now, Alan. Would you refuse a sick old man a morsel to eat?’

  I frowned. ‘Do not touch this board, my lord. On your honour. I do not want there to be a so-called “accident” when I am gone. A careless hand that slips and knocks the pieces to the four winds.’

  ‘Why would I do that?’ said Robin in an infuriatingly innocent tone. ‘I’m about to thrash you soundly – you just do not know it yet.’

  I went downstairs, thinking furiously, the positions of the pieces on the board clear in my mind. What had I missed? Was I making a blunder? Was he merely bluffing? It occurred to me once again that, even when you know for certain you are going to win the game, fickle chance can sometimes snatch victory from your grasp.

  I had not planned to consult Anna about Robin’s request, but as it happened I ran into her in the kitchens, and when she asked what I wanted, it seemed churlish to lie. ‘The Earl wishes to celebrate our wonderful victory over the French with fine wine and good red meat – no more plain pottage and herb water, he says.’

  The Prioress looked at me for a long moment, her black eyes bright. ‘It seems to me that I have cured your master. Is that true, would you say? His wound is better now and I am the one who cured him.’

  ‘Yes, yes, now about the food. Robin would prefer venison but—’

  ‘Say it, say to me that I cured him and that I fulfilled my obligation.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said, ‘you have cured him and we are all very grateful to you for your labours. I have no doubt my lord will reward you well—’

  Again, she cut me off. ‘If he wants wine and meat, I will send them to him.’

  Half an hour later, up in Robin’s room in the east tower, there came a knock on the door and Tilda entered carrying a heavy tray. Robin and I were on our second game. My cunning master had seen the trap with my queen and knight and had somehow slipped out of it. Then we had chased each other around the board until it became clear we had come to a stalemate. So we reset the pieces and began again: and now he had me in total disarray, my queen lost and two pawns, too.

  ‘Are you sure this is wise, Alan?’ said Tilda as she unloaded a jug of red wine and three cups on to the table. A platter with thickly sliced pork covered in rich gravy came next with a dish of turnips in butter and a basket of sliced bread.

  ‘By God, that looks good,’ said Robin, getting up from the chessboard, sitting down on a stool at the table and pouring out three cups of dark wine.

  I was looking at Tilda. She had a strange expression on her lovely face, a sort of puzzled frown, her hand placed on her swollen belly.

  ‘A toast,’ said Robin, picking up his wine. I left the board and came over to the table, reaching for my cup.

  ‘God save King Henry!’ said Robin, downing his drink in one.

  ‘Alan, come here,’ said Tilda excitedly. ‘I just felt the baby kick! Come, feel!’

  I put down my wine, untasted, and went over to Tilda, placing a hand on her belly, which was now round and tight as a drum. I could feel nothing but the warmth of her skin beneath my hand.

  I heard a loud groan behind me and turned to see Robin, grey-faced and clutching at his stomach. He was barely able to speak. ‘The wine …’ he said.

  I looked aghast at the jug of wine on the table and the two untouched brimming cups. One evil word was fluttering around in my head like a moth: poison.

  ‘You stopped me from drinking,’ I said, staring wildly at Tilda. ‘You stopped me drinking by pretending the baby was kicking!’

  For a moment Tilda looked confused and then her blue-grey eyes flashed in fury. ‘You think this wine is poisoned? You think I did it? Are you utterly insane?’

  ‘You hate him, you told me so yourself. You said he brought about your ruin!’

  ‘You stupid man. This wine is not poisoned. It is his belly wound, his lacerated guts are not ready for wine. I thought as much. Look, see this!’ And before I could stop her, she seized one of the cups of wine and swallowed the contents in one long draught.

  ‘See, Alan. I did not poison it. I cannot believe you think that I would. We will discuss your idiotic accusations later – you can be sure of that. For now just help me get him into bed.’

  Between us, we easily managed to get Robin to his bed, but not before he had vomited hugely over my arms and chest. The spew smelled of wine and stomach juices but nothing else. I began to relax.

  ‘Here, Robin, drink some water,’ I said, holding out a cup of the herbal brew. But my lord gave a tiny shake of his head. I saw that his lips were pale blue. ‘Can’t feel my feet,’ he said. ‘They’re gone. I think … I’m gone, too!’

  I felt panic rising through my chest. I seized him by the shoulders, shook him: ‘Can you vomit some more?’

  ‘No, there is no time. Bring the bow and an arrow.’

  I looked at him as if he were raving.

  ‘Just obey me … without arguing … this one … last time … Alan … please,’ he panted. And I did. I fetched Mastin’s bow and a shaft from the corner of the room and, as I handed them to Robin, I saw that Tilda was sitting on the stool by the table, elbows on her knees, her face the colour of cold hearth ash.

  ‘Now … listen to me … Alan … are you listening? Where this arrow lands … that is where … I wish you … to lay me to rest,’ said my lord.

  For an instant, by some trick played on me by my eyes, with that bow and an arrow in his hands, he looked exactly like the young and carefree Sherwood outlaw I had first met all those years ago. And then the illusion was gone. He was just a sick old man with an over-sized bow stave in his trembling hands.

  I don’t know how he did it but somehow, using the last of his strength, perhaps all the strength he had in his body, and lying nearly flat on the bed, Robin nocked the arrow, drew back the cord on that mighty bow to its full extent … and loosed. The shaft flew straight out of the window, soared high and disappeared into the vast blue heavens.

  His body collapsed, the bow clattering to the floor, arms thumping down beside his torso, the air whistling out of his lungs in an alarmingly noisy rattle.

  ‘Alan,’ came a voice from behind me, ‘Alan, my love.’ I turned to see Tilda slide from the stool and crash ungainly to the floor. I rushed to her side, picked her up in my arms and held her tightly as she coughed up a thin black drool. Her lips, the red lips I’d kissed so many times before, were blue as a summer sky.

  ‘It was not I, my beloved,’ she whispered. ‘I swear it. I would never hurt you. Never. I knew nothing of the poison. Truly I did not. I love you. But Anna … she hates …’

  Then my lovely Tilda grew still
. Her spirit left her body and the half-formed baby inside her – another fine son? A longed-for daughter? – perished with her.

  I do not know how long I sat cradling my dead lover in my arms, stroking her round belly hoping for a miracle, hoping to feel the kick of life, perhaps. It could have been one hour or five. I was frozen with grief, unable to move or even think clearly. I was aware that I was making a high-pitched keening noise, a kind of singing, perhaps, or even whistling – although the sound may have existed only in my head. I looked over at the still body of Robin, his wide-open eyes staring at the ceiling as if pondering his next move on the chessboard. Surely, at any moment, he would leap up, laughing, and tell me I had been a fool to think him gone. He could not truly be dead; he could not be. But in my heart of hearts I knew my lord would never make another move again.

  I was aroused from my long torpor by Marie-Anne. She came through the door humming something cheerful and when she saw Robin lying motionless on the bed, staring into eternity, she gave a wild cry, like the sound of a seagull, and threw herself on the body, mewling with grief. I put down Tilda’s body as gently as I could and went over to console my lord’s lady. When the first towering wave of her grief had crashed – it took the form of shrieking and weeping and beating with both small fists against my chest – I told her as best I could what had happened here this terrible day. I told her that Anna must have administered the poison in the wine.

  When I had finished, I held her for a long, long time, feeling her quiver like a trapped bird against my chest, feeling her hot, damp cheek against mine. Finally she pushed me away, scrubbed her face with her hands.

  ‘I want her dead, Alan Dale. I want her bloody and dead at my feet,’ said Marie-Anne, her voice hissing with rage. ‘At least you of all people can do that for me!’

  I was stunned by her change of mood.

  ‘You killed my son. You stood stupidly by while my husband was murdered. Go – do what it is that you do so well. I want her dead. Hack her head from her body!’