King's Man

by Angus Donald

  I felt dizzy with joy. All that I had been striving for over the past year, all that I had endured – the long journey to Germany, the deaths of Perkin and Adam, the strain of deception while I was playing the loyal man in Prince John’s camp, the wrestling match with Milo and the terrible night as I waited to be hanged like a felon – now it all seemed worthwhile. Good King Richard was coming home, and all would be set to rights. I found myself grinning like an idiot at everyone in our company and, by accident, my gaze fell on Goody.

  She looked directly back at me, something she had not done in weeks. And quickly, privately, she smiled at me. In a heartbeat, our quarrel was over: in that moment it seemed absurd, ridiculous – a foolish trifle, an evil enchantment that had been conjured up solely to divide two young lovers, a thing of no substance at all, mere thistledown on the wind in the wild joy of King Richard’s return.

  We moved towards each other, almost as if drawn by some invisible force, and then she was in my arms, held tight, squeezed, her white face pressed into my neck, and I could feel the burn of her tears.

  Chapter Nineteen

  King Richard stepped off the gangplank on to the wharf at the port of Sandwich on a bright, sunny March morning, and the cheers that rang out from the hundreds of men-at-arms gathered to meet him were loud enough to deafen the Heavens. He was thinner than when I’d last seen him, very pale, and looked a little older too – but he was still that strong, confident man who had led us to victory in Sicily, Cyprus and Outremer. His chief men – the earls and bishops and great barons – all those few who had remained loyal to him during the dark times – were gathered in the forefront of the crowd at the quayside, with their own loyal men behind them. And hundreds of small boats filled the brown water of the harbour with spectators, local Sandwich men and women, all wanting to catch a glimpse of the King’s triumphant arrival.

  As our sovereign stepped off the narrow wooden walkway that ran down from the high deck of the ship, he staggered a little and then righted himself and smiled, and it felt as if the world was warmed. We cheered him, three times three, until our voices were hoarse. And Richard smiled and nodded at individuals in the crowd, lifting a thin hand to acknowledge a face here and there. He greeted each of the assembled magnates by name, walking slowly along the front of the shouting, jostling crowd, and giving each of them a word or two of thanks. Our King stopped by Robin, clasped him by the hand and pulled him forward. He muttered something in Robin’s ear and they both laughed, and then his eye lighted on me, standing as I was, directly behind my lord.

  ‘Blondel, well met,’ said the King. ‘How goes it with England’s most talented trouvère?’

  ‘I don’t know about that fellow, sire,’ I said, suddenly shy of conversing with the King, ‘but I can tell you that I am quite fit and well and ready to serve you.’

  Richard laughed. ‘Good man. But we shall need your sharp sword more than your sharp wit in the next few weeks, Alan. And it may be some time, I fear, before we hear your elegant verses again,’ he added, looking grave.

  ‘I am yours to command, sire,’ I said, bowing.

  The King nodded. ‘And I have not forgotten the debt I owe you for Ochsenfurt,’ he said.

  I could find no reply but merely smiled mutely at him, and then he was off, past me and greeting the Earl Ferrers, who was standing nearby. I felt as if, for a moment, I had been standing by the blaze of an open hearth, and the warmth of the King’s greeting was sufficient to linger with me for hours afterwards.

  As I was making my way through the throng back to the manor house where Robin and I were to sleep that night, I felt a hand on my arm and turned to see two bald elderly men, similarly dressed in white robes, much stained by travel. They were smiling at me, like old friends, which in a way they were. The foremost man extended a veined hand with a large jewelled ring on it for me to kiss. I bobbed down and made my obeisance, and grinned up at the abbot: ‘My lord Boxley,’ I said. ‘How very good to see you again. May I congratulate you on bringing our noble King safely home.’

  A brief look of irritation flitted across his lined face, but he quickly recovered and smiled wryly at me: ‘I see that my good friend Alan is pleased to make merry with me,’ he said. ‘For he knows full well after all our adventures together in Germany that this is the Abbot of Boxley,’ he indicated his companion, who was nodding and beaming at me, ‘and I have the honour of Robertsbridge.’

  ‘Of course, of course, please forgive my foolish levity. I am most happy to see you both and long to hear of all your endeavours over the past few months – it cannot have been easy but you have certainly triumphed …’

  After one night at Sandwich Manor, and an interminable meal with the two abbots, during which they gave me a blow-by-blow account of the negotiations to free Richard, we all took horse and followed the royal object of their efforts to Canterbury the next morning. As we rode, more and more knights and barons and their men-at-arms flocked to join in the procession – some men coming from as far afield as Cornwall to join the King, until we were a veritable army on the move.

  On reaching the cathedral at Canterbury, Richard prayed at the shrine of Thomas à Becket and then commanded the Archbishop, Hubert Walter, a loyal, jolly but warlike prelate, to perform a Mass of thanksgiving for his safe release in the open air so that all the army could take part. After the service, the King called his chief vassals to him in the cathedral’s chapter house, and I was fortunate enough to be invited by Robin to attend him at the meeting.

  As Robin mingled with the other earls and barons, greeting old friends and making new ones, I sat in one of the carved stone thrones around the walls and, with my back to the cool stone, I daydreamed about Goody.

  After our passionate embrace, a tearful scene had followed: I had apologized to Goody for my jealousy and rude behaviour to Roger and she had begged my forgiveness for her coldness towards me, and we had laughed and joked and made everything right between us. We agreed to ask Marie-Anne, Goody’s legal guardian, to arrange a betrothal between us as soon as was humanly possible – and vowed never, ever to quarrel again.

  Goody had said: ‘You have no need to feel jealous of Roger – he does not love girls. In fact, he came to me that day to tell me his heart had been broken by another boy.’

  I felt as if a weight had been lifted from my own heart – suddenly everything seemed to make sense: his finely tended good looks, his meticulous, elegant dress, his bewilderment at my boorish aggression. Truly, Goody and Roger were no more than friends. And I thanked God.

  I confessed to Goody the whole story about Nur. Even telling her about the curse I believed that she had cast on our love in revenge for my abandoning her, and how her malicious enchantment had been the real cause of our quarrel.

  Goody went very quiet when I had finished telling my tale, and then she gently took my hand in hers and very quietly but firmly she said: ‘I don’t believe in enchantments, and I’m not frightened of unhappy women who go about pretending to be witches. You are not to blame for Nur’s misfortune; it was your enemy Malbête, not you, who cut away her beauty. And you cannot be blamed for the death of your love for her. Perhaps you did not truly love her before her misfortune; perhaps you did. It matters not. You do not love her now; and nothing she can do will persuade you to change your heart. You must give her a living, a cottage and some land to till in Westbury, some compensation in silver, perhaps, but that must be the end of the matter.’ She looked deep into my eyes with her lovely thistle-blue ones and said: ‘You are mine, now, not hers – and she has no right to meddle in our lives. If she does, I will make her regret it …’

  I was startled out of my pleasant reverie in the chapter house by the sight of Robin talking to his brother, William of Edwinstowe, and a tall, familiar-looking knight. The knight wore a pure white mantle emblazoned with a blood-red cross on the breast; he was evidently Templar – of the very Order that had hounded Robin into outlawry only a year ago.

  He was, in fact, Sir A
ymeric de St Maur himself.

  I sat upright with a jerk, my hand going instinctively to my sword hilt: the last time I had seen this man was in Nottingham Castle when he had been threatening me with hot irons to make me betray the very man with whom he was now congenially conversing not ten paces from my seat. The Templars had kidnapped little Hugh, tried my master for heresy, attempted to have him burnt at the stake and, on his escape, had had him excommunicated. And yet here was Aymeric, gossiping with Robin like a pair of goodwives at market. I had assumed that the Templars were backing Prince John’s cause – but now it seemed I was wrong. William of Edwinstowe, standing between his brother and the Templar knight, put a hand on each of their arms, smiled, said something quietly and walked away into the throng. And Robin and Aymeric were nodding, smiling at each other and now, miraculously, giving each other the kiss of peace before they parted – as if they were old and trusted comrades. I stood up as Robin came over to me. He laughed out loud when he saw my amazed face.

  ‘That surprised you, Alan, didn’t it?’ he said with a wide, easy grin.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ I said. My jaw was sagging.

  ‘It’s all about the money, Alan,’ said Robin. ‘It usually is. Sometimes with a little revenge thrown in, sometimes some honest religion, sometimes it’s a question of bruised pride. But mostly it’s about cold hard silver.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ I said, bewildered.

  ‘As of today, when I’ve had a moment to dispatch a few letters to my people in the East, we are no longer in the frankincense trade.’

  I goggled at him. ‘But why?’

  ‘To keep the peace, mainly; and to get these damned Templars off my back,’ said my master. ‘That’s really all those holy hypocrites wanted from me. That whole inquisition flummery about heresy and demon-worship was just a way of forcing my hand. And I have been persuaded to submit to their wishes.’

  ‘Explain!’ I was beginning to be irritated by Robin’s flippant answers.

  He sighed. ‘The Templars are taking over the frankincense trade in Outremer. In exchange, my excommunication is rescinded; the interdict on the Locksley lands is lifted; and the Templars have withdrawn their support for Prince John and come over to our side. My brother William has arranged everything: he acted as a go-between, he spoke first to the Master of the Temple two months ago, and brokered the whole deal from start to finish. With a little help from Queen Eleanor’s people.’

  ‘But what about all the money? You will lose thousands in revenues every year!’ I was also thinking of the good men who had died for that God-cursed frankincense trade, and of one good Templar knight, a noble man and a staunch friend, in particular.

  ‘I believe I may be, ah, compensated for my losses,’ said Robin, nodding towards a tall regal figure with red-gold hair who was at this moment striding energetically into the chapter house at the head of a crowd of knights and priests. ‘The King insisted on my making peace with these holy hot-heads – and promised royal rewards if I did so,’ said my master with a wry grin. ‘And there is some more good news: you and I, Little John – everybody – we are all to receive full pardons for our alleged crimes and misdemeanours. We are wild outlaws no longer, Alan; we are now honest king’s men.’ His extraordinary silver eyes twinkled at me, as if in jest, but I detected a note of wistfulness in his tone.

  As ever, King Richard was decisive: in a loud voice he gathered everyone into the centre of the chapter house and in very few words he welcomed all to the Council and called on Hubert Walter, the Archbishop of Canterbury, to summarize the state of the campaign against John’s forces.

  The Archbishop, a short, wide but very muscular man, beamed at the company. ‘It goes well, Your Highness,’ he began. ‘It goes very well indeed. As you may already know, my men have already recaptured Marlborough Castle in Wiltshire, and without too much trouble, I may say. Hugh de Puiset sends to say that he is outside the walls of Tickhill Castle on the Yorkshire border – and he writes that Sir Robert de la Mare is almost ready to surrender the fortress, assuming we can give certain guarantees of safe conduct, no reprisals, full pardons, and so forth.’

  ‘Give them,’ said King Richard curtly. ‘I want the castles, not the misguided men inside them.’

  Hubert Walter continued, with a nod at his sovereign: ‘Lancaster Castle has fallen to de Puiset’s brother Theobald – and as for Mont St Michel in Cornwall …’ Here the Archbishop consulted a scrap of parchment. ‘… It seems the constable, Henry de Pumerai, died of fright when he heard Your Highness had returned to England.’

  The room erupted in a roar of laughter, a mass of burly men doubled over in hilarity, slapping each other on the back and knuckling their own eyes, and even the King joined in, tears of mirth streaming down his pale cheeks.

  At last, the Archbishop called the chapter house to order: ‘There is one last nut to crack, Highness, and then all England is yours: Nottingham Castle.’

  ‘Tell me about Nottingham,’ the King growled.

  ‘Well …’ the muscular prelate began. The King silenced him with a wave of his hand. ‘Not you, Hubert. You’ve done your bit. Locksley, that’s your neck of the woods. What news of my royal castle of Nottingham?’

  All eyes in the chapter house were now on my master. He sucked in a big breath and began to speak. ‘Sire, as my lord Archbishop has already said, Nottingham is a tough nut. It is the last hold-out of Prince John’s men, and knights and menat-arms loyal to your brother have been mustering there for the past few weeks since your release. There must be as many as a thousand fighting men there now – including a contingent of two hundred first-class Flemish mercenaries: crossbow men, and very good, I’m told.’

  Robin paused for a moment to collect his thoughts: ‘Nottingham has ample provisions for at least a year. It has several layers of defences, so that even if we take the outer walls, they can retreat into inner fortifications, and even if we take those, they could defy us from the great tower for many months. Some men say that Nottingham is absolutely impregnable; that it cannot be taken by force. Ever.’

  ‘But can we take it?’ The King was frowning at Robin.

  My master looked straight back at him, but for three heartbeats he did not reply. Finally he said: ‘Yes, sire, yes, it can be taken. It will cost many lives, but, yes. Assuming that Prince John does not return to England with a great army and march to its relief. We can take it. But the price in blood, the price in the lives of your men, will be very high.’

  The King looked thoughtful. ‘Who is there at Nottingham now?’ he asked.

  Robin replied, with no emotion at all in his voice: ‘The castle is presently being held by Sir Ralph Murdac, your royal brother John’s constable, who was sheriff of Nottinghamshire, Derbyshire and the Royal Forests under your father.’

  ‘Murdac, that slimy little shit-bag? Is he still on the chessboard?’ said the King, with more than a little surprise in his voice. ‘I thought he had been banished, or exiled, or outlawed or something. The man’s no better than a thief. A damned coward, too.’

  ‘He is no fool and he should not be underestimated,’ said Robin. ‘And he has a strong garrison at his command. It will be no easy matter to winkle him out.’

  ‘Why do you defend him? He is no friend of yours,’ said the King. ‘If I remember rightly, you have crossed swords with him on several occasions. And wasn’t there some saucy rumour …’ the King stopped, embarrassed.

  ‘He is no friend of mine – that is certain,’ Robin said coolly. ‘I would happily see him hanged as a traitor from the nearest gallows. But it would be a grave mistake to underestimate him. As we speak, my men are now outside the castle walls, with the Earl of Chester’s forces, keeping him under surveillance. There are not enough loyal men to hand – a few hundred at most – to keep Murdac penned in if he really wanted to sally forth. But my guess is that he believes he is safe behind those walls, and he is sitting tight and holding out until Prince John sends a relief force from Fran
ce.’

  ‘We need not fear my royal brother overmuch,’ said Richard. ‘He is not a man to take a country, or relieve a castle even, if there is anyone with even the slightest will to oppose him.’ Dutiful laughter echoed round the chapter house – it was a jest Richard had used before. Even Robin smiled tightly.

  ‘Well, gentlemen,’ said the King. ‘It is quite clear what we must do: we must go north, to Nottingham, and dispossess this Murdac creature of my castle – and perhaps I shall hang him from the nearest gallows, too, just to please you, Locksley!’

  Robin smiled again, and made the King a deep, graceful bow.

  King Richard was clearly a happy man – after a year of humiliating and frustrating inactivity, he was back in the saddle with loyal companions at his side, and a bloody campaign to fight to restore his kingdom. More than anything in this world, our King loved a good fight, and his enthusiasm and confidence lifted our hearts. We rode out from Canterbury the next day, some four hundred souls: barons, knights, menat-arms, bishops, priests, royal servants, huntsmen, whores and hangers-on. The men were boasting of the great deeds they would do in battle and jesting crudely with each other. The whole column was in tearing high spirits, eager for a fight, and from time to time snatches of song would break out and spread down the lines of men, growing, blossoming like a forest fire until we were all bawling our hearts out in time with the stamp of marching boots. We were still badly outnumbered by Prince John’s forces, but we knew, you see, we knew in our very bones that we would be victorious when we reached Nottingham. After all, we had King Richard to lead us, and with the finest warrior in Christendom as our lord, who could possibly prevail against us?