by Angus Donald
There was more hammering on the door, and a man shouted: ‘Sir Ralph, Sir Ralph, is all well with you in there? Constable, are you unharmed?’
‘What is the secret? Tell me now or die.’
‘It concerns your father’s time in Paris. I know the name of the man who ordered his death.’
‘You ordered his death. I know this to be true.’
‘It is true that I ordered him hanged, but I received orders from someone, a very powerful man, a man you cannot refuse. He told me to accomplish your father’s death. Swear before Almighty God and on the Holy Virgin that you will spare me – and I will tell you his name.’
‘Constable – Sir Ralph, are you there? Are you all right?’ the man-at-arms outside the door demanded.
‘Tell them that all is well in here or I will kill you now, I swear that before Almighty God.’
‘All is well,’ shouted Murdac immediately. ‘There is no cause for alarm. Go back to bed!’
The hammering stopped. I saw that Hanno was uncoiling a long thin rope that he had taken from his back-sack – and for a second I wondered if it would be long enough, and strong enough for what I had in mind. We needed a hundred and fifty foot of very strong rope for my plan to succeed. I shrugged off my own back-sack and kicked it over to Hanno.
‘Who is in there with you, Sir Ralph?’ shouted the man from beyond the door.
‘I am with my friends. Go away and cease troubling me with your impudence!’ Murdac sounded convincing. Pleased with his performance, he was nodding and smiling at me in an eager manner.
I swung my hands down in a short hard arc – and smashed the silver pommel of the sword into Murdac’s temple. He gave a soft sigh and flopped to the floor.
‘We are taking him with us,’ I told Hanno. And to his credit, my doughty German friend merely nodded, shrugged and moved off towards the privy, carrying the bundles of rope in his arms.
* * *
There are some experiences that are almost too unpleasant to recall, and so I will only briefly tell of the passage down the exit chute of Murdac’s privy. After I had recovered my misericorde – it took a deal of strength to prise if from Rix’s foot bones and the grip of the polished wooden floor – we dropped the unconscious Ralph Murdac down the chute first, after tying him securely to the end of Hanno’s rope and lowering him none too gently through the shit-rimmed hole to a shoulder of sandstone rock thirty feet below. Then, reluctantly, we followed him down.
Our boots sunk deep in crusted ordure, we paused on that foul shoulder a moment before dropping Murdac before us once again, then climbing down the slippery hundred foot or so of sheer cliff to the ground – mercifully, without being seen by the sentries on the castle’s western battlements – all the while trying to make minimal contact with the evil-smelling, slimy sandstone cliff wall. My mind, however, on that noisome descent was split between two equally pressing questions: would the men-at-arms in the castle break into Murdac’s chamber and cut the rope that held us? And what had Murdac meant when he said, ‘I received orders from someone, a very powerful man, a man you cannot refuse.’
Praise be to God: they did not cut the rope, and we reached the ground in safety. All three of us were well befouled, though, by the time we had made it to the bottom. And as we hurried away from the black bulk of the castle, circling round the fish pond and heading north-west towards the King’s pavilion in the deer park with Murdac slung like a sack of turnips over Hanno’s shoulder, I wondered whether it might not be better to bathe and change our clothing before presenting our trussed prize to Richard. But, as it turned out, we were given no choice in the matter. We were stopped by a couple of sentries in the park and shown directly, stinking, into the King’s presence.
Though it must have been nearly three o’clock in the morning, our sovereign was still awake, poring over his plans for the next day’s artillery assault which were set up on a trestle table in the centre of the pavilion. The King shouted for wine, and hot water and towels, and we made a hasty toilet in front of our sovereign lord as he rubbed his hands together with satisfaction and looked down at the bound and helpless Sir Ralph Murdac trussed up like a pedlar’s package in front of him.
‘Well done, Blondel – oh, that was bravely done!’ said the King. ‘You have saved me time, effort, and the lives of many good men by your actions tonight, and I salute you. I won’t forget this, Alan. I am in your debt once more.’
But while the King was fizzing and crackling with energy, after the first cup of wine my eyelids began to droop – it had been a long and exhausting night’s work. And I wanted some peace to ponder Murdac’s cryptic words again. I had tried, briefly, to interrogate him as we made our way across the park to the King’s tent, but groggy and bouncing uncomfortably on Hanno’s broad shoulder, he had remained sullenly silent. Tomorrow, I thought, tomorrow I would ask him again about the man who he claimed had ordered my father’s death – and if he still remained stubborn … well, there were less gentlemanly methods that I would not be too shy to employ. I might well ask Sir Aymeric de St Maur for a few suggestions about the persuasive use of hot irons.
I took my leave of the King – he was elated and chatting nineteen to the dozen with his tired-looking household knights, and with the sergeants who had been charged with keeping Sir Ralph Murdac secured – and went to find Thomas, who was curled up in a mound of straw, sleeping peacefully among the King’s horses. I woke him and gave him my weapons and armour, including Rix’s beautiful sword, to care for: they were still encrusted with gore from the fight in Murdac’s chamber and worse from our escape down the cliff. Then I rolled myself in an old cloak, and lay down next to Hanno in the warm straw. As I drifted off into a deep, satisfied sleep, my last thoughts were: had Murdac been lying? Had he spun me a tale about my father solely to save his neck? It was entirely possible, I thought. But I would surely find out the next day. Tomorrow.
And then Dame Sleep pulled me down into her vast comforting bosom.
I awoke in broad daylight, to the distant sound of snarling saws and ringing hammers. Hanno was snoring gently beside me, and I lay for a few moments in my cosy straw bed and looked up at the blue sky above. It seemed so empty and clean: untroubled by the bloody affairs of men. It was a perfect spring day: I knew I had performed great deeds the night before, and my King had acknowledged them, and now my enemies were dead, or captured, while I was whole. Life was very good, I mused. And then my thoughts turned to Goody, as they often did first thing in the morning. We would be betrothed soon and she would be wholly mine, and that notion gave me a wonderful feeling of warmth and joy.
I noticed that the hammering and sawing had stopped and idly thought about getting to my feet, but there seemed to be no hurry. I was unlikely to be called upon to fight today after my efforts of the night before – there would be negotiations between the heralds and whomever was now in command of the castle – and if they broke down, Richard would begin the long, slow process of bombarding the castle into submission. I might not be called upon for weeks and I felt I deserved a long, lazy rest. In a little while, I thought, I will rise, wash, seize a bite of bread and a mouthful of ale and pay Ralph Murdac a visit to see if I can get any sense from him about my father’s death.
I remained there, watching the white fluffy clouds chasing each other over the vast blue heavens until, finally, a full bladder forced me to rise, brush the straw from my clothes, and seek out a latrine. As I made my way over to the big ditch that had been dug as a midden on the edge of the King’s encampment, I noticed that there were very few people about the place. And those that were in the park seemed to be making their way over to the east. Something was going on in the northern part of the outer bailey, I guessed, and for the first time that morning my curiosity stirred.
When I got back to the horse lines, Thomas was there and he had brought with him a bowl of hot water for me to wash in, and a clean linen chemise. I shook Hanno awake and, as soon as he had completed his morning ritual of yawning,
farting, spitting and cursing foully in German, the three of us set off eastwards to see what we could see.
It was a hanging – or, to be more accurate, several hangings. An enormous gibbet had been erected to the north of the castle, well out of crossbow range from the battlements. And two black figures were already dangling from the crossbar as Hanno, Thomas and I hurried towards them, slowed by the crowd that had gathered to watch this gruesome spectacle. To my right, I could see that the battlements of the middle bailey were thick with heads as the defenders of the castle came out in their hundreds to watch the executions of their comrades – for I could see by their dress that the two men swinging from the gibbet were both Murdac’s men; most likely ones we had captured in the fight for the outer bailey the previous day.
As we approached the gibbet, a cold hand gripped my heart. I saw a third prisoner being set on a horse cart under the half-filled gallows, with his hands tied behind his back and a noose around his neck. A priest was gabbling inaudible words of prayer for the condemned man’s soul and the victim had his eyes tightly shut. A signal from a knight, standing by, and a whip lashed down on the cart horse’s rump and, as the beast started forward, the cart was pulled away from under the man’s legs and he dropped a foot or so, the noose tightening around his neck, strangling him slowly to death.
The hanged man’s feet were still kicking wildly, as if he were indulging in a particularly joyful dance, when the cart was wheeled back into position for the next victim. This one was a small man, dressed entirely in expensive black, though rather bedraggled and with, I noticed, his left shoulder wedged high against his neck. It was Sir Ralph Murdac.
My stomach lurched; I was still fifty yards from the gibbet, with a throng of men-at-arms and townspeople from Nottingham between me and the gallows; nonetheless, I shouted out to the knight in command of the hangings as loud as I could.
‘Stop, stop. Hold there, sir. He is my prisoner!’ I yelled desperately, trying to force my way through the crush of bodies.
Murdac was on the tail of the cart by now, the priest was already halfway through his prayers. And I was stopped by a burly man-at-arms, part of a ring of Richard’s men who were keeping the crowds back from the gallows.
‘Wait, wait,’ I shouted. ‘That is Sir Ralph Murdac!’
‘We know who he is, lad,’ said the man-at-arms, barring my way with shield and spear; by his accent I could tell that he was a local man. ‘And no one deserves death more richly than he,’ the big man continued. ‘He dies on the King’s personal orders.’
Murdac, eyes red with weeping, the noose already around his neck, noticed my face in the crowd. He opened his mouth to say something, and just as he was about to speak, the whip cracked down on the horse’s rump, the cart lurched forward, and Murdac was left dangling from his neck in space, his face reddening and bulging, slowly choking to death. His bright blue eyes were on mine, pleading, and I honestly tried to go forward, but the big man-at-arms shoved me roughly back, cursing my eagerness. As I watched helplessly, my eyes fixed on his purpling face, Murdac was slowly strangled by the rough hempen rope. His feet kicked and wriggled, his tongue protruded, impossibly huge in that small face, his bladder and bowels released themselves, and I was transported back ten years or more to an old oak tree in a small village, now destroyed, but which had been only a few short miles away from where I stood now. There, ten years before, as a small and frightened boy, I had watched my father hanged – on the orders of this very man now thrashing away his life before me.
I stood still for a long while and watched Murdac slowly die: it was fitting, I told myself.
And as I watched, I offered up a prayer for the soul of my father.
* * *
I took no further part in the siege that day. Hanno, Thomas and I found ourselves a cosy tavern in the English part of Nottingham town and drank ale until it was almost coming out of our ears. Meanwhile, King Richard’s stone-throwing machines smashed at the defenders’ walls from a small hill to the north of the castle, and our drinking was punctuated by the sound of smashing masonry. The ale seemed to have little effect on me, I felt merely numb. I spoke little to Hanno, and he had the sense to be quiet and order a continual stream of pots of ale from the alewife, with whom he had already struck up a great friendship. After a pot or two, Thomas disappeared on his own business. I did not even ask him where he was bound. I was thinking of my father, of his kindness to me, of the music that as a family we had made together, and of his death … mostly about his awful death.
Robin joined us for a while, informed by Thomas of our whereabouts, I supposed, and he congratulated me on the success of my mission the night before. We raised a mug of ale to Murdac’s slow, painful death, but in truth I could take no joy from it. Strangely, Robin seemed to understand my flat, empty feeling at my enemy’s demise.
‘Revenge,’ he said, fixing me with his silver eyes, which seemed to be glowing more brightly than ever in the haze of ale, ‘is a duty. It is not a pleasure. We take vengeance because we owe it to those who have been wronged. But, in itself, it is not something that can make us whole. We take revenge because we must pay our debts to the dead – and so that people will fear to do us, and those we love, a wrong. But we should not look to it as a balm to the soul.’
But I was in no mood to discuss his peculiar philosophies and Robin, sensing my mood, soon made his excuses and, after quietly ordering Hanno to see that I came to no harm, left me to my ale jug.
The next day, under a flag of truce, two knights emerged from the battered castle, and on their knees before a stern King Richard began the negotiations for the surrender of Nottingham Castle.
I was in the King’s pavilion, still feeling out of sorts with the world, when they arrived. Richard was just explaining to me – I will not say apologizing; kings do not admit it when they are wrong – why it was necessary for Murdac to be publicly hanged.
‘They must know that I am serious,’ Richard said. ‘They must understand that if they do not surrender the castle to me now, when I eventually take it I will slaughter every last mother’s son inside its walls.’
Evidently, as usual, King Richard’s brutal tactics had worked. A delegation from the castle was here, and surrender was in the air. The two knights who came to parley with him were William de Wenneval, the deputy constable of the castle who had assumed command after Murdac’s sudden disappearance – and Sir Nicholas de Scras.
There was a good deal of mummery and show about the parley. The King pretended to be in a towering rage that his royal authority had been defied. The knights, on their knees, begged for his forgiveness, Sir William de Wenneval sticking to Murdac’s feeble story that they had not realized who was besieging them. The business did not take long to conclude: the King demanded that twelve noble hostages, including the two knights before him, should surrender themselves to him, throwing themselves on the King’s mercy, but he grudgingly conceded that the rest of the garrison – mostly common English men-at-arms and a few undistinguished knights, and the surviving Flemish crossbowmen, of course – would be at liberty to depart Nottingham for their homes without molestation.
As the two humiliated knights were leaving the pavilion to take the King’s offer back to the beleaguered castle, Sir Nicholas caught my eye and I went over to greet him.
‘It would seem, Alan, that you were right. You evidently backed the right man,’ said my friend sadly. He scrubbed at his short-cropped grey hair in frustration. ‘And it must be faced manfully that I rolled the dice – and lost!’
‘I am sure the King will be merciful,’ I said, although I was not sure at all: the five hanged prisoners of yesterday, especially Ralph Murdac, loomed large in my thoughts.
At noon, the twelve knights emerged from the castle. According to the agreement, they were all unarmed, wearing only the linen shift of a penitent and each with a hempen noose around his neck to demonstrate that the King had the right to hang him if he chose. While the rest of the garrison streamed a
way into Nottingham town, grateful for their lives, the twelve knights were herded by Richard’s jeering soldiers to the gallows in the outer bailey.
There were five corpses still hanging there like ripe fruit on a tree of death, including the body of Sir Ralph Murdac. The King, splendid in his finest armour and towering above them on horseback, looked sternly at the twelve men, his face a cold mask of royal justice.
‘You have defied your lawful King, and so committed treason – and for that the punishment must be death,’ Richard began. Then he continued: ‘But one of my most valiant knights, Sir Alan of Westbury, has pleaded for the life of one of your number.’
I was startled by my King’s words. I had pleaded with him, of course, but what did he mean by Sir Alan of Westbury? I was no knight. Did he think I was? Was he confused in the head by the battle?
‘After listening to the counsel of Sir Alan, my trusty and well-beloved knight,’ the King went on, his words having a strange emphasis on the work knight, ‘I have decided that one man, Sir Nicholas de Scras, shall receive a full pardon for his crimes against my person, and shall not, on this occasion, receive the penalty he so justly deserves.
I caught Sir Nicholas’s eye and he smiled ruefully at me, nodding his thanks, but with more than a little relief in his careworn face. I was thinking of the friendship he had shown me in Outremer, his tender nursing of me in Acre when I was sick, of the time he saved my life outside the Blue Boar tavern in Westminster, and the advice about Milo’s weak left leg that he had whispered to me before the wrestling match. He owed me nothing, by my reckoning.
The King was still speaking: ‘The rest of you’ – he paused for a long moment and then pointed at the eleven other linen-clad knights, penitent and pathetic – ‘shall also escape death today and shall be set free upon agreement of a suitable ransom from each of you.’
And the King smiled. There were cheers, and shouts of joy, and not only from the eleven knights who had cheated death. Hoods and helmets were thrown into the air and all of a sudden that grim place, in the shadow of five dangling bodies, took on the atmosphere of a holy day. Some people shouted: ‘God save the King!’ Others cheered the reprieved knights. A group of travelling musicians – not real trouvères but lowly market jongleurs – struck up a jaunty tune, and I saw people beginning to tap their feet. Before long there would be dancing. England had been racked by violence and uncertainty for too long. But now the King was back and, with the capture of Nottingham Castle, he was fully the master of his kingdom once more.