by Angus Donald
‘What?’ Marie-Anne’s voice cracked like a riding whip. ‘How dare he – how dare you? I am a freeborn woman, a Countess in my own right – and I am already wed, as you and your princely master very well know. I am a married woman.’
One of the wolfhounds seated beside Tuck sensed the change in the air and gave a low, warning growl; a noise to raise the neck hairs. The priest scratched its bristly head gently, and it quietened.
‘My lady, I fear that you are, in truth, a widow,’ said Murdac – yet for a man delivering bad news he appeared to be grinning rather more than was quite decent.
‘My husband, the noble Earl of Locksley, is at present en route from the Holy Land; he wrote to tell me that he would be returning by sea across the Mediterranean and then north via the Spanish lands. I am expecting him home at Kirkton shortly.’
‘Your husband left the Holy Land a whole year ago – and it is now more than certain that he perished on that long and dangerous journey. Indeed, we have news of a battle fought in Spain six months past between the forces of the Emir of Granada and a band of English archers, pilgrims returning from the Holy Land. There was great slaughter; it seems none of the Englishmen survived.’ Murdac smirked openly at the Countess. ‘Your husband is dead, my dear lady. He will never come home. You are a widow. Indeed, you have been declared a widow by Prince John himself; and our kindly Prince, fearing that you might lack for companionship, has graciously commanded me to take you to wife.’
‘Get out!’ Marie-Anne had risen, her face hard as bone. ‘Get out of my hall, get out of my castle, get out of my sight, you disgusting little—’
At that moment, the Countess was interrupted by a shrill cry of joy.
‘Mama, Mama!’ shouted a voice, and a tiny form came pattering across the hall, a little boy aged about two and a half, sturdy, raven-haired and squeaking with happiness. He came racing, his arms outstretched in welcome, and pursued by a stout, breathless, red-faced peasant woman in a white apron.
Tuck intercepted the boy. ‘Not now, Hugh,’ he said, taking a firm grip of the child’s pudgy arm. ‘Your mother is just bidding farewell to this gentleman. Sit you down here, just for a moment, and wait until our guest has taken his leave.’
‘You cannot refuse me,’ Murdac said. ‘You shall be my wife. The Prince commands it. And then there is him!’ He threw out a finger at the little boy who had just been persuaded by Tuck with some difficulty to sit quietly on the stool.
Tuck looked at the angry, silk-clad form of Murdac, at his petulant mouth, icy blue eyes, his sable hair, and looked down at the child. They were like images in a mirror but separated by thirty years, Hugh a tiny perfect replica of the angrily pointing adult. And then Tuck understood.
‘You will leave Kirkton forthwith,’ said Marie-Anne. ‘And you will never attempt to gain entrance here again. I reject your offer as absurd and I tell you that I consider it a gross insult to my honour and to the honour of my husband.’
Tuck clicked his tongue and the two wolfhounds started to rumble deep in their throats, a noise like the grinding of rocks deep in the earth. The black lips of both animals peeled back to reveal long, white, dagger-sharp teeth. Murdac glanced at the dogs and took a step backwards.
‘I shall leave you now,’ he said, looking up at Marie-Anne’s pale face. ‘But I will be back. I can see that my arguments have failed to persuade. We shall see if you remain as blindly wilful, when I return. The Prince makes a bad enemy. As do I. And I shall certainly possess you – and my son – by one road or another.’
With a final glance at the two enormous wolfhounds, Murdac strode out of the hall, and he could be heard from the courtyard calling loudly for his men and his horse.
***
A little before midnight, the sound of weeping could be heard clearly from beyond the solar door. Tuck knocked softly, but did not wait for permission to enter. He came through the door, with a candle in his hand, and moved across the room to the four-poster bed on the far side, which contained the prone, sobbing form of his mistress.
‘He is dead, isn’t he?’ Marie-Anne said, the tears streaming down her cheeks. ‘He died in Spain or in France or in some other far-off corner of the world, and I shall never see him again.’
‘He’s not dead. We would have had some reliable report of it, if he were,’ said Tuck soothingly. ‘Besides, there is not a man on this good green earth who could kill him. Not one. I am certain of it. God forgive him, but I sometimes think the Devil guards his back. No, my lady, dry your tears; your husband Robin is not dead. And, the Good Lord willing, he will surely return to you soon.’
‘You don’t know that. You can’t know that,’ she said, bursting into a fresh flood. ‘And that vicious little toad Murdac will not rest until he gets what he wants. I know him.’
Tuck opened his brawny arms and took the Countess of Locksley into them. His simple woollen monk’s robe was rough against her cheek, but when he tightened his arms a fraction, she felt his strength and warmth flow into her, giving her courage. After a little while she pushed him away and sat up in the bed, cuffing at her red-rimmed eyes with the sleeve of her chemise.
‘What shall we do, Tuck?’ said Marie-Anne in a calmer voice. ‘Murdac will come back with many men-at-arms, hundreds, Prince John will gladly supply them, and he will overrun this castle and then…’ She coughed, plucked a lace-trimmed linen kerchief from the round bedside table and blew her nose noisily.
‘He wants Hugh.’ She stopped. ‘You know about Hugh?’
‘Yes,’ said Tuck. ‘It is plain for all the world to see that he is not Robin’s blood. But I did not see the truth until today.’
‘He forced me – I was not willing, I swear it. I swear it, Tuck. On my life.’
‘I know it.’
They sat together in silence. Tuck waited. He knew the tale would come out in its own time. He knew she badly wished to speak of it, and he was the person to tell. He was her confessor, after all. He also knew he could not press her.
At last she spoke: ‘It was three years ago, and a little more. Robin was outlawed then, and in Sherwood. We were not yet wed. I was out hawking near Winchester, and I believed myself to be safely under the protection of the Lady Eleanor of Aquitaine. I was wrong. A score of riders took me prisoner – they galloped up, scared away the other ladies and killed my two Gascon bodyguards; then one of them took my horse’s bridle in his hand. It was as simple as that. I was not even bound; they merely forced me to ride north to Nottingham. It was all so impersonal, so cold-blooded; they barely spoke to me. I felt I had been taken like a trophy, a spoil of war. But they did me no harm. They just installed me in the castle tower with food and water, and clean linen and a comb, and a couple of guards outside the door. I felt I was being stored away for future use, like a box of apples in a hay loft.’
Tuck took her cold hand in his two warm ones; he smiled encouragingly but he said nothing.
‘For three days, I spoke to nobody. I just sat in my little round room at the top of the tower. I slept a lot, I looked out of the window, I combed my hair. I thought Robin would ransom me, or make some sort of arrangement for my release. To be honest, I was more bored than frightened. Each day seemed to last for ever. The guards wouldn’t speak; I had nothing to do but sit there.
‘On the fourth day, after nightfall, Ralph Murdac came to see me. And do you know what? I was actually pleased to see him. I’d known him all my life – my father knew his father, and while I also knew that he and Robin hated each other and were sworn enemies, until then it had all seemed a little like a game. As if it were not truly real. I was a lonely prisoner, and here was someone I knew well coming to visit me. Of course, I also knew that it was Murdac who had imprisoned me – but, despite that, his seemed to me to be a friendly face. But I’m not explaining this very well.’
‘I do understand,’ Tuck murmured.
Marie-Anne wiped her nose again with the kerchief.
‘You must tell no one of this, Father. Please, s
wear to me that this knowledge shall be to you as sacred as the confessional.’
‘I swear it,’ the priest said gravely.
‘Oh, Tuck, I was so pleased to see Ralph when he came on the fourth day. I greeted him warmly. I smiled. I asked him if he had been in contact with Robin yet about a ransom, but he told me that I must not think of Robin any longer. That I would not see him again. And then he asked me to marry him. Me, his prisoner! He got down on his knees and begged me to wed him, to be his wife. I was quite shocked: I thought that my betrothal to Robin, that my love for him, was common knowledge. But apparently this made no difference to Ralph. He said that he loved me, that he had loved me since we were youngsters, that he would always love me; he said he wanted to join our houses and our lives together for ever. I almost laughed. Perhaps I did show some small amusement. For I could not take little Ralphie Murdac seriously as a potential lover, a husband. It was ridiculous. And so I said no. I told him that I loved Robin and only Robin and that I would have no other man. And he became very angry. He said, and I will remember this until my dying day, he said, “We shall see how your precious Robin feels after I have had my turn with you. We shall see how much he desires soiled goods.”‘
Marie-Anne began to cry again, but silently this time and Tuck took a firmer grip on her small hand but offered no comment.
‘Then he forced me,’ she said, with the tears spilling down her cheeks. ‘I fought him, I truly fought him. But he hit me, he overpowered me; he is very strong for such a small man, and at one point I thought to myself, Why not just let him do his business and this will all be over. And, perhaps then, I fought a little less hard. And he was very soon done. But it will never be over, will it, Tuck? Because of Hugh, because of my darling little boy, it will never truly be over.’
Tuck once again took her into his arms, and held her tightly to his wide chest while the grief welled out of her.
‘All that is past now, my dear – that beast will not hurt you again, I swear it. I will never let that happen. I would take his life first, even if it were to cost my Salvation.’
‘It is not Murdac that I truly fear, Father – it is Robin. What will he say when he comes home and sees Hugh? What will he do when he finds that I have brought up a cuckoo in his nest? Will he ever be able truly to love these “soiled goods”?’
‘He will love you nonetheless,’ said Tuck. ‘If he is any sort of a man, he will continue to love you just as before. You are not to blame, my dear. You must not think it. You were forced. You were violated. God knows that you are innocent. There can be no blame adhering to you. And Robin must understand that. He will understand that.’
‘Men say that. You are not at fault, they say. You have been cruelly wronged, they say. But inside they feel that you are besmirched. A voice inside will always ask – was she truly forced? Did she protest enough?’
‘Nonsense, my dear,’ said Tuck. ‘No sensible man could think in that way.’
But he knew in his heart of hearts that he lied.
***
‘Murdac attack her? She’s imagining it,’ said William, Lord of Edwinstowe. ‘The woman has run mad. I thought she was acting a little strangely during her visit – distant and odd. Did you see her wantonly smash that wine glass? Murano work, too. Priceless. No, she’s queer in the head. I know Sir Ralph Murdac quite well. Not the nicest man in the world, I grant you, bit of an ill-mannered lout, really, but he would never attack the Countess of Locksley in her own castle. It’s patently absurd.’
It was three days later and Father Tuck had returned to the home of Robin’s elder brother. He had petitioned for an audience with the lord of the castle and had been granted it. Now he was fighting the urge to grasp his host by the shoulders and shake him roughly, to bang his head against a convenient wall until he saw sense.
‘My lord,’ Tuck said, ‘your sister-in-law is truly in grave danger. She humbly requests your aid in her time of dire need.’
Lord Edwinstowe did not appear to be listening. ‘You say Murdac wants to marry her? Well, even if Robin is dead – and it sounds very much as if he is – he can’t do so without her consent. She’s a freeborn woman and no man’s ward. Tell her just to say no to him. A firm but courteous no, that should do the trick.’
Tuck bit his bottom lip until the blood ran over his teeth and down the back of his throat. This irritating man seemed to think that the situation would blow over. But Tuck was conscious of his oath to Marie-Anne. He could not fully explain to William why Murdac wished to possess her in marriage – he could not explain that Murdac sought to have his only son, Hugh – without breaking his word. The priest felt the promise made to his mistress that tearful night like a dead weight around his shoulders.
‘My lord, if you would merely send her a couple of dozen of your men-at-arms to reinforce the Kirkton garrison, that might suffice. We could hold Murdac off for months, I believe, with an extra twenty, or thirty, experienced fighting men. With another forty, and a little determination, we could hold out indefinitely.’
‘No, I don’t think so. I’m not sending my trained men-at-arms across the country on a deluded woman’s whim. They are needed here. The answer must be no. Tell her to be firm with this importunate young fellow. Courteous but firm.’
***
A week later, a little before noon, above the keep of Kirkton a blue flag flapped lazily from the tall pole. As the material furled and unfurled, the white hawk of Locksley could be glimpsed sporadically. The Countess and her confessor stood below it, on the heavy wooden battlements above the main gate, and looked east down the slope, past the little church of St Nicholas, and up the sunken road that stretched along the northern shoulder of the Locksley Valley all the way to Sheffield.
The road was crammed with men and horses, carts and wagons, scores, perhaps hundreds of folk and their beasts, coming from the east. The men were clad in dark surcoats, with the occasional glimpse of grey mail beneath; the steel of hilt, blade and buckle flashed in the sunlight and the mass of bodies came on under a slim forest of upright spears. And, at the head of this advancing army, Tuck could clearly make out a huge black banner slashed with three blood-red chevrons – the standard of Sir Ralph Murdac. To the south-east, there were yet more men on foot coming up the green slopes, surging up the narrow farm track that led down to the river, and spilling out of the road and over the cropped grass of the Locksley pastures.
‘A hammer to crack a hazelnut,’ muttered Tuck to himself. And then more loudly, ‘He must have emptied Nottinghamshire of half its fighting men to raise such a host, my lady. I believe he has at least three or maybe even four hundred men under arms. He really must be the Prince’s favourite courtier these days.’
Marie-Anne said nothing. A brisk September breeze tugged at the loose, trailing, pointed sleeves of her snugly fitting blue linen gown. She could feel the cold promise of autumn in its whispering breath and wished she had brought a cloak with her up on the battlements, for she did not want to appear to be shivering with fear.
A man-at-arms, a short, thick-chested Welshman in a dark green cloak, with a tall bow in his right hand and a full arrow bag at his waist, came bustling along the walkway to the pair.
‘My lady, they are about to come within range of our bows. Do you want us to thin their ranks just a little? Teach these dogs some better manners?’
‘No, Gwen, but thank you,’ said Marie-Anne smiling at the commander, the vintenar as he was called, of her small contingent of twenty archers that made up roughly half the permanent Kirkton garrison. ‘There is a time for fighting and a time for talking. We will see just what they have to say for themselves first.’
As the vintenar turned to go, Tuck took his arm and said quietly in Welsh, ‘Gwen, be a good lad, will you, and fetch me a spare bowstave, a couple of strings and a full arrow bag. You’d better find me a sword, too.’
As Tuck and Marie-Anne looked on, the dark-clad army spilled out into the land to the north of the church and began spreadin
g out, moving like a stain over the pastures near the castle and settling into groups of twenty or thirty men. The men-at-arms gathered under the banners of their knights and captains, and began to pitch tents or build crude huts, or just slumped to the ground, wearied by the long march. Soon the enemy filled a wide semi-circle of land to the north and east. And they were clearly planning to remain there for some time. Tuck watched a party of men start to dig a latrine trench; other men were hammering stakes into the green turf for the horse lines. Some four hundred yards north of the castle, well out of range of even the most powerful bow, a score of liveried servants were setting up a pavilion, a striking red-and-black-striped affair, and Tuck thought that he could make out a small form dressed entirely in black seated beside it on an X-shaped chair and conferring with a pair of taller knights.
The distant three men spoke for a while and then the small man rose to his feet; the group separated, each went to his horse and mounted it, and before long the trio were picking their way on horseback through the bustling crowds of the enemy directly towards the castle. The knight on the right was carrying a long spear shaft on which floated a snowy white banner.
Sir Ralph Murdac clearly wished to talk.
Tuck and Marie-Anne watched in silence as the riders approached. They reined in their horses directly in front of the barred main gate, twenty feet below the priest and his mistress.
Ralph Murdac looked up at the Countess of Locksley, smirking like a procurer of women approaching a potential client.
‘I am back, my dear,’ he said. ‘Just as I promised. And I have brought a few hungry friends home for dinner.’
The two knights on either side of the little man looked at their horses’ necks as though embarrassed by their lord’s levity.
‘You are not welcome here, Ralph Murdac, as you very well know,’ said Marie-Anne. ‘And neither are your cowardly lackeys. I command you to take your men-at-arms and quit my lands this instant. I shall not tell you again.’