Holy Warrior

by Angus Donald

  I was even more surprised that Reuben’s intelligence was so good. I had only been told about the King’s golden offer a mere hour before. But then Ambroise had never been particularly closed-mouthed about anything.

  ‘If you wish to leave me and join the King, with great regret, I will release you from my service - and give you my blessing,’ said Robin. And he gave me a sad smile, his eyes glowing with a silvery light.

  I swallowed. On the one hand, a knighthood, a well-paid post as musician to the most noble monarch in Christendom, the chance to complete our task here, to free Jerusalem, the holiest city in the world, from the clutches of the Saracens; and, on the other hand, continued service to a man who seemed to have no concept of proper morality, who obeyed no civilized laws, and who would happily murder innocent Christian men, women and children for his own profit.

  There was absolutely no question in my mind as to what I would do.

  ‘Long ago,’ I said, my tongue thick in my mouth, ‘I swore an oath to you, sir; I swore that I would be loyal until death. I have spilt much blood for that oath, too much blood - but I shall never break it. Let us go home.’

  And Robin smiled.

  Epilogue

  When Dickon came to see me the next morning at the hall in Westbury, I had seated myself in a high wooden chair, with my naked sword across my knees. He looked very old standing there in front of me: his thin face had a yellowish tinge from drink, what little hair he had left was milk-white; the empty sleeve added to his forlorn air.

  I sat there in silence for a long while, just glaring at him, while he shuffled his feet and began to look more and more uncomfortable. Then he spoke: ‘You called for me to see you, sir,’ he said in a wavering, frightened voice.

  I let his words hang in the air for a few moments and then said: ‘Tell me, Dickon, how did you lose your arm?’

  He was taken aback by my question. ‘But, sir, you know full well yourself,’ he said. ‘You were there with me at Arsuf. You know that I lost it to one of those dirty heathens with a great big curvy sword. Surely you remember!’

  I did remember. I remembered Dickon as a bright-eyed young archer, not much older than me, a rare Englishman in those ranks of tough Welsh boys. I remember him taking his wound, a scimitar cut, in the fight with the Berber horsemen, and his cheerfulness afterwards, in spite of the pain, when I visited the wounded the day after the battle and brought food and water to them.

  ‘You served with Robin Hood, then; before he was made Earl, in Sherwood?’ I said.

  ‘Yes, sir, as did you.’ Dickon was now completely confused. I could see that he was wondering whether old age had stolen my mind.

  ‘What would Robin do to an outlaw who stole from him?’ I asked quietly. And suddenly, all the blood drained from Dickon’s face as he was transported back more than forty years to the wild days in the forest when my master ruled his men by naked terror.

  ‘I was trained by Robin - he taught me much about crime and its suitable punishment,’ I said, my voice as menacing as I could make it. Then I stood up, hefted my sword and walked over to Dickon. He fell to his knees, trying to beg for mercy but his mouth was too dry to allow him to speak. I put the sword tip against the stringy bicep of his one remaining arm, resting the sharp point gently against it.

  ‘Believe me when I say this to you, Dickon,’ I continued. The poor man kept glancing down at the sword and then up again to my face. ‘If you steal from me again, if you take from me so much as a crust of dry bread, I will hack off that one remaining arm and feed it to my pigs. Do you hear me?’

  Dickon nodded. He was actually trembling with fear.

  ‘But, like our old master Robin, I do not care much for courts of law, and so I will not prosecute you in the manor court, nor the King’s court for the theft of my piglets; but I will fine you a shilling to recompense me for my loss. This is my judgment as the lord of this manor, and this is also the agreement between us as former comrades. Do you swear to abide by it?’

  He licked his lips and croaked: ‘I swear it.’

  ‘Very well then, you may go.’ And I watched him lurch to his feet and stumble out of the hall door.

  I knew that Marie would be angry that I had let him off with a small fine; and Osric would be very puzzled. But, my master Robin, although now rotting in his grave, would have approved. Dickon had fought bravely with me in the Holy Land; he had suffered with me there, and for forty years after he took his wound he had faithfully tended my pigs here at Westbury, year in, year out, rain or shine. I would never have seen him hanged for a piglet or two; and neither would Robin.

  It is simply a matter of loyalty.

  Historical note

  The idea that Robin Hood should become a crusader might seem a perverse one, but it made perfect sense to me that an illustrious nobleman, a powerful member of the Anglo-Norman fighting caste, should be involved in the one of the greatest bellicose movements of his times - willingly or otherwise. England was gripped by a frenzy of religious fervour before and after King Richard’s departure on the Great Pilgrimage, as the Third Crusade was referred to then, and tens of thousands of knights from the Pennines to the Pyrenees, from Brittany to Bavaria, were prepared to risk their lives, their wealth and the security of their families to take part what must have seemed to them a great and holy adventure. I think it would have been a little bizarre if my fictional Earl of Locksley had not taken part in some way.

  It was this religious hysteria that was the main cause of the shameful and sickening events in York of mid-March 1190. A crowd of armed townsmen, whipped up by a mysterious white-robed monk preaching hatred of the Jews, besieged about a hundred and fifty Jewish men, women and children, who had fled to the King’s Tower of York Castle (now called Clifford’s Tower) for sanctuary.

  After several days of siege fighting, when it became clear that they could not safely surrender to Sir John Marshal, the Sheriff of Yorkshire, the Jews, led by Josce of York and Rabbi Yomtob, chose death at their own hands on Saturday March 16th rather than the prospect of being torn apart by a mob of blood-drunk Christians. For an academic but deeply moving account of this appalling event, read The Jews of Medieval York and the Massacre of March 1190 by R. B. Dobson (University of York).

  The faith-crazed townsmen of York were led by, among others, a knight called Sir Richard Malebisse. And while my fictional villain Sir Richard Malbête is obviously based on him, it is important to be clear that they are not the same person. Malebisse was not killed during the Third Crusade and, although disgraced in 1190 by the massacre in York, he returned to prominence after Richard’s death in the reign of King John. He is recorded as being given a licence to build a castle in Yorkshire in 1199, and dying in 1209 or 1210. I believe there are several of his descendants still around today.

  There is no evidence, of course, for the presence of two Christian warriors among the courageous Jewish martyrs of York - or, rather, one Christian and Robin Hood - but it is the novelist’s prerogative to place his fictional heroes at the centre of any historical catastrophe and have them emerge more or less unscathed.

  The real events of the Third Crusade occurred pretty much as I have described them in this book - I took John Gillingham’s magisterial Richard I (Yale University Press) as the source for most of my information. In the summer of 1190, the main part of Richard’s army met up with the French at Vézelay. They then marched down to Marseilles, sailed to Sicily and over-wintered in Messina, where the crusaders - led by King Richard, and responding to a good deal of provocation from the locals - sacked the town and looted it thoroughly. Relations between kings Richard and Philip slowly began to deteriorate during that long winter of inactivity, and when King Philip departed for the Holy Land on 30th March, just a day before King Richard’s bride Berengaria arrived in Messina, the two monarchs thoroughly distrusted each other. Richard’s huge army followed the French ten days later but while Philip was at Acre by 20th April, Richard’s fleet was scattered by a great storm near Crete
and the ships of his royal women ended up, badly damaged, anchored off Cyprus, where they were denied fresh water and food by the upstart Emperor Isaac Comnenos.

  Richard attacked Limassol much as described and drove the Emperor off the beach, smashing through a hastily assembled makeshift barricade with only a few hundred men behind him - the King’s small contingent of Welsh archers playing a significant role in the victory. The success of the surprise attack in the olive groves that same night by the ill-mounted Christian knights sealed the Emperor’s fate. And he was indeed bound in silver - rather than iron - chains when he finally surrendered to King Richard on 31st May 1191.

  After a siege that had lasted nearly two years, Acre fell to the crusaders on 12th July 1191, a month after Richard’s triumphant arrival. And while the weary Christian besiegers welcomed Richard’s appearance, and the massive reinforcements he brought with him, the King of England’s notions of diplomacy often left much to be desired. He alienated the German contingent by kicking their Duke’s banner off the ramparts and he further strained relations between himself and King Philip by supporting a rival candidate for the role of King of Jerusalem. When the French and Germans quit the Holy Land, Richard was left weaker - but, importantly, in sole command of the remaining Christian forces.

  Richard really did order the cold-blooded execution of 2,700 Muslim prisoners of war - an atrocity that was chronicled by the Norman trouvère Ambroise in his History of the Holy War (translated from the Latin by Marianne Ailes; published by The Boydell Press) - before leaving Acre and marching south down the Mediterranean coast towards Jaffa (near modern-day Tel Aviv) to threaten Jerusalem. In order to stop his march south, Saladin was forced to confront Richard about fifteen miles north of Jaffa near a small village called Arsuf.

  The Battle of Arsuf, on September 7th 1191, was hailed as a victory for King Richard and his armoured knights - but it was not a decisive one. Saladin received a mauling that day and withdrew his forces but, in the next weeks and months, he was reinforced by troops from all over the Near East until his army was soon once again at its former strength. But the battle did have a deep impact on the fate of the Third Crusade: as a result of his defeat, Saladin vowed never again to permit his light Turkish cavalry to face the might of the heavy Christian knights in a pitched battle. And this proved to be a war-winning strategy: instead of challenging the knights head-on, and losing again, the great Muslim leader opted for a policy of constant harassment, avoiding a major clash of arms. He let time and distance from home do his work for him. Over the next year, Richard’s forces were whittled away in skirmishes and minor sieges, and by death from disease, until it was clear both to the King and to his wily opponent (whom he never actually met) that, while the crusaders just might, with a huge effort, manage to capture Jerusalem, they would be too weak to hold it for long in a hostile environment. They would soon be forced to relinquish the Holy City to the Muslims and all the blood spilt in capturing it would be for nothing. A year after the Battle of Arsuf, after many months of negotiations, a three year-truce was finally agreed. Under the agreement, the crusaders were allowed to keep a crucial toehold on the coast of Outremer and Christians were permitted to visit the holy places in Jerusalem and pray there unmolested. Richard, having at least something to show for the Crusade’s massive expenditure of treasure and lives, was now free to leave the Holy Land, which he did on October 9th 1192.

  What happened to King Richard on the fateful journey home, and the further adventures of Robin, Little John, Alan and their friends, will be told in the next book in the series, to be published in the summer of 2011.

  Angus Donald

  Kent, January 2010

  Acknowledgements

  I have been helped by so many people in the writing of this book that to thank them all would be to parody the worst kind of Oscar acceptance speech. Having said that, I would like to mention a few of the folk who have been especially helpful: my agents Ian Drury and Gaia Banks at Sheil Land Associates; my editors and publishers at Sphere, David Shelley, Daniel Mallory and Thalia Proctor.

  The British Library and Tonbridge Library have, as usual, been brilliantly accommodating. Carol Edwards and her partner Mick deserve a mention for teaching me the secrets of the longbow; as does Tez, who patiently and very gently helped me to act out some of the fight scenes in the garden of The Prince of Wales pub in Hadlow, Kent.

  I’d also like to thank my brothers Jamie, John and Alex Donald who have put up with me boring them endlessly about my books and who have, from time to time, offered some really cracking plot suggestions.

  Lastly, I’d like the thank the taxi driver who ripped me off in Messina last year; it made writing about the sack of your town by King Richard and his knights a particular joy.

  OUTLAW

  Angus Donald

  When he’s caught stealing, young Alan Dale is forced to leave his family and go to live with a notorious band of outlaws in Sherwood Forest.

  Their leader is the infamous Robin Hood. A tough, bloodthirsty warrior, Robin is more feared than any man in the county. And he becomes a mentor for Alan; with his fellow outlaws, Robin teaches Alan how to fight – and how to win.

  But Robin is a ruthless man – and although he is Alan’s protector, if Alan displeases him, he could also just as easily become his murderer . . .

  From bloody battles to riotous feast days to marauding packs of wolves, Outlaw is a gripping, action-packed historical thriller that delves deep into the fascinating legend of Robin Hood.

  ‘A lively and enjoyable book’ Daily Mail

  978-0-7515-4209-7