Outlaw

by Angus Donald

  We gathered round Robin as he spread out a roughly drawn plan of the castle on an old oak money chest. ‘She is being held in this tower, part of the wall defences, in the north-west corner of the castle. Not far from this gatehouse here.’ He stabbed a finger into the parchment. ‘Apparently Murdac wants to keep her imprisonment a secret and so she is not being held in the keep, but separately, discretely in a wall tower, guarded only by his most trusted men. And that is very good news for us. Tomorrow night we will ride up to the gatehouse dressed in Murdac’s colours - you have enough captured surcoats, Hugh?’ Hugh nodded. ‘So, we’re wearing his colours, and we claim to be Murdac’s men who have been in France for several years serving Henry, and who are now, after the King’s death, returning to our master. Understood?’

  Sir Richard, Hugh and John all nodded. But I notice John looked a little worried. ‘So they let us in . . . and then what?’ the big man asked, frowning.

  Robin gave him a hard stare. ‘We kill every single mother’s son in that gatehouse, as quickly and as quietly as we can. Then we scoop up Marie-Anne, and we are away before anyone notices. If the alarm is raised, we can hold that gatehouse against all comers for hours, and we only need, at most, a quarter of an hour to find Marie-Anne and get her away safely. Then, when she’s gone, we’re all in the saddle and off in as many different directions as we can think of. Rendezvous at the Caves.’

  ‘That’s your plan!’ said John, the scorn thick in his voice. ‘You call that a plan? Christ’s blistered fingers, it’s the worst idea I’ve heard all year. For a start . . .’

  ‘Hush, John, hush,’ said Robin. ‘It will work, I promise. You just have to trust me.’ John looked unconvinced, he shook his head and continued more quietly: ‘But it’s sheer lunacy . . .’

  ‘Just trust me, will you,’ said Robin with just a touch of iron in his voice. ‘You do trust me, don’t you, John?’ The big man shrugged, but he stayed quiet.

  ‘Well,’ said Sir Richard, ‘as I shall not be joining you on this . . . escapade . . . I don’t feel it’s right for me to make any comment, except to say that I wish you Godspeed. And now I will bid you goodnight.’ And with an uncertain smile he strode off in the direction of his private chamber.

  ‘I’ll leave the fine tuning to you, Hugh, weapons, horses, that sort of thing,’ said Robin, ‘and now I think we should all get some rest.’ John walked away shaking his big yellow head and Hugh went out to the stables to talk to one of his couriers, leaving me and Robin staring at the sketch of the castle.

  Robin turned to me: ‘Want to know what we’re really going to do?’ He said it very quietly, but with a grin of pure devilment. ‘Me and you, Alan, are going to get our lovely girl back all on our own. And we’re going tonight, when the moon’s up. Are the horses ready?’

  ‘They’re hidden in the wood, as you asked.’ I couldn’t help grinning back at him. I remembered the last time Robin and I had been in Nottingham, the hilarious jaunt to steal the armourer’s key.

  ‘And the doves?’ Robin said, his silver eyes shining.

  ‘It’s all done,’ I replied happily. ‘It’s all done.’

  At about midnight, when all the world was asleep, I led Robin out of the back gate of the manor and south-east towards the thick woodland where I had hidden the horses that afternoon. We were dressed for fast travel; no armour, just swords, daggers and a cloak against the chill of the night. We also took a spare saddled horse with us; if we returned at all, we would not be returning alone. Regardless of the danger, I was bursting with pride and excitement to be riding with Robin on this mission: we were two knights errant, straight from the tales of King Arthur, riding through the night to rescue a damsel in distress.

  Two hours later and we were crouching in a damp ditch, up to our ankles in slimy refuse, looking up at the imposing bulk of Nottingham Castle wall and trying not to breathe. Quite apart from not wanting to make any noise, the stench of a hundred years of dumped excrement and general household rubbish in that ditch was suffocating. More than a hundred feet above us I could dimly make out the crenellations at the top of the wall. Robin gave a low whistle. Nothing happened. We waited for a few heartbeats. Robin whistled again and then suddenly I could see a head outlined against the moonlit sky and the battlements. There was a faint thump and a slither and a rope appeared, hanging from the top of the wall and knotted at one-foot intervals. Robin said: ‘Up you go,’ and I was climbing the wall like a monkey. The strain on my arms was tremendous, and my burnt ribs, though almost healed, were paining me a good deal, but there was no way I was going to admit my weakness to Robin. Finally, I made it to the top. With a great heave, I got my stomach over the wall, and a leg, and I collapsed on to the broad stone walkway, panting with effort. I heard a voice cry ‘Hey,’ and saw to my horror a man-at-arms in Murdac’s red and black livery come striding towards me, sword in hand. I struggled to my feet and fumbled for my sword hilt but, before I could draw my weapon, a dark shadow rose out of the wall, from the lee of the battlements, and a hand was clasped hard round the soldier’s mouth from behind. There was a glint of steel as the hooded figure shoved a thin blade hard into the base of the unfortunate guard’s skull. He twitched once in the dark man’s arms and then collapsed without a sound. The man threw back his hood and said: ‘Are you all right, Alan?’ and I saw it was Reuben, the Jew. I nodded, looked up and down the empty walkway and peered down into the gloom of the big castle courtyard. Everywhere was deserted. To my right was the great bulk of the castle keep, with one or two points of light showing from small windows, perhaps where a clerk sat up late over his rolls, but there was no movement. Everything was as quiet as the grave.

  Moments later, Robin’s head appeared over the parapet, followed lithely by the rest of him. Reuben cleaned his bloody knife on the soldier’s surcoat and between us we rolled the dead man over the wall and down into the darkness. Robin clasped Reuben’s arm and murmured: ‘Lead on, old friend,’ and we were hurrying along the walkway and down some steps into the entrance of a small guard tower, one of dozens built into the castle’s curtain walls. Robin had his sword out, the naked blade winking in the moonlight, and I saw that Reuben had his knife in his hand, so I hastily drew my own sword, too. We plunged down a spiral staircase into the heart of the guard tower, my heart beating like a blacksmith’s hammer, the pulse banging in my ears.

  Down and down we went, in pitch darkness. And suddenly I blundered into the back of Reuben, who had paused before a wooden door. By the candlelight leaking out from the cracks in the door, I could see that it was occupied. We stood there in the gloom for a few moments, listening; me trying to control my pumping heart and ragged breathing; Robin and Reuben seemingly as calm as if they were on a summer’s picnic in Sherwood. Reuben held up two fingers, indicating that there were two men inside, and Robin nodded. And waved his hand forward. Before I knew what was happening Reuben had pulled the string that lifted the latch on the wooden door and both he and Robin burst through. I followed as fast as I could but only in time to see Reuben hurling his heavy knife with extraordinary force and accuracy five yards across the room to smack into a man-at-arms who had apparently been dozing on a stool. The thick knife punched straight into the man’s chest and into his heart, and the man coughed once, twice and dropped to the floor. Robin was almost as fast as Reuben’s flying dagger; he took two quick paces forward and sliced the life out of the second soldier with a whip-like slash of his sword to the throat. There was a spray of blood and the man, who had been warming his hands by a brazier, swayed slightly for a moment or two, brimming blood from his gaping neck, and then collapsed to his knees, his face falling with an awful crunch and hiss into the glowing coals. He was clearly dead as he moved not a muscle as his blood bubbled and hissed and seethed around his scorching face.

  It had all been over in less time than it takes to string a bow. And not a word had been spoken, not a cry made. Robin lifted his victim clear of the flames and dragged him over to the second corpse. He rea
ched down to the dead man’s belt, unhooked a bunch of keys and strode over to a locked door in the corner of the room. In a couple of heartbeats, the door was open and Marie-Anne was in his arms. After a long embrace, Robin drew back and looked into her face. ‘Did he hurt you?’ he asked. I noticed that she looked pale and thin and her fine hunting gown was badly torn and covered in mud and filth, and what looked like blood. She hugged him close to her again and muffled by his cloak I heard her say: ‘All is well now that you are here.’

  As I looked at Marie-Anne clasped in Robin’s arms, and saw the love that was so clearly between them, and how right they looked together, I felt something inside me shift. The resentment that I had felt towards them at the Caves was completely gone. She was still my beautiful Marie-Anne, I could see her beauty in a dispassionate way, even thin-faced and grimy as she was, but she had subtly changed. Something indefinable about her was different. I still loved her, but perhaps for the first time I saw her as a real woman, a woman with fears and joys, pains and pleasures, rather than a goddess, to be worshipped in a dream. She was not mine, I knew then, and she never would be.

  We wasted little time: Robin hurried Marie-Anne out of the guard house and up the narrow spiral stairs. At the top, we paused to see that the wall was clear of sentries; then we were jogging along the wall and in no time Robin and Reuben were lowering Marie-Anne in a loop of rope to the ground. I followed, with Robin just feet above me, climbing hand over hand down the knotted rope. I saw Reuben’s head, once again, outlined against the greying sky; the rope was pulled up and we three were scrambling up the other side of the ditch and back to where we had left the horses.

  Pride is the worst of my sins these days, but I cannot help but feel a glow of satisfaction that I was part of that night’s work. It was a quintessential Robin exploit: precise, well-planned but with no frills and based on speed, good intelligence and audacity. But, above all, what made it typical of the way Robin operated was that it was successful. As the three of us trotted back up the track towards Linden Lea in the golden early morning light, we were greeted by the surprised sentries at the ramparts with a blast of trumpets. The noise woke the rest of the outlaw band who, tumbling out of the hall and the outbuildings, saw Marie-Anne was returned, and began to cheer us until the manor’s encircling palisade seemed to tremble with the tumult. No one seemed to mind that Robin had deceived them the night before in pretending that the attack would be today. John handed me down from my horse and said: ‘I knew that devious swine was up to something,’ before nearly crushing me to death in a welcome bear-hug. Many, many people, friends and relative strangers, crowded round me to hear the story of the rescue, which I was not too modest to tell, although I may have exaggerated my role by a small amount. When breakfast was brought out and set on the trestle tables in the courtyard, Linden Lea took on a holiday air, with men shouting jests and insults to their friends, and raising mugs of ale to Marie-Anne’s safe recovery. Sir Richard shook me vigorously by the hand and told me that he was proud of me. I felt lighter than air, a genuine hero and I was grinning so much my face began to hurt. For a moment, the jollity was interrupted by another fanfare of trumpets and, looking out over the valley, I saw a great column of men and horses and baggage approaching down the track to the south that ran parallel to the stream. I was alarmed, at first, and then I saw Thomas’s ugly old face out in front of the column, and Much Millerson beside him, and behind them a horde of familiar faces all dressed in dark green and armed to the teeth with war bows and swords, spears and axes: I was looking at the full strength of Robin’s private army, almost three hundred men-at-arms and bowmen, each armed, trained and disciplined by Robin and his officers - and spoiling for a fight.

  We welcomed them into the courtyard of Linden Lea; more food was fetched, someone broached a cask of wine, and all across the open space the newcomers were told the story of how Robin had rescued Marie-Anne from the jaws of the Nottingham beast. As stories will, it grew in the telling. And continued to grow in the years that followed. Robin had single-handedly slaughtered a hundred men, according to a version I heard a few years ago. He had hidden in the belly of a great deer to gain entrance to Murdac’s feasting hall, according to another story. But the truth, I believed, was impressive enough.

  After an hour or two of feasting, Robin had a plank set atop two big barrels and vaulting onto it he shouted for silence in the noisy courtyard. The men were not completely sober at this point and Robin had to call three times for quiet before he had their attention.

  ‘My friends, we are well met here, and firstly it is right that we should thank our host, the generous provider of this shelter and this fine food and drink: Sir Richard at Lea.’ The knight, who was standing next to me, took a modest bow and was lustily cheered by the outlaws. ‘I would also like to thank all of you for joining me here in this beautiful valley, and I will tell you what we are here to achieve. There are many here with a price on our heads, myself included,’ there was another loud cheer, and Robin took an ironic bow, ‘and there are many here who have been forced to leave their families, their hearths and homes by so-called law-men, by bullies who claim power of life and death over you in the name of the King.’ The mood in the courtyard had grown more sombre now and there were one or two angry growls. ‘And there are many here who have been injured, humiliated and denied your natural rights as free Englishmen.’

  ‘And free Welshmen,’ someone shouted.

  ‘That’s right,’ continued Robin. ‘We are all free men here. And as free men, we join together; we come together in the wild places, away from towns and priests and Norman lords, and we come together because we have one thing in common. All of us have chosen to say no! No, I will not be subjugated by your unjust laws; No, I will not submit to your corrupt Church; No, I will not bow down to any local petty tyrant who demands my labour, the sweat from my brow, who takes the food out of the mouths of my babies. No! We are free men; and we are willing to prove the fact of our liberty with our swords, with our bows, and with our strong right arms. And we will never surrender our freedom. Never!’

  Robin had bellowed the last word and the crowd began to cheer like men possessed. The noise rolled towards Robin in great waves of emotion. Our leader let the uproar continue for some time and then he raised his hands to call for quiet again.

  ‘Tomorrow, my friends, tomorrow, we will have an opportunity to show our mettle. Sir Ralph Murdac, the High Sheriff of Nottinghamshire, Derbyshire and the Royal Forests is coming here; that French cur is coming to this beautiful valley with his armed men, and his big horses. He is bringing his law to us, here, in this place. And, as we are outlaws, he means to kill us all. So what shall we do? Shall we run away and hide? Shall we crawl back into our holes in the forest and await, shivering with fear, to receive his justice?’ Robin gave the last word an ironic twist. ‘No, my brothers; look around you, and know our strength. We will not run. We will fight. And we will kill. And we will win.

  ‘There is a new King coming to the throne; a just King; a noble King; a fair man and a mighty warrior; and, if we can win this fight today, if we can smash this man Murdac, bring down this so-called High Sheriff, I warrant that the King will grant us all full pardon for any crimes committed. Full royal pardons for all who fight with me. So I ask you now to remove your hoods and raise your voices to good King Richard: God Save the King! God Save the King! God Save the King!’

  How they roared. Some of the men even had tears in their eyes. I looked at Sir Richard: his jaw was hanging open in amazement. ‘I’ve never heard anything like it,’ he said. ‘He talks like a ranting priest, but he rants about the most extraordinary Godless, unnatural things: freedom from the Church? Freedom from our rightful lords, who have been set above us by God? What nonsense, what dangerous, heretical nonsense. But they loved it. They absolutely loved it.’ He was staring around at the courtyard which was filled with cheering men, embracing each other, and shouting God Save the King! over and over.

  Robin
called the captains to him in the hall: Little John, Hugh, Owain the Bowman, Thomas and me. Sir Richard attended the meeting as a military adviser. Robin’s first command was: ‘Don’t let the men drink too much, I need them with clear heads.’ And then he plunged into his plans for the battle.

  The valley of Linden Lea, a wide grassy expanse that might have been designed by God as a battlefield, ran roughly north-south, with the manor at the northern end, and the road to Nottingham running alongside a stream down the centre of the valley. To the east of the valley was thick woodland, to the west, rose steep bare hills with an ancient track running along the top. Robin’s plan was simple: our infantry, about two hundred men-at-arms, and perhaps a third of our bowmen, say twenty-five archers, would form a line across the road about halfway up the valley. They would make a shield wall blocking the way. They were bait. Robin wanted Murdac to attack the outlaw infantry with his cavalry, and when he did, Robin’s men would form up into an impregnable hedgehog, a ring of sharp spears and shields that no horse would charge.