expedition. Our impetuous English monarch had kicked the Duke’s banner from the walls of Acre when it had been hung beside his own and the standard of King Philip Augustus of France. He said that it was not fitting for the flag of a mere duke to hang beside that of kings. Actually, it was all about money, as it so often is in warfare — and peacetime, too, as Robin was fond of telling me. Or rather, plunder. By displaying his banner next to Richard’s and Philip’s, Leopold was claiming an equal share — one third — of all the loot from the captured city of Acre. And Richard wasn’t going to allow this. From his point of view, Duke Leopold had failed to capture Acre after trying for so many months, whereas Richard had succeeded in a matter of weeks. The upshot was that, soon afterwards, Leopold quit the Great Pilgrimage, returning to Austria furious with King Richard and vowing to get his revenge.
Abandoned by his lord because he was too weak to be moved, Hanno had slowly recovered and then joined Robin’s force of Sherwood outlaws turned soldiers. Despite the language barrier, which Hanno soon overcame, after a fashion — he had the curious habit of always speaking as if the event he was speaking about was happening at that very moment — as a hunter and warrior he fitted in well with Robin’s gang of former deer-poachers and murderous brigands. And he seemed to adopt me, taking it upon himself to teach me everything he knew about stalking large prey — whether animal or human.
At the castles and great houses that I stayed in while travelling England on Robin’s business that winter, I was usually obliged to entertain my audience in the evenings with music, mostly of my own composition, although sometimes other men’s work, and I was pleased to notice that I had something of a growing reputation as a trouvere. At Pembroke Castle in South Wales, after hearing ‘My Joy Summons Me’ — a canso I had devised with King Richard the Lionheart himself in Sicily on the way to the Holy Land — the famous knight William the Marshal, now a great magnate and, in Richard’s absence, one of the justiciars of England, even paid me the compliment of inviting me to leave Robin’s service and join his household.
Though the Marshal promised me bright gold and the grants of several manors, I regretfully informed him that I could not leave my master after we had endured so much together on our travels out East. He was not pleased at being refused; plainly he was not used to it, and he had some difficulty in hiding his considerable irritation.
‘Of course, I understand your loyalty to Locksley; I even applaud it,’ said the Marshal grumpily. He was a giant, abrupt, grey-brown man of late middle years, with huge scarred hands, who was then perhaps the most renowned fighting man in the country. We were standing on the battlements of his newly completed stone tower at Pembroke watching a multitude of labourers and masons working like busy ants to construct a curtain wall below us. ‘But you should know that your precious Earl is riding for a fall. It is well known that he is the King’s man, but King Richard is far away in Outremer and who knows when he will return. Or indeed if he ever will.’ The Marshal paused here and shot me a significant look before continuing.
‘Locksley has enemies here in England, and I don’t just mean that little weasel Murdac. Our noble Prince John looks askance at anyone who champions King Richard — it’s plain as the nose on his face that he wants the throne for himself — and I have heard that certain very powerful elements in the Church are after your master’s blood as well. A lot of people want to see Robert of Locksley brought down, young Alan. You should leave him while you have the opportunity. Come, throw in your lot with me, no one will speak ill of you for leaving Locksley to join the greatest knight in Christendom.’ He grinned at me to show that he was jesting about his fame and prowess, but in truth he was very proud of his reputation as a warrior. ‘Seriously, Alan, my people tell me that Locksley is doomed. Too many powerful men want to see him humbled. Join me — your exquisite music will be properly rewarded and I can always use another first-class swordsman in my household.’
He was a good man, the Marshal, under his gruff soldierly exterior and for all his pride — and he meant well by me. Even so, I refused his offer. However, I was worried by what he had said. I knew, of course, that Prince John coveted the throne of England; part of Robin’s secret orders from King Richard when my master left the Holy Land had been to keep an eye on brother John and thwart him in his manoeuvring to increase his power, if at all possible. But I was also concerned by the Marshal’s mention of ‘certain very powerful elements of the Church’ being after his blood. Robin had long thumbed his nose at the clergy — in his outlaw days he made a particular point of robbing rich churchmen when they passed through his woodland domain — and now, it seemed, his chickens were coming home to roost.
Since the purpose of my mission, in addition to delivering my lord’s messages, was to report anything that might concern him or his family, I scribbled a note to Robin on a scrap of old parchment and had Hanno gallop it immediately to Kirkton.
While I waited for Hanno to return with fresh orders, I tarried at Pembroke, watching the building work with no little awe at the vast sums of money being expended, playing music for the Marshal, practising my sword-and- shield work with his household knights, and flirting discreetly with Isabel, my middle-aged host’s lovely young wife, who was more or less the same age as me. And at every opportunity I tried to find out more about the threat to Robin from the Church. More solid information came my way a few days later, and with it an unpleasant shock.
Hanno had returned to my side, bearing terse instructions from Robin for us to return home. I was not sorry to be leaving Pembroke for I had become slightly infatuated with Isabel, and only my considerable regard for the Marshal had prevented me from expressing my passionate feelings for her. It was better to be away from temptation, I told myself. As we were packing our traps in preparation for our departure, my host appeared with a request: he wanted me to give a special performance after supper that night for an honoured guest. I was bound to oblige him, as I had been enjoying his hospitality for weeks, and I was not unhappy to do so — I wanted to perform a love song I had written for Isabel, to give her something beautiful to remember me by.
The canso I had written for her was a rather sentimental one, based on an Arab tale I had heard in Outremer about an ordinary brown thrush and a gorgeous white rose. The knightly thrush is desperately in love with the rose but because of their differences in rank they can never be together. Furthermore, the white rose’s soft petals are jealously protected by many cruel thorns. But the thrush, mad with love and scorning all danger, throws himself on to the rose, seeking just one brief kiss, and willingly spears himself to death on the sharp thorns. And ever afterwards, all roses shall be red as blood, to commemorate the sacrifice of the thrush who died for love.
You might think this mawkish, sentimental swill, but I may say in all honesty that Isabel adored my canso, and by the looks she gave me afterwards I believe that I might well have been invited to enjoy the full sweetness of her petals had I remained. Instead, the next day Hanno and I rode away in the chill December dawn, and I never saw my white rose again. I think that, given the Marshal’s fearsome reputation as a fighting man, it was for the best: he was not a man who would take being cuckolded lightly.
But I did have one encounter that night in Pembroke that was most significant to this tale. After I had performed my canso, and several other works, I was introduced to the Marshal’s honoured guest. His name was Sir Aymeric de St Maur and he was an emissary of William de Newham, the Master of the Temple in London, the head of the English branch of the Order of the Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ and the Temple of Solomon — the renowned Knights Templar.
This Sir Aymeric, then, was a Templar, part of an elite order of fighting monks, famed all over the world for their piety and prowess. The Templars were the sword arm of Holy Mother Church, the sacred warriors of Our Lord Jesus Christ, answerable only to their Grand Master and His Holiness the Pope himself. The Templars had been in the forefront of battle in Outremer and, along with the Knights Hospitaller, they had earned great distinction there for their ruthless ferocity in war and total devotion to the Christian cause. They gave no quarter to their enemies in the Holy Land, and asked none. As a testament to their supreme efficacy as warriors, if ever a Templar soldier was captured by Saladin, he was immediately put to death. And these fighting monks looked on this death as a blessed martyrdom.
I had known several Templars in the past, in England and in the Holy Land, and I had always found them to be impressive men: Sir Aymeric de St Maur was no exception.
He was a tall, broad man in his thirties, straight-backed, with close-cropped black hair, and dressed in the pure white robe of the Templars with its red cross on the breast. He was noble of bearing, every inch a soldier, but his mouth seemed to indicate a certain cold cruelty that I did not care for. And when, after the musical supper, I was introduced to him by William the Marshal he immediately took a step back, almost as if fearful of me, and made the sign of the Cross in the air between us.
‘You serve the Earl of Locksley?’ he said in a curious tone of voice, half-uncertain, half-accusatory. ‘The heretic? The demon-worshipper? It is hard to believe that one whose music is so clearly inspired by Heaven should serve one so steeped in foul practices.’
