complacent. I did not think the famous fighting Templars were a force to be so easily ignored.
‘How many Templar knights do you think there are in England at the moment, Alan?’ asked Robin. ‘A dozen? Perhaps a score of them? All their fighting men are out East: in Outremer, in Acre, in Jaffa or in Cyprus. They have too few knights here to start seriously throwing their weight around. And if they recruit common foot soldiers, well, I too have the silver to attract men-at-arms to my standard.’
This was true. And, in fact, Robin had already begun spending his frankincense hoard to this end. Apart from the twenty men whose lives he had spared after the battle outside the walls of Kirkton, Robin had arranged for a fresh contingent of fifty master archers to join him from Wales. Father Tuck, who had once been a bowman, had arranged for these men to join Robin’s wolf banner. In addition there were three score of cavalrymen, recruited locally, that he was training in the lush green dales around the castle. Kirkton was once again bustling with soldiers, and I reflected that perhaps Robin was right: perhaps there was nothing the Templars could do but make impotent spiritual threats.
I was wrong.
Chapter Five
I watched from the south-facing battlements as the armed column approached Kirkton Castle, plodding up the steep muddy road from the river valley bottom. I had been gazing out over the drizzle-washed dales, taking a sharp breath of fresh air and trying to find a rhyme for ‘damsel’. The column came on slowly, red-and-gold flags hanging limply above a dozen damp horsemen, watery winter sunlight occasionally breaking through the grey cloud cover and glinting off mail coats and spear points. Above the clop of hooves and the rumble of distant thunder, I could hear the steel accoutrements of battle chinking daintily. But these men in dripping hoods, their bodies slumped by tiredness, were not coming to war. Their approach was too slow, too open for them to be anything other than peaceful visitors of some kind, and, of course, there were too few of them.
Despite their damp clothes I could see that they were travelling in some style — all their horses were big and well fed, their lanolin-impregnated woollen rain cloaks were of the finest quality: clearly this was the entourage of some wealthy noble or courtier. But it was a strange season to be abroad — during the cold, dour month of January many knightly folk preferred to remain at home and bide by a roaring fire rather than venture out into the elements. Whoever it was that had ordered this journey had urgent business with us.
When the damp and muddy horsemen finally arrived at the closed gates of Kirkton Castle, and announced their presence formally with the blast of a trumpet, I was astonished to recognize my old friend and one-time musical mentor Bernard de Sezanne at the head of the column. Bernard was the last person I expected to see braving the chill to pay a call on his friends. He hated to be far from a well-stocked buttery, a friendly young woman or two and a cosy hearth.
Christmas was weeks past, and we had kept the festive season tolerably well at Kirkton with much eating and drinking, and singing and laughter. I had fulfilled my promise to young Thomas, too, and had given him several lessons in the use of the sword. He was talented and I believed that one day he would be a fair swordsman, but he was still too small and weak to wield a blade with any skill — nevertheless he was fast, very fast indeed. He had, in turn, shown me how he had thrown the much bigger boy and explained to me his ideas about wrestling: ‘I try to use the strength of the other man against him,’ he told me gravely. And then he demonstrated how, with quickness and a judicious use of leverage, he used the momentum of his opponent to defeat him. When we grappled, he even managed to have me on my back in the dirt a couple of times before I felt that my dignity had suffered enough for one day at the hands of a small boy.
The weather over the Christmas period had been mild but now we were in the middle of a cold spell, with bleak short days and little to cheer the soul, and with the prospect of spring still several months away. Kirkton was uneasy in itself, too. Unusual things had been occurring in the area; things which the local peasants, as ever, blamed on witchcraft: a calf had been born with two heads, an old man had drowned in his own well, and strange lights had been seen in the sky at night. In the alehouses of Locksley and in the surrounding villages it was whispered that the Hag of Hallamshire, a terrifying black-clad witch with a hideous visage straight from a nightmare, had returned to the area. She was said to steal babies and sacrifice them to the Devil and then feast on their blood. Several villeins from Locksley claimed to have seen the Hag out on the dales shouting curses in a strange tongue at the moon when they were returning home from the alehouse at midnight. I would normally have dismissed such talk as nothing more than the over-stoked imaginations of drunks, were it not for a weird message that the Norman fortune-teller Elise had given me.
Elise had been much praised for her role in the victory against Ralph Murdac’s men, and Robin had given her a fine grey mare and a bag of silver as a reward for spreading terror so well among the besieging troops. She was now, despite her foreign and sometimes alarming ways, a popular figure at the castle: not only for the help she had given against Murdac but also because she had a rare skill as a healer, and several men and women of Kirkton owed their lives to her skill with herbs. On Robin’s advice, she had paid a visit to another famous healer, wise woman, and some said witch, named Brigid, who was an old friend of Robin’s and, it has to be admitted, of mine too.
Brigid, who lived in seclusion in a small hut deep in Sherwood Forest, thirty miles to the south of Kirkton, had healed my arm when I was bitten by a wolf a few years before; I still bore the scars — a row of pink dimples on my right arm. When Elise announced that she was planning to visit Brigid, I gave her a small bag of dried orange peel to give to Brigid as a present from me. The stick-hard brown skin of the fruit had travelled with me all the way from Spain where I had purchased it from an Arab doctor whom I’d consulted about a troublesome cough and running nose. The man had told me that by steeping the dried peel in boiling water and adding a little honey I might make a soothing liquor to combat my ailments. To be honest, I had not bothered to make the drink and my cold had cured itself, but the little leather sack had remained with me, untouched for many long months in my saddlebag. I thought that Brigid might find it both interesting and medicinally useful.
Elise was gone for a month over the Christmas period, but when she returned she took me to one side in the great hall and, after passing on Brigid’s greetings and thanks for my gift, gave me some disquieting news.
‘My sister-in-craft thanks you for the gift but bids you to beware,’ said Elise. ‘She has cast the runes and she tells me that you must avoid at all costs an ugly woman in black, who wishes you ill.’
‘Is this another silly tale about the Hag?’ I asked, a little alarmed in spite of myself.
‘I know not,’ said Elise. ‘But my sister is a wise woman and I should not take her warnings lightly, were I you.’
Fine, I thought. Fine. Beware a woman in black. Beware the Hag of Hallamshire. I told myself that I was not frightened of witches. Well, only a little.
‘Are you going to let us in then, or do you expect us to freeze to death out here?’ Bernard shouted up at the wooden battlements. I stopped my day-dreaming and hurriedly gave the signal to the porters, who unbarred the huge wooden gates and swung them open to admit my friend; then I ran down the nearest set of steps to greet my old music teacher as he trotted into the bailey.
Bernard’s nose was blue-red with cold, which matched the colours of his rich clothes. As I helped him down from his horse he pretended to be an old man, moving stiffly with many little grunts and sighs. ‘A drink, Alan, a drink — and quickly, for the love of God. I would give my very soul for a sip of wine.’ And so I led him into the hall, leaving the gate guards to succour the horses and men-at-arms of his escort, and installed him on a bench by the central fire that burned all day at that time of the year while a servant was dispatched to bring hot spiced wine for both of us.
‘Welcome to Kirkton Castle, Bernard,’ I said. ‘And what brings you out in our bracing Yorkshire weather?’
Bernard waggled a limp hand in my face. ‘Shhh, shhh, my boy, not now, not now. Let me get a little heat back into my tired old bones.’
Bernard was perhaps in his mid-thirties, but he loved to be dramatic and it pleased him to pretend to be an ancient grand father, victim of gout and the rheumatics and every passing chill.
Fortunately, the servant returned soon afterwards with a flagon of hot mulled wine. After two large restorative cups, Bernard finally deigned to speak to me.
