hundred pounds of lead round his neck!’ Bernard laughed like a lunatic, slapping his knee and calling for another flagon of wine.
Eventually, realizing that even his funniest stories could not lift my spirits, my friend disappeared into a back room with one of the slatterns. I finished my wine and was just thinking of settling up with the owner and going to bed, when I looked up from my stool to find the big, dark-haired man looming over me, a thick oak cudgel held casually over one broad shoulder.
‘I don’t like you,’ he said, and glowered at me. He had a rough southern accent, and was clearly very drunk. ‘I don’t like you at all, or your friend, or any of your kind,’ he continued. ‘Musicians, trouveres or whatever you call yourselves — you’re nothing but pedlars of soppy ditties, mincing little sodomites, lickspittles to any lord who will listen to your Goddamned noise.’
The tavern-keeper called over from the ale tuns, where he was polishing a metal tankard: ‘You behave yourself now, Tom. Leave the musical gentleman alone. We don’t want any trouble here.’
The big man — Tom, apparently — ignored him.
‘I don’t like you…’ he began again. But I had had more than enough.
‘You know something? I don’t think I care for you much either,’ I said, looking up at him. ‘So why don’t you take yourself out of my face and go and find a pig to fuck — one that’s not too choosy about its bed-mates.’
Tom leaned further over me, his huge bulk nearly blocking out the dim light in that grimy den. ‘You listen to me you little poof-’
And I thought: Yes, this will do. This is what I’ve wanted all night.
My sword was with my other belongings at Westminster Hall, but my misericorde was snug in my boot. In fact, I had no need of either. I merely launched myself directly upwards, using all the power in my young legs, surging straight up with the force of a battering ram, the top of my skull smashing into his mouth with stunning force. Tom staggered back and, now standing, I went up on to the balls of my feet and whipped my forehead forward in a short, hard arc, crunching it into his nose in a second devastating headbutt. My poll smashed into his face like a boulder crushing a loaf of new bread. He stumbled away, spitting blood and teeth, a look of dazed incomprehension on his big ugly face, and I lashed out with my right boot, catching him squarely in the fork of his crotch. He doubled over, mooing in agony. Taking a step back, I swept up the stool I had been sitting on, swung hard and shattered the heavy wooden disc of the seat over the back of his head. Like a felled tree he toppled over slowly and crashed to the floor, landing in a senseless heap on the dirty rushes, bleeding quietly but copiously from a jagged split in the back of his scalp.
I looked up to find the tavern owner staring at me in amazement. Trying to control the shaking in my hands from my sudden surge of rage, I fished in the purse at my waist and threw a handful of coins on to the counter. ‘That’s for the wine — and the stool,’ I said, making for the doorway. ‘And you’d better give that great ox a drink of ale when he wakes.’
I had thought that a night of boozing and brawling might make me feel better about Goody — it did not. The next day I woke with an aching head and a deep sense of guilt. I hoped I had not killed Tom in the fight the night before. He did not deserve to die for being a drunken boor.
I mentioned the boating affair with Goody to Marie-Anne that day, hoping that as a woman she would know what I could do to make things right with my young friend.
‘I would not trouble yourself too much about it,’ said the Countess of Locksley, as we shared a cold supper in her chambers. I had been summoned to entertain her while Robin was ensconced with the Queen discussing King Richard’s plight. Marie-Anne must have sensed that my heart wasn’t in my music, for after I had picked my way through a few of her favourite cansos, she invited me to set down my vielle and bow and join her in her meal.
‘Girls that age have a difficult time, stuck halfway between childhood and the full bloom of a woman,’ she said. ‘She ought to be married by now, really, and have babies to care for, but as she has neither land nor money, it is difficult for her to attract the right suitors.’
‘But she is truly beautiful, she has a lovely face — surely there must be some men who are interested,’ I said. Marie-Anne gave me a slantendicular look. ‘You could always write her a song,’ she said, ‘if you wanted to make amends. I’m sure she would appreciate it, and it would be a fine way to tell her that you are sorry.’
I considered this. It was a good idea, I thought. ‘I’ll do it,’ I said. ‘But…’ And at that moment the chamber door opened and a little bundle of raw energy on two pudgy legs came barrelling in, running straight up to Marie- Anne with a delighted cry of ‘ Maman!’, pursued by a red-faced nursemaid. ‘I am so sorry for disturbing you, my lady,’ she said breathlessly, ‘but he got away from me while I was sorting out his clothes chest.’
‘That’s quite all right, Ysmay,’ said Marie-Anne, scooping up little Hugh in her arms, smoothing his black hair and bestowing a kiss on his soft pale cheek. I rose from my stool and was about to make my excuses and leave when the Countess stopped me: ‘Alan, do you think… when the weather is a little clearer… you could arrange for myself and Hugh to take a boat ride downriver with you? Not a grand outing, just a few of us. Perhaps you could ask your friend Perkin…’
I told her that it would be my pleasure to arrange it, bowed low and left the chamber.
The day I chose for Marie-Anne’s boating expedition was bright and clear, and surprisingly warm — it was almost spring-like although we were still only halfway through February. Our party was made up of the Countess, little Hugh and his nursemaid Ysmay, myself, Perkin and Tuck, who as Marie-Anne’s personal chaplain had taken to carrying a wooden cross as tall as he was. The cross, as well as being the holy symbol and a badge of office, served as a walking staff to support my corpulent friend, who by now was well into middle age — though he did not like his juniors to remind him of the fact.
I had spoken to the Bishop of London, a kindly man named Richard FitzNeal, who was staying at Westminster in order to give counsel to the Queen at this time of crisis, asking on behalf of the Countess whether we might visit his manor of Fulham, a few miles upstream. The gardens there were said to be of surpassing beauty and I thought Marie-Anne might enjoy them. Bishop Richard was a wonderful old stick, past sixty years of age but still vigorous and very learned — his book about the administration of the kingdom was very highly regarded — and he was happy for us to enjoy his manor.
‘Of course, my dear boy, of course,’ he said. ‘I shall send ahead and make sure everything is prepared for you when you arrive. Would the Countess not like to stay there for several days? I am busy here with the Queen, but if she would like a break from court life she would be very welcome to stay at Fulham, for weeks if she wants to; masses of room, nobody there but the servants…’
I assured the good bishop that we were merely going there for the day, this coming Thursday, but I was warmed by his generosity. I left him issuing orders to his clerks to have his people in Fulham prepare for our arrival with a lavish meal and the finest wines. Marie-Anne was very popular at Westminster; her beauty and charm — and, the more cynical might say, her close friendship with Queen Eleanor — made her someone that the entire Court seemed to adore. And even elderly bishops were not immune to her charms, it seemed.
The skiff was fully laden as Perkin shoved off and he and I took our places at the oars. The going was hard; moving the bulk of the fully laden boat against the current required a good deal of sweat and muscle power from my snub-nosed friend and me, but I was young and strong in those days and I did not mind that we were going upstream. It would make the afternoon all the sweeter when, full of the bishop’s good food and drink, we would be able to glide back down to Westminster with the minimum of effort.
As I hauled on the long pinewood oar, I faced backwards, timing my stroke with Perkin, who was seated to my left. And it was Perkin who first alerted me to the small black ship. As we stroked our way slowly up the river, heading due south at that point, Perkin turned to me and, nodding at a dark, low form behind us, on our side, the western side of the river, but closer into the bank, he said quietly: ‘That bugger is moving very strangely. Going too slow for a craft that size. Must have at least ten oarsmen, but it’s moving no faster than we are.’
He was right; the small ship, a low, clinker-built vessel, its sides daubed with pitch, with a single mast but no sail hoisted, was being rowed by five men on each side and yet it seemed to move at the same pace as us. In fact, it might be said to be following us.
At first I was just idly curious, but after half an hour had passed, I began to be slightly alarmed. The river had turned west and we were now sticking close to the northern shore, but the black ship was still there behind us. And it was more conspicuous for the fact that, on that clear day, in that part of the river, there was very little traffic on the water.
I was certain now that the ship was following us, and no sooner was that thought born than the vessel began to move more speedily, coming up fast on the landward side. I cursed my decision not to engage a bigger boat for
