shoe that I had last seen on the end of Hugh’s foot as the black ship pulled swiftly away from us over the grey waters of the Thames.
I never read that letter, although its full import was made very clear to me that evening. On the surface it was another courteous invitation for Robin to present himself at the new Temple Church the next day — St Polycarpus’s Day — to answer before the inquisition convened by the Order of the Temple the charges of heresy, demon-worship, blasphemy and other assorted acts of wickedness. There was no mention of little Hugh at all. And yet the real meaning was entirely clear. Either Robin submitted to the Templars’ justice or his son and heir would die. The letter requested Robin to present himself, unarmed and with only two attendants, at the Templars’ Gate at noon the next day. Robin’s face was quite expressionless as he scanned the missive. I saw him look up at Marie- Anne and hand her the letter to read. Her face, in contrast, became white and worried, and she began to gnaw at her little finger as she looked at him, her big blue eyes beseeching. Robin hesitated for only a single heartbeat, and then he smiled. It was a bright, warm, comforting smile, a loving smile that made a solemn promise, and he opened his arms wide and she fell into them weeping, but this time with relief. They were enfolded in a tight embrace for a long time, the only sound that of muffled sobbing from Marie-Anne as she crushed her face against Robin’s neck, while Hanno and I exchanged embarrassed glances.
‘Well,’ said Robin, finally releasing his Countess. ‘It seems that I have underestimated these people. Alan, would you be kind enough to call for one of the Queen’s messengers. I think we need to make the terms for the boy’s release absolutely crystal clear.’
I knew in my heart what Robin was about to do. He was about to willingly put his head into a Templar noose to save the life of a little boy — a boy who was not even his true son. Whatever Robin had done in the past, whatever selfish sins he had committed, he was still willing to sacrifice his own life in an instant, to burn at the stake, a hideously painful and slow death, for love of his wife, for love of Marie-Anne and her bastard son Hugh, the progeny of an enemy.
I should not have been surprised by Robin’s actions, as I knew him well by then and fully understood his outlook. He had explained it to me years before, quite soon after I had joined his group of outlaws. ‘There are two kinds of people in the world, Alan,’ he said, ‘those inside my circle, whom I love and serve and who love and serve me — and those outside it.’
At the time I merely thought he was giving me a warning, and I had nodded enthusiastically to show that I understood, but later I realized he was explaining his personal doctrine to me. Robin had continued: ‘Those inside the circle are precious to me, and while they are faithful, I will always be loyal to them and do my utmost to protect them, even at the cost of my own life. Those outside this circle,’ he shrugged, ‘they are nothing.’ The way he said it had sent a chill down my spine.
When I contemplate Robin’s crimes, the acts of selfishness and cruelty that most appalled me, I try to remember that it was always people outside his charmed circle, or those who had betrayed him, who suffered by his actions. For those inside the circle, such as Marie-Anne, and little Hugh, and even myself, he would gladly die.
We rode east up the Strondway, the broad street leading towards London, in force: twenty mounted men- at-arms in full war gear, armed with sword, shield and spear, as well as Robin, Tuck, myself and Marie-Anne. Our route took us past the inn of the Bishop of Exeter, which was shut tight and locked, the bishop being away from town, through the raised wooden barrier of the Templar Bar and into Fleet Street. At the Temple Gate, we halted outside the round arch of the entrance while a standard bearer carrying Robin’s personal flag, a black-and-grey wolf’s head snarling from a white background, blew a trumpet to alert the occupants to our presence, although there was strictly no need, as I had already seen a man scurrying away into the Outer Court to inform his Templar masters that we had arrived. The sun was high, a pale coin in a grey February sky, and we waited without speaking, the only sound the occasional clop of a horse’s hoof, a whinny or two and the gentle jingle of steel bridle parts as the horses shook their heads.
As we waited, I looked east up the muddy street, past various huts and dwellings, past an alehouse and a pie shop to a large open-fronted building on the north side of the road, where a fire was roaring under a large, smoke- blackened metal hood. As I watched, a huge muscular man with a mop of bright blond hair and what looked like a leather patch over one eye pulled a strip of metal from the fire and began to hammer at it on an anvil in front of the forge. The blacksmith was half a bowshot away with his back to me, and yet, as I observed him knocking flakes of orange metal from the half-made sword blade with powerful strokes of his hammer, I had the strange feeling that I knew him from somewhere. But that, surely, was impossible — I knew almost nobody in London. Silently I willed him to turn and look at us, so that I might identify him, but he remained bent over the anvil, bashing away at the red-hot metal while turning it with a great pair of pincers. That in itself was slightly odd. Who would not stop work for a few moments and turn to gawp at a conroi of heavily armed cavalry a hundred yards away? Perhaps he was entirely intent on his work, I mused, or deaf from the constantly ringing blows of his hammer, as well as half- blinded.
My attention was soon diverted from the industrious blacksmith by the arrival at the gate of a Templar knight, accompanied by six tough-looking Templar sergeants dressed in black tunics over their hauberks and armed with swords and spears. I saw that the knight was Sir Aymeric de St Maur, the man I had met in Pembroke Castle, who had called Robin a demon-worshipper. And in his mailed fist, gripped securely, was the arm of a squirming little boy.
I heard Marie-Anne give a sharp cry and out of the corner of my eye I saw her slip from the saddle and run over to Hugh. But before she could reach him and take him into her arms, Sir Aymeric raised a commanding hand, palm faced forward, that stopped her in her tracks. And I saw that one of the sergeants was now holding a knife to little Hugh’s throat. ‘Surrender yourself, unarmed,’ said the knight, over Marie-Anne’s head directly to Robin. But Robin was already moving, sliding off his horse with easy grace. My master lifted his arms wide to show he carried no weapon and advanced to the Temple Gate. I dismounted from Ghost as quickly as I could, and Tuck and I, both of us unarmed, went over to join Robin in the entrance to the Templar’s court. Marie-Anne was fussing over little Hugh, kissing him and murmuring endearments, and she barely had time to cast her husband a grateful glance before Robin, Tuck and I were surrounded by the Templar men-at-arms and marched down the dark, narrow corridor and into the Outer Court.
As we tramped away from Marie-Anne and Hugh and Robin’s well-armed troopers, I had the strongest impression that we were marching through the portals of Hell. Behind us, I heard the gate slam shut with a hollow boom.
The Outer Court of the New Temple compound was a large area with a packed-earth floor, with low wattle- and-daub buildings — a granary, a brewery, various storehouses, barracks and servants’ quarters — dotted about here and there. To the south was a neatly kept orchard of apple and pear trees, extending down to a scatter of huts and a wooden wharf on the River Thames. We saw little of it, however, as we were almost immediately hustled to the left, heading east through a covered walkway along the side of the Grand Master’s house and into the Temple Church itself. I had never been inside it before, and, in spite of my anxiety for Robin, I was struck by the grave beauty, even majesty, of the building. We passed through a heavy iron-bound door set in a round arch at its western end and into the main chamber. Some twenty paces across, filled with pale yellow sunlight and perfectly round, it was said to have been built in imitation of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem, the site of the tomb of Christ, which, alas, despite my long sojourn in the Holy Land, I’d never had the good fortune to visit.
Six huge black pillars formed a ring at the centre of the space; these supported a circular upper storey. I peered up towards the domed roof, where six vast windows allowed the sparse February sunshine to pour in. On the ground floor, a couple of dozen men were milling around, talking quietly amongst themselves; many wore white surcoats with the red breast cross of Templar knights, others were clad in the more colourful attire of secular noblemen. A few men had already taken their places on the stone bench that ran around the outer wall. Over in the north-eastern quadrant of the church I caught sight of Richard FitzNeal, the silver-haired Bishop of London, looking worried as he took his seat.
Straight ahead of me, due east, was the chancel, a twenty-yard-long rectangular chamber, which extended off the circular main space and housed the altar and an enormous golden crucifix bearing the figure of Our Lord twisted in His Passion. Crossing myself, I muttered a quick prayer before we were ushered to our places on the stone bench, just to the right of the main door, by the font, in the southern quadrant. Robin sat in the middle, between Tuck and myself, and two Templar sergeants sat flanking Tuck and me. The other men-at-arms who had escorted us inside disposed themselves around the church and leaned on their spears, occasionally glancing over at
