overly impressed with the evidence that the Templars had manufactured against my master. In fact the more outlandish and ridiculous the stories, the less credibility they had to their audience. Sir Aymeric de St Maur, I realized with joy, had been too zealous in pursuit of his cause. We were winning; we had the tacit support of the secular knights, at least, and many Templars would believe his record of service in the Holy Land should count for much. The Bishop of London was smiling warmly at us from across the church.
Then the Master spoke: ‘We have heard much evidence today concerning whether or not Robert of Locksley is a heretic and a demon-worshipper. We must disregard the testimony of the villein John, as this inquisition suspects that he may have been tortured. But I believe we have heard enough. We will hear only one more witness on this matter today and then we will make our judgement.’ He paused and looked briefly at a sheet of parchment in his hand. ‘Sir Aymeric, call your final witness,’ the Master said.
Aymeric de St Maur walked to the centre of the church. In a loud and ringing voice he said: ‘I call upon Alan of Westbury to come forward.’
And my heart froze.
I have no memory of walking the ten paces to the centre of the church, to the place beside Sir Aymeric. But I can recall clearly the intensity of the Master’s bloodshot glare and his next words: ‘Do you swear, by Almighty God, by the Virgin and all the saints, that you will tell the truth this day, in the knowledge that if you utter falsehoods the Lord God himself will strike you dead for your blasphemy and your soul will burn in Hell?’
My mouth was dry, my tongue suddenly seemed to be twice its normal size. I mumbled something and, at the Master’s irritated urging to speak up, I found myself making a solemn oath that I would tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. My back was towards Robin, and I was glad of it. I could not look him in the eye.
Sir Aymeric stood not two paces from me, to my front left: he waited till he had my attention and then asked me the fateful question. ‘Did you witness your master Robin Hood, now styled the Earl of Locksley, taking part in a demonic ceremony at Eastertide four years ago in which a living man-at-arms known as Piers, a prisoner of war, was sacrificed to a false god? Answer merely yes or no. And remember that you are on oath to tell the truth in this holy church, before the all-seeing eyes of God Almighty.’
I could not speak. My mouth seemed to be glued shut; my jaw muscles were locked.
The Master snapped: ‘Answer the question, man!’
And I found myself muttering: ‘Yes.’
‘Speak up,’ said the Master. ‘Speak up Alan of Westbury so that all may hear you.’
Sir Aymeric de St Maur stared intently at me; he was smirking like a fox who’s found a way into a chicken coop.
‘Yes,’ I said again. ‘Yes, I did witness my master taking part in a bloody ritual, a ceremony in which a living man was sacrificed to a demon, at Easter, in Sherwood, four years ago.’
Chaos erupted in the church; a great chorus of shouting voices, bellowing men. I wanted to turn and look over at Robin but I found I could not move my shoulders and neck.
I heard Prince John loudly croaking: ‘Guilty! Guilty, by God. Condemned out of the mouth of his own vassal. I say he is guilty. Burn the scoundrel! Burn him now!’
Then the Master was shouting for silence, while I merely stood there paralysed by what I had just done.
Quiet was finally achieved, and I dimly heard the Master saying: ‘I think we have heard enough… what say you, wardens?’
I stood there before the Master of the Temple, my hands hanging loose by my side, while he conferred with his two wardens and, still staring at the floor, my mind fogged by grief, I heard him say: ‘This inquisition finds Robert Odo, Earl of Locksley, guilty on all charges. He shall be taken from this place and imprisoned in the Temple crypt and in three days’ time, at dawn, he shall suffer the purifying fire that will cleanse him of his foul iniquities. May God have mercy on his soul.’
I finally managed to turn my head and look over at Robin. My master was standing now, with four Templar sergeants hovering close around him while another was binding his arms in front of his body. His silver eyes bored into mine with such a look of ferocity that I was almost blown backwards as if by a powerful gust of wind. He stared at me for a long, long moment, and then he uttered one word — a terrible word, said loudly and clearly so that everyone in the church might hear it; a word full of contempt and hatred. Then the sergeants dragged him away towards the crypt. The word was ringing in my ears. And I can hear that word still, more than forty years later. The word was…
‘Judas!’
Part Two
Chapter Eight
We are as busy as the bees now at Westbury: it is mid-June, sunny, and our broad blue Nottinghamshire skies are scarcely troubled by a single cloud — it is the time for my sheep flocks to be sheared, and the blacksmith’s forge has been busy fashioning new sets of wicked-looking shears and sharpening old ones. In the hot weather the animals become uneasy, burdened as they are with their winter coats, and the shearing is a mercy to them. It is a blessing to me, too, as the price of wool has risen greatly in recent years, and I look set to make a pretty penny from the thick grey fleeces. Also, in less than a week, if the weather holds fair, I shall be sending the teams out to mow the hay meadows, to dry, then gather and stack the long grass to make winter feed for my beasts.
Osric is fully occupied in this season; he will oversee the sheep shearing, and the sorting of the fleeces, and inspect the meadows after the hay has been cut. Indeed, we all have our allotted tasks to perform, myself included. But, although there is so much to do, I have set myself an extra task: I have decided to watch Osric from the shadows, quietly and constantly, using all the old, stealthy skills that Hanno taught me long ago. I aim to catch him at some misdeed and expose him as a villain to my daughter-in-law Marie. Then, only then, will I be free of him. I cannot sleep at night for worrying — indeed I have not slept so much as a wink for many nights now. I am still certain he is trying to murder me, but I have no proof, and proof will be needed to show Marie that she has married a monster.
It is surely a mercy that I have survived this long. Now it is time to act. So I will watch Osric, and watch well. I know that his malice is not a figment of my imagination. The other evening, about a week ago, I saw him adding a pinch of white powder to my bowl of soup as it stood on the sideboard — a slow poison, no doubt, of the type I had heard of on my travels in the East. Marie brings me supper in my chamber these days, as I work long after nightfall on these pages by beeswax candlelight — an extravagance, I know, but I feel a terrible urgency upon me. I have a premonition of my own death, and I wish to finish my tale before some evil befalls me.
I was fortunate to catch Osric in the act of poisoning my soup. I had been summoned by a groom to look at a sick horse in the stables and was returning through the hall to my chamber when I saw the mole-like fellow adding his infernal white powder to the bowl. I challenged him, of course, immediately, loudly, and the rascal had the nerve to claim that it was merely salt that he was adding to my evening meal to add savour to the broth. It was a lie, of course, I could see it in his blushing face — since when does a busy bailiff concern himself with flavouring of his master’s food? I poured the bowl away without tasting it, and gave orders to the servants that Osric must not be allowed near any dish that is destined for my table.
And yet, a part of me wishes that I had not challenged him so openly and accused him so angrily of wishing to poison me. I showed my hand to him, and it has put him on his guard. I have been watching him for a fortnight now, following him on horseback at a distance when he goes out to the fields or into the village of Westbury, watching him by day, all day, from a stool placed in a spot of shade outside the front of the hall. Sometimes I try to surprise him by appearing suddenly when he is out of plain sight, in an outbuilding, perhaps. And he often appears guiltily startled when I pop out from behind a door like a rabbit from its hole. But I have not caught him in any obvious crime yet. Indeed, most of the time he acts as innocently as a lamb, going about his business as if he did not have a care in the world. That is surely a mark of the man’s devilish cunning.
Each night, I pray to Almighty God that He may hold off Osric’s malice for a little longer, and that He grant me time to finish this manuscript, to complete my tale of Robert of Locksley, of Little John, of Marie-Anne, Goody,
