Archbishop of Rouen and the Queen’s most loyal counsellor, was in attendance, too. He seemed barely able to restrain his impatience while she read through the letters, almost snatching them from her fingers the moment she had finished reading them and devouring the contents the way a starving man wolfs down a plate of food.
‘You have done very well, Alan,’ said the Queen with a smile. ‘And I am most grateful to you. We all are. Your service shall not be forgotten when this business is over.’
I was muttering something about not seeking any reward, that the honour of serving my King was ample reward in itself, when the archbishop rudely interrupted me.
‘It seems that Boxley and Robertsbridge have the situation in hand. They say they will stick like glue to the King until we can arrange the ransom,’ he said to the Queen, ignoring me completely. ‘But it is going to be expensive, very expensive…’
‘The Church in England must be made to play its part in raising the money,’ said the Queen, fixing the archbishop with a meaningful look. ‘I am thinking we must appropriate the gold and silver plate from every parish church in the land. And Boxley suggests that we take some of the Cistercians’ wool crop, too — that will be worth a pretty penny.’
‘Yes, that might be possible,’ said Coutances. ‘And the nobility must pay its share, too, but I fear that will not be enough.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘Some of the burden will have to fall on the common people. I’d urge a general tax of one quarter the value of all moveable property. We will need to collect the silver — there will be a vast quantity of it — at a central point. Here in the crypt in the Abbey, perhaps, or in London at St Paul’s…’
Suddenly reminded of my presence, the Archbishop frowned at me. ‘Perhaps, my lady, we might discuss this in private…’ And he inclined his head in my direction.
‘Alan, will you excuse us, please?’ she said to me with a lovely smile.
Making my bow, I withdrew, leaving the old man and the Queen to their deliberations.
I had no desire to linger in Westminster. I had a horror of running into Marie-Anne, who I had heard had not followed Robin into the woodland exile of an outlaw, but had remained under the protection of Queen Eleanor in the safety and comfort of her court. After my betrayal of her beloved husband at the inquisition in Temple Church, I knew I could not face the accusatory look in her eyes should we meet.
I was happy, though, to be reunited with my grey gelding Ghost, who had put on an alarming amount of weight in the palace stables while I had been in Germany, and who had completely recovered from his bruised hoof. He was happy to see me, neighing and nodding with pleasure, when I brought him a special feed of warm mash that evening, and I took my time over brushing his coat, vowing that I would take him out for a long gallop the next day.
While I was fussing over my animal friend — I believe I was braiding his tail like a besotted stable hand — I heard a familiar voice calling me by name and wishing me God’s peace, and turned to find myself facing a slim, fit- looking man of medium height, with cropped, iron-grey hair and muddy green eyes.
It was Sir Nicholas de Scras, an old friend and well-liked comrade from the Holy Land, who had tended me when I was sick with fever in Acre. But while his face was wonderfully familiar, there was one thing about Sir Nicholas that was different: his surcoat. When I had known him in Outremer, Sir Nicholas had been a Hospitaller, a member of a religious knightly order similar to the Templars, but concerned with healing the sick as well as fighting the infidel. Their surcoat was an austere black with a small white cross on the breast. The man who stood before me in the stable was sporting a dark-blue garment with three golden scallop shells on the front around a representation of a dolphin.
‘Sir Nicholas,’ I almost shouted, clasping his hand warmly. ‘I am so pleased to see you! But what brings you to England? Have the Hospitallers abandoned the Holy Land to the heathen Saracens?’
‘They have not, and God willing they never shall,’ my old friend said, smiling back at me. ‘No, it is I who have abandoned the Hospitallers.’
‘How so?’ I asked, amazed.
‘It is a sad tale,’ he said, his eyes crinkling with sudden unhappiness, ‘and one that would be better told over a cup of wine. Will you join me? I know of a tavern that will suit our needs admirably. It is not far.’
And so I found myself once again at the table in the Blue Boar tavern where I had caroused with Bernard six weeks previously, sharing a flagon of the same green Rhenish wine with my old friend Sir Nicholas.
After some gossip about the Queen’s court at Westminster, I urged Sir Nicholas to tell me how he had come to leave the Hospitallers. And so he began: ‘I would not have left, had it not been for the death of my elder brother Anthony. He died in the autumn — fell from his horse; he cracked his pate, breathed his last three days later. It was a silly, pointless death, and not worthy of a fine man. But he is with God now, and so beyond the cares of this world.
‘His poor wife, Mary, is left with two small sons. The eldest, William, will inherit our lands in Sussex, but he is a child, barely able to walk let alone administer an estate or defend his property during the coming years of blood and violence. And so, when news reached me of Anthony’s death, I was left with a stark choice: return home to England to protect my brother’s family or remain faithful to my Order.’
Sir Nicholas took a gulp of wine. It was clear that he was still not entirely reconciled with the choice he’d made.
‘For seven days and nights, I prayed. I spent a week on my knees in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem. Under the truce with Saladin last year, after King Richard departed Outremer, we Christians were permitted to visit the holy sites unmolested. So for a long week I asked God for guidance. Should I go home to defend my family’s lands or remain with the Hospitallers? And through Heavenly Grace I was granted a sign.
‘The silence of that holy place was suddenly broken by two boys, a Christian and a Muslim, who ran into the church shrieking and laughing at some game of their devising. In that moment, I knew that God was sending me a message. Those two happy children were not much older than my nephews, and, though they were of different faiths, born of enemies, during the truce when they were allowed to mingle, the boys had managed to find a fresh, innocent joy in each other’s company. I knew then that God meant for me to make my own peace with the Saracens, leave the Holy Land and return to protect my brother’s boys.’
He wiped away the suspicion of a tear, and I admit I felt like shedding a few myself, moved as I was by his tale.
‘I went to see the Grand Master the next day to tell him of my decision, and of his mercy and doubtless because the truce meant that he had a lesser need for experienced fighting men, he agreed to release me from my vows. So, here I am, back in England for good. Tomorrow I must travel onwards to Sussex to take up my sword on behalf of my family. But I must tell you, Alan, it was not easy to turn my back on the Order. Even though I believe that God directed my actions, I cannot help but feel that, in some way, I have behaved shamefully.’
He fell silent, and for a few moments I said nothing. I could only wonder at the strength it must have taken for him to break his sacred vows, to give up his calling for the sake of two small boys who were not even his own. Once again Robin leapt into my mind; I recalled his sacrifice on behalf of another small boy who was not his son. There was something of Robin in Sir Nicholas, I mused: a ruthless fighting man, doubtless a fearsome killer of men, but with a streak of compassion, too, and a fierce sense of family duty.
‘You said that bloody violence was coming to England,’ I said, mainly to break the silence. ‘What did you mean by that?’
Sir Nicholas had composed himself by now. ‘Oh, this business between Richard and John. They are both sons of King Henry and both want the throne. And while Richard has it now, he is imprisoned in the wilds of Germany. Who knows when he will return? Meanwhile, John is gathering his power, calling barons and knights to his banner, recruiting fighting men… Even if Richard were to return soon, he would have an almighty battle on his hands. John has taken Tickhill Castle and Mount St Michael and Marlborough and Nottingham castles. It will not be an easy matter to dislodge him from these fortresses when — or even if — Richard returns. And for all we know, the King could already be dead.’
I longed to blurt out all I knew, to set his mind at ease on that score, but my mission to Ochsenfurt was supposed to remain secret for the moment and I could not allow myself to betray the Queen’s confidence. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a big man in the corner of the room. It was the boorish fellow Tom with whom I had fought the last time I had been drinking in this place. I stared over at him, a challenge in my eyes. But when he saw me looking at him, he hurriedly finished his tankard of ale and shambled out of the tavern without a backward glance. I put him out of my mind and concentrated on what Sir Nicholas de Scras was saying.
‘… I miss Outremer,’ he said, a low hum of emotion in his voice. ‘I miss the certainty of the cause; of knowing
