The castle gates swung slowly open, the drivers cracked whips, called to their animals and prodded the oxen’s rumps with sharp goads, the men-at-arms clicked their tongues to their horses and the whole convoy began its ponderous passage on the road south.
We travelled at the speed of the slowest ox and so, when we stopped at midday for a bite of bread and a drink of ale, we had come no further south than the village of Carlton in the district of Lindrick. At an alehouse near the old Saxon church of St John the Evangelist, Sir Roger arranged food and drink from the local hostelry. He seemed nervous and agitated, and he kept giving me strange, flickering glances, as if he were somehow frightened of me. Perhaps he was uncomfortable that I had been demoted for this expedition, that I had to take his orders when I had previously been a captain of my own team of tax gatherers. But I paid it little mind. It was a cold, sharp day, grey skies and a whiff of rain on the breeze, and we ate a joyless meal in Carlton in near-silence. I just wanted to get back on the road to Nottingham with the least possible delay, and I was in no mood to swap pleasantries with my fellow men-at-arms. Half an hour later, my wish was granted and we set off again.
We were no more than half a mile out of Carlton, passing through a place where we were hemmed in by dense woodland to the west with open farmland to the east, when the arrows began to fly. The first I knew of the attack was a sudden hiss and thump, followed by a scream of pain from the man-at-arms in front of me, who folded over in his saddle clutching an arrow shaft which protruded like a thin, straight branch from his belly.
Sir Roger shouted something and I turned Ghost right, facing towards the woodland in the west: I could see indistinct shapes moving in the forest gloom and arrows flickering out from the trees like horizontal hail. Scores of shafts flashed by me, on either side, and in an instant the mounted men and their horses were screaming and dying left and right. Hooded men, dark and menacing, wielding long war bows, advanced towards me through the trees like murderous wraiths, shooting as they came on. Ghost whickered and shied between my thighs and I tried to calm him as the deadly shafts sped past his flanks and sank into the flesh of his fellow beasts. One horse, spitted through the neck, screamed and reared. I saw a man-at-arms cursing an arrow in his left arm, trying to remove it, just as two more shafts smashed into his chest. I watched, immobile but for my jittering horse, while Sir Roger to my left took an arrow to the face, his helmeted head snapped backwards by the shaft before he slid dead as a boulder out of the side of the saddle. Death passed by me, surrounding me, close enough to touch, close enough to smell and close enough to feel the wind of its passing and hear its awful hiss and thump, hiss and thump. One knight, his horse stuck deep with three arrows, and he sporting a fourth jutting from his waist, managed to draw his sword and tried to charge the shadowy bowmen advancing through the woodland. He put back his spurs, shouted a feeble war cry; then his horse surged forward and he was met with a dozen more shafts that slashed out of the trees simultaneously, some taking his horse in the throat, while four or five thudded into his mailed chest. He and his mount were dead before they had travelled five yards.
And yet in all this carnage, amidst all this death and blood, Ghost and I remained untouched. I dropped the reins on the saddle horn and raised both hands, palms forward, fingers spread in the universal sign for surrender, crooning softly to Ghost to give him courage, and trying to hold him still between my knees.
Looking round quickly, I saw that all of our men-at-arms were down, and most of their poor horses were wounded or dead. The hooded wraiths with their long killing bows were no more than twenty paces from me, walking steadily forward with the soft, purposeful tread of executioners. Then I heard a familiar voice, one I had not heard for six months or more, shouting: ‘Cease shooting, men; hold those arrows. Cease shooting, you rascals!’ And out from behind a tree not twenty yards from me stepped a tall handsome figure in dark green, wrapped in a raggedy grey cloak, an arrow bag at his waist, a bow in his right hand.
‘Hello there, Alan,’ said Robin. ‘And how have you been keeping?’
Chapter Fourteen
The Earl of Locksley’s men, marshalled by Little John with his enormous old-fashioned double-edged axe, swiftly dispatched any of the men-at-arms who still lived. I stepped down from Ghost’s back and embraced Robin. My throat was choked with emotion: I had not realized till that moment how much I had missed him in the long deceitful months at Nottingham. And there were many other familiar faces grinning at me from under their hoods: Much, the son of a well-to-do miller, who loved the violent outlaw life more than the safe respectability of grinding wheat for a living; Owain, the master bowman, a valiant Welsh warrior and old friend who had made the journey to Outremer and back with me; young Thomas ap Lloyd, wielding a bow that had been cut down to match his youth and size; Little John came over and gave me a bear hug that nearly crushed my ribs; then he slapped me on the back and told me he was proud of me.
And then there was Robin.
My lord, the Earl of Locksley, looked closely at me, his bright silver-grey eyes staring deep into mine. ‘How goes it in Nottingham, Alan?’ he asked. ‘They don’t suspect that you are still my man, do they?’
‘I don’t think so. Well, they cannot be certain — but, Robin, how much longer do I have to play this role? They will find out soon: they must know that somebody is giving you information about the convoys’ movements.’
Robin stroked his lightly stubbled chin. ‘I think you must play this game just a little while longer, Alan, if you can stand it. The silver we take from Prince John goes directly to Queen Eleanor in London. And every penny we take weakens him and brings King Richard’s release a little closer.’
‘Every penny goes to the Queen?’ I said, tilting my head in a query.
‘Yes,’ said Robin, pretending to look outraged. ‘Well, I do have some expenses, obviously. But the vast majority of the money — well, most of the money — goes south to London. Don’t you trust me?’
I just looked at him and raised an eyebrow. Suddenly, we were both laughing madly.
Breathless with mirth, Robin managed to splutter out: ‘I’m not doing this to enrich myself, Alan, on my oath. I don’t need it. The Outremer trade still flows like a great glittering river. This is all for Richard. It also happens to amuse me to play the rogue again — but, upon my sacred honour, Alan, this deadly game is to buy King Richard’s freedom.’
I wiped the tears of laughter from my eyes, and said: ‘I think I can carry on the subterfuge a little longer, if you wish me to, and for the King’s sake, but not past Christmas, I beg you. I’m not sure I could stand it any longer than that without running mad and cutting Murdac’s throat in his sleep.’
‘That’s not a bad idea,’ said Robin. ‘Although you’d never survive to tell me the tale. No, regretfully, you’ll have to play the part for a little longer. Another three months should do it; till Christmas, as you say. But at the first sign that they suspect you — you and Hanno get yourselves out of the castle. Promise me that, Alan? The first sign of suspicion, you get out of there. I need you alive and well, my friend, not dangling from a gibbet in Nottingham market.’
While I had been talking with my true lord and master, Robin’s men had been busying themselves around the wagon train, gathering up weapons and mail coats, giving a merciful release to wounded horses, soothing the nerves of the surviving ox drivers by swearing that they would not be harmed if they co-operated with the raggedy hooded men in green and russet who now swarmed over the wagon train looking for plunder. A couple of the outlaws had been fruitlessly trying to break into one of the silver chests, but its strength had defeated them for the moment.
Little John had had the foresight to post sentries north and south on the road, and it was a rider, galloping furiously towards us down the road from the north, who interrupted my conversation with Robin.
‘Sir, sir,’ the man shouted as he drew near the wagons and flung himself from his horse, ‘there are horse soldiers coming, proper cavalry, about sixty of them, heavily armed, lances, swords, shields, and coming up very fast!’
The laughter was wiped from Robin’s face in an instant.
‘Sixty, you say?’ he asked the sentry.
‘At least, sir, not more than a mile or two away.’
A strange look crossed Robin’s face, one of cold doubt. He looked at me hard — it was not a pleasant expression.
‘What?’ I said. ‘Don’t you trust me?’
I was hurt by that look, but then I knew that Robin had a very suspicious mind. I pushed my hurt aside, and continued: ‘Forget about that for now. With only these men’ — I gestured at the twenty or so raggedy outlaws, now
