Although I knew I did not look my best, I wanted to be treated as a returning hero, a victorious warrior, not a malodorous vagabond.
‘Anyway, I have no time to waste splashing about like a silly little girl in soapy suds and hot water; I must speak to Lord Edwinstowe without delay.’
It was Goody’s turn to pretend to be offended. ‘Do only little girls wash? Very well, sir, I shall inform His Lordship that a certain uncouth and very smelly soldier-boy requires his company immediately.’ And she stuck her tongue out at me and swept away. But for the mocking tongue, she would have appeared quite the grand, well-born lady, and I realized that she had changed in more than just her looks.
I fetched my own breakfast from the kitchens, and spent half an hour idling in the bailey courtyard chewing on a dry crust and looking about me in the September sunshine like a yokel at a county fair. It was hard to believe, given the placid yet bustling air of the place, that outside the wooden walls of the bailey were hundreds of enemies intent on our destruction. But the bailey was rather full, I noticed; I assumed that all the people in the surrounding villages and smallholdings had been gathered into the castle to keep them safe from Murdac’s pillaging men-at- arms. I was wondering if any of the peasant men here could fight worth a damn when I noticed two boys scuffling in a ring of their cheering fellows. One was short and dark, about ten or eleven, the other tall, an adolescent, almost a man. The match looked so uneven that I was sure the small, dark boy would be badly injured. And it crossed my mind to intervene, give the taller boy a cuff or two and send him on his way. Instead, to my surprise, after ducking a couple of haymakers from the tall one, the dark boy grabbed his opponent’s right arm as it flashed past his head, tucked his right shoulder into the tall boy’s right armpit, pulled down, hunched over and hurled him on to the packed mud of the courtyard floor. The tall adolescent was as surprised as I was. And while the little dark lad pulled the dazed fellow back to his feet — I could see that it was not a serious fight, mere playful rough-housing — I saw Tuck making his way into the throng of chattering boys and shooing them towards a stable-shed that had been converted into a schoolhouse. As the flock of boys passed me, I called out to Tuck and beckoned him over.
‘Who is that short dark boy?’ I asked my friend. ‘And by what witchcraft did he learn to tumble taller fellows in the dust like that?’
Tuck beamed with almost paternal pride and shouted to the boy: ‘Thomas, Thomas, come here — I want to introduce you to somebody.’ And when the dark lad obediently trotted over, Tuck said to him: ‘This, my boy, is Alan of Westbury, trouvere to the Earl of Locksley, newly returned from battling the Saracens in the Holy Land.’
The boy stared directly at me, his charcoal-black eyes a match with his dark hair. He had an air of tremendous assurance about him; not arrogance, just the look of someone who has found his place in the world and who will concede it to nobody. He appeared unusually solid — brown and strong, like a pillar of seasoned oak; it was an unnerving quality in one so young. ‘I am honoured to make your acquaintance,’ he said gravely. Then he added: ‘Sir, may I ask, are you Alan Dale the swordsman?’
I nodded, struck by his total self-assurance. He was interrogating me! ‘I have occasionally been called that,’ I admitted.
‘Then might I ask a great boon?’ this extraordinary boy continued. ‘Would you condescend to exchange a few passes with me one day, and perhaps show me something of your prowess? I wish to learn how to fight, and I have been told that you are one of the best men with a blade in England.’
‘It seems that you already know how to fight,’ I said, inclining my head at the tall boy he had recently bested, who was now limping into the makeshift schoolhouse.
He shrugged: ‘That was just boyish nonsense, merely a kind of wrestling that I am attempting to devise; I wish to learn to fight like a proper soldier.’
His air of cool maturity was so pronounced that it was almost laughable. I was looking at a boy who could not be much more than eleven, and yet he spoke like a man in his prime. But, in truth, I sensed he would be a difficult fellow to laugh at; his stance, his stare, his whole being demanded that he be taken seriously.
‘If we survive this coming battle against Ralph Murdac’s men, I will gladly exchange a few passes with you, assuming you still wish to do so — but on one condition,’ I said, matching his solemn tone.
‘Sir?’ he said inquiringly.
‘That you teach me the trick with which you tumbled the taller boy.’ I smiled at him. ‘Fellow warriors should teach each other their skills, don’t you think? That way we all learn to be better men.’
He was taken aback by my words, I could see, but to his credit he hardly showed it; it was almost as if he were used to being addressed as an equal by full-grown men-at-arms. ‘Thank you, sir,’ he said gravely. ‘I shall look forward to that day.’ And he bowed deeply from the waist and, turning, jogged off towards the school shed.
I turned to Tuck: ‘What an extraordinary lad! Wherever did you find him?’
‘That, my friend, is Thomas ap Lloyd,’ said Tuck. ‘Does the name seem familiar?’
I just looked at him blankly.
‘He’s the son of Lloyd ap Gruffyd. Surely you remember him?’
I had no recollection of anyone by that name.
Tuck laughed at me, but the sound was coloured with a strange sadness. ‘Have you killed so many, Alan, that their names no longer mean anything to you?’ he said. ‘Oh, Alan, we must look to your soul before too long. I fear the blood of so many slaughtered men may have stained it permanently.’ And he walked away, shaking his head gently, making for the schoolhouse, which was now packed with chattering youths and children of both sexes.
And then I knew who the boy’s father was: the Welsh archer who had tried to kill Robin before we left for Outremer. Hoping to claim Murdac’s bounty, he had crept into Robin’s chamber one night and found me asleep there, waiting to deliver a message to my master. Mistaking me for Robin, the bowman attacked. After a short, terrifying fight in the darkness, I had killed the fellow. The boy, I recalled, this Thomas ap Lloyd whom I had just met, had subsequently been taken into the castle for his own protection. There was a strange logic in this act of Christian kindness, and I felt Tuck’s influence: ‘The sins of the father must not be visited on the son,’ the former monk had once quoted to me, and I saw that he had put his principle into action.
But a chilling thought hit me, carried into my mind on the back of the last: would the son one day feel the need to seek revenge for his father’s death? If he did, I would, reluctantly, have to cut him down. I knew in my heart that, young as Thomas was, I could and would do the deed — if, as Robin would have put it, it was necessary.
What was I turning into? Would I become like my master, the most cold-hearted, ruthless killer I had ever encountered? I shivered, though the day was quite warm.
My dark reverie was interrupted by a soft, sweet voice I knew well crying: ‘Alan! Oh, Alan, welcome home. It is wonderful to see you!’
It was my friend and hostess, Marie-Anne, Countess of Locksley. I bowed low before her with a bent knee and an elegant waft of my hand, my black mood instantly lifted by her lovely guileless smile.
She took me by both upper arms, hugged me briefly, and then stared into my eyes. ‘How is he? Is he well?’ she said earnestly.
‘Robin is quite well,’ I said, ‘and he bade me to offer you a tender kiss, a soft embrace and all the love in his heart.’
I was lying, of course. Robin had bid me say no such thing, and he would hate that I was putting my words in his mouth, but I was very fond of Marie-Anne and I could see that she required reassurance about Robin’s affections. Who was I to deny her comfort in this matter? There was a dark shadow that lay between Robin and this beautiful lady before me; and while I could not banish it, I could at least make her feel happy for a while.
‘He is coming tonight,’ I said. ‘And he will flush this rabble of Murdac’s away from your walls with fire and steel.’
‘I knew he would come,’ she said, her eyes glinting with moisture. ‘Even in the darkest days, I knew he would come. Has he changed at all? Did he say anything about… about… his family?’ She stumbled to a halt. I knew what she was referring to — her baby son Hugh — but I chose to misinterpret her words.
‘He told me that I must speak to his brother Lord Edwinstowe as soon as possible, my lady. Would you be so good as to lead me to him?’
Marie-Anne leant forward and wrinkled her nose. Then she said briskly: ‘Of course, but I think before you are taken into His Lordship’s presence, you should change into a costume that more befits a noble warrior of Christ, one who has made the Great Pilgrimage to the Holy Land. And perhaps, before that, you might like to have a wash
…’
And so within a quarter of an hour, I was seated in the bathhouse in a steaming wooden tub, with my
