through the shit-rimmed hole to a shoulder of sandstone rock thirty feet below. Then, reluctantly, we followed him down.
Our boots sunk deep in crusted ordure, we paused on that foul shoulder a moment before dropping Murdac before us once again, then climbing down the slippery hundred foot or so of sheer cliff to the ground — mercifully, without being seen by the sentries on the castle’s western battlements — all the while trying to make minimal contact with the evil-smelling, slimy sandstone cliff wall. My mind, however, on that noisome descent was split between two equally pressing questions: would the men-at-arms in the castle break into Murdac’s chamber and cut the rope that held us? And what had Murdac meant when he said, ‘I received orders from someone, a very powerful man, a man you cannot refuse.’
Praise be to God: they did not cut the rope, and we reached the ground in safety. All three of us were well befouled, though, by the time we had made it to the bottom. And as we hurried away from the black bulk of the castle, circling round the fish pond and heading north-west towards the King’s pavilion in the deer park with Murdac slung like a sack of turnips over Hanno’s shoulder, I wondered whether it might not be better to bathe and change our clothing before presenting our trussed prize to Richard. But, as it turned out, we were given no choice in the matter. We were stopped by a couple of sentries in the park and shown directly, stinking, into the King’s presence.
Though it must have been nearly three o’clock in the morning, our sovereign was still awake, poring over his plans for the next day’s artillery assault which were set up on a trestle table in the centre of the pavilion. The King shouted for wine, and hot water and towels, and we made a hasty toilet in front of our sovereign lord as he rubbed his hands together with satisfaction and looked down at the bound and helpless Sir Ralph Murdac trussed up like a pedlar’s package in front of him.
‘Well done, Blondel — oh, that was bravely done!’ said the King. ‘You have saved me time, effort, and the lives of many good men by your actions tonight, and I salute you. I won’t forget this, Alan. I am in your debt once more.’
But while the King was fizzing and crackling with energy, after the first cup of wine my eyelids began to droop — it had been a long and exhausting night’s work. And I wanted some peace to ponder Murdac’s cryptic words again. I had tried, briefly, to interrogate him as we made our way across the park to the King’s tent, but groggy and bouncing uncomfortably on Hanno’s broad shoulder, he had remained sullenly silent. Tomorrow, I thought, tomorrow I would ask him again about the man who he claimed had ordered my father’s death — and if he still remained stubborn… well, there were less gentlemanly methods that I would not be too shy to employ. I might well ask Sir Aymeric de St Maur for a few suggestions about the persuasive use of hot irons.
I took my leave of the King — he was elated and chatting nineteen to the dozen with his tired-looking household knights, and with the sergeants who had been charged with keeping Sir Ralph Murdac secured — and went to find Thomas, who was curled up in a mound of straw, sleeping peacefully among the King’s horses. I woke him and gave him my weapons and armour, including Rix’s beautiful sword, to care for: they were still encrusted with gore from the fight in Murdac’s chamber and worse from our escape down the cliff. Then I rolled myself in an old cloak, and lay down next to Hanno in the warm straw. As I drifted off into a deep, satisfied sleep, my last thoughts were: had Murdac been lying? Had he spun me a tale about my father solely to save his neck? It was entirely possible, I thought. But I would surely find out the next day. Tomorrow.
And then Dame Sleep pulled me down into her vast comforting bosom.
I awoke in broad daylight, to the distant sound of snarling saws and ringing hammers. Hanno was snoring gently beside me, and I lay for a few moments in my cosy straw bed and looked up at the blue sky above. It seemed so empty and clean: untroubled by the bloody affairs of men. It was a perfect spring day: I knew I had performed great deeds the night before, and my King had acknowledged them, and now my enemies were dead, or captured, while I was whole. Life was very good, I mused. And then my thoughts turned to Goody, as they often did first thing in the morning. We would be betrothed soon and she would be wholly mine, and that notion gave me a wonderful feeling of warmth and joy.
I noticed that the hammering and sawing had stopped and idly thought about getting to my feet, but there seemed to be no hurry. I was unlikely to be called upon to fight today after my efforts of the night before — there would be negotiations between the heralds and whomever was now in command of the castle — and if they broke down, Richard would begin the long, slow process of bombarding the castle into submission. I might not be called upon for weeks and I felt I deserved a long, lazy rest. In a little while, I thought, I will rise, wash, seize a bite of bread and a mouthful of ale and pay Ralph Murdac a visit to see if I can get any sense from him about my father’s death.
I remained there, watching the white fluffy clouds chasing each other over the vast blue heavens until, finally, a full bladder forced me to rise, brush the straw from my clothes, and seek out a latrine. As I made my way over to the big ditch that had been dug as a midden on the edge of the King’s encampment, I noticed that there were very few people about the place. And those that were in the park seemed to be making their way over to the east. Something was going on in the northern part of the outer bailey, I guessed, and for the first time that morning my curiosity stirred.
When I got back to the horse lines, Thomas was there and he had brought with him a bowl of hot water for me to wash in, and a clean linen chemise. I shook Hanno awake and, as soon as he had completed his morning ritual of yawning, farting, spitting and cursing foully in German, the three of us set off eastwards to see what we could see.
It was a hanging — or, to be more accurate, several hangings. An enormous gibbet had been erected to the north of the castle, well out of crossbow range from the battlements. And two black figures were already dangling from the crossbar as Hanno, Thomas and I hurried towards them, slowed by the crowd that had gathered to watch this gruesome spectacle. To my right, I could see that the battlements of the middle bailey were thick with heads as the defenders of the castle came out in their hundreds to watch the executions of their comrades — for I could see by their dress that the two men swinging from the gibbet were both Murdac’s men; most likely ones we had captured in the fight for the outer bailey the previous day.
As we approached the gibbet, a cold hand gripped my heart. I saw a third prisoner being set on a horse cart under the half-filled gallows, with his hands tied behind his back and a noose around his neck. A priest was gabbling inaudible words of prayer for the condemned man’s soul and the victim had his eyes tightly shut. A signal from a knight, standing by, and a whip lashed down on the cart horse’s rump and, as the beast started forward, the cart was pulled away from under the man’s legs and he dropped a foot or so, the noose tightening around his neck, strangling him slowly to death.
The hanged man’s feet were still kicking wildly, as if he were indulging in a particularly joyful dance, when the cart was wheeled back into position for the next victim. This one was a small man, dressed entirely in expensive black, though rather bedraggled and with, I noticed, his left shoulder wedged high against his neck. It was Sir Ralph Murdac.
My stomach lurched; I was still fifty yards from the gibbet, with a throng of men-at-arms and townspeople from Nottingham between me and the gallows; nonetheless, I shouted out to the knight in command of the hangings as loud as I could.
‘Stop, stop. Hold there, sir. He is my prisoner!’ I yelled desperately, trying to force my way through the crush of bodies.
Murdac was on the tail of the cart by now, the priest was already halfway through his prayers. And I was stopped by a burly man-at-arms, part of a ring of Richard’s men who were keeping the crowds back from the gallows.
‘Wait, wait,’ I shouted. ‘That is Sir Ralph Murdac!’
‘We know who he is, lad,’ said the man-at-arms, barring my way with shield and spear; by his accent I could tell that he was a local man. ‘And no one deserves death more richly than he,’ the big man continued. ‘He dies on the King’s personal orders.’
Murdac, eyes red with weeping, the noose already around his neck, noticed my face in the crowd. He opened his mouth to say something, and just as he was about to speak, the whip cracked down on the horse’s rump, the cart lurched forward, and Murdac was left dangling from his neck in space, his face reddening and bulging, slowly choking to death. His bright blue eyes were on mine, pleading, and I honestly tried to go forward, but the big man- at-arms shoved me roughly back, cursing my eagerness. As I watched helplessly, my eyes fixed on his purpling face, Murdac was slowly strangled by the rough hempen rope. His feet kicked and wriggled, his tongue protruded,
