modesty covered by a sheet, while serving maids poured flagons of hot water around my pink and soapy torso. It felt wonderful. Marie-Anne was as good as her word and after my hot bath she saw to it that I was dressed in clean under-drawers, new green hose, a fine linen chemise and a grey woollen tunic. On top of that I wore a thick cloak of fine green wool with a gold-thread-embroidered border, and a new sword from the armoury was strapped around my waist. I felt a good deal better to be clean, it must be admitted, and to be garbed once again as the Lord of Westbury filled my heart with a deep, quiet satisfaction.
William, Lord Edwinstowe, was seated in a wide, brightly painted chair at the head of Robin’s hall, dressed in a long flowing purple robe, his shoulder-length curled brown hair held in place by a circlet of gold. I was brought into his presence by a servant and, after I had made my bow, the baron and I stared at each other for a while without speaking. He had the resemblance of Robin, I saw, but with a thinner face and harsh lines cut down either side of his mouth. His eyes were brown, however, rather than Robin’s extraordinary silvery-grey and, although he was seated, I could see that he was a shade taller than my master. When he eventually spoke, his voice too was different: higher, not so musical as my Earl’s honey tones.
‘So you have come to me from Robert of Locksley,’ he said. ‘And where is he now, may I ask?’
‘He is close, sir,’ I said, ‘in the hills to the north, well hidden, but he is watching the castle as we speak.’
‘So my little brother hides and watches, while I defend his castle from his enemies?’ His tone contained more than a touch of sneer, and I felt the beginnings of a blush of rage on my cheek. I knew, however, that I must keep my temper: I could not afford to offend the man. Robin’s plan depended on his goodwill and he must be encouraged to act as Robin desired for the plan to succeed.
‘My lord will attack Murdac’s camp tonight,’ I said calmly, ‘with all his men, at midnight.’
‘Will he now?’ said William. ‘And how many men does he have left at his beck and call, I wonder? I heard there was much slaughter in Outremer, that the Great Pilgrimage was a failure, and the long, difficult journey home… well, such distance bleeds away men like good liquor leaking from a pricked wine sack.’
‘He has half a hundred doughty men-at-arms yet,’ I said, gritting my teeth. The man was infuriating.
‘Fifty is far too few to attack Sir Ralph Murdac,’ William pronounced. ‘The fellow has three, maybe four hundred soldiers out there. If it had not been for my aid, they would have overrun this castle weeks ago.’
‘And Robin is most grateful. He also has a scheme, a clever trick, that he believes will sap the courage of the enemy and cause their legs to turn to jelly, their spines to water. With your help, he believes…’
‘With my help, you say? Yes, undoubtedly he wants my help. When did he not need my help! Even as a child he needed my aid, and then when he was cast out from all decent society and became an accursed footpad, running around Sherwood playing his silly games, I offered him my help then, too…’
I was beginning, despite myself, to get very angry with this baron, this lounging, purple-clad blockhead before me. Fearing that my anger would show in my eyes, I looked away and caught sight of Tuck standing by the wall of the hall. Beside him, watching me, were two enormous wolfhounds, giant beasts named Gog and Magog for their terrible destructive abilities in battle. One of the beasts yawned, a huge jaw-cracking gape that showed every one of his spear-blade teeth.
And my anger faded a little. Even the dogs found this man a pompous bore, I thought, and smiled inside.
‘… tricks and schemes, schemes and tricks, that is what my little brother has been relying on since he was a stripling. If I had a shilling for every time…’
I interrupted him then: ‘My lord,’ I said, aiming for humility and missing by a good English mile, ‘the Earl of Locksley requests that when he attacks the camp at midnight tonight, you will sally forth with all the forces at your command and help him to sweep these enemies before us. He trusts you will come to his aid once again in this matter. Your help is vital to the success of his carefully laid plans.’
‘Can’t be done, it simply can’t be done,’ said William grumpily. ‘He has too few men — fifty, and the handful of men in here, against the whole of Murdac’s force. He’ll be crushed. We’ll all be killed. No. It’s arrant madness. No, no, what we must do is wait. Wait here for reinforcements. I have sent letters to many of my friends begging them to come; and come they will, too, in vast numbers. And the King — our noble Richard — must return soon to his kingdom, and he’ll set things a-right. No, young man, you must return to your impetuous master and bid him to be cautious; bid him to wait till the time is ripe.’
I could see why Robin was not close to his brother: the man was deliberately obstructive, long-winded and — most surprisingly for a knight, a nobleman of Norman lineage — he appeared to be supremely cautious, even a little timid.
‘My lord,’ I said, as slowly and clearly as I could, ‘the Earl will attack at midnight tonight. I cannot return to him and, even if I could, he would not change his plans. You must support him tonight. You must.’
‘Must? You impertinent puppy! You do not tell me what I must or must not do! I am the master in this castle and you — you are dismissed. But I tell you one thing before you leave my presence: I will not risk my life and the lives of my men in this foolish venture. Now get out of my sight! Go!’
And so with a heavy heart, I went. I had failed my master. Because of my stupidity, the crassness of my appeal to Edwinstowe, there was a very good chance that Robin’s assault would fail and all my friends, facing overwhelming odds, would be cut down in the darkness. Because of me.
Chapter Three
The first hint that the attack was beginning came in the form of a spark of firelight, high on the brow of the hill; a red blinking eye in the darkness. Then came another, and another. They began to move — and grow. And the night air was ripped apart by a series of screaming wails, a clutch of different notes but blending together in a strange and disturbing way, an unearthly devilish sound that seemed to rise up from the very bowels of Hell itself. Even I, who knew the source of this weird, howling music, and had heard it several times before, was struck by its power to bring horror to the night. I had first heard the sound at the battle of Arsuf on the road to Jaffa in the Holy Land, where it presaged an attack by the fearsome cavalry of Saladin. It was the sound of Turkish trumpets, of massed clarions and shrieking fifes, of booming gongs and clashing cymbals and ear-scalding whistles; an infernal din designed to strike terror into any Christian heart — even when played rather poorly by a gaggle of Yorkshire villagers recruited specially for the task by their newly returned lord.
When I heard that hellish din, I was standing on the walkway behind the palisade on the north-eastern side of Kirkton Castle. I was in full war gear, which had been supplied by Marie-Anne: conical helmet with a nose piece, kite-shaped shield and long spear, a sword at my waist, the misericorde in my boot; knee-length chain-mail hauberk to protect my body over a big padded jacket known as a gambeson or aketon, leather gauntlets on my hands and stout boots sewn with strips of steel to guard my ankles and shins.
Within a few heartbeats, the first shouts of alarm were sounding from Murdac’s camp. And out of the darkness, down the gently rolling hill, the spots of flickering orange light grew and took shape and revealed themselves. Out of the black night thundered three wild moorland ponies, eyes rolling in terror, shrill neighs torturing the darkness, hooves madly churning the damp turf — and the source of their terror was firmly harnessed to them: for behind each wild pony was a wooden cart, piled high with wood and straw and soused with oil and pig fat, and burning like the infernos of the Devil’s own demesne.
The noise from the camp in the field below me was enough by now to wake the dead from their slumbers. But above the yells, and the hellish music, I thought I could make out a lone woman’s voice, with a slight Norman- French accent, shouting in English over and over again: ‘It is the horse-demons, the steeds of Satan — run, run. They are coming; the horse-demons are coming to steal your souls.’
The wild horses, maddened by the fiery carts they could not escape, charged straight down the hill into Murdac’s camp sowing destruction in their flaming wakes. They charged into the outskirts of the camp, trampling tents and crushing half-sleeping men beneath their hooves and the wheels of the heavy wooden carts. Many tents and shelters of the men-at-arms were burning by now; flags and pavilions set alight, pyramids of stacked spears collapsed and snapped like twigs beneath the wheels. The camp was humming like a kicked ants’ nest, half-dressed men running hither and yon, screaming in rage and fear and confusion. And the lone Frenchwoman’s voice continued to shout: ‘The horses of the Devil are coming; the steeds of Satan; they are coming for your souls,’ adding her mad shrieks to the bounding chaos. And the wild, eerie Saracen music wailed, boomed and screeched
