and drink, and sit for a while, we order more, and when a fresh pot of ale arrives, you drunkenly spill it all over the mark. Then, crying aloud how sorry you are, damning your own clumsiness, you come round on to his side of the table and begin to mop at his clothes with your cloak. Do it roughly, loudly crying your shame at having wetted such a fine gentleman. He will ask you to stop pawing at him, but you must insist that he must be dried and that you must dry him to make amends. Play the drunken fool to the hilt, but make sure, make certain-sure that his lefthand side is covered by your cloak, as you mop away at his clothes. That’s very important.’
‘I understand,’ said Robin gravely. ‘And while the cloak covers his left side, you cut loose the pouch?’
‘And in the confusion — let us hope that he becomes angry at your clumsy ministrations and makes a fuss; you may also raise your voice, become angry yourself — I shall leave the inn and wait for you in the alley by the horses. Leave as soon as you can after me. Then we ride.’
‘A good plan, Alan,’ Robin said. ‘A very good plan. Are you ready?’ I nodded. Robin rose, and strode towards the communal table, weaving slightly and shouting for the pot boy to bring more ale, quickly, d’ye hear, and some bread and cheese, not too mouldy, you dog! I followed after him with lowered eyes, like a servant embarrassed by his drunken master, and slid into my place beside the mark.
‘That,’ said Robin, trying hard, and failing to control his laughter, ‘was the most fun I have had in an age.’ We were trotting up the road leading north out of Nottingham, Robin having bribed the gatekeeper handsomely to let us out, curfew notwithstanding. I was almost helpless with laughter, too, and having difficulty staying on the back of my rouncey. Robin had a natural talent for play-acting, and clearly he had enjoyed the role of drunken boor to an almost indecent extent. He had roared for more ale, spilled it, apologised to the mark, mopped him and cursed himself with huge enthusiasm. His placing of the folds of the cloak had been inch-perfect and my hands were under it with my little knife as he dabbed at the poor mark’s face with the far edge of the garment, covering the man’s eyes as I slipped the pouch into my tunic and walked quickly towards the outdoor privy and away into the night. Then he joined me only moments later, roaring backwards to the inside of the room about innocent mistakes, anyone can spill a drink, and some folk should not think themselves too good to mix with honest men.
We tried to pull ourselves together, but every time I caught Robin’s eye we would both begin giggling, louder and louder, until we were howling with mirth again. Finally, tears streaming down our cheeks, we managed to drive the horses into a canter, the road lit only by starlight and a sliver of moon, and put some miles between Nottingham and ourselves.
Dawn found us riding up the slope of a small hill towards a squat stone tower, about halfway between Nottingham and Thangbrand’s. I had no idea where we were going and for the past hour exhaustion had been hanging heavily on my shoulders. But a day and a night in the saddle seemed to have had no effect on Robin. His back was still straight and he rode with a jaunty grace that I tried my hardest to imitate. At the top of the hill, with the sun bright and cheerful over the eastern horizon, we pulled up at a copse at the summit of the hill and my mouth fell open in surprise. For waiting for us there was Owain the Bowman, his six men and the train of packhorses.
The key in the pouch, I discovered, opened an iron door in the strongly built tower and once it had been flung back, and Owain and Robin had entered with lit torches, I realised why our jaunt into Nottingham had been so important to Robin’s plans.
For any bowman, it was a storehouse of riches. Though it contained no silver, no gold or jewels, it did contain stack upon stack of the best-quality arrows, newly fletched and arranged in bundles of thirty around two leather discs which prevented the goosefeather flights from being crushed against each other. There were also seasoned yew bowstaves in thick bundles, and swords, shields, lances, even a few elderly chain-mail hauberks standing on T-shaped stands.
‘We didn’t bring enough packhorses,’ said Owain.
‘What is this place?’ I asked Robin, staring around at this cornucopia of arms, enough to equip a small army.
‘This is one of our King Henry’s armouries. He is amassing weapons for a great pilgrimage to free the Holy Land from the infidel. Our good friend David, who by now I hope will only just be discovering that he has lost his key, is the King’s Armourer, charged with collecting stores in the north for the great adventure. The King doesn’t trust Ralph Murdac with these weapons, otherwise they would be locked up tight in Nottingham Castle. So David, a loyal King’s man, if a little bibulous, has their charge.’
‘
‘We’d better hurry, sir,’ said Owain. ‘The armourer will have raised the alarm by now.’ And so we did.
An hour later, with thirty packhorses tottering under monstrous loads, we were back on the road north towards Thangbrand’s. The armoury was only half empty. Robin left the door open and carefully hung the key on a nail on the wall. With a piece of chalk he wrote the words ‘Thank you, Sire,’ on the grey stone beneath it.
Robin was in high spirits as we trotted along on a narrow path through the trees but suddenly he stopped and raised a hand. We all paused, the bowmen taking the bridles of the heavy-laden packhorses to keep the beasts quiet and still. There was a clatter of hooves on the path and I saw the bright yellow thatch and giant frame of Little John approaching at speed round a bend in the road. He was mounted on a huge sweat-lathered horse, and accompanied by two men-at-arms that I had seen at Thangbrand’s but didn’t know well.
Robin waited impassively, silently as John reined his sweating horse in savagely and they stared at each other as the big horse steamed gently in the late summer sunshine.
‘It’s the Peverils,’ said John, after he’d caught his breath. ‘They are raiding our villages again.’
‘Where are they, and how many?’ asked Robin.
‘They’ve sacked Thornings Cross; pillaged the church there, killed a few. Now they are heading north, back to their nests in Hope Valley. About twenty of the bastards.’
‘Geraint, Simon, take this train back to Thangbrand’s,’ Robin was addressing the two men-at-arms who had arrived with John. I was amazed that he knew their names, as I did not. ‘You go with them, Alan.’
‘I would prefer to come with you, sir,’ I said.
‘Do as you’re told,’ snapped Robin. Our mutual hilarity, the camaraderie of our purse-lifting adventure in Nottingham was gone. Robin had assumed his battle demeanour: grim, decisive, a captain not to be questioned.
‘John, lead the way, Owain, you and your bowmen are with me.’
And he was gone, riding hard up the road after Little John, and followed by Owain and his six grim archers. The two men-at-arms looked at me dumbly. And I said: ‘You heard him; take this train to Thangbrand’s. I have other business.’ And I spurred after my disappearing master.
I knew who the Peverils were: a big old sprawling clan of petty bandits and reivers who operated in the north of England, most of the time staying out of the area under Robin’s control. The family claimed to be descended from William the Bastard, though from the wrong side of the blanket, and one branch had once owned an impregnable fortress at Castleton. But because of their evil ways, they had been dispossessed by King Henry thirty odd years ago, and now they made their living by robbery and murder and ransom. In fact, if the truth be told, they were not much different to Robin’s band. There had been some talk of them at Thangbrand’s: the Peverils were reckoned to be cruel but cowardly and until now they had usually respected the places where Robin’s writ had run.
I caught up Robin and his men within half a mile or so, and just followed behind them trying to keep up as they galloped hell-for-leather across the county. I once saw Robin look round and notice me. He frowned but never slackened his pace. I stayed at the end of the tail of men and speeding horses and ate dust for a good fifteen miles, sometimes on small dirt tracks through the woodland, sometimes across meadows, commons and fields, until we pulled up on a gentle rise overlooking a hamlet huddled in the crook of a small stream. A thick cloud of smoke hung over the place, and I could see that at least two cottages were still burning. The place had been totally destroyed: houses torched, cattle and sheep driven off; men murdered and women and children raped. Even the old cross that gave the hamlet its name had been pulled down. As we trotted down the slope into the village, I heard the sound of a woman wailing, and saw her soon afterwards. She was kneeling on the ground in front of a smouldering hovel, with the bloodied corpse of a young boy, maybe six years old, in her arms, rocking back and forward and keening to herself, a thin, high, wordless sound of sorrow. The boy’s head lolled with every
