Bernard sang. It was one of the finest performances I ever saw him give: he started with a bawdy, stomach- clutchingly funny song about a rabbit knight that wants to mate with a lady rabbit, with much amusement about finding himself in the wrong hole; then Bernard, judging the amount of wine and ale that had been taken perfectly, gave them a classic song of doomed love, Lancelot and Guinevere. Those rough outlaws were weeping by the time he bowed the last exquisitely beautiful chord. And then, again judging his audience perfectly, he gave them a stirring battle song to lift their spirits: the tale of Roland dying heroically at Roncesvalles, a ring of slain Moors at his feet and his horn clutched to his heart. They cheered Bernard to the rafters at that. And then everyone, including me, drank themselves unconscious.
The next day, Sir Richard made a solemn vow that he would not reveal any information about Thangbrand’s to the sheriff — after Murdac had betrayed him I doubt he would have done so anyway. He was then blindfolded and led back through the narrow, secret paths of Sherwood to the Great North Road.
Just before he left, he gave me a gift. It was a poniard, a beautiful foot-long piece of razor-sharp, polished Spanish steel, three quarters of an inch wide at the cross-piece and tapering to a wicked needle point designed to be thrust through chain mail, splitting the links with sideways pressure, and on into the body of an opponent. ‘This is a fine, strong blade,’ he said as he presented it to me. ‘And it has saved my life many times. Keep it about your person, Alan. It may one day save your life, too.’
I thanked him as they tied on the blindfold and I helped him into his saddle. ‘I am sorry that I will not be able to teach you how to use it,’ he said. As they spurred away, over his shoulder he shouted: ‘Don’t forget to move your feet!’
The very next day Tuck arrived at Thangbrand’s bringing supplies, half a dozen young men and boys for Thangbrand to train, and news. I was very pleased to see him and he greeted me with a great bear hug. ‘You’ve grown,’ he said. ‘And put on a little flesh.’ He grabbed my upper arm, kneading the muscle that had arrived after many hours of sword practice with Sir Richard. ‘You’re one to talk about flesh,’ I said, prodding him in his great belly. He aimed a gentle cuff at my head which I dodged easily.
As we sat down in the hall over a mug of ale and a cold roast chicken, Tuck’s face turned grave: ‘ I have bad news, Alan,’ he said. ‘It’s your mother.’
My heart lay like a stone in my chest. And he told me she was dead, killed by Murdac’s men along with many, many others in a raid on the village. ‘Sir Ralph told his men that he wanted to make an example of the village, as a warning to others not to harbour outlaws,’ said Tuck.
They had ridden in at dawn and started killing without ceremony; the grey-mailed horsemen chopping into men, women and children; attaching ropes to hovels and pulling them apart; burning anything that they couldn’t pull down. The men had fought, rake and spade against sword and mace, and they had died. Many ran into the greenwood to hide. An image of Thornings Cross, despoiled by the Peverils, came into my head. What difference was there, in truth, between the forces of the sheriff and a clan of robbers, I asked myself.
I was clutching the hilt of my Spanish poniard. ‘I must go there,’ I said, white-faced. But Tuck held my arm. ‘The village is gone, Alan. There is nothing left but ash and sorrow. Your mother is with God, now. I buried her myself and said the holy words over her body. She rests with the angels.’
‘If only I had been there. .’ Tuck put a brawny arm around my shoulders. ‘If you had been there you would be dead. No, Alan, God has other plans for you. Your path lies with us.’
He had other news but I listened to it through a haze of grief, as in a waking dream coming in and out of understanding of his words. Robin had been causing havoc in Barnsdale, Tuck told me, raiding cattle and sheep from Yorkshire landowners. He had been pursued by Sir Roger of Doncaster, who had nearly trapped him twice. But Robin linked up with his men and turning on his pursuer he had trounced him in a fight. Little John had been wounded — but not badly. Sir Roger had barely escaped with his life. Tuck’s story lifted my heart a little, despite the aching pain of my mother’s death.
‘What news of Marie-Anne?’ I asked timidly. Tuck gave me a strange look. ‘Robin’s betrothed, the Countess of Locksley,’ he said formally, ‘is at Winchester with Queen Eleanor, and unlikely to stir for a while.’ Then he changed the subject.
The Queen, I knew, was as good as a prisoner in Winchester, a hundred and fifty miles to the south. Henry, her husband and, by the grace of God, our King, no longer trusted her as she had supported their son Duke Richard in his wars in France against the King, and although she was allowed a royal retinue, including ladies in waiting such as the lovely Marie-Anne, and all the comforts that befitted her rank, she and her ladies were under strict supervision by the Constable of Winchester, a bastard of King Stephen’s known as Sir Ralph FitzStephen.
The chance of my ever seeing Marie-Anne again seemed impossibly remote. I fought back a fresh wave of misery and tried to pay attention to Tuck’s news from the north. ‘. . he’s nearly got all the men he needs,’ said Tuck. ‘They are all housed in and around a series of great caves in the north of Sherwood; perfectly well hidden and with enough room to house a small army. And, in perhaps a six-month, he’ll actually have a small army. .’ But I couldn’t concentrate on the news of Robin; my mother’s lined face, worn down by a lifetime of brutal work and private sorrow, rose before my eyes and tears spilled down my cheeks.
Tuck did not stay long at Thangbrand’s. He delivered his ragged charges for training and collected the chest containing Robin’s Share, swelled by a summer of plundering travellers in Sherwood. Then he left, accompanied by a dozen of the more competent men-at-arms, some mounted, some on foot carrying bowstaves. I thanked him for bringing me the tidings of my mother and told him that I now had a double reason to seek revenge on Sir Ralph Murdac: the deaths of both my mother and my father. ‘Revenge is for fools,’ said Tuck. ‘Christ teaches forgiveness.’ I must have looked bewildered because he continued: ‘Always remember that God has a plan, my son. We sinners may not know what it is but He does,’ and he pulled me towards him and hugged me. As I buried my face in his rough monk’s robe, with its earthy scent of sweat and woodsmoke, I remembered that Sir Richard had used the same words. Then Tuck blessed me and rode away with his silver and his soldiers into the depths of Sherwood.
With his departure, the cavalry school at Thangbrand’s was suddenly short of recruits and Guy, having proved his quality at the quintain, was absorbed into its ranks. I was still training with Thangbrand as a foot soldier but, thanks to Sir Richard’s help, I was now demonstrating his hackneyed sword moves to the new arrivals. Bernard was impressed with my progress at music; I had a natural ear, he said, and I was now composing with increasing confidence: indeed, one set of verses that I created at this time, about the threshing of corn and the winnowing of chaff, is still being sung to this day. I heard local peasants singing it just the other day as they worked; the words have changed slightly but it is still my simple tune. When I asked one of them about the song, he said it was traditional. That made me smile and remember Bernard’s waspish comment: ‘I don’t know why you waste your time writing chants for grubby peasants. Life is about love, boy, love, it’s the only fitting subject for a
But I didn’t know anything about love, except for a strange yearning to see Marie-Anne again. Lust, on the other hand, was something I was beginning to know a great deal about; indeed I felt it daily as a growing pressure in my loins. Tuck had warned me about the sin of onanism; it would make me go blind if I indulged myself, he said. The other boys at Thangbrand’s, particularly Guy, jeered at this notion but I liked and respected Tuck and, for his sake, I tried very hard to abstain.
There were a dozen or so women at Thangbrand’s: fat Freya, of course, and the wives and daughters of the men-at-arms. Little yellow Godifa, of course, if you could count her as a woman. And there was Cat — gorgeous Cat — about seventeen summers old, with creamy skin, generous breasts, red hair and startling green eyes. And she was available. She was available to anyone for a silver penny. She had haunted the fringes of my thoughts since I had first set eyes on her rutting against the wall with the outlaw on the first night after I joined Robin’s band. I knew she had sometimes lingered by the battleground to watch me at sword practice with Sir Richard but I had never had the courage to speak to her. And yet I lusted after her, I lusted almost day and night. Particularly at night. When I could no longer control myself, under my blankets, amid my snoring companions in the hall, it was she who appeared in my mind, naked and beckoning. The problem, as I saw it, was that I didn’t have a single penny or anything valuable that I could exchange for her favours. I did, however, know where to get them.
As well as Cat’s lubricious charms, the great ruby that I’d seen in Thangbrand and Freya’s chamber had also
