his head, the shape of his body echoing the bloody Y on his chest and the two great antlers above his head.
The chant had changed to ‘Hail, Cernunnos, hail, Cernunnos. .’ growing louder and louder until it was nearly deafening, and the drums began again, beating in time to the chant and growing more frenzied with each beat. Finally, suddenly, Robin lowered his bare arms and the noise ceased immediately. An eerie quiet spread over that stretch of God-cursed moor, Piers’s body hung limp, bound to the rock, the last drops of blood dripping into the iron pot. And Robin said, his voice unnaturally loud in the quiet: ‘Those who would receive the blessing of Cernunnos, step forward, and kneel before him.’
A woman stepped from the crowd and knelt before Robin. He reached a finger into the pot of Piers’s blood and, stooping, drew the bloody stag sign, the sign of the Y, on her forehead. She shuddered with ecstasy as his fingers touched her head and she turned away, grabbing a man from the congregation and dragging him away from the firelight, tearing at her clothes in her haste to begin coupling. Another outlaw stepped forward and knelt before Robin and was marked with the sacrificial gore. . but I had had my fill of blood and play-acting and unnecessary death and as more people surged forward to receive Robin’s blessing, I melted back into the darkness and, with a heavy, guilty heart, I began to make my way back to the cave. Behind me I could hear the howls of men and women, strangers to each other but inflamed by this night of blood, engaging in frenzied sexual excess. I knew I would not be missed.
I left Robin’s Caves the next day. Not, I must say, because I had found the courage to leave such a wicked crew of murderous heathens. No, because Robin sent me away. He summoned me the morning after the sacrifice. He looked weary and there were still traces of brown paint on his face. I made no mention of the brutal ceremony I had witnessed the night before, though I had to bite my tongue. As I had been well hooded, and had left without receiving Robin’s bloody pagan benediction, I believed that my master would not know that I had attended his foul rite, but if I started to talk about it, to ask questions, I knew my disgust would gush out like Piers’s lifeblood.
‘I’m sending you to Winchester,’ Robin said to me; he seemed to sense my disapproval and his voice was cold. ‘Your singing is good, though Bernard says you don’t practise enough; and John tells me you can handle a sword well. But I don’t need another swordsman, I need a
At these words, my disapproval evaporated. I said: ‘Thank you, sir,’ and I meant it. I would be travelling with Marie-Anne to visit the Queen! And I would live at court with the noblest folk in the land. Me, a grubby parentless cut-purse from Nottingham, rubbing shoulders with lords and ladies, even royalty! I was lost in an elaborate fantasy in which the King pardoned me, called me his good and faithful friend and made me a Gentleman of the Privy or something when I realised that Robin was still speaking.
‘. . Godifa needs to grow up a lady, which she won’t do here. And Bernard — well, Bernard is falling apart in these surroundings.’ He paused. ‘Are you listening, Alan?’ I nodded. ‘Marie-Anne has her Gascons, of course, but I want you to keep a special eye on her for me. Will you swear to keep her safe on the long road? He fixed me solemnly with his great silver eyes.
‘Oh yes, sir,’ I said. ‘It will be my honour.’ I could have hugged him. All thoughts of Cernunnos and human sacrifice had flown from my head. He had that effect on many people; whatever wrongs he did it was impossible to stay angry with him for any length of time. That was his true power, I believe, not his ranks of bowmen and cavalry.
We set off at noon. But before we departed, Robin presented each of us with a gift. Marie-Anne received a gorgeous necklace of a hundred fat pearls, with two matching pearl-cluster earrings. To Bernard he returned his apple-wood vielle, retrieved from the cottage at Thangbrand’s. Our cosy former home had not been razed by the sheriff’s marauding horsemen, though the place had been ransacked. Miraculously, though, the precious vielle had not been stolen — perhaps Murdac’s men were not musical — and was rescued by one of Robin’s long-range patrols, which had buried the dead and gathered up anything of value.
To Goody he presented Freya’s ruby. My jaw fell; I had never expected to see that great blood-red jewel again. I had assumed it was lost in the fire. But Robin’s men had been told exactly where to look by Hugh and they had dug it out of the charred floor. As he handed her the ruby, Robin said: ‘This stone once belonged to your mother and so I give it to you, for you to remember her by. But have a care with it. I feel in my bones that it is not a lucky jewel. Guard it well.’ He had had it mounted in a clasp on a fine golden chain and I had to admit it looked magnificent. But Goody, curtseying and thanking Robin prettily, turned to Marie-Anne and offered it to her. ‘Won’t you take it, Marie-Anne?’ she asked. ‘It is too fine a jewel for a little girl; I might lose it or it might be stolen from me but I think it would look fine on you.’
Marie-Anne accepted the great jewel. ‘It is beautiful,’ she said. ‘I will keep it safe for you until you are fully grown, and perhaps, on special occasions, I may be permitted to wear it?’ Goody smiled at her. And they both fell to examining the gorgeous red stone.
To me, Robin presented a flute, a beautiful ivory instrument, chased with gold. I suspected that it had once been owned by a musical clergyman, who had had the misfortune to bring it with him on his travels through Sherwood, but I kept silent. I put it to my mouth, holding it vertically, as I blew into the mouthpiece. The notes were as sweet and rich as butter and I thanked Robin once again for his kindness. ‘We also found this at Thangbrand’s,’ he said. ‘Buried in the ruins of the hall.’ And he handed me a long object wrapped in an old blanket. It was my sword, my old friend; the wooden handle a little charred and with a few scorch marks on the battered scabbard, but it was my blade. The blade with which I had killed my first man. My own shabby Excalibur. My eyes were misting with emotion, so I bowed low to hide my face.
Just before we left, Hugh drew me aside. ‘Robin has asked me to speak to you about this matter,’ he said, gravely; he looked quite ill, no doubt suffering from yesterday’s wine. ‘While you are in Winchester, he wants you to be our eyes and ears in the castle. Just gather what information you can about the people there, who’s talking to whom; who’s not talking to someone else. Any plans the King may have, any news from France, anything concerning Robin or any of us, in fact.’ I nodded. It sounded exciting, Robin was giving me a grave responsibility: I was to be a spy. I grinned at him. ‘I thought that might appeal to your larcenous spirit,’ said Hugh, smiling back at me. ‘See if you can purloin the Queen’s private correspondence, or something.’ I laughed at this absurd idea. Then I realised Hugh was quite serious. He continued: ‘There is a man in Winchester called Thomas — you can find him at a tavern, the sign of the Saracen’s Head. He has only one eye and he’s probably the ugliest man in Christendom but you must identify yourself to him by saying: “I am a friend of the woodland folk.” He will say: “I prefer town people.” Give him any message you want to relay to us here. Got it? Thomas, Saracen’s Head, woodland folk, town people. Got it?’ I nodded again and he said: ‘Good lad.’ Then he gave me a fat purse full of silver pennies, more money than I had ever owned in my life. ‘Expenses,’ he said. And then he frowned and, in his best schoolmasterly voice, added: ‘And it’s not to be spent on ale while you lark about in taverns, nor on saucy Winchester wenches, either.’
He was one to talk about drink; and I had no thoughts of saucy Winchester wenches. I would be riding south with a perfect specimen of womanhood, who drove all thoughts of others out of my head. We set off, two by two, on horseback with mules behind us carrying our possessions. Four Gascon cavalrymen rode at the head of the column, and four at the rear, and four rode up and down the column as we jogged along. The road was busy with revellers from Robin’s great feast making their way slowly back to their lives. Many looked the worse for wear, but, at first, there was a carnival atmosphere as we made our way down the highway. I rode next to my Marie- Anne, taking my role of bodyguard very seriously; Bernard and Goody rode behind. Bernard looked like a rotten cheese; badly hung-over, eyes bloodshot, his face saggy and grey. Goody, on the other hand, was in irrepressible high spirits. She felt we were going on an exciting adventure with a glittering prize at the end of the journey. And she kept pestering Bernard with questions about what a royal court was like and how we should be treated when we arrived. Most of the time he merely grunted in reply.
In the late afternoon, the weather turned cold and a storm began to brew in the south. The merry revellers seemed to have disappeared and I couldn’t shake the feeling in my gut that we were riding into trouble.
As we trotted along, wrapped in our warmest clothes against the chill wind, I began to ask my lady about her life when she was away from Robin’s band. ‘As you know,’ she said, ‘I am a royal ward. I became one when
