resemblance to one Brother Tuck, a notorious Welsh monk who was rumoured to have once consorted with outlaws.
None of us were outlaws now. Robin, as he had promised, had secured pardons for all those who survived the terrible battle of Linden Lea six weeks before. King Richard — we all called him that even though his coronation at Westminster Abbey would not take place for another week — had come to an arrangement with Robin, brokered by Sir Richard. Several large barrels of silver pennies had changed hands, some said as much as five thousand pounds’ worth. Robin had done homage to the King, and in exchange for certain promises and assurances, Robin had been given a free pardon for himself and all his men. He had also been granted the hand of his lovely Marie-Anne and the Earldom of Locksley, to boot. As an Earl, he was now eminently respectable, a powerful magnate, and the King himself now sat beside his mother Eleanor, and his brother John, at the head of the hall in three great oaken chairs, witnessing the marriage of his newest vassal with a stern regal eye.
I was nearly overwhelmed to be in the presence of a King. He was magnificent: a tall, handsome man, haughty of face and about thirty years old with reddish-gold hair and blue eyes and an air of muscular directness. Clearly a man of action, he was known as a great soldier, a distingushed tactician and a man who adored poetry and music. Beside the King, fidgeting in his big chair, sat his far less impressive younger brother John, the youngest of King Henry’s sons, who styled himself Lord of Ireland. In his early twenties, he was far shorter than his warlike older brother, and with a darker shade of reddish hair. As I watched Prince John, he picked irritably at the pommel of a great bejewelled dagger at his waist, his face screwed up in a childishly petulant expression. Queen Eleanor was the only member of that royal trio who looked genuinely pleased at the union of Robin and Marie- Anne. Her fine, well-aged face beamed at the happy couple as Tuck tied their hands together with a sacred strip of white silk and pronounced in a loud voice to the whole assembly that they were man and wife. I was happy too, my feelings for Marie-Anne having changed subtly since Robin, Reuben and I had rescued her from the wall tower. I would love her always, but my moon-calf adoration had transformed into the feeling of warmth that I used to have towards my own sisters. I was happy because she was happy.
Goody, who seemed to have grown about six inches in the few weeks since I had last seen her in Winchester, was looking angelic in a blue gown and white headdress to match Marie-Anne’s, and she stood at her mistress’s side bearing a huge bouquet of white roses. I had greeted her earlier that day with a big hug, but she had pushed me away and told me sternly that, as she was a real gentlewoman now, I might salute her with a respectful bow but no more. I had half a mind to put her over my knee and spank her but, in the end, perhaps wisely considering what I knew she could do to a man with a poniard, I decided to humour her. So I bowed low, grinning disrespectfully, and called her my lady.
Fulcold, resplendent in sky blue wool, attended the ceremony as part of Eleanor’s retinue. He had been delighted to see me again in good health, and we embraced as friends. Sir Richard was there too, with a dozen fellow knights, each in a pristine white surcoat. And Robert of Thurnham, my saviour in the cell at Winchester, now a trusted King’s man, gave me a friendly wave from the large group of royal retainers at the side of the hall.
Reuben had sent a fat pouch of gold as a wedding gift and a message that he was truly devastated that business in York prevented him from attending the celebrations. He was being tactful. As a Jew, he would not have been welcomed by many of the noble guests at this Christian ceremony. Robin’s brother Lord William had sent his regrets too, but no reasons for his absence. He was being churlish, we all decided. Perhaps because, as a mere baron, his younger brother Earl Robert now outranked him.
Bernard of Sezanne was on fine form, cracking bad jokes, singing snatches of song and hardly drinking at all. With his royal mistress’s permission, he and I would be performing later that evening at the wedding feast. All morning he had been wittering on to me about the great honour of performing before the King. He had made me physically sick with nerves, which were not helped by my memories of my last public performance in Winchester, in front of Murdac and Guy.
Sir Ralph Murdac had fled Nottingham. After the battle of Linden Lea, he had been chased to its very gates by Sir Richard’s men, whereupon he had barricaded himself in the keep and defied the Templars for more than a month. But, at the news that King Richard had landed in England and was coming north to Nottingham, with all his men-at-arms, to take possession of his royal castle, Murdac had gathered his chests of silver and a few loyal men and fled to the protection of relatives in Scotland. He had been informed, by the Templars naturally, that the King wished to interrogate him about the whereabouts of much of the tax silver that had been raised in Nottinghamshire and Derbyshire the previous year to pay for the forthcoming great expedition to the Holy Land. Murdac, we subsequently discovered, had spent a good deal of the King’s cash on the Flemish mercenaries, who, after Murdac’s departure, had made their own deal with King Richard and had entered his service without batting an eye. The King’s ministers, the sheriff was told, felt that Sir Ralph had been skimming too much off the top of these tax revenues and the King was planning to make an example of him. Murdac was right to run, I discovered later; Richard was indeed planning to remove him, but not because he was especially angry about the sheriff’s shenanigans with his revenues. In fact, the King was planning to remove more than half the senior officials in England, purely as a money-raising exercise. Richard badly needed more money for his holy war, and a new sheriff, constable or bishop would gladly pay the King a fat fee for the appointment. A rich knight called Roger de Lacy had begun negotiating for the shrieval appointment in Nottinghamshire almost before Murdac’s bags were packed.
Tuck’s announcement that Robin and Marie-Anne were man and wife was greeted with a massed roar of shouted congratulations, and a few bawdy suggestions for the wedding night. Hugh, the saintly Bishop of Lincoln, seated near the royal party, frowned at this unseemly levity and Robin had to quieten his men with a hand gesture before order was restored. Then the venerable Bishop rose from his seat. Hugh was a tall, thin man, passionate and fearless, and after a curt blessing on the union of Robin and Marie-Anne, he launched into a harangue about the Holy Land, exhorting the audience to take the Cross and join King Richard on the great expedition to recover Jerusalem from the infidel.
Most people yawned through this religious rant — priests had been preaching it regularly for two years now — but one man seemed to be paying an inordinate amount of attention. Robert, Earl of Locksley, was apparently agog. When the old Bishop came to the end of his speech with the ringing words, ‘Who then will take this symbol of faith from me and vow that, with God’s blessing, they will not rest until Jerusalem is recovered?’ Robin leapt to his feet. ‘By God, I will,’ he said in a loud sincere voice. And kneeling before Bishop Hugh he received a blessing and a scrap of red cloth which had been cut into the shape of a cross.
‘Wear this symbol of Christ’s love on your cloak, my son,’ said the Bishop, ‘and remember that you are guaranteed a remission of your many sins and a place in Heaven if you die on this perilous journey in God’s name.’ I caught Robin’s eye as the prelate made him this promise, and I could have sworn that, the solemnity of the occasion notwithstanding, my master winked at me.
Other knights shuffled forward to receive the Cross, but the solemnity was spoilt somewhat by King Richard, who leapt out of his chair, strode across the hall and enfolded Robin in a great embrace, grinning like a regal mountebank. Somehow, in the few days they had both been at the castle, King Richard and Robin had become fast friends. Prince John, still seated, watched the pair of them as they slapped each other on the back, his face a study in contempt. Queen Eleanor was hugging Marie-Anne, who looked happier than I had ever seen her. I had expected her to be surprised, even shocked by Robin’s sudden decision to go off to fight a war on the other side of the world, perhaps never to return, but she showed not a trace of anxiety. And I realised, of course, that the whole thing had been a piece of theatre.
Robin had struck a bargain with Sir Richard that terrible night after the first day of battle, as we bound up our wounds in Linden Lea and waited for death at the hands of Murdac’s soldiers the following dawn. And Bernard, of course, had been Sir Richard’s emissary. I too had played my part, albeit unwittingly. The single dove that I released at dawn, trailing its slim red banner, had been the signal to Sir Richard that Robin accepted his proposal. Bernard had explained it all to me in the days after the battle, when we who were fit enough laboured to clear the reeking field of the hundreds of dead and give them a decent burial.
‘It’s all about leverage, really,’ Bernard had told me, as I hoisted the dead body of a skinny old man over my shoulder. ‘The application of the right amount of pressure at the right time. Of course, the Templars are past masters at this sort of thing. And they nearly always get what they want, one way or another.’ Bernard was being insufferably smug that day, the result I suspected of another conquest among Queen Eleanor’s ladies. He played
