the son of an old friend, who has newly joined our strength.’
‘You have the voice of an angel,’ said Marie-Anne and smiled at me with those huge happy blue eyes. She was truly lovely, about eighteen, I’d have guessed, and in the full bloom of her looks. Robin drew his chair up beside her and, entwining his hand in hers, looked at me.
‘You sing just like your father,’ said Robin. ‘I thought you were he when I opened the door.’
‘You knew him well, sir?’
‘Yes, he was a good friend to me many years ago. We had many a happy evening making music together at Edwinstowe. But I could not match his skill, the way he had — that you clearly have — of pitching the notes so pleasingly to make harmony.’ He smiled at me, and then frowned. ‘But you said “knew”. Does he no longer live?’
I dropped my gaze. ‘He was hanged, sir. The sheriff’s men came. .’ Suddenly the tears were pressing at my eyes again and I could not go on. I was determined not to cry again in front of my master, so I looked at the floor and fell silent. The silence lengthened and grew uncomfortable. I sniffed and rubbed my nose.
‘I am sorry to hear it,’ Robin said gruffly. ‘He was a fine man.’ There was another embarrassed pause. ‘Hanged on the sheriff’s orders, you say?’ I said nothing, fighting back tears. ‘And have you looked to avenge his death?’ he said, after several moments. I remained silent. He repeated his question: ‘Have you not sought vengeance?’ He sounded puzzled, irritated.
‘Robin. .’ said Marie-Anne. ‘Can’t you see he’s upset. .’
‘You know who ordered your father’s death, do you not? But you have done nothing against him?’ Robin’s voice now was cold. ‘Look at me, boy. Look at me.’ His voice was hard, compelling. I lifted my head. ‘A man does not snivel when a member of his family has been murdered.’ His cold silver eyes were blazing again, boring into mine. ‘A man does not cry like a babe, seeking pity from those around him for a wrong he has suffered. He takes his revenge. He makes the guilty men, the men who took that kinsman’s life, weep in pain; he makes their widows sob themselves to sleep at night. Else he is no man. You should have come to me. If you had come to me, we would have had the vengeance that his spirit cries out for.’
‘I will avenge him, sir,’ I interrupted hotly. ‘I need no man’s help in this. I swear it on the Holy Cross of Our Lord Jesus Christ.’
Robin snorted. ‘Jesus would have you turn the other cheek. The Christ would have you forgive him,’ he almost spat out the word ‘forgive’, then continued. ‘I have little time for such a womanish religion. But I believe you shall have your vengeance, if you truly seek it, and you shall have my help in this matter of honour whether you wish it or not. You are my sworn man now, loyal until death, remember? And so my enemies are yours, just as yours are mine.’
‘He’s just a boy,’ said Marie-Anne. ‘Too young for all your blood-thirsty talk. All these bold words of vengeance and calls for death.’
‘I need men-at-arms, not milksops,’ said Robin shortly, glancing at his lady. And I blushed with anger.
‘I am no milksop, sir,’ I said angrily. ‘And I will have the hides of those who killed my father. I am no warrior, it is true, but I shall become one and one day I shall dance in the blood of Sir Ralph Murdac — I shall crush him like, like. .’ I could not think of how I would crush him, and so I stopped.
‘Well said,’ said Robin. ‘Spoken like a man. And we shall make a warrior of you before too long. I am sending you to a seasoned fighter who, though no longer as spry as he once was, will teach you his trade. .’ His voice trailed away, he was clearly lost in thought. ‘But we can make more of you than just a soldier, I think. .’
Silence fell again on the three of us. Then Robin slapped the table. ‘Enough of this grim talk.’ He smiled apologetically at Marie-Anne, who took hold of his hand.’ Let us have some more wine. . and some more music.’
Though I had lost much of my appetite for song, we worked easily through ‘The Thrush and the Honey-Bee’, our voices mingling well together, and then Marie-Anne sang us a French lament called ‘
‘Now, it is late,’ he went on, ‘and you need to rest. Be so good as to ask Hugh to direct you to your sleeping place and ask him to attend me for a few moments.’
‘Yes, sir,’ I replied. Marie-Anne wished me a good night and I found myself closing the door and walking down the dark corridor in a state of confused euphoria, feeling that I was truly honoured to serve such a man, and yet fearful that I would disappoint him. He had that effect on people, did Robin, as I was to witness many times in the future, something about the way he looked at you made you forget his rough mockery, his hardness, his cruelty, and feel, at that moment, as if you were the most important person in the world to him. It was like a spell, a kind of magic and, as everybody knows, magic is dangerous.
I told Hugh that Robin wished to see him and made my way through the parlour, the floor of which was now littered with sleeping, snoring men and women, and out to the stable, to make my bed in the straw. As I drifted off to sleep in a warm mound of fodder, I looked again at the lovely white lady’s horse. I dreamed of Marie- Anne.
We were on the road again at dawn the next day, the motley cavalcade clattering out of the gates of the farm compound, oxen roaring, carts creaking, hung-over men cursing the hour, as the cocks were bawling a noisy message about their masculinity to the heavens. Marie-Anne had departed long before the column began lumbering its way north up the forest road. And, catching my eye, she had smiled at me and waved before cantering off on her white mare, flanked by the half a dozen mounted men-at-arms.
Her departure left me feeling strangely flat. Robin, back in his shabby travelling outfit, rode at the head of our column, in earnest conversation with Hugh and Tuck. At something of a loss, I trudged along alone behind a swaying cart full of household goods, chairs, tables and chests with a wicker chicken coop filled with squawking chickens on the top. A piglet, tied by a rope round its neck to the cart, trotted happily beside me. I felt neglected and low after the excitement of the night before: had I really interrupted my lord at his music-making and joined him and his lady as an equal? It seemed unreal. The reality was not the peacock, glorious in satin and silk, warbling with his lady; the reality was the ragged outlaw at the head of this drab column, trotting along with his rascally followers.
My mood soon lightened. It was a perfect spring day and the forest was bursting with new life and fresh hope: jewelled butterflies danced in the bright sunlight slanting through the green lattice of branches above us; on either side of the road the forest floor was a gorgeous carpet of bluebells; young coneys raced away from the column’s approach; wood pigeons called to each other:
We were about fifty souls in all: Robin, Hugh and Tuck were all mounted and rode at the head of the column under Robin’s simple banner, a black and grey wolf’s head on a white background. The banner was apt: outlaws were known as ‘wolf’s heads’, because they could be killed by anybody, as peasants killed wolves and took their heads. Up and down the column’s length, evenly spaced, were a dozen mounted men-at-arms armed with sword, shield and long spear; and a similar number of squat, hard-looking men on foot carrying big war bows made of yew, with full arrow bags strapped at their waists. Some of the fighting men looked a little grey after too much ale the night before but all were alert; keeping their heads up and scanning the woodland either side of the broad road on which we marched. A dozen paces ahead of me strode John the giant. He was talking to another big man, a blacksmith, I guessed from his thick leather apron and brawny forearms, and periodically John’s great booming laugh would echo over the cavalcade. There was a farrier driving a heavy wagon, a pedlar walking under a great pack of goods, an alewife carting an enormous barrel of beer. There were mothers with babies and young children, older children playing games of tig around the slow-moving wagons, shy-saucy lasses walking proudly beside the bowmen or men-at-arms, cows bellowing and lumbering along tied to carts, sheep being prodded along by herdsmen. There was even a cat, curled up on a sack in the cart in front of me, seemingly asleep but with one speculative eye on the chicken coop. It was almost like a travelling village — I say almost because there were too many armed men for any village to tolerate in peace. But, for a column of desperate outlaws, it was far more domestic than dangerous-looking.
As I looked around me, I suddenly became aware of the mud-spattered rider I’d seen yesterday, spurring madly along the edge of the road, galloping as if the Devil himself were after him. He headed straight for Hugh at
