Another cobble stone whistled past Ghost’s neck, and another, then one hit Robin on the thigh with a meaty smack. He made no sound, merely drew his sword and signaled to me that now we should pick up the pace. We began to trot, the horses’ steel shoes making a sharp rattle on the cobbles, forcing angry folk out of our path. A few more stones flew, splintering on the road ahead of us, but although we swiftly outdistanced the angry mob behind us, there were more folk appearing in front. One misshapen fellow, his back unnaturally twisted, who was supporting himself on a large wooden crutch, was capering directly in our path, pointing a finger at our party and shouting: ‘Jews… Jews… Jews…’ As we approached at the trot, he swung his crutch up at Robin who was nearest to him in a vicious scything blow that would have crushed his skull if it had landed. But Robin front-blocked the blow easily with his sword, and then chopped down in a classic move that Little John had made me practice hundreds of times. The blade sliced into the twisted man’s scalp, there was a spray of bright blood and he dropped as if boneless to the cobbles.
There was a roar of rage from the crowd behind, a deep, animal sound that lifted the hairs on the back of my neck, and they surged forward in a pack. ‘Close up,’ said Robin, raising his voice above the tumult; he sounded calm, icy, as he always did in battle. ‘Close up, Alan, and feel free to take out anyone, anyone who stands in our path.’ I grinned at him nervously.
As he spoke, a man suddenly leapt from the open window of the house we were passing. He launched himself from a position almost level with me and nearly knocked me from the saddle; he grabbed me around the waist and, before I had time to react, he had straddled Ghost’s hind quarters and was punching a short knife into my back, trying for my kidneys. Praise God, my chainmail hauberk under my cloak kept the blade from my flesh. Without thinking, I swivelled fast and elbowed him hard in the side of the head. I felt his grasp loosen, so then reversing my grip on my drawn sword, pointing it towards my own body, I drove it backwards, through the gap between my own left arm and my left side, and deep into the flesh of his side. He fell away, screeching and spurting blood. We spurred back and shot out from the press of folk, and suddenly we were clear and moving fast, bloody swords in our fists, galloping towards the castle, the gates of which were only two hundred yards away. Behind us the mob howled like a wolf pack and broke into a run.
I saw a big, dark-haired man, directly in our path, cradling a great Dane axe and swaying his weight gently from foot to foot. He smiled broadly, madly, and waited for us to thunder down on him; no doubt planning to dodge at the last moment and slash the legs of one of the horses as they passed, bringing one of us tumbling to earth. Suddenly his expression changed, the smile drained away and his face sagged like a candle put too close to the fire. I noticed in the same instant that the black handle of a throwing knife had sprouted from his broad chest; he sank to his knees, the axe clattered to the ground, and then we were past. A spearman appeared on my left and stabbed a rusty point at me, but I swept his spearhead out of my way, and slashed back at him with my poniard; Robin effortlessly cut down a man wielding a huge ancient two-handed sword and then we were through the gates and safely into the bailey court-yards of York Castle.
Panting, we hauled our beasts to a halt in the centre of the broad space — and immediately noticed that something was wrong. There were no mounted men-at-arms to greet us, to ask us our business — there were almost no people in sight at all, and those we could see were in the garb of servants. Where was Sir John Marshal? We had expected to have the gate shut behind us by trained soldiers, determined to hold the castle in the face of the deranged mob. But the place seemed almost deserted. I turned to look at the gate. It was still wide open, and a column of furious, shouting citizens, filling the street, hundreds of them, was rapidly approaching. Torches had been lit to counter the gloom, and in the flickering light I caught a glimpse of a dirty white robe in the leading ranks of the throng. Then I ducked instinctively as a hail of sticks, stones, even a few arrows came showering towards us.
‘To the Tower, to the King’s Tower,’ said Reuben breathlessly. ‘All the others are in the Tower.’
I looked to my right, at the grim, brooding height of the King’s Tower, the strong, square wooden keep of York Castle. And we all spurred towards it. It was built on a great mound of earth nearly thirty feet high, and the high, stout walls added another twenty feet to its grandeur. It looked strong enough to stand until Judgment Day, and as we cantered over the narrow rammed-earth causeway that linked the Tower to the bailey, I began to feel a little safer. Leading our horses up the steep set of wooden steps that was the final approach to the keep, and through the narrow, thick iron-studded door at the top, we were welcomed by a tall balding man wearing a black skull cap, with a kindly lined face and grey beard.
‘ Shalom aleichem,’ the old man said. ‘I am Josce of York, and you are most welcome here.’ The thick oak door slammed behind us, closing out the buzz of the angry world, and the locking bar slid home with a reassuring thump.
Chapter Four
The King’s Tower was packed with Jews — from doddery old crones to strapping young men and suckling babes in their mother’s arms, there must have been at least a hundred and fifty souls squashed into the three storeys of the keep like salted fish in a barrel. And two good Christians. Well, one Christian and Robin. I had never seen so many Jews in one place before, and it was a strange experience for me. They spoke English or French to each other but occasionally dropped briefly into another guttural language that I could not understand; very few of them had brought arms with them when they had come to the Tower, which seemed strange to me for people under threat of violence, but it was no matter as the keep was already well stocked with weapons. And they argued constantly about everything. But the strange thing was that, although they could be shouting at their fellows or family members one minute, the next, they had hugged and kissed and all was calm again; and they never came to blows with each other no matter what insults had been exchanged. I was astounded. In a Christian community, the aggressive tone of their disputations alone would have been enough to start the fists flying.
They were a sober, orderly lot, too, courteous and kind to me; and so I liked them. They had all brought food too, and it was comforting to know that while we had to shelter in the Tower, there would be plenty to eat.
There was precious little room in the lower part of the Tower for equine accommodation, but we managed to make our horses reasonably comfortable with food bags and water within reach of their noses. Then Robin and I climbed three storeys to the roof of the Tower by a narrow staircase in one corner of the building. As we surveyed the area around the castle keep, it dawned on me that we were surrounded. The King’s Tower had been built for defence, it was undeniably a secure fortress, but for us it was also a trap from which we could not easily escape. To the southwest ran the river Ouse, deep and slow; a fit man could swim it easily but what about a horde of Jewish grandmothers and suckling babies? There was no escape for us there. To the east ran the river Foss, once again unpassable except by one small bridge. To the north there was a line of campfires burning in the evening gloom around which milled scores of men-at-arms and townsfolk, clearly beginning to prepare their suppers. To the south was the bailey of the castle, now filling with the very people, the maddened Jew-haters, we had had to run from in the streets. It was full dark by now, but the bailey was so well lit with torches and fires that the scene was easy to make out. Hundreds of folk were milling around in confusion in the open space at the centre of the bailey, but a knot had gathered around a short speaker in a light-coloured robe by the chapel on the western side, who was holding a large wooden staff with a cross piece tied to it to make the holy symbol. He was haranguing the crowd and thumping the earth with his cross to emphasise his points, and I recognised the white- robed monk from that afternoon. His message seemed to be the same vile spew of poison as then, for every now and then he would fling out his arm and indicate the Tower. Beside him stood a tall knight in chainmail, a long sword at his waist, carrying a shield with the device of a scarlet clenched fist on a pale blue field. He looked familiar, but it was only when two men-at-arms approached with lit torches and stood beside him that I caught sight of his face. He had a shock of white hair in the centre of his forehead, standing out clearly from the russet mass of the rest, and I recognised the illiterate, feral-eyed foxy knight from my encounter with Prince John.
Just then Josce of York appeared beside us, his grey beard awry and out of breath from climbing the Tower’s stairs too fast, and the three of us stood at the battlements and stared out over the bailey. I was straining my ears to make out the white monk’s hate-filled words, when Robin spoke: ‘Who is that ill-looking knight?’ he asked Josce.
‘He is Sir Richard Malbete, sometimes called the Evil Beast,’ the tall Jew replied. ‘Some say he is part
