and now he was giving him another poison — foxglove! I was on the point of rushing back into Robin’s chamber and confronting Reuben with an open accusation when reason was restored to its throne and the maggot banished to its fetid hole. Reuben was loyal; Reuben was a true friend. Besides, there was nothing I could do. I had no proof. If I accused Reuben, he might take offence and stop treating Robin, who might then die. For all I knew, foxglove might well be a miracle cure
…
In the end, I did nothing but prayed hard for Robin’s speedy recovery in the cathedral and vowed to visit my master regularly to check his health. If he sank any lower, perhaps I would consult the King’s personal physician. If he died, I would take bloody revenge on the Jew.
In the event, Robin began to recover. Slowly, at first, his pulse became stronger and more regular. His colour improved and within three days he was able to sit up in bed and sip the hot concoctions that Reuben prepared for him. I was terribly relieved and happy: Reuben was not the poisoner and, thanks to his care, Robin would live. But I had another reason to be filled with great soul-filling joy: Nur and I had become one.
One evening I came late to my cell, after sitting with Robin for several hours, to find William looking worried. He was waiting for me outside the door of the little chamber.
‘I, I, I think there is so-something wr-wrong with Nur,’ he said as he saw me walking up the corridor towards him. ‘She’s cr-crying her eyes out but I can’t understand what the pe-pe-problem is.’
I walked into the monk’s cell and saw Nur sitting on the padded stone shelf that served as my bed, wrapped in my warm green cloak. Her eyes were red and the black kohl that she used around them was streaked down her cheeks. She looked like a little lost girl and my heart melted inside my body. When she saw me she burst into a fit on uncontrollable sobbing and in two steps she was in my arms. ‘You… have… no… love… for… me…’ she said between gasping sobs. She said it like a phrase that she had leamt by heart, parrot-fashion. And I believed I knew who had taught it to her: a certain meddling Jew, who was also a wonderful, miraculous, life-giving friend. I held Nur tenderly and stroked her silky black hair, smoothing it over her head and down her long back. My hands discovered that she was naked under the cloak, and I just had time to gruffly dismiss William, who was gawping at us from the doorway, and watch him leave and gently shut the door, before I surrendered to the searing passion that had been raging inside me for so many weeks and crushed her soft mouth against mine.
What can an old man write about lovemaking? Each new generation believes that it has discovered it for the first time and that its elders are utterly grotesque in their coupling. But even though I am old now, I was not then, and I remember the first time that I made love with Nur as perhaps the most beautiful, moving, deeply wonderful night of my life.
After the initial kiss, which was like a long draught of sweet wine, we tore at each other like wild beasts in our passion. She ripped my clothes from me and I mounted her without hesitation and felt the exquisite plunge as I slid deep inside her, the heat roaring in my loins, her legs wrapping around my waist, her soft breasts crushed against my chest. I was swiftly swept away in a whirlwind of pleasure; I bucked and plowed and kissed her, teeth clashing, whenever I could find her mouth, the unbearable pressure building beneath my balls as I teetered on the brink of explosion, each stroke more exquisite than the last, until at last I erupted in a series of gasping shudders deep inside her.
That night lasted for the blink of an eye, and will stay for ever in my memory. Time had no meaning when I was with her, inside her, beside her and, in the breaks between each bout of lovemaking, we kissed long and deep, as if we were sucking life itself from each other’s sweet lips. After we had made love twice, Nur began to show me a little of the arts she had leamt in the big house in Messina. With her tongue and fingers, kissing and licking and stroking in every secret place, she brought me to the point of ecstasy, and then let me subside before it was too late. Again and again, I was made breathless by her wanton, silky camality, her suppleness, and her willingness to bring me pleasure by every means possible, including some delightful practices of which I had never even dreamed, and which I was fairly sure would have been thoroughly condemned by any priest or monk. Near dawn, we lay in each other’s arms, spent, and I stared in wonder into her fathomless dark eyes, her slim, infinitely precious body in the circle of my arms. We did not speak, for my Arabic had not progressed much beyond the formal greetings, and Nur had only that phrase of French that Reuben had taught her, but in that moment we needed no words. We lay together in a bubble of love, wrapped safe in each other’s tender gaze.
I believe I reached a pitch of happiness in those early morning hours, after our first night together, with the monastery silent around us and that dark head sleeping on my shoulder, the like of which I have never reached again. My body felt empty and yet so full of joy; light of soul and yet weary beyond belief.
After that wondrous, magical night she came to me again the next evening, and the next. William was banished to the monastery dormitory, which he told me was occupied by a lot of snoring, farting men-at-arms, but the boy bore his exile with fortitude and I caught him smiling at me on several occasions, happy for my happiness.
Sir James de Brus made no comment about my new situation, but I knew that he knew, and he seemed to show me a greater respect as I honed my technique at the quintain and on the practice field. One day, as we were just finishing our routines, I noticed that Sir Robert of Thumham had been watching, with an entourage of knights. We rode over to him, and he greeted us both with a cheery salute.
‘Your skills are coming along very nicely, Alan,’ said Sir Robert in a friendly tone. ‘You are almost as good with a lance as a well-seasoned knight.’
‘Thank you, Sir Robert,’ I said, bowing from the waist. ‘But I think the skill resides mainly in my horse, Ghost.’
Sir Robert laughed. ‘Nonsense; I’ve had my eye on you for some time now and I see the makings of a first- class chevalier. If you can impress the King on the field of battle in the Holy Land, who knows — maybe, God willing, he will one day grant you the honour of knighthood, of serving him as one of his household knights; the elite of the army. Your father was from a noble family, I believe, and you hold some land of the Earl of Locksley?’
I nodded, surprised that he knew all this, and very pleased. It had never crossed my mind that I would ever make it into the ranks of the knighthood, to be Sir Alan of Westbury. In my own head, I was still a ragged cutpurse from the stews of Nottingham, an orphaned thief and outlaw. It was a wonderful thought and I beamed happily at Sir Robert.
‘The King is already impressed with your courtly talents,’ he went on. ‘He likes you; he much admired your rendering of Tristan and Isolde, a month or so ago. In fact, I come directly from him, bearing an invitation to dine with him on Christmas Eve. The King wishes you to sing for his party. How about that?’
It was a great honour, but as often happens to me in the presence of great men, I was unable to think of a suitable reply. So I muttered something about how grateful I was and bowed once again.
‘The day after tomorrow at noon, then. In the new castle,’ he said nodding up at the dark bulk of Mategriffon, which loomed over us. Then he smiled, turned his horse and, followed by his knights, he rode away.
‘That is a rare privilege,’ said Sir James. ‘To dine with the King. You’d best make sure you don’t disgrace yourself.’
He was right, and I had to perform, too. I bid him a swift farewell and hurried back to the monastery to begin working on the music; I needed to create something really special, I said to myself. But inside my head the words Sir Alan Dale, Sir Alan of Westbury, and Alan, the Knight of Westbury, were darting about like a flock of sparrows trapped in a hall.
Robin was pleased for me when I told him I would be playing for the King. He was out of bed and feeding Keelie with scraps from a plate of boiled mutton. He had lost a lot of weight but seemed cheerful considering how close to death he had been. ‘I’ve decided that I should have more fun,’ he declared. ‘Life is short and death awaits us all, and as I am doubtless damned for all eternity for my many sins, I have decided that I will have some pleasure before I face the fires of Hell. So come on Alan, let us drink a flask of wine together and you can play something for me.’
And so I indulged my master. And we passed a very pleasant evening, singing, drinking, making merry. At midnight, when my head was swimming and my hands were stiff and cramped from the vielle, I laid down my instrument and made to leave. Nur would be waiting for me in my cell and I longed to be naked with her under the
