blankets.
‘Alan,’ said Robin, as I had risen and was making unsteadily for the door. ‘Sit down again for a moment. I want to talk to you.’ I duly sat down again on a stool by the big table. ‘I want you to do something for me,’ Robin said, and he seemed entirely sober, his eyes shining in the candlelight. ‘I want you to find out who is trying to kill me. Discreetly and quickly, find out who it is, and report back to me. There have been three attempts in the past year, and by sheer luck, I have survived them all. But I will not always be so lucky. If you wish to serve me well, find the man responsible.’
I had been half-expecting something like this. Robin was right; the situation could not go on with a killer running loose, undetected in Robin’s familia.
I nodded my acceptance at Robin. And he said: ‘Tell me what we know so far of the three attempts…’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘the first attempt, in your chamber at Kirkton, was made by that archer Lloyd ap Gruffudd — Owain has discovered from his enquiries in Wales that Lloyd was promised the hundred pounds of German silver by Murdac’s man, and also that his only son’s life had been threatened if he did not kill you. Obviously, he’s dead but his wife back in Wales was quick to tell Owain’s man everything she knew; she wanted to be sure there would be no reprisals from us. Owain sent her a handful of coins for her honesty and has brought her and her son to live at Kirkton Castle where they will be safe. So Lloyd is dead, but the lure of Murdac’s blood money could be inducing anyone, any archer, man-at-arms, or even knight to try to claim it.’
‘I wish I could claim it myself,’ said Robin gloomily. I knew that he was growing very short of money; the King had yet to pay him a single penny piece, and the money he had borrowed in England was nearly gone — but I did not wish to be distracted from the discussion of the assassin and so I ignored his comment and said: ‘We also know that, who ever it is, it is someone close to you because both times, with the snake and the poisoned fruit, the killer had easy access to your private chamber or pavilion, therefore it is someone whose presence there would not be commented on. But that still doesn’t narrow the field. Almost anyone who serves you could find an excuse to come in here; they could say, if asked, that they were delivering a message from Owain, or Little John, or Sir James, for example. So that doesn’t help us much.’
‘Well, that stops now,’ said Robin decisively. ‘From now on, the only way to get in touch with me, to speak to me, to see me is through you… and through John, I suppose. I can’t believe John Nailor would want me dead after all these years. In fact, if he did want me dead, I’d already be dead.
‘So,’ my master continued, ‘all contact with me must go through you and John. You bring me my food, tasted by Keelie, of course,’ and he smiled at the yellow bundle that was curled up peacefully in the corner of the chamber, ‘you bring me my wine, any orders for the men go through you, anyone who wants to speak to me talks to you or John and you relay that to me. If I leave this place, either you or John accompanies me at all times. Is that clear?’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘but it all this really necessary? It’s going to look very odd — and the men won’t like it. They will feel you don’t trust them.’
‘Can’t be helped,’ said Robin. ‘The more quickly you find out who the assassin is, the more quickly we can stop this charade. Have you any ideas?’
‘I have a feeling the assassin may be a woman,’ I said. ‘And I’m not truly convinced the motive is Murdac’s money. It may well be Sir Richard Malbete. When I ran into him in Messina, the night after the battle, he promised me that he would have his revenge on you — and me.’
‘It could be Malbete,’ he said, musingly. ‘But that would mean the attempt in France was still made by somebody else, as the Beast did not join us until Messina. Could there really be three assassins — one in Yorkshire, one in France and one here? I can’t see it. It must be one person.’ He rested his chin in his left palm and stared into space for a while.
‘Why do you think it might be a woman?’ Robin asked after a while.
‘Because of the nature of the attacks,’ I said. ‘They are underhand, silent, sneaky: a snake in the bed, poisoned food; that’s not the work of a man, a soldier.’
‘I think you may have an exaggerated idea of the honour of our fighting men,’ said Robin with a laugh. ‘And while I hesitate to boast of my prowess, the odds against killing me, man to man, face to face, each of us armed are reasonably long. And even if he could do it, it might take time to dispatch me, and, who knows, the renowned swordsman Alan of Westbury, might come to my aide.’ He was teasing me. ‘No, if you have to kill someone, poison is as good a way as any.’
I said nothing; I couldn’t explain it, but I felt sure that the assassin was not a warrior. I could not think how to express it properly to Robin, so I held my tongue on the matter. Instead, we discussed the practicalities of Robin’s plan to isolate himself, and how it would work on a daily basis.
As I was leaving, Robin grasped my arm. He said: ‘I know that we have not always seen things the same way; I know that sometimes, for whatever reasons, you are angry with me; but I want you to know that I appreciate your undertaking this task, and I’m aware that, if you succeed, I will owe you my life.’
As I stared into his face, I thought of Ruth, and the man whose life was sacrificed to appease a false woodland god in our outlaw days, and a dozen other cruelties that Robin had practiced in pursuit of his personal goals — but in that moment I could not find any of the anger I had felt in the past.
And then I thought of all he had done for me, of the number of times he had saved me, in battle and by altering the course of my life; of the lordship of Westbury, of the friendship he had shown me, of my position of honour among the ranks of his tough men-at-arms.
‘I am doing nothing but my duty as a loyal vassal, and nothing I do not owe you a hundred times over,’ I said with genuine feeling in my voice. And gripped his forearm and left before my emotions undid me.
The King was in a festive mood as we gathered in the great hall of Mategriffon Castle for his revels. A great fire roared on two giant flagstones in the centre of the hall, the sparks flying upwards to disappear in the dark bank of smoke in the ceiling which only slowly dissipated through the openings, high up at the sides of the hall roof. Tables were set out in a horseshoe shape around the great fire, which gave the meal a cosy family feeling that was seldom seen in at a royal feast. At the centre of the head table sat the King, who was calling out toasts and greetings to his guests — there were no more than two dozen of us — and urging them to taste the choicest cuts of meat on the silver platters scattered about the table. Beside the King, to his right in the place of honour, sat Tancred, King of Sicily, a wizened little monkey of a man with a ribbon of dark hair scraped over the top of his bald head in an attempt to hide his dearth of locks.
I sat at one of the tables at the side, next to Sir Robert of Thumham, whom I greeted with happiness, and a surly French knight that I did not know. We addressed each other politely, the Frenchman and I, but with a lack of genuine interest; anyway, in the presence of kings, it is more rewarding to pay attention to the greatest man in the room. Richard joked and laughed and devoured great quantities of suckling pig, ripping the meat from the ribs with his strong white teeth, and after an hour or so of gorging, he wiped the grease from his chin with a crisp linen napkin and after toasting me with a goblet of wine, he invited me to perform for his guests.
I had written something especially for that evening, which was infused with my love for Nur; although of course I could not proclaim that I was in love with a slave girl who had been a rich man’s plaything. So I made up a standard tale of love for a great lady, far above my station, whom I could only adore from afar. If I remember rightly, it began: ‘My joy summons me
To sing in this sweet season
And my generous heart replies
That it is right to feel this way…’
It was accompanied with a straightforward but pretty tune on the vielle, the music never overpowering the lyrics, but adding to their beauty and twisting a melody around the lines of poetry.
Richard adored the song. He loved it so much that he wanted to be part of it, to own it, even to claim it for himself. A second vielle was fetched — I think it belonged to that old troublemaker Bertran de Bom — and while a servant was tuning it, Richard paced up and down the hall muttering to himself, and scowling. Then he swung round on me and, giving me a beatific smile, said: ‘I have it, Blondel. Verse and verse, yes? Turn and turn about?’
I believe he had forgotten my given name at this point, caught up as he was in the act of composing, and that was why he gave me a nickname that referred to my blond hair, but I was not going to complain. I was to swap verses with my King. Was there any greater honour for a young trouvere?
