immediately. So I attended him in the great hall, wet through and chilled to the bone — a sorry sight in front of the dozen or so richly dressed courtiers and royal cronies present — and handed over Robin’s gift. It was a magnificent matched pair of hunting falcons that I had bought in London on Robin’s instructions. They were exquisite birds, tall with wide mottled wings and creamy breasts speckled with black; elegant curved beaks of a light blue hue turning to black at the cruel tip, and hooded in soft red Spanish leather, adorned with silver bells. I was particularly pleased to have persuaded the falconer in London to part with them, although it had taken a large quantity of my master’s silver to strike the deal. I also gave Prince John Robin’s letter, which I knew wished him well and contained the usual platitudes from a fellow magnate and powerful neighbour — Robin’s main castle of Kirkton was, of course, less than forty miles north of Nottingham, and some of the other manors he held were even closer.
Prince John, a young man of less than medium height, with dark red curly hair and a thick-built body, adored the falcons. He was very fond of hunting and he crooned over the birds like a mother over a newborn baby. The letter he merely glanced at, and then handed to the man standing next to him: a tall, well-built knight, poorly- dressed for royal company but wearing a fine sword, and with a distinctive lock of white hair sprouting over the centre of his forehead from a russet thatch. He stared at me and I noticed another curious feature of the man: he had the eyes of a fox — hazel, but starred and splintered and with a feral gleam that I did not like at all. ‘What am I supposed to do with this?’ the fox-knight said in Norman French, his voice deep and slow. He looked down at the letter in his big hands.
‘Oh, of course, that’s no good to you,’ said the Prince, with a trace of a sneer, in the same language. He snatched the letter back. ‘Mally, you really must learn to read one of these days.’ Prince John turned to his right and passed the letter to a short, dark-haired man dressed entirely in black who was standing on his other side to him, and slightly behind, with his face buried in a small jewel-encrusted prayer book. ‘It’s from your old sparring partner, the so-called Earl of Locksley,’ the Prince said, handing over the parchment. He had a harsh, high voice that always seemed to contain a full measure of contempt for the world. The dark man put down the book, took the letter, stared directly at me with his icy blue eyes for few moments — his face quite expressionless — then he began to read.
It took me a couple of heartbeats to recognise him but then, with a shock, I realised that I was looking at Sir Ralph Murdac, the former High Sheriff of Nottinghamshire: the man who had ordered the death of my father; the man who had, in a stinking dungeon in Winchester last summer, tortured me in the most humiliating way; and the man whose death I craved more than any other. My hand was on the handle of my poniard and, for a moment, I considered simply stepping over to him and plunging the blade hilt-deep into his belly. But reason reasserted itself, thank God. I was a guest at the court of a royal prince. There were dozens of witnesses in the room. If I slaughtered Murdac in front of all these people, as deeply satisfying as that would be, I’d be hanging from a gibbet by nightfall.
Murdac lifted his eyes from the letter. He gave me another long, long look. ‘Make him sing something,’ he said to the Prince in the soft, lisping French voice that I knew so well. Prince John was oblivious of me: making little clucking noises and stroking the soft, leopard-pattered breast feathers of one of the falcons. ‘It says here that this muddy wretch is Robert of Locksley’s personal trouvere,’ continued Murdac in a louder tone. ‘Get him to sing us something, sire, to entertain us all.’ He looked around the gathering of courtiers and there was a ripple of sycophantic agreement. The big man with the lock of white hair smiled gleefully, sensing my discomfort at the suggestion and showing big, pointed yellow teeth.
‘What?’ said Prince John. ‘Oh. Good idea. Yes, sing us something, boy.’
I stood before them dripping, cold, exhausted, without my vielle or any instrument, secretly contemplating bloody murder, and this royal idiot wanted me to sing?
‘My lord prince, I am rather wet — if I might have leave to retire and change…’
‘Don’t make excuses, boy,’ interrupted Murdac, his pale eyes glinting with malice. ‘His Highness has commanded you to sing. So sing up, boy, sing up!’ He clapped his hands together once, and gave me a thin, venomous smile.
I stared at him, my brain almost exploding with blood-curdling hatred. He was thinner than he had been the last time I saw him, with more lines on his face, but more richly dressed too, in thick black silk trimmed with sable, and around his neck hung a gold chain at the end of which dangled an enormous ruby. I knew that jewel well. My knuckles were white, my clenched fist just inches from the hilt of my dagger, and I don’t believe I have ever been closer to throwing my life away. But then I realised that I didn’t just want his death, I didn’t want to strike him down now, here, at the cost of my own neck — I wanted to humiliate him first, as he was humiliating me, as he had humiliated me before in that stinking dungeon. I wanted him to beg my pardon for killing my father, beseech forgiveness for torturing me and murdering my friends… so I unclenched my fists and folded my twitching hands behind my back. And I began to sing.
I don’t remember what I sang, truly I do not, perhaps one of the dozen or so cansos that I had written by then and knew by heart. My tired old brain has rubbed out the memory; shame can sometimes do that. After the first song, they made me sing another, although my teeth were chattering so hard that I’m sure nobody could make out the words; and then another. Finally, Prince John seemed to tire of this cruel game and he dismissed me. I bowed low, my cheeks flushed with rage and mortification, and the Prince reached into his purse, groped about for a moment, and then tossed a couple of silver pennies on the floor in front of me. The foxy man laughed out loud. It was a calculated insult. Trouveres might well expect to receive discreet gifts from satisfied lords, but to throw the money on the floor, as if rewarding a tumbler for turning somersaults, or some beggarly street musician, was worse than a slap in the face.
I bowed a second time and, ignoring the money glinting in the dirty rushes at my feet, amid the discarded animal bones, the dog hair and ancient grime of the hall floor, I turned my back on my three tormentors and walked out of the hall.
‘What an extraordinary fellow!’ I heard Prince John croaking loudly in his harsh voice at I approached the great oak doors. ‘Did you see that? He turned his back on me. I ought to have him flogged.’
‘He’s from serf stock, you know,’ said Murdac loudly. ‘No breeding, no manners.’ I stumbled slightly over the threshold, longing to be out of earshot. ‘An outlaw too,’ the little shit-weasel continued. ‘That was before he was pardoned by your royal brother. I had him in the cells once for his misdeeds but the slippery villain wriggled out of there somehow. Escaped…’
And I was through the door, and out into the huge courtyard of Nottingham castle. My legs were faltering beneath me and I found a stone mounting block to sit upon and, under scowling leaden skies, I slumped down and closed my eyes, hoping to wipe the shame and embarrassment from my mind. I concentrated on images of Sir Ralph Murdac begging for his life, tied to the rack, bloody and screaming for mercy, and was just beginning to feel slightly better when I heard the patter of running feet and opened my eyes to see a poorly dressed servant boy standing before me, panting and holding out one hand with the palm flat. On his palm were three greasy-looking silver pennies.
‘Sir, be-be-begging your pardon, sir, but this is your silver,’ said the boy.
For a moment I wondered if this was some fresh humiliation, dreamt up by Murdac and his new royal master. Then I looked again at the servant boy, at his earnest face and shabby clothes, his outstretched hand trembling slightly, and I knew it could not be. He was a fairly good-looking lad, about 11 or so, well-made and tall for his age, with light brown hair and brown eyes. I stared at him for a few moments and then said brusquely: ‘You keep it, boy.’
He looked distressed. ‘But, sir, it is your money. The prince gave it to you. A roy-roy-royal gift.’
‘I do not care to receive it,’ I said shortly. And then, realising that my public shaming had not been his fault, and that there was no reason to be unkind to him, I smiled: ‘Buy yourself something in the market, a pie or two, or get yourself a good new knife…’ He looked doubtful and I wondered if he was perhaps slow in the head, but suddenly I did not have the patience for him any longer and so I sat back on my stone block, closed my eyes and returned to my dark thoughts.
‘Please excuse my im-impertinence, sir,’ said the boy, breaking in on a delightful reverie in which Murdac was dangling by his thumbs over a pit filled with snakes. I opened my eyes; the boy was still there, but his hands were by his sides and the silver, I noticed, had disappeared. ‘If you will forgive me asking, sir, but did His Royal Highness say that you served the Earl of Locksley? The one the people call Robin Hood?’ His face was glowing with a strange excitement and he seemed to have wrested control over his stammer.
