could. When he stopped struggling, and I let his blood-slick body topple over on to the sand, I fell back myself as if I had been the one to suffer a death wound and I stared upward towards Heaven where God and his angels resided. But I could see nothing of the Divine. Night had fallen, and clouds covered the stars, and as I stared up into the darkness, lying boneless among the three fresh corpses I had made, I felt my own eyes fill with tears at the pity of life. As my tears welled, I thought about vengeance and feuds, of murder and holy warfare, and of loyalty and love. I pondered my loyalty to my master, which, despite his many grievous sins, had just now been put to the ultimate test; and of a boy’s love of his father that became twisted into something hideous. I had killed William because it was necessary. It was necessary for Robin’s safety, because the boy would not renounce vengeance, and I was, I discovered in that moment, despite every evil thing my master had done, still Robin’s loyal man. But there is sometimes more than one truth, and sometimes, when I have taken more than my usual quantity of wine, I believe that I killed William because of Nur.
I had not been loyal to her. After she had been mutilated by Malbete, I had screamed in horror when faced by her deformity — and she had fled. But, in fleeing, she was acknowledging that I could not love her, looking as she did. And it was true. So it follows that I had not truly loved her, for love surely transcends mere physical beauty, and, worse, I had not had the strength to be loyal to her either. And so I killed William, in some strange way, for Nur’s sake. Because I had proved disloyal to her, whom I claimed I loved, I wanted to prove that I could be loyal to Robin, whom I claimed I did not love.
On that dark beach I wept for William, and for me, and for Nur and Robin, and all of us poor sinners here on Earth, and at that very moment it began lightly to rain, and it seemed that the whole dark universe had joined in my silent weeping.
Finally, I roused myself. The blood-clotted poniard was still in my right hand. As I looked at it, I thought about all it represented. A gift from a kind man, who had been butchered before me at the command of my master; a tool that had been used to end the life of a young boy, cruelly wronged, in the name of loyalty to my master. I could hardly bear to look at it, and so, I pulled back my arm and hurled it spinning in the dark air to splash, unseen, somewhere in the forgiving ocean.
I stripped naked again and dragged the bodies as far out into the sea as I could, Keelie’s corpse too, and left them to sink and sleep for ever with the fishes, and then I washed myself once again from head to toe, scrubbing my body raw with the fine sand in the shallows. Next I dried, dressed and armed myself and walked wearily up the narrow cliff path back to the army.
I found my master in his tent, with Reuben kneeling before him tending to a wound in his thigh. He lifted his chin to me in acknowledgement when I entered and said: ‘Arrow wound: it’s not that serious, Reuben tells me.’ He waved his hand towards a tray that held a flagon of wine and several cups. I helped myself to a drink and sat on a cedar wood chest while Reuben finished wrapping a clean white bandage around Robin’s upper leg.
‘So what is troubling you?’ asked Robin, a little distantly. He sounded slightly irritated that I should have barged in on him. ‘I thought you would be carousing with the rest of them. Celebrating our glorious victory.’
‘I’ve killed Malbete,’ I said bluntly. ‘On the beach. I broke his neck with my shield.’
‘Good for you,’ said Robin. ‘So you did not need my help after all.’ He seemed indifferent, and then I saw that Reuben had given him something powerful for the pain. But the Jew looked up at me, a dozen questions in his dark eyes.
‘And I killed my servant William, too. I slit his throat from ear to ear. Also on the beach.’
That made them quiet. Both staring at me as if I were a madman. ‘He was the one who was trying to kill you,’ I said tiredly. More than anything I wanted to get to my blankets and sleep. The wine was loosening my grip on the world. I poured myself another cup. ‘He was a Peveril. He was the boy we left alive when you punished Sir John three years ago. He’s been trying to get at you more or less ever since.’
Both Reuben and Robin were stunned into silence. Then Reuben spoke: ‘That kind-hearted young servant boy?’
I stood up, finished my wine and looked directly at Robin. ‘So, my lord, you no longer have anything to fear from those quarters.’ And I turned my back on them and, ignoring the babble of questions that followed me, I stalked out of the tent and went in search of my bedroll.
Three days later we reached Jaffa. Saladin had razed the wall of the city and most of the inhabitants had fled before Richard’s victorious army. In fact, the town was in such poor repair, little more than a vast pile of rubble, that we were forced to camp in an olive grove outside the city. Ambroise had been right: Richard’s barbaric treatment of the Saracen prisoners at Acre had echoed across the Holy Land, and townsfolk would rather abandon their homes to his army than suffer siege from the victor of the Battle of Arsuf.
Ambroise pointed out exactly how clever he was when we shared a jug of local wine and a plate of figs, under a striped awning near the royal encampment. ‘He’s very fond of you, you know,’ said Ambroise, leaning forward like a conspirator, ‘the King, I mean. He thinks your music is refreshingly rustic. And he has asked me to approach you on his behalf.’ I was bemused. What could this mean? ‘Um, he knows, of course, that you serve the Earl of Locksley, and have done since, since…’ Ambroise could not think of a polite way to say ‘since he was an outlaw’ and so he just took a big sip of his wine. ‘Well, he knows, of course, that you are bound to the Earl, but certain people have been saying that you are not too happy with your place there; that there have been… words… between you and your master. And his Royal Highness wonders whether you would not prefer, or rather whether you might not consider joining his household, as a trouvere. As I say, he is fond of you, and he admires your music, and he knows that you fought well at Arsuf.’
I was struck dumb. The King of England wanted me to join his household? Me, a former cut-purse; as Robin had so rightly called me — a snot-nose thief from Nottingham? I had been asked to join the King’s company of nobles and friends. I could not think of anything to say. Ambroise, politely pretending that he could not detect my delighted confusion, went blithely on: ‘He would, of course, knight you himself. He does that with all the members of his inner circle. And there would be lands and a substantial stipend, in gold…’
It was too much to take in, and I mumbled something about thinking about it. But I could not sit still and while Ambroise chatted about other things, watching me carefully out of the side of his eye, I contemplated my glittering future as a member of the Royal familia. I would be Sir Alan Dale; Sir Alan of Westbury: Alan, the Knight of Westbury… the thought made me feel drunk.
When I left Ambroise, I was walking on air. I tottered through the olive groves, beaming like a fool, the horrors of the past few weeks forgotten, and feeling a sense of deep benevolence to all mankind. There was only one strange thing to mar the night. I had the strongest feeling that I was being followed. As I strolled along, jaunty as Robin Redbreast, out of the corner of my eye I could see a small, dark figure trailing me. But each time I turned to look, it was gone. As I walked along the course of a dry stone wall, I suddenly turned and looked and I’m sure I could make out a the shape of a woman, dressed all in black, from head to toe in the Arab-style, fifty paces behind me. I shouted: ‘Nur!’ and rushed back to the spot where the figure had stood, but there was no one there. I was staring at a shadowy field of olive trees with no trace of a soul anywhere to be seen. Was it my imagination, fuelled by Ambroise’s wine? Was she a figment of a young man’s guilty conscience? Or had she really been there? A shiver crawled down my spine.
But when I got back to the Sherwood men’s camping area, grizzled Owain brought me back to solid reality and told me that Robin wanted to see me. Still feeling uneasy about my vision of the dark Arab woman, I walked over to his tent and, announcing myself, went in.
Inside, Reuben, Little John and Robin were gathered around a map on a scroll on a small table. All the men bore the marks of battle: Robin’s wounded leg was bandaged with a fresh cloth, I could see. Reuben was hobbling around, his broken leg still splinted, and even Little John had a long, crudely stitched cut on his forehead.
I stood in front of the three of them and waited for Robin to notice me. They all stood straight, Robin released the map, which rolled up with a crisp snap, and he turned to me. Without any further delay he said: ‘We’re going home, Alan. At least I am, and so are John, Owain and most of the men. Reuben’s going to Gaza, for good. He is going to represent my interests there in the, uh, frankincense trade. But I have some family business that needs my urgent attention at Kirkton. My wife — and my son — need me there.’
He put a special emphasis on the word ‘son’ as if making a definite statement. I knew what he was saying, and it lifted my heart. He would stand by Marie-Anne and baby Hugh, he would be loyal to them, despite the disgrace and shame that others felt was his due — he was going home to be with his family, and by doing so he
