Outlaw (33 page)

‘Innocents murdered, you say.’ Brigid was totally calm. ‘Blasphemy, too.’ She gazed at me but her kind brown eyes now seemed harder than oak. ‘That man who was the sacrifice—’

‘His name was Piers,’ I interjected hotly.

‘The sacrifice,’ she said emphatically, refusing to acknowledge his humanity by naming him, ‘would not have been allowed to live by your master. Robert of Sherwood would have had him killed for his disloyalty. Instead, he gave him to me. And now he is with the Earth Mother, cared for by Her as lovingly as She cares for all her children, living and dead.’

‘Robin would never have taken part in that foul witchcraft, that Devil worship, but for you.’ I was almost shouting now. ‘He would have given the man a clean death and a Christian burial.’ Even as I said it, I knew I was only partially speaking the truth.

‘The Lord of the Wood is not a follower of your nailed God, Alan. He is no Christian,’ Brigid said. ‘He has the spirit of Cernunnos inside him, whether he believes it or not.’ I was shocked by her words, hearing them spoken out loud. But she spoke honestly: Robin was no Christian.

‘He’s no God-damned pagan either,’ I yelled. Brigid was as cool as a January dawn, while I knew I was behaving like a furious, impotent child. I dropped my eyes from her brown gaze and took a deep breath.

She laid a hand on my bare arm, I looked up again and she smiled at me. I could feel my temper begin to wane. ‘I think that none of us can know what another truly believes,’ she said. ‘And Robin is even more complicated than most in that way. I believe he is constantly looking for the Divine, constantly looking for God, in whatever shape or form he - or she . . .’ she smiled at me again, and I smiled ruefully back, ‘might take. And I hope that, one day, he may be successful in his quest and find true happiness.’

‘Amen,’ I said.

I slept badly, dreaming of Marie-Anne being violated by a long queue of laughing soldiers. The queue stretched all the way around the walls of Nottingham, like a snake. And then the queue indeed transformed into a real snake, a great red and black muscular reptile that tightened its coils around the castle and squeezed and squeezed until the stone fortress erupted like a penis bursting with lust, ejaculating a steam of men and women into the sky in a great hot jet . . .

Thomas awakened me an hour before dawn. I opened my eyes and stared into his hideous one-eyed face and I couldn’t suppress a start of fear. The pain in my ribs was almost gone, only a dull ache reminded me of my humiliation. ‘Better get ready,’ said Thomas, ‘we’ve a long ride ahead of us today.’

I stumbled around in the half-dark, chewing on a crust of old bread while I rooted out my aketon. I knew the thick padding of the jacket would be too warm later on in that July day, but I was prepared to suffer the discomfort of heat for the sake of extra protection. Over the aketon I strapped my sword and poniard. I put on a hood over my head and over that a bowl-shaped steel helmet that I buckled under my chin. Then I went to see about the horses.

The storms of the previous days had scrubbed the sky clear of clouds and sun was straining to rise above the treetops as we rode out of Robin’s Caves, and headed south towards Nottingham. We were fifty or so well-mounted horsemen, most of us, although not me, armed with twelve-foot ash-wood lances with Robin’s wolf’s head device fluttering just below the razor-sharp steel tip. Robin rode at our head, with Hugh just behind. At the rear of the column rode Little John, a battered ancient horned helmet on his straw-coloured head, his huge war axe strapped to his back, leading a string of pack mules laden with baggage: food, barrels of beer, extra weapons, even a few crates of the home-loving doves. I caught Will Scarlet’s eye as he rode in the centre of the body of horsemen. He grinned nervously at me. Was that the guilt of betrayal I saw in his eyes? Or was I imagining it? Did I want him to be the traitor? Tuck had not been seen for many weeks, Thomas had told me that morning when he bad me farewell; not since his argument with Robin at Easter. I prayed that it was not the big monk who was responsible for the betrayal. No, it couldn’t be Tuck. As we thudded through the forest, the hot yellow sun rising on our left flank, I wondered again if the traitor was riding among us. And whether we were all galloping blindly into a trap.

Chapter Sixteen

We did not, thank God, charge directly into Sir Ralph Murdac’s lair. Instead, Robin led us south to the fortified manor of Linden Lea, some miles outside Nottingham. The manor stood in a long valley, forested on the eastern side and with steep hillsides to the west. North of the manor house was a vast field of ripening corn. South of the manor was meadowland, with a fair-sized stream running along the bottom of the valley, following the main track to Nottingham. The stream filled the deep moat that circled the manor house and the settlement was further defended by a fifteen-foot-high palisade of stout wooden tree-trunks with sharpened ends inside the moat and surrounding the hall and its half a dozen outbuildings. Standing legs astride at the door of the hall, as our cavalcade clattered over the wooden drawbridge in the golden light of a perfect summer afternoon, was its master, Sir Richard at Lea himself.

We were given a royal welcome by Sir Richard, who had evidently been prepared for our arrival: hot meat and bread, wine and ale aplenty had been laid out on trestle tables in the courtyard. But before I had a chance either to wash the dust from my throat or grab a morsel of food, Robin called me aside for a private conversation. There were certain things he wanted me to do while it was still light, he said; chores, you might say. I was to keep what I was doing very quiet and tell no one, not even my closest companions. I was to ask him no questions; just do what I was told. Of course, I agreed and set to my tasks; but it wasn’t until dusk that I was free to scrounge around for something to eat and drink.

With everyone fed and watered, Robin summoned all fifty of us, plus Sir Richard and his servants, into the hall of the manor for a war conference. I had seen him talking to one of Hugh’s shadowy messengers before the meeting and I knew he must have fresh intelligence about Marie-Anne. When everyone was in the hall, everyone, including even the sentries, who would normally patrol the walkway behind the wooden palisade, I slipped out through a back door to complete a final task that Robin had asked me to perform. When I re-entered the hall, Robin was saying: ‘. . . and it seems that Murdac has hired a force of Flemish mercenaries, about two hundred crossbowmen and about the same number of cavalry, we believe, to help him eradicate the foul scourge of banditry in Sherwood Forest.’ There was a loud ironic cheer from the crowd of outlaws. ‘Mercifully, they are not at Nottingham yet. Our informants say that they are travelling up from Dover and they are not expected for at least a week or ten days. By the time they arrive, we’ll be long gone, safe and snug in the forest. We will never have the pleasure of their company because . . . we are going to Nottingham tomorrow night.’ His eyes glinted savagely in the light of a dozen good beeswax candles. ‘We are going to rescue my lady and we are going to bring her back here; and we will slaughter anyone who stands in our way. Anyone. Is that understood? ’ There was a roar of approval. ‘Right,’ Robin continued, ‘everybody is to rest until then. You have been allocated your quarters. Get some sleep; look to your weapons. We depart at moonrise tomorrow night. Hugh, John, Sir Richard, if I could trouble you for a minute to go over the details. You too, Alan,’ he said, beckoning me from the back of the hall.

We gathered round Robin as he spread out a roughly drawn plan of the castle on an old oak money chest. ‘She is being held in this tower, part of the wall defences, in the north-west corner of the castle. Not far from this gatehouse here.’ He stabbed a finger into the parchment. ‘Apparently Murdac wants to keep her imprisonment a secret and so she is not being held in the keep, but separately, discretely in a wall tower, guarded only by his most trusted men. And that is very good news for us. Tomorrow night we will ride up to the gatehouse dressed in Murdac’s colours - you have enough captured surcoats, Hugh?’ Hugh nodded. ‘So, we’re wearing his colours, and we claim to be Murdac’s men who have been in France for several years serving Henry, and who are now, after the King’s death, returning to our master. Understood?’

Sir Richard, Hugh and John all nodded. But I notice John looked a little worried. ‘So they let us in . . . and then what?’ the big man asked, frowning.

Robin gave him a hard stare. ‘We kill every single mother’s son in that gatehouse, as quickly and as quietly as we can. Then we scoop up Marie-Anne, and we are away before anyone notices. If the alarm is raised, we can hold that gatehouse against all comers for hours, and we only need, at most, a quarter of an hour to find Marie-Anne and get her away safely. Then, when she’s gone, we’re all in the saddle and off in as many different directions as we can think of. Rendezvous at the Caves.’

‘That’s your plan!’ said John, the scorn thick in his voice. ‘You call that a plan? Christ’s blistered fingers, it’s the worst idea I’ve heard all year. For a start . . .’

‘Hush, John, hush,’ said Robin. ‘It will work, I promise. You just have to trust me.’ John looked unconvinced, he shook his head and continued more quietly: ‘But it’s sheer lunacy . . .’

‘Just trust me, will you,’ said Robin with just a touch of iron in his voice. ‘You do trust me, don’t you, John?’ The big man shrugged, but he stayed quiet.

‘Well,’ said Sir Richard, ‘as I shall not be joining you on this . . . escapade . . . I don’t feel it’s right for me to make any comment, except to say that I wish you Godspeed. And now I will bid you goodnight.’ And with an uncertain smile he strode off in the direction of his private chamber.

‘I’ll leave the fine tuning to you, Hugh, weapons, horses, that sort of thing,’ said Robin, ‘and now I think we should all get some rest.’ John walked away shaking his big yellow head and Hugh went out to the stables to talk to one of his couriers, leaving me and Robin staring at the sketch of the castle.

Robin turned to me: ‘Want to know what we’re
really
going to do?’ He said it very quietly, but with a grin of pure devilment. ‘Me and you, Alan, are going to get our lovely girl back all on our own. And we’re going tonight, when the moon’s up. Are the horses ready?’

‘They’re hidden in the wood, as you asked.’ I couldn’t help grinning back at him. I remembered the last time Robin and I had been in Nottingham, the hilarious jaunt to steal the armourer’s key.

‘And the doves?’ Robin said, his silver eyes shining.

‘It’s all done,’ I replied happily. ‘It’s all done.’

At about midnight, when all the world was asleep, I led Robin out of the back gate of the manor and south-east towards the thick woodland where I had hidden the horses that afternoon. We were dressed for fast travel; no armour, just swords, daggers and a cloak against the chill of the night. We also took a spare saddled horse with us; if we returned at all, we would not be returning alone. Regardless of the danger, I was bursting with pride and excitement to be riding with Robin on this mission: we were two knights errant, straight from the tales of King Arthur, riding through the night to rescue a damsel in distress.

Two hours later and we were crouching in a damp ditch, up to our ankles in slimy refuse, looking up at the imposing bulk of Nottingham Castle wall and trying not to breathe. Quite apart from not wanting to make any noise, the stench of a hundred years of dumped excrement and general household rubbish in that ditch was suffocating. More than a hundred feet above us I could dimly make out the crenellations at the top of the wall. Robin gave a low whistle. Nothing happened. We waited for a few heartbeats. Robin whistled again and then suddenly I could see a head outlined against the moonlit sky and the battlements. There was a faint thump and a slither and a rope appeared, hanging from the top of the wall and knotted at one-foot intervals. Robin said: ‘Up you go,’ and I was climbing the wall like a monkey. The strain on my arms was tremendous, and my burnt ribs, though almost healed, were paining me a good deal, but there was no way I was going to admit my weakness to Robin. Finally, I made it to the top. With a great heave, I got my stomach over the wall, and a leg, and I collapsed on to the broad stone walkway, panting with effort. I heard a voice cry ‘Hey,’ and saw to my horror a man-at-arms in Murdac’s red and black livery come striding towards me, sword in hand. I struggled to my feet and fumbled for my sword hilt but, before I could draw my weapon, a dark shadow rose out of the wall, from the lee of the battlements, and a hand was clasped hard round the soldier’s mouth from behind. There was a glint of steel as the hooded figure shoved a thin blade hard into the base of the unfortunate guard’s skull. He twitched once in the dark man’s arms and then collapsed without a sound. The man threw back his hood and said: ‘Are you all right, Alan?’ and I saw it was Reuben, the Jew. I nodded, looked up and down the empty walkway and peered down into the gloom of the big castle courtyard. Everywhere was deserted. To my right was the great bulk of the castle keep, with one or two points of light showing from small windows, perhaps where a clerk sat up late over his rolls, but there was no movement. Everything was as quiet as the grave.

Moments later, Robin’s head appeared over the parapet, followed lithely by the rest of him. Reuben cleaned his bloody knife on the soldier’s surcoat and between us we rolled the dead man over the wall and down into the darkness. Robin clasped Reuben’s arm and murmured: ‘Lead on, old friend,’ and we were hurrying along the walkway and down some steps into the entrance of a small guard tower, one of dozens built into the castle’s curtain walls. Robin had his sword out, the naked blade winking in the moonlight, and I saw that Reuben had his knife in his hand, so I hastily drew my own sword, too. We plunged down a spiral staircase into the heart of the guard tower, my heart beating like a blacksmith’s hammer, the pulse banging in my ears.

Down and down we went, in pitch darkness. And suddenly I blundered into the back of Reuben, who had paused before a wooden door. By the candlelight leaking out from the cracks in the door, I could see that it was occupied. We stood there in the gloom for a few moments, listening; me trying to control my pumping heart and ragged breathing; Robin and Reuben seemingly as calm as if they were on a summer’s picnic in Sherwood. Reuben held up two fingers, indicating that there were two men inside, and Robin nodded. And waved his hand forward. Before I knew what was happening Reuben had pulled the string that lifted the latch on the wooden door and both he and Robin burst through. I followed as fast as I could but only in time to see Reuben hurling his heavy knife with extraordinary force and accuracy five yards across the room to smack into a man-at-arms who had apparently been dozing on a stool. The thick knife punched straight into the man’s chest and into his heart, and the man coughed once, twice and dropped to the floor. Robin was almost as fast as Reuben’s flying dagger; he took two quick paces forward and sliced the life out of the second soldier with a whip-like slash of his sword to the throat. There was a spray of blood and the man, who had been warming his hands by a brazier, swayed slightly for a moment or two, brimming blood from his gaping neck, and then collapsed to his knees, his face falling with an awful crunch and hiss into the glowing coals. He was clearly dead as he moved not a muscle as his blood bubbled and hissed and seethed around his scorching face.