Outlaw (5 page)

Inside the hall was a scene to make the Devil blush: a big, hot, noisy communal room with a huge fireplace at one end; a haunch of venison on the spit at the fire being turned by a sweaty, grubby, half-naked boy; Robin’s men and women sprawled around the room or slumped drunkenly at a table, which was littered with the remains of their feast - broken bread, a small lake of spilled ale, piled greasy wooden platters, scraps and animal bones. In one corner of the hall a couple were mating like beasts, the girl, a redhead not much older than me, leaning with her palms against the wall, her skirts rucked up around her waist, with her paramour thrusting and grunting from behind. The noise was deafening, crimson-faced men shouting jests at each other across the table; three women were screaming at each other, waving their fists; a drunken oaf was blowing a wailing stream of pain from a set of bagpipes. The redhead being serviced in the corner suddenly turned her head and looked directly at me as I hovered in the doorway. She had huge, gorgeous eyes the colour of spring grass and she held my gaze for a few heartbeats before smiling and raising a suggestive eyebrow. Her look was like a physical blow, those mesmerising, bright green eyes and her air of cynical detachment from the heaving beast behind her, inside her. I looked away quickly, but not before I felt a disturbing and distinctly pleasurable stirring in my virgin loins.

I took a step back and averted my gaze and my eyes alighted on two men seated at a small table near the door talking quietly - an oasis of sober calm in the maelstrom of drunken tumult. It was the giant John with his back to me and Hugh, the clerk, deep in some private conversation. A man stumbled over to their table, body swaying like a young silver birch in a gale, with a full pot of ale in his fist. He leaned towards the centre of the table, pushing his face between John and Hugh and shouting something that I didn’t catch. The clerk just leaned back and John, without even rising from his seat, smashed his huge left fist across his body full into the face of the drunken man, hurling him across the room away from their table. The drunk sat down hard on the floor, and slid into oblivion. John didn’t even turn his head to see the results of his handiwork.

I heard the giant say: ‘So what does your brother want with all this? Deep in his heart, I mean,’ and he flapped an enormous arm to indicate the howling mass of boozing outlaws. Hugh shrugged. ‘It’s quite simple. He wants what all men want: to be greater than his father.’ Then he saw me hovering nervously and rose from his chair: ‘Greetings, Alan,’ he said. ‘Join us.’ He found me a stool and ushered me to the table with John. I could barely look at the giant, for fear he would smash my skull, like the drunken intruder, for my effrontery, so when a serving girl brought me a pot of ale and a cut of roast venison - meat twice in one day! - I buried my face in my food and held my tongue.

Hugh and John watched me eat for a while in silence and then, when I had nearly finished the plate, the clerk said: ‘So how do you like our little company?’ I looked at him, my mouth full of rich venison, bloody gravy running down my chin, and nodded, trying to indicate that I found the company agreeable.

‘He likes the food, at any rate,’ said John and laughed - a deep booming big-man’s laugh that seemed to shake the room. I nodded again, more vigorously, and took a great slurp of ale to wash down the meat.

‘Well, your table manners need a little polishing,’ said Hugh, ‘but you seem to know how to keep your mouth shut. It’s the most important lesson any man can learn - keep your mouth shut, and never tell on your friends. Has anyone told you your duties?’

I just stared at him, wiping my chin, and stayed mute. He continued: ‘So, you are sworn to Robert, your master - and so he will arrange for your training and education. He will also clothe, arm and feed you. Till we sort out what to do with you, you’ll be his body servant; it’s your duty to protect him, serve him meals, run errands for him - and try not to annoy him too much. Keeping your mouth shut at all times is a pretty good rule,’ he added, but not unkindly.

‘You can start by taking him some supper,’ he went on. ‘There’s a tray on the sideboard there already prepared and he’s in the chamber yonder. Off you go.’ He jerked his thumb at the dark opening of a passageway.

As I rose to leave, he added: ‘Oh, and knock before you enter his chamber. He may be . . . occupied.’

At this, John slapped the table and started roaring with laughter. Hugh frowned: ‘And don’t forget what I said about keeping your mouth shut.’

I was nettled by his last remarks - did he think I was an oaf who would barge in on his master without a by-your-leave? Who couldn’t understand a simple instruction to be silent? And what was so funny, anyway?

I collected the heavily laden tray - venison, cheese, bread, fruit and a jug of wine - from a board at the side of the hall which was sagging with good things to eat, whipping a couple of apples into my pouch, purely from habit, as I did so, and hefted it along the corridor that Hugh had indicated. It was a long corridor and, as the drunken hubbub from the hall diminished, I could clearly hear the sound of a woman singing. It grew louder as I approached and it was beautiful: the notes high and so pure, the tune flowing like an icy, crystal stream in winter, frothily cascading over rocks, the words of the song like drops of water sparkling in the sunlight, slowing to a clear stream, idling in a moss-fringed pool and then quickening, sliding elegantly along again as the pace of the music grew . . .

I stopped, put down the tray, and stood by the door to listen. It was a song I knew well, ‘The Maiden’s Song’, which my mother used to sing as she spun by the fire in our cottage in the happy days before my father was taken. My father had taught us all to sing in the style of the monks of Notre Dame in Paris, not all singing the same note but each making slightly different notes that blended together in a pleasing way. Nobody else in the village could do this and we were proud of the way our family could make this distinctive new kind of music together.

I felt a lump in my throat as ‘The Maiden’s Song’ came to an end. I felt so far from home. ‘Sing another, sing again,’ I wanted to shout but I held my tongue. Emotion was roaring around my chest. I felt very close to tears. Beyond the door there were a few murmured words of conversation and then another voice, a man’s, began: it was the old ballad ‘My Love is Beautiful as a Rose in Bloom’.

The old version of the song is not much sung these days: from time to time some fresh-faced bard comes up with a newfangled version but the original is rarely heard. The verses are sung alternately by a man and woman and the story is of a man trying to woo his lover by comparing her beauty to various objects of wonder in the natural world. I’m sure you’ve heard it. We had sung it in my family: my father taking the male part, my mother the female, but he had taught the children to sing along in a harmonious way to both parts. Listening to the man sing his verse praising the woman’s beauty made me realise, for the first time, that I would probably never see my mother again, and I was only a whisker away from sobbing out loud when the woman came in to sing her verse.

Before I knew what I was doing, I had joined in, singing the harmonies that accompany the female line as well as I could and, even with the door between us, our two voices twisted and melded together as solemn and bright and beautiful as a cathedral choir. There was a slight pause at the end of the woman’s verse, just a couple of beats longer than was usual, but then the man began to sing and I accompanied him as well. We worked through the full eight verses, carolling away in harmony, all the way to the bitter-sweet end of the ballad with half an inch of English oak between me and the couple. As the angelic notes of the final verse died away, we fell into peaceful silence for a few moments - and then the door was jerked open and there was Robin, his silver eyes shining in the candlelight. He said nothing but he was staring at me as if I were a spirit or ghost.

‘I’ve brought your supper, sir,’ I said, and I bent down to pick up the tray. And then I burst into tears.

Chapter Three

It seems incredible, now as I look back, that I had the nerve as a beardless boy to join in the private carolling of my master, the murderous outlaw Robin of Sherwood, and his lady. But I believe that my actions were inspired by God, for I know that He loves music. And, as events proved, it was one of the most important performances of my life. In fact, if I had not forced my harmonies on my master, my life would have taken an entirely different path.

I stood there, weeping like an infant on the threshold and holding out the tray of food, until Robin opened the door fully and ushered me into the room. So then I set the tray down and, drying my eyes, I looked around the candle lit chamber. Sitting on a ledge by the window was the most radiant, transcendently beautiful woman I have ever seen - and I have bedded many a lovely wench in my time. But, that night she . . . she was perfection, a living angel. She looked like paintings I have seen of Mary, the mother of God, but a little younger. She was dressed simply in a long bright blue dress, embroidered with gold thread, and a white headdress, which flowed from a silver band around her forehead, above a perfect heart-shaped face. She smiled at me and my own heart gave a lurch. Her hair, a coil of which peeped out from under her headdress, was a glossy brown, the colour of chestnuts fresh from their casings. Her eyes were innocent, happy and blue, like a cloudless summer sky.

It was a plain room, as you would expect in a farmer’s house deep in the countryside, but far grander than any I had been invited into before: a comfortable-looking four-poster bed, with the curtains tied back, and a chamber pot on the floor underneath, just showing; a table strewn with sheets of music with a bowl of fruit pushed to the back; two wooden chairs and a chest for clothes. That was it. It smelled of beeswax and warm wine, honest sweat and old wood: the smell of an old much-loved spade’s handle; and the merest whiff, a spike of scent, from the chamber pot, filled by a woman, by this gorgeous woman. I was, in that instant, drowned in love.

Compared with the homely austerity of the room, Robin seemed to be magnificently dressed. Gone was the shabby grey travelling apparel of the day; in its place - a peacock. He was resplendent in a brilliant emerald green satin tunic, buttoned at the neck and wrists, with a wolf’s head embroidered in gold and black on the chest. His long legs were clad in tight black hose and ended in pointed dark green shoes of kidskin. His hair was combed and his face and hands were clean. It was a remarkable transformation from the shaggy outlaw dispensing justice in the church.

As I cuffed away my tears, Robin poured me a goblet of wine and bade me sit in the chair at the table.

‘May I present my lady Marie-Anne, Countess of Locksley,’ he said to me. ‘And, my darling, this is Alan Dale, the son of an old friend, who has newly joined our strength.’

‘You have the voice of an angel,’ said Marie-Anne and smiled at me with those huge happy blue eyes. She was truly lovely, about eighteen, I’d have guessed, and in the full bloom of her looks. Robin drew his chair up beside her and, entwining his hand in hers, looked at me.

‘You sing just like your father,’ said Robin. ‘I thought you were he when I opened the door.’

‘You knew him well, sir?’

‘Yes, he was a good friend to me many years ago. We had many a happy evening making music together at Edwinstowe. But I could not match his skill, the way he had - that you clearly have - of pitching the notes so pleasingly to make harmony.’ He smiled at me, and then frowned. ‘But you said “knew”. Does he no longer live?’

I dropped my gaze. ‘He was hanged, sir. The sheriff’s men came . . .’ Suddenly the tears were pressing at my eyes again and I could not go on. I was determined not to cry again in front of my master, so I looked at the floor and fell silent. The silence lengthened and grew uncomfortable. I sniffed and rubbed my nose.

‘I am sorry to hear it,’ Robin said gruffly. ‘He was a fine man.’ There was another embarrassed pause. ‘Hanged on the sheriff’s orders, you say?’ I said nothing, fighting back tears. ‘And have you looked to avenge his death?’ he said, after several moments. I remained silent. He repeated his question: ‘Have you not sought vengeance?’ He sounded puzzled, irritated.

‘Robin . . .’ said Marie-Anne. ‘Can’t you see he’s upset . . .’

‘You know who ordered your father’s death, do you not? But you have done nothing against him?’ Robin’s voice now was cold. ‘Look at me, boy. Look at me.’ His voice was hard, compelling. I lifted my head. ‘A man does not snivel when a member of his family has been murdered.’ His cold silver eyes were blazing again, boring into mine. ‘A man does not cry like a babe, seeking pity from those around him for a wrong he has suffered. He takes his revenge. He makes the guilty men, the men who took that kinsman’s life, weep in pain; he makes their widows sob themselves to sleep at night. Else he is no man. You should have come to me. If you had come to me, we would have had the vengeance that his spirit cries out for.’

‘I will avenge him, sir,’ I interrupted hotly. ‘I need no man’s help in this. I swear it on the Holy Cross of Our Lord Jesus Christ.’

Robin snorted. ‘Jesus would have you turn the other cheek. The Christ would have you forgive him,’ he almost spat out the word ‘forgive’, then continued. ‘I have little time for such a womanish religion. But I believe you shall have your vengeance, if you truly seek it, and you shall have my help in this matter of honour whether you wish it or not. You are my sworn man now, loyal until death, remember? And so my enemies are yours, just as yours are mine.’

‘He’s just a boy,’ said Marie-Anne. ‘Too young for all your blood-thirsty talk. All these bold words of vengeance and calls for death.’

‘I need men-at-arms, not milksops,’ said Robin shortly, glancing at his lady. And I blushed with anger.

‘I am no milksop, sir,’ I said angrily. ‘And I will have the hides of those who killed my father. I am no warrior, it is true, but I shall become one and one day I shall dance in the blood of Sir Ralph Murdac - I shall crush him like, like . . .’ I could not think of how I would crush him, and so I stopped.