The King’s Assassin (17 page)

Prior William went to see Brother Alan in his cell and berated him for a host of crimes, including
lèse-majesté
, treason and the sacrilege of regicide. He told Brother Alan that unless he showed the proper contrition, and did penance for it, he would burn in Hell. I know because I happened to be just outside the door of the cell with the dinner tray when it occurred and I heard every intemperate word.

However, despite Brother Alan’s advanced decrepitude, great courage yet burns within his papery, skeletal frame. He told the Prior that he would be judged for his actions on the Earth by God alone, and not by some easily outraged pipsqueak of a churchman. And Prior William near had a fit of apoplexy. He threatened to turn Brother Alan out of this House of God, tonight, to freeze his old bones in the snows – but my old scriptorium teacher would not be intimidated. He told the Prior that at his advanced age, and having lived the life that he has, he no longer feared death, even in the slightest degree – and if the Prior wished to have his ancient carcass expelled from the monastery for some episode long in the past that he knew nothing about, well, that was his privilege, but that he must thereafter look to his own conscience.

God will judge you, too, he said.

Despite this provocation, Prior William stopped short at taking this extreme step, and contented himself with damning the old man and all his works, and in forbidding me to continue with my scribblings. Brother Alan’s tale must remain untold, he thundered, until the Heavens fall and the seas turn to blood, and for my part in this disgraceful affair I am to be allowed no more than bread and water for my sustenance for one whole month.

I am a man of God, I do so long to be His obedient servant, and to serve my lord Prior to the best of my ability and with an honest heart. And so I will accept his punishment and humbly restrict myself to bread and cold water for a month. But I am a disobedient man, too, a weak and foolish fellow, for I cannot rest until I have heard the rest of Brother Alan’s tale. And so I visit my old friend in secret, when I know the Prior is in conclave with others, and when Brother Alan tells me of his deeds, I fix his words in my memory, with only a few notes on a small slate, and commit them to parchment afterwards in the privacy of my own cell.

God will no doubt judge me, too, for my wickedness.

I arrived in London the day before the ceremony in which King John would do homage for the kingdom of England to the Pope’s representative, Master Pandulf, the papal legate. I had been to St Paul’s Cathedral before, of course – what visitor to London hasn’t? – but I wanted to do a thorough reconnaissance of the cathedral and the surrounding area to get a feel for the ground.

I could not be certain where John would be at any particular time, except that it was likely that the King would spend some time greeting the gathered lords and bishops in the courtyard after the service of thanksgiving inside the cathedral – it would be dangerously rude not to acknowledge them, as many would have come from the furthest reaches of the country to witness this grave event.

As I strolled around the courtyard, which rang merrily to the sound of hammers as workmen erected a huge purple-canvas-covered wooden dais on the south-eastern side of the space where the actual ceremony of homage would take place, the enormity of what I was contemplating weighed on my mind. This man John, though a murderous coward and a treacherous snake, was God’s anointed representative on Earth. He was the King of England! The Lord God Almighty had decreed that this man should rule over all of us, and who was I to flout His law? On the other hand, if God did allow me to slay the King, then God must approve of my actions. John
was
evil, he surely deserved to die. God must know this. Mayhap the Lord of Hosts guided my steps. I was in His hands, I told myself, and took some comfort from that.

Nevertheless, I went inside the cathedral to pray for guidance and ask God if the course I had chosen truly had His blessing.

I was just getting up from my knees, when my eye was drawn to a pair of women by the shrine of St Earconwald. In truth, it was only one of the women who attracted my eye: she was tall, slender and graceful, and I could tell without even seeing her face that she was lovely. The second woman was shorter, stout and a good deal older, but both were dressed alike in white robes with a black surcoat over the top and a square black headdress. They were Cistercian nuns.

The shorter woman turned towards me; she was hanging on to the crook of the taller woman’s right arm as if she were an invalid and needed the younger woman’s support, but when she saw me and the direction of my gaze, she glared at me – a look of such ferocity that I was taken aback. The older woman immediately released her hold on the younger and turned full face to me, like a warrior facing an attacker – her countenance was leathery and square, almost manly, with a sharp hooked nose, a dark hairy shadow on her upper lip and small, brightly burning black eyes. The hatred blazed from her: if she had been a man I would have braced myself for a blow.

Then the tall woman looked directly at me for the first time and I could see that I had been right – she was almost impossibly beautiful: glossy sable hair, a pure white heart-shaped face, wide red lips and happy blue-grey eyes.

‘Greetings, Sir Alan,’ Tilda said, ‘how lovely to see you again.’

At the sound of her voice, low, rich and smoky, my stomach dissolved.

I strolled with Matilda Giffard down the long nave of St Paul’s Cathedral. Behind us walked the short, angry-looking nun – who was revealed to be Anna, Prioress of Kirklees – craning her neck forward and desperately trying to hear what was said between Matilda and myself.

Anna of Kirklees had thawed a little towards me when Tilda told her my name and that I served the Earl of Locksley. I knew that the previous earls had been generous to Kirklees and that Robin had continued the practice of patronage to that particular religious house. I asked after Godric, the outlaw Robin had sent to her, and the prioress told me that they had had to amputate a large part of his suppurating arm but they had managed to save his life. I thanked her on behalf of Robin and she managed a grim smile – but it was clear that she did not trust me with her beautiful companion and, as we walked slowly arm-in-arm down the length of the cathedral, she watched over our intercourse as a hawk watches a field mouse.

It was Tilda who suggested that we take a wander together to admire the beauty of the most famous cathedral in England and, to be honest, I was surprised by her friendliness. The last time we had met – at Kirklees Priory some ten years ago – the air had been thick with insults and imprecations. But it seemed that I had been forgiven. I asked Tilda what she was doing in London.

‘Oh, the prioress has been invited by the King to witness his homage to the Pope. All the heads of the great religious houses – bishops, abbots, priors … oh, everyone – will be coming. Anna asked me to be her travelling companion and I was happy to accede to her wishes. It is exciting, isn’t it? All the nobility of England coming here. And for such a good reason, too. I feel sure, now the Pope is our overlord, that must bring England closer to God. Don’t you agree, Alan?’

I mumbled something.

She laughed. ‘Why, Sir Alan, you seem shy all of a sudden. Surely you cannot have been thinking of our last meeting, when I behaved so abominably. You must allow me to apologise for all the vile and stupid things I said. I was angry with you over the death of my father – I was angry at the whole world in those days. But I have found true contentment now in the love of Christ. I hope we can put all that unpleasantness behind us, Alan, and be good friends again. Just like we used to be. Do you think you could be my friend?’

When a gorgeous woman gazes into your eyes and asks if they can be your good friend, I defy any red-blooded man to say no. I certainly could not. Tilda might have been a bride of Christ, but I was floundering in her lovely blue-grey stare and, I confess, my thoughts were turning in an altogether unholy direction. I’d had her – once. And, by God, nun or no, I wanted her again.

We strolled along the aisle of the nave, and enjoyed the hurly-burly of the London crowds – for St Paul’s was as much a public meeting place and market as it was a House of God – and I told Tilda what I had been doing over the past few years, my adventures in the south, and she seemed most impressed. I told her about young Robert’s progress as a squire, and about my plans for Westbury and the tower I was building there. I even told her of my tax problems with Sheriff Marc. As we reached the end of the aisle, where workmen, making a terrible din and filling the air with white dust, were engaged in the construction of another bay on the end of the nave, we turned and began to head back east towards the choir.

Tilda said: ‘I believe you have grown up, Sir Alan, all this talk of your son’s education and building works in your home – and taxes! God save us all from taxes and the sheriff’s boundless greed.’

‘You have had your own problems with these demands for money?’ I asked.

‘By Heaven, we have,’ said Tilda with a flash of anger in her eyes. ‘Robert de Percy, the sheriff of Yorkshire, is a veritable beast in human form. He and his men thunder into the priory on horseback, issue dire threats and, although we try to accommodate them as best we can, times are hard. We give them what silver we can spare and they thunder away – only to be back a few months later with a fresh demand for an even greater sum. The prioress,’ Tilda jerked her head backwards to the lady stumping along at our heels, ‘my lady Anna, is at her wits’ end. We have no more money put by; indeed, we were hoping to ask the Earl of Locksley if he would be so good as to make us a loan, just to keep the sheriff from the door.’

I was suddenly seized by a quiet rage. I thought about the ‘thieves’ who had broken into Kirkton, sheriff’s men trying to intimidate Marie-Anne; and the same violent fellows terrorising Kirklees Priory and the good and holy women there as well. I thought about Philip Marc, our Nottinghamshire sheriff, threatening to have his monster tear off my son’s head if I refused to pay. I ground my back teeth. The same story was repeated again and again, all across that land. And the source of all of this intimidation and injustice was one man – the King. The King who exhorted his sheriffs to gather increasing quantities of silver from a land already groaning under the weight of his demands.

I was now more certain than ever that the King must be removed. Once again God had answered me.

‘I dare say Robin will help you,’ I said. ‘And, as I am to dine with him today, I will mention your request and press the issue with him. But you may also find that, after tomorrow, Robert de Percy and all the other sheriffs and royal bullies will no longer be the blight on this land that they have become. I am sworn to secrecy and cannot say more,’ I said, ‘but, trust me when I say your troubles may suddenly, and very soon, be over.’ I gave her a significant look and tapped the hilt of my sword.

Tilda told me I was a courageous man, she even kissed me lightly on the cheek and said that, if ever I happened to find myself in the vicinity of Kirklees, I must be sure to visit the priory. ‘It has changed quite a bit since you were last there, Sir Alan,’ said Tilda. ‘We have extended the herb gardens to almost twice the original size. And the new infirmary – almost as big as the church and stone-built – is the wonder of the county. We do God’s healing work there…’

‘Sir Alan Dale,’ said a deep male voice behind me, ‘is that you?’

I had heard that St Paul’s was the heart of London, the place to meet people and exchange gossip. I had heard that you would hear all the news of England if you spent enough time there and would run into everyone who was anyone if you idled long enough in its precincts, but I had not seriously believed it. Yet here was another old acquaintance met by chance that same morning.

‘Sir Aymeric de St Maur, God’s blessing on you,’ I said to the tall, elderly, broad-shouldered man standing a yard away. ‘You’re in good health, I trust?’

‘As good as Our Lord and this pestilential city will allow me,’ said Sir Aymeric. ‘Yourself? You look fit, Alan – heard you were consorting with Cathars and heretics and other undesirables. But you are back, I see, and apparently unharmed.’

Despite his words, Sir Aymeric de St Maur was smiling at me. We had had a number of run-ins in the past, and he had at times been friend and foe, but I respected the man, and admired him, for all that we did on occasion end up on opposite ends of the battlefield. Indeed, I liked him and I suspected that he liked me.

‘I have heard that your many talents, my lord, have at last been recognised by your blessed brethren,’ I said. ‘I hear that you are now the Master of the English Temple and lord of all the Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ in this land. How does all that wealth and power sit with you? You seem none the worse for it.’

‘Ha! You are pleased to jest, Sir Alan. I have far less power than you might imagine and recently a lot less wealth: King John has twice this year demanded that the Knights of the Temple make generous loans to him … But enough of my tedious affairs. What brings you to London, my friend?’

‘The same as everybody, I would imagine,’ I lied, waving a hand about at the crowds of well-dressed folk wandering up and down the nave, ‘the King’s homage to the papal legate tomorrow. But let me introduce you to my companions…’

The meeting dissolved into pleasantries. Sir Aymeric was courteous to the two Cistercian ladies, praising the healing work of Kirklees, but he seemed rather too distracted to give them their proper due. Eventually, when he was about to take his leave of us, he drew me aside.

‘Would you give my lord of Locksley a private message from me, Sir Alan,’ he said, looking grave. I agreed, and he said this: ‘Tell Locksley that I wish to speak to him while he is in London about a most urgent matter. If he would care to call by the Temple at his earliest convenience, I would be most grateful. And be sure to tell him this – it would be to his great disadvantage to make it later rather than sooner.’