The King’s Assassin (23 page)

Tilda stepped off her horse and immediately came over to greet me.

‘Why, Sir Alan,’ she said, ‘you look so pale.’ She grasped my hands in her warm ones. ‘And you’re so thin. What ails you?’

I began to tell her of my long illness and her eyes clouded with worry.

‘But you are well again now?’ she asked.

‘Welcome home, my dear,’ said Anna, from my shoulder. ‘The sisters and I – we have all missed you.’ And there was something about the older woman’s voice that made me turn and look at her. Her face was flushed, her eyes were glittering as if she were containing a rage that was on the verge of being unleashed.

‘Mother Anna, how wonderful it is to be home again,’ said Tilda flashing her beautiful smile at the older woman. ‘I am so happy to see you.’

She turned her beam on me: ‘And to see you again, too, Sir Alan.’

‘Sir Alan and his men are leaving, Tilda, so I am afraid you must bid him farewell. He doubtless has many affairs at home that he would like to attend to.’

I was about to say that I would be happy to spend more time at the priory, recovering my strength, when I caught the prioress’s red-hot glare and stopped.

‘Sir Alan, you cannot leave until I have given you something,’ said Tilda. ‘Do say you will not go until I have had time to fetch it. I will not be long! Do wait!’

She rushed away into the chapter house without another word.

The prioress leaned into me and said quietly but with an air of finality that brooked no arguments. ‘Sir Alan, I think it is high time that you left us.’

She tried for a friendly smile, but the fixity of her face made the expression a hideous grimace. ‘Having the presence of your young men here at Kirklees has caused some disruption among the younger sisters, and I would be most grateful now that you are well if you would take them from our precincts. I’m sure you understand. It has been a pleasure having you as our guest – but it is time to go.’

There was not much I could say to that. I was being ejected. While we waited in silence, I fiddled unnecessarily with the buckles on my saddle, scratched my head and patted my horse’s neck. By God Tilda was taking an age!

I remarked on the weather to the prioress. It was, I said, very spring-like.

‘It is spring, Sir Alan. Doubtless in your delirium you have failed to notice it.’

I could think of nothing further to say and ordered my men to mount up, before climbing a little stiffly into the saddle myself.

At last, Tilda emerged from the priory’s main door. She was holding an object wrapped in a length of linen cloth. It was something hot. I could see wisps of steam leaking between the folds of the covering.

‘To help you regain your strength, Sir Alan. You must eat plenty of meat, as much as you possibly can. This pasty is filled with good fat pork and healing spices – and has just come out of the cookhouse oven. Eat it all up and you will soon be as strong and brave as ever.’

I thanked Tilda for her gift and shoved it into the saddlebag. Now I too was eager to be away. The prioress’s glare was making my spine itch. So, giving a wave to all the nuns, and myself giving Tilda what I hoped was a meaningful look of love, the three of us took our horses in hand and galloped out of the priory gates.

On leaving the priory, I rode south directly to Robin’s castle, pausing only twice to attend to calls of nature, for my body was still weak and my bowels were in a fearfully loose state. It was a journey of perhaps a little under twenty miles, a gentle day’s ride when I was fully fit, but I arrived at Kirkton feeling almost as wretched and fatigued as I had been when I left Westbury. I slid off my horse and stumbled into Miles, who had come out to greet me.

‘Drunk, Sir Alan? At this time of day? I like a cup or two of wine myself, it cannot be denied, but never when I’m out riding.’

I growled a curse at the boy, pretended to cuff his head – then hugged him. It was a pleasure to see the cheeky imp, if the truth be told, and his handsome, cheerful face was tonic to my soul.

‘I’m here for the night, Miles, and two men-at-arms – you’d better tell your father to deck the halls with garlands of roses and prepare the fatted calf,’ I said.

‘He’s out with the troops on exercise – but he’ll be back at nightfall, I’m fairly sure. I’ll tell Mother you’re here.’

Marie-Anne greeted me in the hall and, sensing my weakness, immediately guided me to Robin’s chair – a vast throne-like object that would have suited a king more than a moderately wealthy northern earl. She sat down in the only slightly smaller one beside it. I was grateful to be seated, though, and happy to talk to one of my favourite women in the world over a cup of wine. I told her about my illness and how I had been cured at Kirklees. I may have mentioned Tilda’s name once or twice.

‘Oh, Alan,’ she said, ‘surely you are not getting any ideas about that one.’

I told her I did not know what she could possibly be talking about. But I felt my cheeks glow red anyway.

‘She is a bride of Christ – not for the touch of lustful man,’ my lady reminded me sternly. ‘And after what happened last time when you asked her to marry you, you can’t be making the same mistake again?’

‘Matilda and I are just friends,’ I said stiffly. ‘We share a mutual fondness and regard for each other, nothing more.’ I shifted uncomfortably in Robin’s hard chair. ‘I would never encourage her to break her sacred vows of chastity,’ I lied.

‘Hmm,’ said Marie-Anne. ‘Kirklees is not so far away from Kirkton, and you know, Alan, I hear strange things from there. I hear that among the sisters, at least, chastity is not as strictly enforced, nor as highly valued, as discretion.’

I looked at her blankly. It was Marie-Anne’s turn to blush.

‘Never mind about that, Alan. My advice would be to put Tilda from your mind. She is far too beautiful – dangerously beautiful. Find yourself a nice, plain country girl. A good soul, hard-working. It doesn’t need to be anybody grand. Take her to your bed, get married, have another child. It would do you good.’

I did not much care for the thought of some plain-faced country besom. She would be all rough hands, meaty thighs and ale-breath – and would likely get with child as quick as a wink and seek to claim the lord of Westbury as her husband.

Mercifully, our frank discussion was interrupted at that point by the arrival of Robin. He strode in, mud-bespattered and glowing with health, and cried out a merry greeting to me before pouring himself a cup of ale from the sideboard and downing the drink in one gulp.

‘You are up and about, then, Alan,’ said my lord. ‘And clearly feeling strong enough to try and usurp my place.’

I realised then that I was sitting in Robin’s throne next to his beautiful wife. I levered myself to my feet, apologising profusely.

‘Sit down, Alan, I am only teasing. Sit down before you fall down. You look as if a strong puff of wind could carry you away.’

We shared an amiable supper together: Robin, Marie-Anne, Miles and Little John. Wine and laughter, good company and good food. Robin and Little John between them related how their preparations for the war were proceeding.

‘We’ve got but a handful of cavalry,’ Robin said. ‘Twenty men, is all, and very few of them proper knights. I can’t afford the extra horses and armour, to be honest. Some of the troopers are just men-at-arms learning to ride for the first time. But I am trying to get them into some sort of shape. We go out most days and practise our manoeuvres. But they are still quite raw.’

He turned to Miles. ‘And where were you at reveille this morning? I checked your bed and you hadn’t slept in it.’

‘Ah, I had some business in Sheffield last night and I stopped there with, ah, a friend.’

‘And which friend was that?’ said Robin, looking at his son.

‘I would be most shocked if you knew her, Father,’ said Miles with a grin.

There was a short silence. Then Little John made a strangled snorting noise, a badly smothered guffaw.

‘When we go out on troop exercise,’ said Robin, ‘I expect you to be present, correctly armoured and stone-cold sober. You’re supposed to be a file leader, you’re supposed to be setting an example to the other men. How do you expect men to follow you if you cannot be bothered to show your face at training? Next time, you will be there when you are called. Is that clear? Whether you have some unsavoury “business” in Sheffield or not.’

‘Yes, Father,’ Miles was outwardly meek. But I caught him giving Little John a sly wink when Robin’s head was turned away.

‘Is that it?’ I asked. ‘Twenty half-trained cavalry? It’s not much of an army.’

Little John said: ‘It’s hardly worth counting the cavalry. But luckily we do have sixty archers, good men, old hands – you’ll know a fair few of them from Damme and elsewhere; and I’ve got a hundred and twenty well-trained footmen, half of them armed with Robert’s poleaxes, the other half with wicked long pikes.’

‘That’s more like it,’ I said. ‘The war really is on, then?’

‘The King left for La Rochelle last month with a respectable force,’ said Robin. ‘A few of the barons went with him out of loyalty, and a large number of poor knights from the shires went, too, looking to make their fortune in ransoms. For our part, we’re supposed to be ready by June. The Earl of Salisbury’s taking us to Calais and there we are to link up with the dukes of Brabant and Lorraine, the counts of Flanders and Boulogne, and a strong German contingent under the King’s nephew, Emperor Otto. If you want to know what all the tax silver John has collected has been spent on, it has gone to these princes. For months, years even, treasure has been pouring into Boulogne, Flanders, Lorraine and Brabant – and even into the Holy Roman Emperor’s coffers – to ensure that they will join us in this fight against Philip. You know the overall strategy, of course?’

I nodded. ‘It’s the same as in the old days, isn’t it? We squeeze Philip between two forces, one coming from the north, the men of the Low Countries and us, and the King coming in from the south-west from Poitou and Anjou. It’s Richard’s old plan.’

‘Exactly,’ said Robin. ‘It all depends on King John doing his part in the west. If he can succeed in dividing Philip’s forces, drawing at least half on to him, we can crash through from the north – maybe even take Paris. But I promise you this, Alan, if the King fails to rally support in Poitou, if he fails to win his battles, we will not be boarding those ships to Calais. If the King fails, and we are advancing down from the Low Countries, we will face the full might of Philip of France as he comes surging north. And that, my friend, will be the end of us all.’

‘So all will depend on the courage and competence of King John as a warrior?’ I said. ‘How could
that
possibly go wrong?’

Robin looked less than amused. ‘If the King fails, we will not sail, Alan, I promise you. We will not leave these shores.’

The next morning I found myself in the courtyard of Kirkton just after dawn with a poleaxe in my hand and Little John excitedly demonstrating the blows, blocks and parries. The poleaxe felt as heavy as if the entire eight-foot length were crafted from iron, but I was determined not to show John my weakness. I had just, after several attempts, managed to complete a mimed hooking-and-stabbing manoeuvre to John’s satisfaction, when we were interrupted by a rider, travel-stained and brimming with urgency, who rode into the castle and demanded to see Robin.

Half an hour later, I learnt the news: ‘I’ve had a troubling message, Alan, from Cousin Henry in London,’ Robin told me. ‘The King has sent word to all his sheriffs that they are to double their efforts to raise money from all the shires.’

‘The King needs more money – already?’ I said.

‘Yes, he has succeeded in bribing the Lusignans to come over to his side – all of them except Geoffrey, who hates him more than he loves money. The campaign is going well, apparently: he has taken Milécu, a small castle but a tough one near La Rochelle, and the Poitevin barons are now flocking in to do homage to him. But, I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Alan, the bad news is that your friend Philip Marc has boasted that he will raise an extra thousand pounds from Nottinghamshire alone by the summer to send to the King.’

I froze. To be honest, I had put the sheriff of Nottinghamshire and his threats to the back of my mind in recent months. Now my stomach felt like a hollow wine keg. A horrible premonition was forming in my mind.

‘I have to go,’ I said. ‘I have to get back to Westbury immediately.’ And without waiting for Robin’s permission, I rushed out of the hall and went to find my two men. We were packed and saddled in no time, and as we sat on our horses before the gate, I bawled to the gate guards to open it and allow us out.

‘My lord says no,’ said the gatekeeper, looking up at me sullenly from where he stood holding my horse’s head.

‘Open the gate, man, and don’t play the fool,’ I said.

‘I have orders from the earl not to allow you to leave, Sir Alan,’ said this oaf.

‘What! I must be away. Open the damn gate or it will be the worse for you.’

‘All in good time, Alan, all in good time,’ said a voice from behind me.

I turned in the saddle and saw Robin emerging from the hall in full mail, clad in iron links from head to toe. And behind him was Little John in an iron hauberk, with a long poleaxe in his right hand, and a stout kite-shaped shield in his left.

‘You are far too old to be this impetuous, Alan,’ said Robin.

I glowered at him. ‘Open the gate, Robin,’ I said, now beginning to warm with anger. ‘Tell your men to open it now.’

‘Did you really think I would let you go off to battle the sheriff of Nottinghamshire all on your own? Look at you – still weak as a kitten. You haven’t even got a shield.’

‘I’ll manage well enough,’ I said gruffly.

‘If there is going to be a good fight, Alan, it’s not fair for you to hog all the fun,’ said Little John. ‘Don’t be so selfish!’

He handed the big, kite-shaped shield up to me.

‘We’re coming with you,’ said Robin.

Robin took his whole troop of cavalry with him when we rode south for Westbury a quarter of an hour later, along with Miles and Little John. He said it would be a good field exercise for everyone, and indeed, he set them on a battle routine, riding in a double column with scouts on each flank and a pair of riders before and behind. They did not seem such bad soldiers to me, although some were clearly still uncomfortable in the saddle, and I had yet to see how they fared in a battle.