The King’s Assassin (27 page)

‘I will forgive you the moment you release my son,’ I said, trying to remain calm. ‘I will pay the full amount as soon as I can, but only if you release him now.’

‘Alas…’ said the sheriff, ‘I’m sure you can understand my position. I know that I would sleep more easily if I knew that young Robert was snug in a cell in my own keep. Guards, you may take the prisoner away.’

‘Wait,’ I said. ‘Allow me to speak with him for a moment.’

The sheriff shrugged. As I walked towards my son, I saw that Robert was weeping freely and it was only with difficulty that I kept my own eyes dry.

‘Be strong, Robert. Be brave and patient. I will get you out of this place as soon as I can. Dry your tears, son. You know that I love you. You must be a man, for me.’

I embraced him, then held him at arm’s length to look into his face.

‘Be brave and be patient,’ I said. ‘And I swear I will fetch you home.’

But the tears were still running down his beautiful face. ‘Vixen died,’ he said. ‘She was a good dog; never hurt anybody. She fell sick and died this afternoon.’

I was not physically restrained. The sheriff’s men did not even take my weapons from me. Yet, despite my longing to cut out his cruel heart, I knew that I could make not the slightest move against the sheriff or any of his men while he held my son in his power. Our negotiations were swiftly dealt with. I agreed to pay the sheriff ten marks of silver within the week. I agreed that I would pay him another ten marks at Lammas, the festival of the harvest at the beginning of August, and the third and final payment of the thirty marks at Christmas – the sheriff’s teasing talk of fifty marks having been dismissed early in the discussions. I told the sheriff with all the firmness I could muster that I would not tolerate Robert suffering any harm or even discomfort. And if he wished to receive these payments this must be clearly understood from the beginning. I also told him, and Benedict Malet, quite calmly, that if Robert did come to any harm, I would spend my life in the pursuit of bloody vengeance on them both.

‘My dear Sir Alan,’ said the sheriff, smiling kindly at me. ‘Why should I damage your boy? You have kindly agreed to contribute to my coffers. As long as you pay what you have promised, not a hair on the boy’s head shall be harmed.’ Then his look changed, darkened: ‘But if you play me false, sir, if you miss your payments, even by one month, one week even … well, you have seen what Boot can do.’

‘Snap!’ said Benedict, clicking his fingers. ‘Oh, poor little Robert.’

I rode back to Westbury in the lengthening shadows with my soul on the rack. The only crumb of comfort I could find was the sheriff’s eagerness to acquire wealth. I believed he would spare my son while I was providing him with coin for his coffers. He would not kill the goose that laid golden eggs. But my most immediate problem was how to raise the ten marks I had promised by the end of the week. I did not have it. But I would get it somehow. The thought of Boot’s big hands around my son’s skull made me feel sick and shaky.

In the event, Robin came to my aid, as I had known he would. He sent me five marks in silver, eight hundred silver pennies in a stout leather sack. I sold two of my horses and with what I had left in my counting house … I was still a good way short of the ten marks that I had promised. My salvation came from an unexpected source.

Sir Thomas came to me as I was sitting at the long table in my hall, once again going over the rolls with Baldwin and looking for a way in which we could raise the remaining money from the estate. Without a word Thomas dumped two heavy linen sacks on the table before us. They chinked.

‘As I told you before, Sir Alan,’ Thomas said with not a hint of a self-satisfied smile. ‘I do not always lose.’

I was overwhelmed by his gesture. ‘How much is it?’ I said, lifting one of the bags and feeling the weight of the coins though the linen.

‘It is a little over two marks,’ he said. ‘And it is my gift to you.’

‘I can’t take your money, Thomas,’ I said, trying to mean it.

‘Yes, you can. And you will. I feel that I was partly to blame for Robert being deceived by the sheriff’s message. He is in my charge and if I had been here rather than in the stews of Nottingham when it came, I hope I would have seen through it. It’s my fault, and so I should make amends. Take it, my friend, with my blessing. I’d only lose it again next time, most probably.’

I was extremely moved by Thomas’s contribution and extremely relieved. It meant that I now had enough to make the first payment to Philip Marc, and the next day I returned to Nottingham to fulfil my commitment.

I did not see either the sheriff or his deputy Benedict, for which small mercy I was glad. But I paid over the moneys to the sheriff’s clerk and received a receipt for the payment. Then I demanded to see Robert.

After a good deal of argument, in which I made various threats that I could not truly back up, I was allowed by an under-sheriff, a blackguardly fellow who I had seen before in the circle of smirking mercenaries around Marc, to visit my son for a few moments to verify that he was indeed whole and hale. He was being kept in a cell in the depths of the castle, the door warded by two men-at-arms, and the corridor manned by half a dozen men-at-arms. Even the stairs leading down to the prison block were guarded by a pair of Flemish knights. With a sinking heart, I knew that even if I had the military strength, which I did not, there was absolutely no chance that I could break into the castle and free Robert by force.

However, I was relieved to see that the boy was cheerful and moderately well cared for. He had candles for light (an expense for the sheriff to bear) and a towel, water jug and a piece of lard soap for washing, and regular if rather dull food twice a day. The boy had made himself a chessboard, with squares scratched on the stone floor, and the pieces fashioned out of lumps of candle wax, and he told me that he spent the time thinking, praying and playing chess with himself, left hand against the right.

‘I am being patient and brave, Father,’ he said. ‘I know you will get me home as soon as you can.’

I was not allowed to stay with him long, but as I was departing, chivvied rudely out of the cell by the Flemish under-sheriff, Robert said something a little strange. ‘Can you give Sir Thomas a message, Father? It concerns a small matter that he and I have been arguing over for some weeks now.’

I said that I would.

‘Tell him that I have solved the inherent weakness of the hollow phalanx: each side of the square must be made up of four blocks of men, each a discreet command with their own captain, so they can open and close individually like doors to let the cavalry out without the whole of one side being left open to the enemy.’

I had no idea what he meant but I promised to deliver the message word for word. And when I did later that day at Westbury, Thomas merely said: ‘Yes, that should work, I think. He’s a smart boy, your Robert, you should be proud of him.’

Well, I was, of course, even though I had no notion, in this instance, of exactly why I should be so proud. I was also relieved that Robert was safe and being well treated. For the moment. But I had scant idea how I would be able to find the next ten marks, which would fall due on Lammas day at the beginning of August.

The late spring that year of Our Lord twelve hundred and fourteen was a fine one: days of brilliant sunshine and only the occasional shower to make the country seem fresh and alive. I was still weak and bone-thin but I set my mind to improving my body with a will. I joined Sir Thomas Blood in the courtyard every day at dawn and we exercised with sword and shield until mid-morning. Robert might be languishing in a prison cell but I had to make myself hard so that I could fight to free him. For I knew that the only chance I had of raising the money to make the next payment, and perhaps with luck to make the full payment to the sheriff, was to win riches in battle and, with God’s help, perhaps take a rich French knight prisoner. For the enormous amount of money that I needed could only come from a fat ransom.

I exercised with Sir Thomas every day. I also made sure that I ate like a wolf, taking Tilda’s advice and having meat and fish with almost every meal. My coffers might be empty but there was still plentiful game on my lands and the rivers were full of trout. To strengthen my arms I began a routine devised by Sir Thomas which involved lifting round river boulders above my head and setting them down on the ground again, before repeating the exercise over and over. Sometimes I would sit on the ground of the courtyard manoeuvring theses boulders around my body, shifting the weight from the left side to the right, and then back again. It does not sound like much but my stomach muscles ached for days afterwards and my arms burned. After a few weeks I could see the rounded swell of muscles returning to my upper arms, chest and legs, and I began to feel strong again.

I trained hard for two months with Sir Thomas and the garrison of Westbury and by the time Robin arrived in early June with nearly two hundred marching men, I was almost as fit as I had been before my illness.

My first thought when seeing this host was to gauge whether it was powerful enough to take Nottingham Castle. I said something along those lines to Robin.

‘It grieves me to tell you that I do not think so, Alan,’ said Robin. ‘There must be a thousand men-at-arms in the castle now and the sheriff’s spies are everywhere. They would be forewarned and we would fail. Then we would be outlawed – both of us – the very fate you said you wanted to avoid by making this accommodation with Philip Marc. But I will risk it if you ask it of me. For Robert and for our friendship.’

I realised then that I was being foolish. Selfish, even.

‘Is Robert well?’ asked Robin, with genuine concern in his eyes.

‘Yes, he is in good health and spirits,’ I said heavily. ‘And safe enough, I believe, for the moment. But I would have him by my side.’

‘We will make things right when we come back from the war,’ Robin said. ‘Just keep your eyes out for a plump French count or a wealthy baron or two.’

Over a cup of wine in my hall with Sir Thomas and Little John, Robin gave me the news from France: ‘Try not to fall off your stool with surprise, Alan, but it seems that the King has been victorious in Poitou.’

I managed to keep my seat but I was considerably astonished.

‘By all accounts, the King has been quite brilliant in his operations,’ Robin continued. ‘He has taken his army down the Charente and back, and across through Angoulême and the Limousin. He has quelled the Lusignans, even Geoffrey, and taken castle after castle. The local barons have surrendered to him, all of them, and begged to pay homage in exchange for keeping their lands. Most of them served him in the past, or Richard before him, or their father Henry – he is in his ancestral lands, of course, playing the hero king, the noble lord returned to claim his own.’

‘It hardly seems credible,’ I said.

‘Oh, it is true all right, I had the news from Cousin Henry in London. The bells are ringing out for victory all over the city, he informs me.’

‘Where is the King now?’

‘Having settled Poitou, he turned north in triumph; he marched straight through Anjou and has seized the castle of Ancennis on the border with Brittany. He stands poised to capture Nantes and threaten the whole of Brittany. It’s a brave and clever move: if he takes the city he will have another port as well as La Rochelle from which to resupply his growing forces.’

‘And what of Philip?’ I asked. ‘Surely he has not been idle?’

‘That is the best news of all. Philip has summoned his knights, called up the militia of Paris and the lands around and all his nobles of Burgundy, Champagne and Normandy and – we think – is making ready to march south-west to confront John. William des Roches – remember him from Normandy? He’s Philip’s seneschal now of course – well, he is trying to hold back the King. But our John has the bit between his teeth. Des Roches is outnumbered, and it seems he has been outgeneralled, too.’

I remembered William des Roches, an aggressive knight with fiery red hair who, with Robin, had been instrumental in capturing Mirabeau a decade before. He had become quickly disgusted with John and had given his allegiance to King Philip, one of many barons who had done so before the fall of Normandy.

‘Philip must march to support des Roches in the south-west,’ said Robin, ‘or send a significant part of his army to do the same – or he will lose not only Poitou but Anjou, Maine, maybe even Normandy. John, believe it or not, is actually winning!’

‘Take a stone to Fidelity’s edge, Alan,’ said Little John, ‘we’re going to war!’

My sin has been found out; my wickedness uncovered. Prior William has learnt that, against his express orders, I have been continuing with the transcription of Brother Alan’s tale. Another brother, and I shall not sully these pages with the wretch’s name, saw me writing upon my parchments, asked what I was about and informed on me to the Prior. And so our master under God summoned both Brother Alan and myself to the chapter house and in the presence of a dozen other senior monks of Newstead he pronounced his sentence.

We are both to be banished from the abbey. But first we are to do penance for our crimes. I am to be stripped and given forty lashes in the courtyard in front of all the other members of our house. It seems a harsh sentence for such a slight crime, but I must not complain. It is God’s will, after all and Prior William says I must be taught humility before I leave these precincts, so that my time here should not have been completely wasted. And I will try to be humble and accept my punishment and my fate. But I must confess I greatly fear the loss of my home and my place in the world. I do not know how I will live outside these walls. I am young, however, not yet thirty, and so there is time for me to find another path in this world. It is far, far worse for Brother Alan. He will not be beaten, at least. At his age and in his state of health, forty lashes – even four lashes – would most certainly kill him, and Prior William does not wish to have his death on his conscience. But he is to be immured in his cell for a month on bread and water, and then expelled from the monastery. And I think that may be the death of him. But even in the face of the Prior’s wrath, Brother Alan showed no fear. He stood as straight as his weak legs allowed him and damned the Prior as a coward and a bully when he heard the sentence. ‘I have survived worse prisons,’ he said. ‘And suffered under worse tyrants than you.’ Then he turned his back on William and limped back to his cell on his own two feet to begin the punishment. I know he has also sent a message to his grandson, who is also called Alan, requesting a corner of his old manor of Westbury in which to live out his last days. But he has had scant contact with his family for some years and I suspect that that relative may not look kindly on the former lord of the manor returning to his hall. God preserve him.