The King’s Assassin (39 page)

‘I don’t think it is one of your sons.’

‘Who then?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said, but I could not meet his gaze.

And there we left it.

We settled in easily at Kirkton. Thomas continued his training of Robert with sword and shield; Miles and Hugh, who had both been close to my son since his earliest days, joined them in their lessons, and when the training was done for the day, the three boys would slip out of the castle to roam the lands of my lord. They would return at nightfall, muddy and laughing, with Robert nearly dead with tiredness. I did not enquire too closely what their exploits were on these youthful excursions, but I trusted Robin’s sons – well, Hugh, at least – not to lead my boy into too much danger.

After a few weeks at Kirkton, I took Robert off on an expedition of my own. We headed north, just the two of us, on a golden September morning.

‘Have you ever thought what it might be like to have a lady living at Westbury,’ I said casually, as we trotted along through the vast bosomy landscape of the dales.

‘You wish to marry again, Father?’ said my son.

‘Maybe … maybe. We shall see. What would you say if I did?’

‘I would not mind. If the lady were of the right sort.’

‘And what sort would that be?’

‘I would like her to be true. She must be pretty and kind and jolly – all those things – but I would like her best if she loved you and me and Westbury and our life there above all else. I would like her to love all of us with all her heart with a love that would last for ever and never fade. She must be one who would never leave, never waver in her steadfastness, always be there no matter what the weather or what assails us, in poverty or in wealth, war or peace. I would like her to be true.’

We were heading, of course, towards Kirklees. I had taken it into my head that Robert should be introduced to Tilda. I had not set my mind on asking her, once again, if she would be my wife. But I confess it was in my thoughts. I missed the comforts of a woman in my bed and while I knew that Tilda had her faults, I wanted her nonetheless; I wanted her more than I liked to admit. Each time I recalled our one coupling, usually late at night in bed, it set my loins afire. I could clearly imagine her at Westbury, caring for Robert and me, running the manor calmly and efficiently, offering love, warmth and good counsel. Much of the time Westbury was little more than an armed camp. I wanted it to be a home. Moreover, I had been conscious in recent weeks that if something were to happen to me, Robert would be all alone: though I knew Robin and Thomas would protect him, and their rough male company would be vitally important for his growth into manhood, I knew that he also needed to have a woman in his life.

About a mile or two outside the priory, we stopped at a tavern in Kirkburton to take a cup of ale and so that Robert and I might change our clothes into something less travel-stained as befits a visit to a lady. I was about to remount my horse and travel the last few miles to our destination, when I heard the drumming of horses’ hooves on the road. As I stood holding our animals’ heads, a cavalcade of horsemen thundered past, heading south away from the priory. I blessed my luck that my hat was pulled low and that Robert was at the back of the tavern using the latrine, for the face I glimpsed at the head of the pack of a dozen Nottinghamshire men-at-arms was the bloated visage of Benedict Malet.

A wave of cold fury washed over me, I found that I was actually trembling, gripping the hilt of Fidelity so hard that I felt my knuckles were likely to spilt the skin. For apart from the shock of seeing a man who had so recently threatened not only my life but my son’s, it also seemed plain to me that Benedict Malet could only have been coming from one place.

Robert and I waited in the cloister of Kirklees Priory for what seemed an age. Finally Tilda appeared, sweeping in in her black-and-white habit, her normally pure white face a little flushed. ‘Sir Alan, what a great pleasure to see you again,’ she said, kissing me. ‘And this must be Robert – such a good-looking boy!’

Robert began to make his bow, but Tilda seized him by the shoulders and kissed him robustly on both cheeks. ‘My dear, you must forgive my impetuosity, but you are the very spitting image of your handsome father,’ she said, smiling at the boy. ‘The very model of a dashing squire. You will break all the ladies’ hearts when you are older. What joy it gives me to meet you. Sir Alan has told me so much about you.’

Robert was wearing a pair of black silk hose and a scarlet velvet tunic that Miles had outgrown, his hair was freshly cut, his face and hands clean, and he did indeed look fine that day. I noticed with satisfaction that my son blushed and hung his head shyly at the womanly attention he was being given.

Matilda herself looked if anything even more beautiful than ever. The roses in her pale cheeks made her blue-grey eyes seem especially lively, her wide lips were red as blood. And each time she gazed into my face, I felt my heart give a little flip.

‘I hope we are not taking up too much of your valuable time, my dear,’ I said.

‘Not at all, I was engaged in the herb garden just now, trimming back the summer growth, but life is so dull here at Kirklees. We mostly pray and work, pray and work; it is a refreshing treat to have a pair of dashing gentlemen pay us a visit.’

‘Have you not already received visitors today?’ I said.

‘Why no, Sir Alan,’ said Tilda, and she glanced low and to her left. ‘We live quietly here at Kirklees.’

A trickle of ice-water chilled the inside of my belly. Tilda was lying to me.

‘Have you not this day received a visit from Sir Benedict Malet?’ I said.

Tilda looked directly at me. Something dark moved beneath the surface of her blue eyes. She did not reply to my question. Instead, she clapped her hands sharply and a novice nun appeared instantly on the far side of the cloister.

‘Martha,’ she said to the girl. ‘Would you be kind enough to take the young gentleman to the kitchens. I think there are some of those wonderful honey cakes left. And perhaps afterwards he would like to see our famous herb garden.’

I was reminded that Tilda was the sub-prioress, a woman of consequence within these walls. The novice trotted over to us and curtseyed prettily and, after a quick glance at me to see he had my permission, Robert followed her out of the cloister.

Tilda and I stood in silence for a while, my question still hanging in the air.

‘I hope you are not going to be disagreeable, Sir Alan,’ said Tilda eventually. ‘But if you must know, yes, Sir Benedict did pay me a brief visit today. I did not mention it because I know that you and he are not the best of friends.’

‘The man tried to kill me not two weeks ago; he threatened to kill Robert too.’

‘Some misunderstanding, I expect—’

‘It was no misunderstanding, by God. That man is a murderous wretch—’

‘If you are going to bellow at me as if I were one of your rowdy men-at-arms, I shall have to ask you to leave,’ said Tilda sharply.

I apologised, biting back the hot words that came rushing to my lips. Don’t be a fool, Alan, I told myself. Do not make a fool of yourself again in front of her.

She gathered her calm. ‘Sir Benedict is my friend and he has been one as long as you, Alan. I think I have the right to see whomever I choose.’

She was right, she did. For much as I hated to admit it, I was already thinking of her as mine. She most definitely was not – at least, not yet. And although I could not bear her to spend any time with Benedict, I knew that I must not make the same mistake that I had made all those years ago and try to force her to bend to my will.

‘Forgive me,’ I said. ‘I do not wish to quarrel. You must see whomever you wish to. Although I wish it were not him. Now, tell me how you have been,’ I said, smiling at her lovingly. ‘Are you well? How is life at Kirklees? Does it suit you?’

I spent a pleasant hour with Tilda, talking of her life as a bride of Christ. She liked it on the whole, she said, and she felt her life had meaning in the service of God. But she admitted that sometimes she longed for male company, for the freedom of the lay life and a break from the grind of religious duties. And I was privately encouraged by these words. I told her of the battle of Bouvines and the death of Little John and she seemed genuinely grieved by the loss of my friend. She asked after Robin and asked me to thank him for his many kindnesses to Kirklees. Eventually, I took my leave of her and she sent a servant to fetch Robert from the herb garden.

As she kissed me goodbye, I felt a strong urge, almost overpowering, to ask her to be my wife – indeed, I found it hard to tear myself away from her side – yet I restrained myself. There was no hurry, I said to myself, we would visit a few more times, Robert and I, and I would let the two of them get to know each other better. And then I would make my move.

As we rode home I asked Robert what he thought of Tilda. He was quiet for an uncomfortably long time, and then he said: ‘I think she is truly beautiful, Father. I can see why you admire her so much. A very pretty lady.’

I was about to ask him more when he said: ‘One thing is strange about their herb garden, Father. For a place where they grow supposedly healing herbs, there seemed to be a great many plants that are poisonous in the beds there. Martha warned me not to touch a good three or four of them: foxgloves, giant hogweed, several different types of nightshade…’

‘They use them to cure people,’ I said. ‘They are famous for it. A tiny bit of poison can fight off the morbid humours efficiently, I believe. They certainly managed to cure me of my lung disease. If you like, I will ask someone to explain it to you who knows more about it than I. Or you could ask Tilda when we next visit.’

All that autumn, Robin was as busy as a honey bee, travelling the country, criss-crossing England to visit and talk to every man of even the slightest rank. He rode from knights’ manors to grand castles from Kendal to Kent, from Whitby to Wales and back again – and, most of the time, I went with him. Indeed, we were so busy that I found I did not have time to visit Tilda again that year as I had promised Robert.

Everywhere we went, Robin spoke with the landholder about kingship and the law of the land, about King John and what might be done to curb his excesses. He spoke about taxation and the cause of justice for all and about the ancient laws and customs of England. He was tireless. Indeed, I sometimes wished he had taken the pace a little more easily, for after two months of ceaseless travel I was longing to return to Kirkton and take my ease for a few days. However, in mid-November, I found myself with my lord and a dozen men-at-arms as our escort, who were just as exhausted as I was, outside the walls of Alnwick Castle, walking our horses through the drizzle in the green pastures where my lords Fitzwalter and de Vesci had seduced me into their murderous designs. After so many weeks of consultations with lesser men, Robin had come at last to call on the two most powerful and influential leaders of the opposition to King’s rule.

We were ushered into Alnwick Castle and straight into the great hall – an enormous room with a vast hearth in the centre of the space. A bonfire of half tree-trunks burnt in the hearth and the damp was further dispelled with a pair of yard-wide braziers at either end of the long room. Yet it was still uncomfortably cold and neither Robin nor I removed our cloaks or gloves as we were handed cups of hot spiced wine to sip by the castle servants.

As we waited, standing by the oversized hearth, sipping our warm wine and allowing our rain-sodden clothes to steam, I thought about the last time I had been here and the foolish risk that I had been induced to take by the two men we were about to encounter. I do not know if it was the hot wine hitting my empty stomach or just that I had been dwelling on injustice with Robin for so many weeks, but I felt a strong surge of anger against these men. I had been used, bent to their purposes and then discarded when things had gone wrong. I had been a fool but they had taken advantage of my good nature. Something of my thoughts must have shown on my face, for Robin frowned at me over his cup.

‘Should I have left you behind?’ he said.

‘No, my lord.’

‘You must be calm, Alan. Whatever is between you and Fitzwalter and de Vesci, you must forget it. We need them now. Only they can deliver the forces we need to accomplish our task. They have the men, we do not. If they once used you, console yourself with the thought that we are now using them – and for a far more noble purpose. Do not let your anger get the better of you, I beg you.’

‘No, my lord,’ I said.

Robin still did not look happy. ‘Perhaps it would be better if I were to do all the talking. Be a good fellow, Alan, and just stay mute for the time being, will you.’

‘As you wish, my lord,’ I said.

‘Ah, it is my lord of Locksley and the redoubtable Sir Alan Dale,’ said a voice. We turned to see Robert Fitzwalter striding down the hall towards us, smiling in greeting.

Beside him walked Eustace de Vesci, who said rather coldly: ‘What a pleasure to finally have you pay us a visit, Lord Locksley. We hear you have been making a good number of visits recently. Here, there, everywhere, we are told, whispering in corners, meetings in secret. I wonder you find the time to come to Alnwick – and you have brought Sir Alan with you. A double pleasure.’

‘The pleasure is all ours,’ Robin said. ‘And when it comes to whispering in corners and plotting dark deeds, I would say that you are at least my equal in that field. However, I am glad that you should have heard of our journeyings, for it will give you some idea of what we are hoping to discuss with you.’

De Vesci scowled. He opened his mouth to say something.

‘Gentlemen, gentlemen,’ said Lord Fitzwalter, ‘there will be plenty of time for discussion later: first, I insist, let us have some food, some wine, a little music, perhaps.’ He clapped his hands and a dozen servants rushed into the hall and began laying a long table with plates and cutlery, baskets of bread and flagons of wine.

We ate pheasant and fresh trout and exchanged platitudes while a handless lout standing in a corner of the hall sawed away on a cheap vielle and murdered some better-known pieces of the
trouvère
’s art – none of them mine, I was relieved to hear.