King's Man (15 page)

The Master was not one of them. ‘Silence!’ he roared, furious that anyone should have the temerity to interrupt him. His cheeks were glowing a dangerous dark red. ‘You are insolent, sir. You will not speak unless you are asked a direct question; if you interrupt me again I will have you gagged.’

Robin said nothing; he let out a long breath and stared into space above the Master’s head, smiling faintly. His expression was once more beatifically serene. Just then, as the church fell silent after the Master’s threat, Tuck let out an almighty fart, a resounding trumpet that seemed to last for several heartbeats and echo around the whole building.

‘Silence!’ screamed the Master. I noticed that his face was growing a deep purple and a vein seemed to be jumping in his forehead. ‘Who did that? I demand to know who made that disgusting noise.’

‘Forgive me, Master,’ said Tuck. ‘I had a little too much ale
with my supper last night.’ And once again, he let blow an enormous, foul-smelling eructation. ‘I humbly beg your pardon.’

At least half the people in the church were laughing now. And the Master’s face had turned an even nastier shade of puce. ‘If I hear one more inappropriate … sound … of any kind … from anyone, I shall have that person removed from this court, bound, shackled and thrown in the crypt.’

It was obvious that the Master meant what he said: his face was still beetroot but, after a while, he had calmed himself enough to resume reading the charges from the parchment. It was a long list, but mostly seemed to consist of variations on the same theme – that Robin was a heretic, a godless Christ-denier, a worshipper of demons who conjured up foul spirits from the furthermost pit. When the Master had finished reading, he fixed Robin sternly with his gaze and said formally: ‘Earl of Locksley, you now stand accused. What answer do you make to these charges?’

‘They are all lies,’ said Robin simply, in a level, reasonable voice that carried to every part of the church. ‘They are lies invented by enemies who wish to see me destroyed. I deny all of these charges. Every single one.’

The Master stared at him for a few moments, as if expecting him to say more. Then he nodded once and said: ‘Then we shall hear the evidence against you.’

Escorted to his seat by the Templar sergeant, my Lord of Locksley took his place next to me, stretched out his long legs and sat back, evidently completely at his ease.

Ralph Murdac was next to take the position at the centre of the church. He walked forward with as much dignity as he could, his left shoulder wedged up high by his ear, and stood
in front of the Master and his two wardens and made a sacred vow that he would tell only the truth this day before this court.

‘That man,’ said Murdac, flinging out an accusing finger in Robin’s direction, ‘Robert Odo, the so-called Earl of Locksley, is so steeped in heresy and sin and blasphemy of the vilest kind that he besmirches this very church with his presence.’

I had half-forgotten his slithery, lisping tones, but it brought the hairs up on the back of my neck as I heard him speak about my lord in these terms.

‘Well spoken, that man; quite true, quite true,’ croaked Prince John loudly from his cushioned nest.

The Master fixed him with his blood-streaked eyes. ‘My lord Prince, may I beseech you, keep your counsel until we have heard the evidence.’

There was no mention of binding, shackling and imprisonment in the crypt, but the Master was still clearly determined not to cede authority in his own court. Prince John merely grunted and waved a languid hand indicating that Sir Ralph Murdac should continue.

Murdac half-bowed and picked up his thread: ‘When he was an outlaw, shunned by all decent law-abiding men and living wild in the woods like an animal, Robert Odo was known to practise the most disgusting diabolic acts in pursuit of a false religion, even going so far as to sacrifice live human beings to a bloodthirsty woodland demon. Since he has been foolishly allowed back into Christian society, his lands are renowned as a nest of witches and warlocks, of succubi, incubi and foul half-human creatures from the depths of Hell – ask any good man from the area of Kirkton, or Locksley or Sheffield itself and they will confirm that the Devil and his minions are abroad on
many a dark night, in the shape of wild men with the heads of horses that breathe fire and can turn a man to stone with one look. A local witch, the Hag of Hallamshire – a hideously deformed crone who steals Christian babies to sacrifice for her dark arts – has been spotted many times in the area …’

‘Yes, yes,’ said the Master testily, ‘there are rumours of witchcraft all over England. But this man is charged with heresy. Do you have any specific evidence of heresy?’

‘I have seen these horse-demons, doubtless summoned by Locksley’s incantations, with my very own eyes,’ said Murdac proudly. ‘I saw these foul creatures ride into battle in the company of the prisoner here before us.’ Once again, Murdac threw out a finger at my master.

‘Go on,’ said the Master. There had been a ripple of interest in the church at Murdac’s accusatory words. The Bishop of London, who happened to be directly in my line of sight, was frowning and looking seriously concerned.

‘Last September, on the eve of the holy day of saints Cornelius and Cyprian, I was camped peaceably outside Kirkton Castle engaged in parley with the whorish Countess of Locksley for the return of my son from her custody’ – I stole a sideways glance at Robin but his serene expression had hardly changed, although a little smile was playing around his mouth and, oddly, that chilled me more than any amount of ranting threats – ‘when I was set upon by an army of fiends from Hell. First they caused barrow-loads of fire to fall from the Heavens, scorching my men to the bone, and then the Devil’s cavalry, led by the heresiarch, the malevolent Robert of Locksley, appeared as if by magic. These steeds of Satan – giant men with the heads of stallions on fire-breathing mounts – came to ravage my camp
and slaughter my men. It was only through Christ’s mercy, and doubtless the intercession of saints Cornelius and Cyprian, that any of us escaped with our lives.’

‘And you swear before God that you saw all this with your own eyes?’ said the Master.

‘On my honour,’ said Murdac. ‘And before Almighty God, I so swear.’

I heard Tuck give a loud disbelieving snort under his breath. Murdac stalked back to his place, evidently pleased by his performance.

‘Well spoken, that man; well spoken,’ came a royal croak from the northern quadrant of the church.

The Master whispered to one of his wardens, who made a note on a piece of parchment.

‘Bring forth the accused,’ the Master intoned. And when Robin had, once again, been brought into the centre of the circle he said: ‘What have you to say about this matter of the horse demons?’

Robin took a deep breath and rolled his shoulders slowly. ‘It is true …’ he said, and paused, and there was a collective intake of breath around the church. ‘It is true that Ralph Murdac was before my castle of Kirkton with many hundreds of armed men. Contrary to the laws of the Church and the edict of His Holiness the Pope, he was attacking my property as I was returning from the Holy Land after fighting in the name of Christendom to recover the land of Our Lord’s birth.’

There was a murmur of approval around the church. Many of the men present had fought ferociously in the Holy Land, many had lost dear comrades there; in fact, one of the principal aims of the Templar knights was the defence of Outremer.
And the Church
did
promise protection to knights and their property while they were away on pilgrimage. Robin had scored a point, and everyone in the church knew it. I saw the Bishop of London begin to relax a little; he smiled over at us, nodding his silver head.

‘When I returned from the Holy Land where Our Saviour Jesus Christ taught, much wearied by hard battle against the Saracens,’ continued Robin, shoving home his point ruthlessly, ‘I found Ralph Murdac besieging my castle. So many of my good men had fallen in the East in defence of Christ’s teachings that I found myself left with a mere fifty Christian souls capable of giving battle to my enemies. Unless I wished to surrender my family and my lands to a cur who holds the Church’s laws in contempt, I was therefore forced to resort to subterfuge, to use a low trick.

‘This man’s wild talk of fire-breathing horse-headed men is all nonsense, the babbling of a coward,’ said Robin, indicating Murdac with a flick of his left hand, but not deigning to look at him. ‘True, I rolled fire-carts into his camp; and true, my men wore sheepskin masks, painted to look like horses’ heads, to frighten his craven men-at-arms, but there was no heresy involved, and it is ridiculous to imagine that demons were summoned. We prayed to Almighty God and his only son Jesus Christ to deliver us from our enemies and by His good grace – and the strength and prowess of my men – the enemy were defeated.’

Here Robin stopped, and the Master stared at him for a few heartbeats, waiting to hear more. ‘Can you prove any of what you say?’ the Templar leader said finally.

Robin beckoned to me. ‘I call upon my loyal vassal Alan of
Westbury to bear witness to the truth of what I say. Alan took part in that action, and he is a good Christian soul who would never allow himself to become involved in anything that went against the teachings of the Church. Stand up, Alan. Come forward and speak.’

I walked as calmly as I could into the centre of the church; my legs felt soft and my belly fluttery, and I was conscious of the gaze of more than thirty pairs of noble eyes. But keeping my chin up, I stared straight at the Master, and said: ‘What the Earl of Locksley says is Gospel true. There were no horse-demons summoned; it was merely a
ruse de guerre
, a trick to make the enemy fearful of us.’

There was a rustling sound from around the church and mutterings of approval. I could feel the opinion of those gathered there turning in our favour like a great tide. The men gathered here were warriors, first and foremost, and many of them had used a cunning ruse or two to achieve victory.

‘Very well, you may both return to your seats,’ said the Master.

As we walked back to our places in the south-western quarter of the church, Tuck was beaming at us. When we took our seats, he began to utter words of congratulation, but Robin cut him off. ‘It’s not over yet, Tuck,’ my master whispered, ‘not by a long march. That was merely the first clash of swords.’

‘I call upon Sir Aymeric de St Maur to produce further evidence,’ boomed the Master, and looking to my right, I saw that, as usual, Robin was correct.

The Templar knight was standing over a wretched creature: a man, half-naked and lying on his side, his arms bound behind his back, who had been beaten and misused in the most appalling fashion. Patches of his flesh were burnt, red raw and
oozing from the hot irons – and I remembered with a shudder my own torture at the hands of Sir Ralph Murdac. But there was something else about him that troubled me even more: tattooed on the poor man’s chest, easily visible thanks to his bound arms, was a symbol in the shape of the letter Y. I knew that sign, and I knew what it meant.

My mind leapt back to an awful night in Sherwood Forest nearly four years ago and a wretch no less terrified than this man now before me – a man who was tied to an ancient stone and butchered in a demonic ceremony as a sacrifice to a pagan god – a ceremony of worship to Cernunnos, a woodland deity, a figure that the Church regarded as a foul demon. Robin had played a leading part in the ceremony, and worshipping the demon Cernunnos must certainly be viewed as heresy of the vilest kind.

Sir Aymeric de St Maur dragged the wretch to the centre of the church by his hair. And the man lay there weeping, either with pain or fear, cowering on the floor before the Master. Every man in the room seemed to crane forward to get a better look at him.

‘This villein is known as John,’ began Aymeric, speaking, as we all had until this point, in French. ‘He once belonged to the manor of Alfreton, but he killed a man and ran away from justice five years ago and took to living wild in Sherwood Forest. He became a beggar and a footpad – and a demon-worshipper, as is indicated by this mark on his chest.’

Aymeric pointed to the Y-shaped tattoo. Beside me, Robin sat up a little straighter and cocked his head to one side, observing the unfortunate villein with a speculative but still astoundingly untroubled eye.

‘We had to use a good deal of persuasion on him,’ said Aymeric, giving the prisoner a savage kick that caused the man to writhe on the floor, smearing the stone flags with his blood and burn fluids, ‘but finally he confessed to his foul deeds. And he told us a very interesting story concerning the Earl of Locksley.’

There was absolute silence in the church, not a cough, not a shuffled foot.

Sir Aymeric continued, his voice echoing in the stillness: ‘This man claims he participated in a diabolical ceremony at Easter four years ago in which a prisoner of war, a man-at-arms known as Piers in the service of Sir Ralph Murdac, then the High Sheriff of Nottinghamshire, was sacrificed to a demon called Cernunnos by a notorious local witch. During the ceremony, Robert Odo, who went by the name of Robin Hood in those days, fully took part in the bloody, heretical ritual. Indeed, he claimed that he had been possessed by the demon Cernunnos himself.’

There were gasps all around the church and every eye now fixed itself on Robin and our little group. I saw that the Bishop of London was shaking his silver head and chewing on one fingernail. He looked as if he were ready to burst into tears.

‘Is this true?’ asked the Master, addressing the wretch on the floor in English. ‘You, villein, is what Sir Aymeric says true? Did you participate in a blood-thirsty heretical ceremony worshipping a false god, in which the Earl of Locksley also played a central part?’

The tattooed man gave a little moan of fear, and stammered: ‘Oh yes, sir, please don’t hurt me. It is true, every word of it. I swear before Almighty God, and Jesus, Joseph and Mary, and all the saints, please …’

‘That’s enough!’ Aymeric reached down and cuffed the man violently around the head, and the poor wretch slumped to the floor and resumed his silent weeping.