King's Man (46 page)

I goggled at my sovereign, my knees folded under me, and while the King dismounted, I stared at him, and watched while he beckoned over a household knight who handed him a package wrapped in black silk.

‘Give me your sword,’ said the King. He stood looming over me, tall and proud, the spring sunlight glinting off his red and gold hair. I fumbled with my plain sword hilt, but just then young Thomas ran forward out of the crowd and held out Rix’s beautiful blade. I noticed that my hard-working squire had somehow found the time to clean the blood and filth from it.

The King took the weapon from Thomas and admired it for a moment. ‘A fine blade, and worthy of you, Blondel,’ he said quietly. He looked at the word engraved in gold on the shining blade. It read ‘Fidelity’. The King nodded and said: ‘And a most fitting inscription!’ Then quickly, smoothly, he tapped me three times on the shoulders with the sword, and said: ‘In the name of Almighty God and St George, I make thee a knight. Arise, Sir Alan of Westbury.’

My heart was so full that I felt it must burst with joy. I climbed to my feet, and the King handed me Rix’s blade – my blade – and then he passed me the black silk package. A breath of wind caught the flimsy covering, blowing it back, and I saw that it contained a fine pair of ornate silver spurs – their value being, I guessed, about one pound. It did not now seem such a paltry sum.

‘Sir Alan of Westbury,’ the King said, and then stopped. ‘That is not right – Westbury is too small a fief for a man of your quality … but we shall attend to that presently. Sir Alan of Westbury, may you always serve God, protect the weak, and fulfil your knightly duties as well as you have served me.’

And he smiled at me again, and I had to blink away the hot tears that were filling my eyes, as my King remounted his horse and, quietly humming a snatch of ‘My Joy Summons Me’ under his breath, he rode away.

On a crisp, clear day in the first week of April, in a green field outside what remained of the burnt-out castle of Kirkton, I became betrothed to Godifa, daughter of Thangbrand of Sherwood. It was one of the happiest moments of my long life – even now, forty years later, the memory of that glorious day
warms my old bones. Goody wore a simple gown in blue – the colour of purity – and a white veil. Her plain dress was adorned with a great ruby hanging from a golden chain around her neck. I had been persuaded by Marie-Anne to spend some silver on a new suit of clothes – hose, tunic, hat and mantle – all dyed a deep rich purple-red, and embroidered with wonderful spidery black needlework: I felt like a prince of the royal blood.

I gave Goody a golden ring, engraved with both of our names, and she gave me one of the detachable sleeves from her blue dress as a token, and we both made a solemn oath, similar to the marriage vow but talking of the future: ‘I will take you to be my wife,’ I said to Goody, and smiled into her lovely violet eyes, and she too vowed that she would soon be mine.

Father Tuck bound our right hands together with a silken rope as a sign of our intention to marry, and then he held a solemn Mass to celebrate the event and to ask Almighty God to bless our lives together. Marie-Anne, as Goody’s guardian, was insistent that we do the correct thing, even though Goody had almost no property to speak of, and the Countess had me sign a document of betrothal that gave a formal status to the engagement.

It was a happy day: Robin had had the great hall of Kirkton swiftly rebuilt during the past month, and while the rest of the castle was still scarred by the fire that had destroyed it, at least we had somewhere to hold the betrothal feast. And Robin had determined that it should be a lavish affair with more than fifty honoured guests, friends of his and mine from across the country – and hundreds of people from the surrounding villages, and from all over Sherwood, were invited too to partake of
the festivities in the open air. He ordered twenty oxen to be slaughtered and roasted for the village folk; and a dozen of the King’s venison appeared from somewhere, nobody liked to ask where, to be added to the tables set up in the fields around Kirkton that were already groaning with pigeon pies and lamprey stews, big bowls of sweet frumenty, whole round yellow cheeses and warm loaves of fresh bread, and fruit and puddings and leafy sallets. Ale was served by the tun, a constant stream of foaming flagons was relayed by Robin’s servants to the long tables set out on the grass, and fine wines too were freely poured for the chosen guests who were dining in the newly rebuilt hall.

I was much impressed by Robin’s generosity – but I also knew that he could well afford it. After the siege of Nottingham, the King had granted him a slew of lands and honours in Normandy and England that made him one of the most powerful men in both the Duchy and at home. He no longer needed the income that his frankincense trade had brought him; his loyalty to the King in the dark times of his imprisonment had paid a far richer dividend. And I could not complain either: the King had been as good as his word when he said that Westbury was too mean a fief for a man of my quality. I had been given Burford, Stroud and Edington – the manors that Prince John had granted me, and then stripped away when I was exposed as Robin’s spy. Richard also made me the lord of Clermont-sur-Andelle, a large and potentially very rich manor to the east of Rouen in Normandy. Sir Alan Dale now had sufficient lands, on either side of the English Channel, to support the dignity of his new rank.

To mark the occasion of my betrothal, Robin had presented
me with a full suit of finest chain-mail armour: full mail leggings or chausses that would guard me from thigh to toe, a knee-length mail coat, split front and back for ease of riding, with full armoured sleeves and mittens, and a head-covering mail coif attached – it was a very costly gift, and one that would, he said, keep me a good deal safer in battle than my battered old hauberk. Marie-Anne gave me a horse: and not just any horse – a destrier, a warhorse, tall, fierce and jet-black and trained for battle. ‘He is called Shaitan,’ Marie-Anne told me when we admired him in the horse corral behind the castle, ‘which I believe is the Saracen word for the Devil. He is certainly full of sin.’ Then she looked at the stallion doubtfully. ‘You will be careful on him, Alan, won’t you? He looks as if he would like to eat you for breakfast, given half a chance.’

But I was barely listening: I was entranced by Shaitan – you might say I had already given him my soul. The dark horse looked at me with his tarry eyes, and I looked at him, and we seemed to come to some sort of understanding. ‘We will do great things together, Shaitan,’ I said, feeding him a dried apple from my pouch and extending my hand to stroke his long black nose. And he submitted to my caresses with only a slight baring of his big yellow teeth to show me that I should not presume too much on our new friendship. I looked beyond Shaitan’s long dark nose to Ghost, who was watching us from the far side of the corral. If horses can feel jealousy, then my grey gelding was green with it. ‘Never fear, Ghost, I have not forgotten you,’ I said to my faithful friend. And as I moved over towards him, I reached into my pouch and fished for a second apple.

As a gift, Thomas, my squire, had fashioned me a
wood-and-leather scabbard for Rix’s beautiful sword: Fidelity. And Hanno had made a matching sheath for my misericorde, too, which would now hang on the right side of my belt. Little John’s gift to me, the big man told me gruffly, was the gift of Forgiveness. He had decided to overlook my rough-handling of his wounded arse cheek, ‘but, by Christ’s floppy foreskin, Alan, if you ever do anything like that again …’ he paused and poked me hard in the chest with a massive finger to make sure I grasped his point, ‘I will rip both of your legs off and beat you to death with them. I swear it on the holy sphincter of the Holy Spirit!’

I believe he meant it, too; although he was not in a condition to make good his threat just then. He was still recovering from the quarrel wound in his backside and could only walk stiffly, with the aid of a stout blackthorn staff. I regretted hurting him, and I was glad to be friends with him once more. And I was not the only one – Little John seemed to have struck up a friendly acquaintance with Roger of Chichester, and they were often seen chatting amiably together. A more unlikely pair, it would be difficult to imagine: the slim, elegant son of a nobleman, and the massive, muscled, limping former outlaw, with a face that looked as if a herd of cattle had danced on it all night. All they had in common, it seemed, was the yellow colour of their hair.

I had apologized to Roger for my rudeness to him that day in Wakefield Inn, and he had been most charming about the whole affair. In fact, I was beginning to like him, and I was glad that he’d been invited by Goody to the betrothal feast.

Beginning not long after noon, the feast was a long, slow business, with much talking and joking between the many
courses. Bernard de Sezanne entertained us by performing his latest music and then amused many of the guests by playing parodies of songs that I had written but with new, salacious words that mocked my love life, and mine and Goody’s future together – in the bedchamber and out of it. I had to put up with this sort of ribaldry, despite my new rank as a knight, and while it was not very clever, the guests seemed to find it far more amusing than it truly was.

By the time Bernard had finished mocking me and making the most of his applause, it had grown dark. I rose to my feet, a silver wine cup in my hand: ‘My lords, ladies and gentlemen,’ I began, ‘I beg that you will all now join me in drinking a toast to my beautiful betrothed. A woman whose supreme loveliness shines …’

The door of the great hall flew open with a loud crash, and a dark figure – a woman clutching a huge round pot – strode into the hall. The figure let out a piercing shriek, a high, eerie howl of rage and fear and madness that stopped every heart in the hall for an instant. I sat down in surprise, as if my legs had been cut from beneath me. Everybody turned to the doorway to look and the Norman healer Elise, who was seated at one of the lower tables in the hall, screamed: ‘It is the Hag, the Hag of Hallamshire! God save us all!’ Then she clapped both hands over her mouth as if to stop any more sound emerging.

The black-clad woman held the pot high, and I saw that it was painted white and decorated with stars and crescent moons and strange deformed animals and weird symbols in green and black. She screamed: ‘A betrothal gift!’ The pot, held up in the flickering torchlight, was then dashed to the ground with another shriek of unbearable, unearthly pain. It exploded on
the rush-strewn packed-earth floor, and out of the wrecked shards, dozens of small black-winged creatures shot into the air, squeaking bundles of black fur and leathery skin that flapped past our heads, causing many folk to visibly pale and duck before them. And the bats were not the only living things to crawl from the smashed shards: half a dozen poisonous adders slithered out, making for the darkness at the edges of the hall; beetles, lizards and two rats were also liberated by the crashing pot, and these beasts scurried under the tables.

The woman – I could clearly see now that it was Nur – was emitting rhythmical eerie shrieks, like some hellish music that sent shivers running down all our spines. Every eye in the hall was on her, and this night she looked truly terrifying. Her face had been whitened with some kind of paste, but black circles had been painted under her eyes to give her even more of a skull-like look. Her mutilated, glistening nose had been reddened, and her cropped ears and grinning lipless mouth all added to the vision of horror.

Then she began to dance; capering and still screaming from time to time, gibbering and prancing madly in the shards of the broken pot, her rat-tail hair bobbing and swaying about her ruined face. We were all frozen to our benches, not a man could move. I could not drag my eyes away from the awful spectacle; it was as if I was deep in some devilish enchantment, and I was not alone. No one spoke a word, no one moved a muscle while Nur danced her mad dance and sang her awful music in the centre of Kirkton’s newly built hall.

We were spellbound.

Finally she let out one final eerie screech, and came to a halt in front of the high table where I was sitting with Goody
at my side, with Robin and Marie-Anne and Little John and Tuck. Nur thrust out her hand at me and I saw with a shudder that it held a human thighbone: ‘I curse you, Alan Dale,’ said Nur, in a low voice bubbling with hatred. ‘I curse you and your milky whore!’ And she pointed the bone at Goody. I was frozen with shock and terror at this unholy visitation; I could not move my arms or my legs, I could only stare in horrified fascination at Nur’s snarling, ravaged white-daubed face, and listen to her hate-filled voice, and the poison that spewed from her lipless mouth: ‘Your sour-cream bride will die a year and a day after you take her to your marriage bed – and her first-born child shall die, too, in screaming agony. But your days, my love, my lover’ – Nur slurred these words in a hideously lascivious manner – ‘your days will be many, your life long, yet filled with humiliation and ultimately despair. You will lose your mind before you lose your life – that is my curse. For you promised yourself to me, and …’

‘No!’ A girl’s voice, low but vibrant with passion and loud enough to reach the edges of the hall. I turned my head, the muscles seeming to creak with the strain, and saw that it was Goody speaking. ‘No,’ she said again, more loudly this time. ‘You will not come into this hall, on the day of my betrothal, with your tricks and your jealousy and your malice. No!’

Goody stood. She was staring directly at Nur, her blue eyes crackling with anger. ‘Get you gone from here!’ said my lovely girl. And Nur seemed to be as surprised as the rest of us at Goody’s fiery courage. The woman in black lifted her thighbone, pointed it at Goody and began to speak. But my beautiful betrothed was faster than the witch. She grabbed Little John’s staff that was leaning beside her against the table, and smashed
the thighbone from Nur’s hands. Then she launched herself over the table, seeming to almost fly through the air – directly at the woman in black.

Goody’s first blow with the blackthorn caught Nur around the side of the head, jolting it to one side with a splash of red droplets. ‘You fucking
bitch
!’ said Goody, her voice beginning to rise. ‘He belongs to
me
.’ Her second blow smashed into Nur’s mouth, splintering teeth and dropping the appalled creature to the floor. ‘Listen carefully to this,
bitch
. He’s my man.’ The staff slammed down on to her shoulder. ‘And if you ever come near us again,
bitch
…’ Goody dealt Nur a double-handed lateral blow across the spine that landed with a sickening thump. ‘If you come near us once more,
bitch
, I will make you really suffer.’ A smash across the back of the neck sprawled Nur among the rushes.