Outlaw (28 page)

‘This is Bernard de Sezanne, the noted
trouvère
, sadly exiled from his native lands,’ said Marie-Anne, and Bernard bowed low and, looking at Eleanor, began to speak a stream of gibberish. It sounded like French but it wasn’t; it was like hearing somebody speak in a dream when you can’t quite grasp what they are saying. Eleanor, on the other hand, seemed delighted by his words. She beamed at him and replied in the same dialect, clearly asking him a question. Bernard replied in the negative but added something and then bowed again. Belatedly, I realised that they had been speaking in langue d’oc, or
plena lenga romana
, the tongue spoken in Aquitaine and many of the southern lands of Europe. I had heard the Gascons speaking it to each other, although they had always addressed me in bad French. I found that I could almost make out the sense of the words, if I concentrated; it was similar to French, but much of the meaning escaped me. But it was Eleanor’s native language, the language of the troubadours.

Then Marie-Anne spoke again, in French: ‘May I present Godifa, an orphan of good family from Nottinghamshire, who is under my protection, and Alan Dale, an honest Englishman and the personal jongleur to Bernard de Sezanne.’ This was news to me. I’d never in a thousand years have described myself as honest, but I felt proud to be called a jongleur, which was a professional entertainer, a man who often combined singing other people’s musical compositions with dancing, juggling, even telling amusing stories. It was ranked lower than a
trouvère,
who would, of course, ‘find’ or compose his own music. But to be the personal jongleur to Bernard sounded a lot better than the bag-carrier and bottlebringer that I actually was. I stood a little straighter and then bowed low to Eleanor who regarded me with a faint smile.

‘Now come, child,’ the Queen said to Marie-Anne, ‘and tell me of your adventures in the wild wood. And, in a little while, Monsieur de Sezanne will entertain us with some of his famous music.’ She smiled at Bernard and he bowed again. Then she sat down and Marie-Anne pulled up a stool and the two women were soon deep in conversation; the rest of us, it would seem, had been dismissed.

I looked around the gathering at the elegant knights and ladies, talking merrily, flirting and ignoring us. Bernard took the vielle from me, muttering something about checking the tuning. He wandered off into a corner and began fiddling with the pegs in the head of the instrument. Goody, completely unselfconsciously, sat down on the floor by Marie-Anne’s knee to listen to the conversation between the Queen and her protégée. I was left alone. And I had absolutely no idea what to do. A servant passed with a tray of hot honeyed wine and I grabbed a cup and hid my face in the sweet red liquid, taking tiny sips as I surveyed the company.

The men were dressed in a bewildering variety of styles from the dark woollen robes of clergymen to the bright silks of courtiers, with here and there a knight in chain mail. Even in my smart new green silk tunic, I felt out of place. I had a nagging fear in some part of my mind that one of these fine ladies and gentlemen would see me for what I really was: a grubby thief from Nottingham, and everyone would point and laugh, before I was dragged away to be hanged as an impostor.

One of the soldiers in the party throng, a big man with a bushy black beard, was dressed particularly severely in mail from head to foot, over which he wore a pure white surcoat with a large red cross on the breast. He was talking to two other men, both knights wearing identical gorgeous surcoats of scarlet and gold. As I looked at the knight in white, he must have felt my gaze and he turned away from the two men and looked directly at me. To my surprise, his strong black-bearded face split into a huge white grin and he shouted: ‘Alan! By the Cross, it’s Alan Dale!’ and he strode over to me holding out his arms in welcome. It was Sir Richard at Lea, whom I had last seen at Thangbrand’s, and in this crowd of elegant strangers, I was as glad to see him as I was surprised.

‘Where did you spring from?’ he asked, embracing me. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve been pardoned?’

I blushed. ‘I came with the Countess of Locksley,’ I said shyly, and Sir Richard looked at Marie-Anne in close conversation with the Queen and nodded and said: ‘I see, still with Robin, then?’ And, as I murmured agreement, he said, ‘Let me have a look at you,’ and he grinned at me. ‘I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you in clean clothes before.’ He kneaded my shoulders and arms and said: ‘And you’ve put on some muscle; still practising with the sword?’ I nodded again. ‘Good man, you’ve a talent in that direction; let me introduce you to some friends of mine, good fighting men both,’ and he led me over to the two men in scarlet and gold. ‘This is Sir Robert of Thurnham, and his brother Sir Stephen; I’m trying to convince them to take the Cross and come on the Great Pilgrimage with the King next year. We will need a good many Christian warriors to win back Jerusalem from the infidels, as His Holiness the Pope commands. Perhaps you too can be persuaded? I offer certain salvation for your immortal soul?’ He looked me in the face, his sincerity blazing out of his bright brown eyes.

I shook my head and said: ‘I’m sworn to Robin,’ but I felt a little ashamed. It would have been a wonderful thing to be a warrior for Christ, to cleanse my soul of its many sins in battle against the Muslim devils. Sir Richard turned to the two men, who were looking slightly surprised by his offer to me. ‘Young Alan here is a very decent swordsman; he’d make a fine companion for us. I know . . . because I trained him personally.’ The brothers looked impressed; clearly they knew of Sir Richard’s great skill on the battlefield. My big bearded friend looked at the poniard hanging at my belt. ‘Learnt how to use that yet?’ he asked, pointing at the blade.

‘Not really,’ I replied, ‘but it has already saved my life twice.’ I didn’t mention that both times the poniard had been wielded by a little girl.

He nodded: ‘Told you so! How about a little practice? Show you a few moves. Might even convince you to come out East. Tomorrow at dawn in the courtyard?’

‘I would be honoured,’ I grinned at him. ‘But doubtless I won’t be upright for long.’

Sir Richard just snorted. ‘Nonsense. You’ll probably have me rolling in the dust; if, that is, you can remember how to move your feet.’ We stood there beaming at each other like idiots and then Sir Robert of Thurnham coughed and said: ‘If I may make so bold, sir, whom did you say you served?’

This was tricky. I had never officially been declared outlaw; there was no price on my head, as I was beneath the notice of the powers that be. But Robin was certainly beyond the pale and, by association, so were all who served him. But in this southern part of the country? Under the protection of the Countess of Locksley, ward of Queen Eleanor; I was surely safe. So I lifted my chin, looked Thurnham in the eye, and said proudly: ‘I serve Robert Odo of Edwinstowe.’

His brother Stephen choked in surprise: ‘You mean Robin Hood, the notorious outlaw?’

Sir Richard started laughing. ‘Keep that under your helmet, Stephen, if you don’t mind. And you, young Alan, should probably keep it to yourself, too.’ He grinned at the brothers: ‘Alan is a good friend of mine. We met when Robin captured me last year; that slimy toad Murdac of Nottingham refused to pay my ransom, but Robin was a gentleman about the whole business. How’s that old scoundrel Thangbrand?’ he said looking keenly at me.

‘He is dead, sir,’ I said. Sir Richard frowned, and I looked at the floor, suddenly overwhelmed with images of the burning hall and the blood-drenched snow.

Robert of Thurnham took a step towards me. ‘Many a knight has spent a little time outside the law and yet was an honest man at heart,’ he said. ‘But tell me, it is said that Robin Hood is training an army up in Sherwood; how would you rate them as an effective fighting force?’ I was glad that the conversation had moved on from Thangbrand and flattered that this knight should ask my opinion on a military matter, but I didn’t feel comfortable discussing Robin’s affairs with a stranger.

Sir Richard answered for me. ‘It’s damned good, if the skirmish I saw is anything to go by: Robin knows how to use archers and cavalry in combination. Few commanders do. I have to say it was a very efficient force, serfs and outlaws to a man, of course, but damned good.’

Stephen sniffed, and began to say: ‘Surely, mere bandits—’ But he was interrupted by the blast of a herald’s trumpet. We all turned and I saw Bernard striding into the centre of the room, grasping his vielle in one hand.

I have never heard Bernard play so well as he did that evening in front of the Queen. It reminded me of his performance the first time I saw him at Thangbrand’s; the simplicity of the notes, and the purity of his voice. He began with a
canso,
a love song, in langue d’oc, which, of course, I didn’t completely understand. But it was beautiful nonetheless: his fingering on the vielle was absolutely precise, his phrasing exquisite. I felt a lump in my throat, and I vowed then and there to master that gorgeous liquid language so that I might attempt one day to produce music of such splendour. Queen Eleanor, I swear, had tears in her eyes.

He performed several other songs, some in French that won applause from the assembled ranks of knights and ladies, even one in English, to more muted applause as it was still viewed as a slightly uncouth tongue, not quite the thing for refined company. Sir Richard cheered lustily, but then he was an Englishman to the bone. When Bernard had finished, the Queen presented him with a purse of gold, described his music as sublime and invited him to attend her and her ladies in her garden the following day.

My music teacher was walking on clouds. Afterwards, with a smile a foot wide on his glowing face, he said: ‘I’m made, Alan - no more squalid caves, no more oafish outlaws.’ He danced a few steps around our shared chamber. ‘The Queen, may she live a thousand years, loves my music, and I am made. I shall never go back to that damp forest, I shall live the life of a prince, a
trouvère
to royalty.’ He went on and on in this vein. But the odd thing was, though he had had a cup or two of wine, he was not drunk. He just sat upright in our huge shared bed - it was, by the way, the finest bed I had ever slept in by a long chalk, with a feather bolster, fine linen sheets, and goose-down filled pillows - and glowed with happiness. I was exhausted and, while he remembered every note aloud, and pointed out to me the moments of particular musical genius, I fell into a delightful and dreamless slumber.

We settled comfortably into life at the castle over the next few weeks. As spring turned to early summer, I practised my sword and dagger work with Sir Richard in the castle courtyard each day at dawn and became, if not Christendom’s most accomplished warrior, then at least proficient in the use of those arms. On one memorable occasion I did even manage to tumble Sir Richard into the dirt by back-heeling his legs as we were chest to chest, swords and daggers locked. To my joy, and I pray God will forgive me for the sin of Pride, Robert of Thurnham was watching when I performed this feat. He congratulated me and said that if I ever needed employment as a man-at-arms he would welcome me into his service.

I liked Sir Robert, though I was a little wary of him; although he came from Kent, our conversations seemed to turn a little too often to Robin’s force in Nottinghamshire: how many men did he have? What proportion of them were cavalry? How many archers? And so on. I turned aside his enquiries as best I could by claiming ignorance, and to his credit, after a while, he seemed to realise how uncomfortable his questions made me feel. One day he said to me: ‘Alan, I do not wish you to betray any confidences; but, believe me, I do not hold any ill will towards your master. As you may know, I have now taken the Cross and a good company of archers, such as those commanded by Robert Odo, could be indispensable in the Holy Land against the fierce mounted bowmen of Saladin. But, I beg you, you must tell me to mind my business, if it makes you uneasy to talk of such matters.’

Bernard was as happy as I have ever seen him. He attended the Queen almost daily, performing in the sweet-smelling garden at the back of the castle for her ladies, including Marie-Anne. They made music there and played childish games, such as hoodman blind with the ladies, blindfolded, running around and trying to catch young gentlemen by the sound of their voices. Bernard soon embarked upon several love affairs with the Queen’s attendants and quite often I would awake in the night to find him gone from our shared bed. The next day he would be tired but smug. I attended these garden jollities several times, at Bernard’s invitation, sometimes accompanying him and playing my gilded ivory flute to feminine acclaim. But I found the company of perfumed ladies, day after day, a little stifling and often escaped to talk about manly military affairs with the Gascon guard, who were also teaching me to speak langue d’oc. In later years, when I performed my own music in that lovely, rippling southern tongue, I acquired a reputation for using ripe, earthy language in my love songs, inadvertently using words for dalliance and lust that I had picked up from the Gascons. Strangely, the crude soldiers’ phrases that I used were applauded as fresh sounding and original, in a style of music that was often ridden with flowery conventions and clichés.

Marie-Anne had set about the process of ‘taming’ Goody, as she put it, with real determination. My little friend was being taught to spin wool into thread, an endless task that seemed occupy all the time when she was not using her hands for another purpose; to embroider, to sing (though Bernard had given her a thorough grounding at Thangbrand’s); to act demurely; to walk gracefully; to serve wine in an elegant manner and a thousand other skills that a gentlewoman needed to attract a husband of knightly status. Occasionally, she rebelled, sneaking out of the castle to roam the city with a pack of grubby Winchester boys, causing mischief, even fighting other urchins, and returning with a torn gown and dirty, bruised face to the scolding of her keepers. I saw little of her at that time, but I sensed that she was happy; and so, I realised one day, was I.