The Death of Robin Hood (33 page)

I turned once more and looked at her. Outside of the enclosure she looked smaller, more frail, an almost doll-like figure in the expanse of the castle bailey.

‘What is it?’

‘I know it must have been hard for you to come and thank me publicly after all that has passed between us. I honour you for it. And I
too owe you thanks for taking me in to your household when I had nowhere else to go. You’ve been more kind than I deserve.’

I said gruffly: ‘It is Robert you must thank.’

‘You could have expelled me after Robert took me in – and you did not. You have given me another chance at life. I am truly grateful, Alan.’

A surge of warm affection for this woman took me completely by surprise – and I was seized by an urge to enfold her in my arms. Mercifully, I very swiftly came to my senses. This was Tilda. I must not forget that. She had always been an expert at manipulating my feelings. I had to resist these impulses or disaster would surely follow.

‘Well, Baldwin and Robert tell me you have made yourself useful at Westbury … so we are all glad to have you and I think we need say no more about the matter.’

And I turned and walked away.

We did not stay long in Lincoln. King John sent a force north under Savary de Mauléon to harry the retreating Gilbert de Gant and the rest of the royal army turned south again. The rebels were burning and ravaging East Anglia and Robin had persuaded the King to come to the port of Lynn to resupply the army from that rich town and to threaten the rebels with a full-pitched battle. We travelled at the rear of the column once more, with Robin’s men zealously guarding the baggage train. After two days, we reached Peterborough and turned east into the fenlands. On this flat, marshy ground the road was raised in many places by cut logs covered in reeds and earth, which allowed the horses to pass safely through the mire. But it was still hard going for the heavy wagons. A dozen times during that third day we had to halt the train and dismount to hoist out a wagon’s wheels that had become stuck in the black mud. The oxen hated it – complaining in dull, mournful booms as
they stood up to their hocks in sludge. The men and I soon became slathered and even Robin, not too proud to put his shoulder to a wheel, began to look less like an earl and more like a wretched peasant of the meanest kind. Boot’s great strength was invaluable here. He would lumber down the column to where the wagon was stuck, duck down under it and seize the front axle and, with a writhe of his vast shoulders, help pluck a heavily laden treasure cart out of the morass, hauling it and the oxen back up to higher ground.

During one of these dispiriting operations, as I was taking a break from the labour, stretching my back muscles and arms, I noticed a dark smudge boiling upwards on the northern horizon.

I called to Robin and pointed out the bank of smoke a few miles away.

‘Can that be the rebels?’ I asked. ‘Should we warn the King?’

‘It’s not them,’ said Robin grimly. ‘That’s Crowland Abbey over yonder.’

‘I thought they had paid the King handsomely for his protection.’

‘John did not deem it enough. He abused Mauléon roundly in council last night for his “womanishness” – even accused him of disloyalty – and he sent in the Flemings this morning to torch the place and squeeze the abbot for more of his silver.’

There was nothing more to say. We freed the wagon and continued onwards across the dreary flatlands. Once again I was filled with turmoil. We served a bloody tyrant – it was not so much that he had robbed the Church, which was bad enough, but that he’d gone back on his word. It seemed to me no crime was beyond him – and any decent, right-thinking man should oppose him with all his strength. Instead, we were aiding and abetting him in his bloody tyranny.

Even after arriving safely at Lynn and having gratefully sluiced that infernal mud from our bodies, I was still outraged by the King’s actions.
And the lavish feast – stuffed peacocks, boar’s heads and a vast lamprey pie – that the wealthy burghers of the port had arranged for John and his knights the next day could not shake my foul temper. I ate little and quietly left the great hall before the sweetmeats and nuts were brought out. I was in an odd mood, hankering to be alone, and made my way in the golden autumn afternoon sunlight down to the taverns by the waterfront, where I ordered a flagon of wine and sat looking out at the crowded mass of shipping on the shining River Ouse, the source of Lynn’s great riches.

I had barely taken a sip when I saw a familiar figure walking along the cobbles of the quay. Tilda. Before I could consider the implications, I had hailed her loudly and she was coming over to my table, smiling and asking how I did. She was wearing a black cloak and hood, and over one arm she carried a wickerwork basket, which I saw was filled with little packets of powder, pots of ointment and bunches of dried herbs.

I suddenly wished that I had not seen her or that I had pretended not to see her. I was sitting in the shade of a large canvas awning in semi-darkness and she might well have passed by without noticing me. I could not think of a thing to say to her and stared into her basket for inspiration.

‘What are you doing at the quayside at this time of day, Tilda?’ I asked. It came out wrong. It sounded as if I, as her master, were accusing her of neglecting her duties.

She took a sharp intake of breath. ‘Beg pardon, sir. Robert said it would be all right if I took a little time for myself – I have been visiting the apothecary yonder. He has the best items being so close to all the shipping. The foreign merchants bring him medicinal spices from the Orient, curious roots, dried powdered insects, all sorts …’

‘Is somebody ill?’ I asked, looking up into her eyes for the first time. Her face was very pale.

‘Not yet,’
she said, looking away quickly, refusing to meet my gaze.

I took a sip of my wine; she stood awkwardly before me waiting to be dismissed. The silence stretched out before us. This was all wrong: she was better born than I, the daughter of a lord, despite her reduced circumstances. I should not be treating her like an errant servant girl, sitting at my ease while she stood. I collected my manners.

‘Please,’ I said, ‘sit a while and have some wine.’

‘I should be getting along,’ she said.

‘Have some wine; it will be good for you.’

She put down her basket and sat on the bench next to me and I refilled my cup and set it before her. She took a frugal sip. Once again the silence oppressed us both.

‘Do you miss the Priory?’ I said.

She looked at me sharply, trying to gauge what pitfalls my question might contain.

‘I only meant, are you content in your new life – away from a life in the service of God?’

To my surprise, she laughed. ‘It is far more interesting out in the world than ever it was at the Priory – you have no idea, Alan, how exquisitely dull my life was there.’

‘Really?’ I said. ‘I have been thinking more and more that I would like to embrace a life of holy contemplation.’

She laughed again – a pretty sound that made my own heart lighter; I felt my hunched shoulders relax. Tilda took another sip of my wine.

‘You would die of boredom, Alan – trust me – you are used to a life of action, a whirlwind existence of dash and danger. You’d go mad in a cloister inside a month.’

She began to tell me, haltingly at first and then with increasing confidence, of her time at Kirklees Priory, and how she had hated it – the daily round of work and prayer, work and prayer, the thousands of
hours on her knees in the cold chapel asking God’s forgiveness, the endless grubbing away in the earth of the herb garden.

‘It grinds away the soul, Alan. It is a waste of life for a woman – or a man – with any spirit.’

I listened, fascinated, and refilled her wine cup. Then she said something that made me sit up.

‘Besides, all the other nuns hated me.’

‘Why – for God’s sake?’

She actually blushed then. I waved to the tavern keeper, signalling for more wine.

‘Do you not know? I thought it was gossiped about in all the taverns in Yorkshire.’

I must have looked blank, for she laughed once more – this time with a note of bitterness.

‘Tell me. Why did all the other nuns hate you?’

‘They were jealous,’ she said.

I frowned. ‘Jealous – why?’

‘Surely you know what takes place in a closed community – when every member is a woman. Or a man, for that matter.’

I was beginning to grasp what she meant. ‘You had a love affair?’ I asked, feeling out of my depth.

‘Dear, sweet unworldly Alan Dale – yes, I had an affair. Anna, the Prioress; she was my lover.’

It was my turn to blush.

‘So, is it truly women that you desire?’

‘No, well, yes, sometimes. Love comes to us all most unexpectedly. I was so unhappy when I first came there, I was imprisoned, trapped, my father was dead …’

I had the grace then to look at my boots. I was the man who had killed him and Robin had arranged for her to be locked away safely at Kirklees after the siege of Château Gaillard. He was a generous patron of the Priory and they could not refuse him.

‘Anna was
kind to me. She nurtured me. I was so full of hate back then,’ she said, looking sideways at me. ‘It was making me sick, boiling inside me like molten iron. When Anna first showed me kindness it was a relief. It felt like the sun was shining for the first time in an age.’

Tilda stared at the table. A cawing seagull swooped down in front of us and seized a scrap of discarded bread before flapping away.

‘It feels good to tell you all this, Alan. To make a clean breast of it. I wanted to hurt you – to hurt you through Robert. But I am a different woman now – and Anna helped me become different. I shall always be grateful to her for that, despite what happened later. I found love. She gave me her love. It was a healing balm for my sorrows.’

I had never really considered how my actions had affected Tilda. I had thought of her only in terms of the threat she posed to my son and me. But something was troubling me. ‘Yet at Kirklees, and before at Château Gaillard, I understood that it was Sir Benedict Malet who was your lover. Was he not?’

‘I never truly loved him,’ she said. ‘But at Château Gaillard he too was kind to me during the siege – when I was so terribly hungry. You remember what it was like, Alan? He gave me scraps of food, enticed me into the back of his storeroom, and I was weak. I am not proud of myself, Alan, but it was the only coin I had. It has always seemed to me that the world makes too much of the commonplace act of love. We are all born with the urge to seek pleasure – God gave it to us – and it seemed silly to me that a few kisses, a few fumbling, grunting moments should mean so much to a man and so little to me and yet be the cause of so much condemnation. But you caught him, Alan, you exposed him. You were so terribly self-righteous, so full of contempt – so
fiercely
in the right.’

I had never seen myself as self-righteous. But I well remembered my anger when I discovered that she and Benedict had been stealing food
from the rest of the besieged garrison. At that moment the tavern keeper came over with a fresh flask of wine and another cup. Tilda and I both remained silent while he mopped the table, cleared the empty flagon and poured out the drinks.

‘Later, while I was at Kirklees, Benedict came to me – he told me he loved me and promised that together we would bring you down. And I still wanted that – God save me, but I dreamed of that, Alan. I was stifled in Kirklees – Anna was jealous of any time I spent with others. She was jealous of everyone who even looked at me. She had made me sub-prioress, to the rage of the more senior nuns, and seemed to think that meant she owned me. At least when I was with Benedict, I could breathe. When I met you that time at St Paul’s and you practically told me outright you meant to kill the King, I told Benedict that night and he got word to John.’

She put a hand on mine on the table. ‘I am sorry, Alan. I know you suffered as a result of my betrayal. And all I can say is I will never seek to harm you again.’

I slid my hand out from under hers. Her touch was causing strange unwelcome emotions to stir in my breast. I had to resist them. I had to be strong. I tried to make a careless jest, to ease the thick air between us.

‘Two lovers, eh!’ I said. ‘Prioress Anna and Benedict Malet – it doesn’t sound dull at all in the cloistered world.’

‘Two lovers in ten years – does that seem excessive? Perhaps for a woman. But for a man? I am sure you must have had dozens since your wife passed away.’

‘No,’ I said quietly, ‘there has only been you.’

Tilda did not seem to hear me. She was getting to her feet, collecting up her basket of medicines, arranging her shawl.

‘I must be away, Alan, I have things to do,’ she said. ‘As pleasant as this is, I cannot sit about all day drinking wine with you. I shall never get anything done.’

I looked
up at her. As she turned from the table to go, I caught her arm. ‘It is none of my business, Tilda, but may I ask you one more question – is there someone now, is there someone in your life who makes your heart beat faster?’

Tilda dropped her eyes. ‘There is,’ she said. ‘There is someone just like that.’

‘Then I am heartily glad for you,’ I said, releasing her arm.

I awoke the next morning, muscles aching from the unusual labours on the road and with a thumping head. After Tilda left, I’d remained at the tavern and drunk another three flagons of wine while I chewed over all that she had said. She was in love with someone, that much was clear. Good for her. I meant what I had said: I was heartily glad for her. She deserved some happiness after all she had suffered. We all deserve happiness. If her emotions were engaged with someone else, there was less chance of me falling under her spell again. All in all, it was good news, excellent news, definitely something to be celebrated, I told myself.

It was long past dawn – mid-morning, in fact – and I splashed cold water on my face in our quarters in Lynn Castle and went downstairs in search of something to eat.

The kitchens were a-bustle – a score of folk were busy preparing the day’s royal dinner. In the series of big stone rooms, cooks were bawling out instructions, their assistants were chopping herbs, slicing vegetables, grinding mortars and pestles; other lackeys were stirring huge bubbling pots and the spits by the big open fires were already turning the animal carcasses, the lads working the handles drenched in sweat. Red-faced men and women were rushing about everywhere and there was an air of controlled panic, as if they were preparing for a battle rather than a banquet.