The Death of Robin Hood (40 page)

‘He’s a disgusting sot. All men know it.’

‘This is true, my lord, it is his curse. He has visions, he sees phantoms, my lord, when he has partaken too freely – and sometimes when he has not yet had enough.’

‘You tell me that this is a figment of his imagination?’

‘I am quartered there, too, my lord. I’ve seen no spy.’

There was a long, long silence. I grasped the handle of my misericorde. If they came for me, there would be no point in fighting. I would draw the blade, reverse it and thrust it double-handed into my heart. I would not be taken.

‘You tell my drunken lord of Kirkton, that if he ever, ever troubles me again with this sort of nonsense, I will have the skin off his back for a saddle cloth. Tell him.’

And with a blessed relief, I heard the sound of the White Count and the company of men marching away.

A moment later, Thomas hauled me to my feet. I began to babble my thanks to him but he stopped me. ‘You gave me no choice. And there can be no going back for me now.’ He slapped me on the shoulder and I saw his smile in the dim light. ‘But, damn it, Alan, yes, I do believe you.’

We waited a full hour behind the last house, squatting in the muck and listening out for any sounds. But the town was quiet. Then Sir Thomas led me stealthily along the town wall.

‘Here, here
it is,’ he said. He was pointing to an arched doorway in the wall that was part bricked in and part filled with chunks of old masonry. Inexplicably, the smell of blooming roses filled the air.

‘I noticed this the other day. This used to be the western gate to the town, I think,’ said my friend. ‘Built by the Romans but it fell into disrepair long ago and instead of fixing it, the doorway was filled up with stone and old bricks. It is not secure though; look, see here, the stones are quite loose.’

He reached over and pulled out a piece of masonry the size of my head.

In no time at all we had excavated a small hole in the archway, a foot or so wide, just enough to squeeze our bodies through. And then we were beyond the wall and running west into open countryside. I thought I heard the sound of a shout from the ramparts above the sawing of my own breath, but I did not waste time looking back. I ran for all I was worth.

With my friend Thomas Blood running at my shoulder.

‘Are
you certain he betrayed you, Alan?’ said Robin. ‘Miles could not have been speaking to the Comte du Perche on some other matter?’

‘There can be no doubting it, sir,’ said Thomas. ‘I am sorry to have tell you.’

Thomas and I had retrieved my horse and, riding double like Templars, we put several miles between Lincoln and us and then curled up to sleep under a hedge. Robin’s scouts found us in the morning and brought us to my lord. The army had risen long before dawn and was bearing down on Lincoln from the northwest, aiming to be at its walls by sun-up. Our host was now no more than a mile away and would be clearly visible from the town walls and, we hoped, from the besieged castle inside it.

‘That stupid boy,’ said Robin. ‘I do not know what to make of him; he seems to make the wrong decision every time, almost deliberately. Look out for him when we fight, both of you, and see if you can get him to surrender. I don’t want Miles – Lord Kirkton, forsooth – to be hurt or wounded, if we can possibly prevent it.’ Robin spurred his horse away to deal with other equally pressing matters.

My lord
had greeted Sir Thomas’s return with genuine joy – there had been no recriminations and, in a very brief ceremony in a muddy field with a dozen Kirkton men-at-arms as witnesses, Thomas had knelt before Robin, begged his forgiveness and sworn to be his loyal man once more. Robin had accepted his oath and confirmed him and his heirs and successors once more in the manor of Makeney.

In very short order we had both donned our war gear, found ourselves fresh horses and taken our places at the head of the ranks of the men of Kirkton in William the Marshal’s battle. There were two other battles, as these divisions of the army were called, one under Ranulf, Earl of Chester, and the other under William Longsword, Earl of Salisbury, and each held about a hundred knights and between two and three hundred squires, sergeants and mounted men-at-arms. Bishop Peter’s two hundred and fifty crossbowmen, and Robin’s company of fifty archers under Hugh, were spread out in a loose cloud ahead of the three battles of our cavalry, as well as further down the slope, and we were arrayed for a full-pitched battle, for it seemed the enemy had decided to come and face us outside the town walls. Certainly, far to the south and below, I could see the bright colours of the knights’ surcoats and the pennants and flags of the enemy as their horsemen spilled from the southern gate of the city, coming along the line of the river, metal spear points flashing in the rising sun.

I was greatly heartened by this because by coming out to face us in the pasturelands to the west of the city, the enemy was making a colossal blunder. This was a battle-losing mistake. Perhaps they had miscalculated the size of our force and thought they could scare us away with the thick ranks of their horsemen now gathering below us – but it was an error nonetheless. We wanted a pitched battle, we were honestly seeking it, and they would have to attack uphill to come at us or, if we attacked them, face the extra momentum that our downhill charge would deliver. Furthermore, if
we fought here, we would not have to assault the north gate and spill our men’s blood on its formidable battlements.

We sat our horses and waited patiently while the enemy made his dispositions, the only combat being a desultory exchange of crossbow bolts from their skirmishers and ours in the green space between the two armies. Yet every man on that field knew this battle would not be resolved by bows and bolts, however deadly they might be, but by the thunder of a full-blooded cavalry charge.

It was inexpressibly good to have Sir Thomas at my side once more and I realised how much I had missed him in the previous months. He too seemed relieved to be back with his rightful lord, although we both shared a sense of guilt about the failure to bring poor Miles back into his proper place.

‘His soul has changed, Alan,’ said Thomas. ‘He used to be such a merry lad – always getting into scrapes, of course, but with such joy, such natural good humour. I don’t know what it was – perhaps the knowledge that he was betraying his family, or just the loneliness of being among strangers – but something inside him turned sour.’

I thought his constant consumption of strong wine might have had something to do with it – I knew from personal experience how easy it was to allow drink to take a grip on you – but I did not say this aloud. I did not wish to sound as if I were criticising Thomas for not keeping Robin’s younger son under control.

‘He became mean-spirited and cruel, sly even,’ said Thomas, ‘and very touchy. He killed a man-at-arms over a spilled cup of wine in a tavern last month. He is still strong and quick and deadly with a blade despite all those nights and days of debauchery. Well, he’s young. But look, Alan, down there. Look!’

I looked down the hill at the bright ranks of the enemy knights – they were moving. Were they really going to attack us? Were they really going to make a full-blown uphill charge against a stronger enemy force?

The enemy
crossbowmen who had been skirmishing with our bowmen were now streaming back between the
conrois
of French knights, leaving the field empty in front of their heavy horses.

Were they about to make their charge?

They were not. I saw that the troops in the rear ranks were turning their mounts and heading back into the city by the southern gate.
Conroi
after French
conroi
wheeled and put spurs to their horses’ flanks and quit the field.

The men in our front ranks were shifting, moving forwards and back again, their horses neighing and pawing the earth. Clearly some felt this the moment to launch our charge into their departing ranks, turning an orderly retreat back through the southern gate into a full-fledged rout. But here was the Marshal himself, galloping along our front ranks, shouting: ‘Stand, you eager rascals. Stand your ground. Curb your recklessness!’

The Earl of Pembroke was a dozen yards from me. ‘Gentlemen, let them go!’ he was shouting. ‘You must let the enemy go! We must not enter Lincoln from the south. Our strength would be spent fighting up that damned hill and we would be done before we reached the upper town. There is our target. There!’ He was pointing due east to the castle in the upper town. ‘We go in from the north. By the north gate. The lower town is worthless to us.’

The Marshal’s words steadied his men and, looking along the line of our front, I saw the other two battles had followed orders and remained where they were. Now the Marshal was beckoning to me, calling out: ‘Sir Alan – over here – and you Sir Thomas. On me, if you please.’

I spurred out of the ranks to join the regent of England.

While the royal cavalry dismounted, stood down and began to unhook their ale flasks or dig out chunks of bread or pie, William the Marshal led Thomas and me to the rear of the army to a big red-and-white-striped pavilion, where we were served wine and swiftly joined
by Robin and the other commanders: the earls of Chester and Salisbury and Bishop Peter of Winchester.

It was a windy day and the canvas of the tent slapped noisily against the many ropes and poles that held it upright. Lincolnshire rain pattered half-heartedly on the outside and then stopped as if embarrassed by its own impertinence. The Marshal gathered the six men present into a circle.

‘It seems the Comte du Perche is not after all prepared to oblige us by attacking outside the walls,’ he said. ‘I’m not greatly surprised. He always was a bright boy – a bit odd in his tastes, I grant you – but bright as a button. So we are going to have to go in there and take the fight to him. This is the battle, gentlemen, this is the battle for England. Right here, at Lincoln. If we win here, half the French forces will be destroyed. If we win here, England is ours. Remember why we are doing this, gentlemen: we fight for England, for our King, and to drive these upstart Frenchmen from our lands for ever.’

To my surprise, he then addressed Sir Thomas Blood, perhaps the lowliest knight in that circle of powerful lords.

‘I believe you know Lincoln well, young man,’ said the Marshal.

‘Yes, sir, I have been here some weeks,’ said Thomas, looking embarrassed.

‘Good, good – so tell us about the north gate. How may we unlock it?’

And Sir Thomas Blood began to speak.

Two hours later, about mid-morning, I found myself formed up with a reconstituted battle just out of bowshot of the town walls, opposite the castle. The battle contained fifty of Robin’s bowmen, two hundred crossbowmen belonging to Bishop Peter, fifty mounted knights and men-at-arms including Robin who was in command, myself, Sir Thomas and Hugh. My boy Robert and his bodyguard Boot were with us too. I had argued that this was too risky a battle for Robert
to blood himself on. But, surprisingly, Robin overruled me. He took me aside, out of earshot of my son and his guardian.

‘If not this fight, then when?’ Robin said. ‘There is never going to be a completely safe battle, Alan. Hugh and Sir Thomas will watch out for him, and Boot, too, of course. We will not let him be killed. He desperately wants to prove himself – look at him!’ I looked at my son; his young face was shining, he was fully armed and armoured, a steel helm on his head, a long lance gripped in his right fist. There was no sign of fear. He was all but bouncing with eagerness.

Robert had been especially pleased to have Sir Thomas Blood back in the fold. My son and the knight had met after the council with William the Marshal, had embraced each other warmly and then repaired to Robin’s tent, where they spent a good hour in conversation about God knows what. I did not enquire. Sir Thomas had trained Robert in arms as he was growing, and had been a stern task master, but there was a great bond between them as a result, and I was glad such a skilled and experienced knight would be beside my boy in the coming storm of battle. God keep them both safe, I prayed.

There was another knight with us, too – a stranger. And once settled in our ranks, we all looked at him sideways, a little oddly, even suspiciously, as if he had just landed from the moon. He told us his name was Geoffrey de Serland. He did not come from the moon. He came from Lincoln. Not the town. He came from inside the castle.

I found out later how he came to be with us. John Marshal, the regent’s nephew, had been reconnoitring the town walls early that morning. Riding up the western side, he had come face to face with Serland who had crept out of the castle hoping to make a link between Nicola de la Haye’s forces inside the stronghold and our royal army outside the town. The castle’s western wall, a hundred and fifty or so yards long, also served as the town boundary. This wall
had a broad gate set in it that led directly out to the fields beyond, where our army lay.

That gate was now due east of us, a mere two hundred yards in front of our horses’ noses. All we were waiting for was the signal. I looked to my left, at the town wall stretching northwards, and tried to make out the hole in the blocked-up archway that Thomas and I had squeezed through. But shrubs, bushes and long grass obscured the bottom of the rampart along its length. As hard as I tried, I could not identify the crack from which we had made our escape.

A trumpet sounded, a long high note then three falling ones. It was coming from the castle walls ahead of us.

‘My lord?’ said Geoffrey de Serland diffidently. ‘That is the signal.’

Robin nodded. ‘Right. Let’s go.’

We dug in our heels and surged forward – three hundred mounted men going from stock still to a trot, a canter and then a full gallop in the space of forty yards. We charged towards the castle walls as if we meant to punch through them with the weight of our horses alone.

As we thundered along, clods of turf flying from beneath our horses’ hooves, I heard a shout of alarm from a French sentry on the wall. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a crossbow bolt loosed, at maximum range, coming into the column behind my shoulder – but it either missed, fell short or was caught on someone’s shield, for not a man was hurt, as far as I knew. As de Serland had promised, the big gate in the castle’s western wall opened in front of us, swinging wide, pulled by unseen hands, and within a dozen heartbeats we were clattering up a cobbled slope and through the round arch to find ourselves in the open, familiar space of the bailey of Lincoln Castle.