‘You all right, youngster?’ said a huge head with a thatch of straw-coloured hair, directly above me. It was almost blocking out the sun. I could not breathe and I only made the merest of nods. ‘That,’ the giant head continued, ‘is another use of the shield. Take note.’ An enormous hand came towards me and, taking a bunch of my chainmail hauberk in its fist, raised me to my feet. ‘Had enough?’ said John, as I stumbled around on legs of jelly trying to collect my dropped sword and poniard.
“Course not,’ I said, but I was weaving on my feet, trying to find my balance and walking in circles. ‘Do your worst, John, you big… bug… bigger… Come on, come on, I’ll have you this time…’ Suddenly I vomited; a heave and a gush of half-digested food splashed out on to the green grass.
‘If that is your weapon of choice,’ said John indicating the pool of stinking vomit, ‘I surrender to you, O noble knight. You have bested me.’ And he bowed low, to ironic cheers from the crowd.
A tall figure with sandy blond hair and a crumpled face pushed through the throng and made his way over to me. ‘Dale,’ said Sir James de Brus, ‘Lord Locksley wants to see you in his counting house. If you are at liberty…’ He looked down his nose at me, as I stood there swaying: sweaty, winded, with strands of yellow spit-vomit hanging from my mouth. Then he sniffed once and turned away.
I recovered my wind on the way back up to the castle, but my right forearm and ribs ached from the mighty blow that John had dealt me. But, by the time I was entering the courtyard of the castle, my head had cleared and I was thinking about my next bout with John. And I knew exactly how to get him…
Robin’s counting house, the treasury where he kept his silver was a low, strongly built structure next to the hall. I knocked on the door and was called in and I found Robin seated in front of a large table covered with a chequered cloth of black and white squares, on which he used to reckon his accounts. Coloured pebbles were placed on various squares of the cloth, tokens that represented different amounts of money. The room was dim, the narrow windows not permitting much light, and Robin had a candle on the table in front of him. He looked half-furious, half-puzzled and was alternately peering at a sheaf of parchments gripped in one fist and glaring at the pebbles on the chequered cloth.
‘I don’t understand it,’ he said. ‘This can’t be right… I wish Hugh was here to deal with this…’ and then he stopped abruptly as if he had bitten his tongue.
I knew why: Hugh, his older brother, had at one time been his chief lieutenant, chancellor and spy master and had controlled the money for Robin’s band when they had been outlaws. But Hugh was now dead.
Robin threw down the parchments on the table in disgust. ‘I can’t make head nor tail of this,’ he said, ‘but I can show you in a much more simple way why we have a big problem. Go to the big coffer yonder and open it.’
On the far side of the room was a huge iron-bound chest. In more carefree days, it had contained Robin’s hoard of silver; the river of money that flowed from robbing wealthy travellers in Sherwood, or which had been paid to Robin by villages seeking his protection, or offered as tribute by friends, rivals, even enemies, seeking his justice — the silver river had flowed into that huge, oak-and-iron bound box, filling it to the brim.
I hesitated — in our outlaw days, to touch the coffer was an offence punishable by death. ‘Go on,’ said Robin with a touch of irritation, as he saw me pausing, ‘just open it. You have my full permission.’
I turned the key in the lock, with some difficulty, and slid back the locking bar. Then I pushed up the heavy oak lid of the box. I looked inside: the coffer was empty, apart from a handful of silver pennies that winked at me from the bottom of the wooden space. The money was gone.
Chapter Three
I looked at Robin aghast. ‘It’s been stolen,’ I blurted. ‘Who would dare? And how could they…’
‘It hasn’t been stolen, Alan, at least I don’t think so,’ interrupted Robin, ‘it has been spent. By me. I handed over an earl’s ransom — quite literally — to arrange our pardons and outfitting this company for war in Outremer has not been cheap. The Locksley rents are mostly paid in kind, and with an army to feed… No, Alan, I have simply spent more than I should have. So, we have a problem. The King bids us join him in Lyons with all our forces in July — that’s what his letter said — and I have to transport four hundred men-at-arms, and two hundred horses, as well as a mountain of equipment, food, weapons and forage to France. And though the King has promised to recompense me for providing battle-ready men, I have yet to see any of his silver, and if I know royalty, I won’t see any before we parade inside the broken gates of Jerusalem.’ He paused, thinking for a moment. Then he said: ‘We need the Jews, Alan; we need Reuben.’
An hour later, Robin and myself were on the road, our horses’ noses pointing north towards York. We rode fast, just the two of us, unaccompanied by any of Robin’s men. This was unusual behaviour for a great man, and not a little dangerous, too: Robin had plenty of enemies between Sheffield and York who would be pleased to have him fall into their hands. Although he was no longer an outlaw, with the King abroad he could have been held for ransom by any avaricious baron; and then there was the matter of Murdac’s price on his head.
‘I don’t want to be bothered with a long train of servants and men-at-arms,’ said Robin when I raised my concerns about him travelling without protection. ‘And, besides, I’m taking you along to look after me,’ he grinned. ‘Are you not up to the job?’ I frowned at him. I knew why he wanted to travel light; he didn’t want anyone to know that he was short of money. He planned to visit Reuben, an old and trusted friend, arrange to borrow a large quantity of cash from the Jews of York, and be back in Kirkton in a couple of days. ‘Come on, Alan. We’ll travel in plain, ordinary clothes, a couple of pilgrims, but well armed and moving fast — no pomp, no fanfare, it’ll be just like the old days, we’ll have some fun…’
And it was fun. I rarely got to spend time alone with Robin these days, and while I was still very slightly afraid of him — I never forgot that among other heinous crimes he had condoned the murder of his own brother — I always relished his company. And we were well armed: both of us in mail coats, Robin with his war bow and arrow bag, and a fine sword, myself with my old sword and poniard. I also wore my new sky blue embroidered hood, but that was only to annoy Robin and show him that, while I’d always be his loyal man, I cared not a fig for his hidebound ideas about headwear.
We pushed our horses hard for several hours and then, as night began to fall, we bivouacked in a small wood not far from Pontefract Castle. That great castle was held by Roger de Lacy, the new Sheriff of Nottinghamshire, and we could have received a welcome worthy of an Earl in his stone hall, had we chosen; but Robin wanted to keep his journey secret; and I was happy for as few people as possible to know that Robin was roaming the countryside with only one armed retainer. I think too, in hindsight, that Robin occasionally found the trappings of his earldom a heavy burden and he longed for a return to the simple life of an outlaw; although he had never yet actually voiced this feeling to me.
Robin had brought cold roast beef, typically ignoring the fact that it was Lent, in fact, only five days away from Easter Sunday, and according to Church law we were supposed to be eschewing meat of any kind. He also brought bread, onions and a skin of wine and we made a cheerful camp with a small fire under a great spreading oak. And after we’d eaten, as the sparks danced above the fire, we wrapped ourselves in our warm green cloaks and sat cross-legged around the cheerful blaze, with our weapons close at hand. Robin took a long pull from the half-full wine skin before passing it to me. I drank deeply and passed it back.