I was struck dumb. The King of England wanted me to join his household? Me, a former cut-purse; as Robin had so rightly called me — a snot-nose thief from Nottingham? I had been asked to join the King’s company of nobles and friends. I could not think of anything to say. Ambroise, politely pretending that he could not detect my delighted confusion, went blithely on: ‘He would, of course, knight you himself. He does that with all the members of his inner circle. And there would be lands and a substantial stipend, in gold…’
It was too much to take in, and I mumbled something about thinking about it. But I could not sit still and while Ambroise chatted about other things, watching me carefully out of the side of his eye, I contemplated my glittering future as a member of the Royal familia. I would be Sir Alan Dale; Sir Alan of Westbury: Alan, the Knight of Westbury… the thought made me feel drunk.
When I left Ambroise, I was walking on air. I tottered through the olive groves, beaming like a fool, the horrors of the past few weeks forgotten, and feeling a sense of deep benevolence to all mankind. There was only one strange thing to mar the night. I had the strongest feeling that I was being followed. As I strolled along, jaunty as Robin Redbreast, out of the corner of my eye I could see a small, dark figure trailing me. But each time I turned to look, it was gone. As I walked along the course of a dry stone wall, I suddenly turned and looked and I’m sure I could make out a the shape of a woman, dressed all in black, from head to toe in the Arab-style, fifty paces behind me. I shouted: ‘Nur!’ and rushed back to the spot where the figure had stood, but there was no one there. I was staring at a shadowy field of olive trees with no trace of a soul anywhere to be seen. Was it my imagination, fuelled by Ambroise’s wine? Was she a figment of a young man’s guilty conscience? Or had she really been there? A shiver crawled down my spine.
But when I got back to the Sherwood men’s camping area, grizzled Owain brought me back to solid reality and told me that Robin wanted to see me. Still feeling uneasy about my vision of the dark Arab woman, I walked over to his tent and, announcing myself, went in.
Inside, Reuben, Little John and Robin were gathered around a map on a scroll on a small table. All the men bore the marks of battle: Robin’s wounded leg was bandaged with a fresh cloth, I could see. Reuben was hobbling around, his broken leg still splinted, and even Little John had a long, crudely stitched cut on his forehead.
I stood in front of the three of them and waited for Robin to notice me. They all stood straight, Robin released the map, which rolled up with a crisp snap, and he turned to me. Without any further delay he said: ‘We’re going home, Alan. At least I am, and so are John, Owain and most of the men. Reuben’s going to Gaza, for good. He is going to represent my interests there in the, uh, frankincense trade. But I have some family business that needs my urgent attention at Kirkton. My wife — and my son — need me there.’
He put a special emphasis on the word ‘son’ as if making a definite statement. I knew what he was saying, and it lifted my heart. He would stand by Marie-Anne and baby Hugh, he would be loyal to them, despite the disgrace and shame that others felt was his due — he was going home to be with his family, and by doing so he was declaring that, blood or no blood, they were his family, their honour was his honour, and he would fight to the last to defend it.
‘So I’m going home,’ Robin repeated. ‘The King is content to let me go; wants me to do him a small service in England and to keep an eye on his brother John, who is being a nuisance, apparently. The official excuse for my departure is my wound,’ and he tapped his bandaged leg, ‘but the thing is, I have done what I set out to do here; King Richard has won his battle; and it’s time to quit this God-cursed place and get back to the green dales of home. My question is — are you going to come with me?’
I was completely taken aback. He had never asked me whether I would follow him before. It had always been taken for granted. I moved my mouth soundlessly a couple of times and then Reuben said kindly: ‘We have heard that the King has offered you a position in his household; and we know that you have not been happy with Robin since…’
I was even more surprised that Reuben’s intelligence was so good. I had only been told about the King’s golden offer a mere hour before. But then Ambroise had never been particularly closed-mouthed about anything.
‘If you wish to leave me and join the King, with great regret, I will release you from my service — and give you my blessing,’ said Robin. And he gave me a sad smile, his eyes glowing with a silvery light.
I swallowed. On the one hand, a knighthood, a well-paid post as musician to the most noble monarch in Christendom, the chance to complete our task here, to free Jerusalem, the holiest city in the world, from the clutches of the Saracens; and, on the other hand, continued service to a man who seemed to have no concept of proper morality, who obeyed no civilized laws, and who would happily murder innocent Christian men, women and children for his own profit.
There was absolutely no question in my mind as to what I would do.
‘Long ago,’ I said, my tongue thick in my mouth, ‘I swore an oath to you, sir; I swore that I would be loyal until death. I have spilt much blood for that oath, too much blood — but I shall never break it. Let us go home.’
And Robin smiled.
Epilogue
When Dickon came to see me the next morning at the hall in Westbury, I had seated myself in a high wooden chair, with my naked sword across my knees. He looked very old standing there in front of me: his thin face had a yellowish tinge from drink, what little hair he had left was milk-white; the empty sleeve added to his forlorn air.
I sat there in silence for a long while, just glaring at him, while he shuffled his feet and began to look more and more uncomfortable. Then he spoke: ‘You called for me to see you, sir,’ he said in a wavering, frightened voice.
I let his words hang in the air for a few moments and then said: ‘Tell me, Dickon, how did you lose your arm?’
He was taken aback by my question. ‘But, sir, you know full well yourself,’ he said. ‘You were there with me at Arsuf. You know that I lost it to one of those dirty heathens with a great big curvy sword. Surely you remember!’
I did remember. I remembered Dickon as a bright-eyed young archer, not much older than me, a rare Englishman in those ranks of tough Welsh boys. I remember him taking his wound, a scimitar cut, in the fight with the Berber horsemen, and his cheerfulness afterwards, in spite of the pain, when I visited the wounded the day after the battle and brought food and water to them.
‘You served with Robin Hood, then; before he was made Earl, in Sherwood?’ I said.
‘Yes, sir, as did you.’ Dickon was now completely confused. I could see that he was wondering whether old age had stolen my mind.
‘What would Robin do to an outlaw who stole from him?’ I asked quietly. And suddenly, all the blood drained from Dickon’s face as he was transported back more than forty years to the wild days in the forest when my master ruled his men by naked terror.
‘I was trained by Robin — he taught me much about crime and its suitable punishment,’ I said, my voice as menacing as I could make it. Then I stood up, hefted my sword and walked over to Dickon. He fell to his knees, trying to beg for mercy but his mouth was too dry to allow him to speak. I put the sword tip against the stringy bicep of his one remaining arm, resting the sharp point gently against it.