I guided my horse round the side of a broad, low tent and came face to face with a terrifying apparition: a giant man on a huge horse, a black monstrous shape lit only by splashes of firelight but seeming to loom over me. He had a great doubleheaded axe in one enormous fist, and I could see that it was dripping with fresh blood, and the head on those giant shoulders was that of a massive stallion, its nostrils seemingly breathing fire. I could not help myself but I reined back in alarm, and then the apparition used his free left hand to lift the sheepskin horse mask from his face and reveal the grinning, sweaty visage and yellow matted locks of John Nailor, Robin’s right-hand man and my good friend.
‘Boo!’ he said, as if playing a hiding game with a child.
I managed a shaky smile at my old comrade. And Little John said: ‘God’s dangling gonads, Alan, don’t tell me your bowels were loosened by all this mummery!’
I shook my head and lied through my teeth: ‘Of course not, but the trick seems to have worked on Murdac’s men. The bastards are all running away.’
‘Not all of them, Alan,’ said Little John. And he nodded to the east where a group of a dozen men-at-arms on foot were being pushed into line by a grizzled sergeant to form a forlorn-looking and very thin shield wall. ‘This little fight’s not over yet, Alan. Come on! There’s more sport to be had.’
He pulled the terrifying horse mask back down over his face and we turned our mounts together, put back our spurs and charged, knee to knee, axe and sword swinging, myself screaming ‘Westbury! Westbury!’ and Little John making a hideous keening noise deep in his throat. We charged like madmen, or creatures from some terrible nightmare, straight at the thin wall of a dozen frightened soldiers who were cowering behind their kite-shaped shields. And the formation shattered like a clay cup dropped on a stone floor as they ran for their lives, scattering into the darkness. I managed to land only a glancing blow on to the helmet of one fleeing man before he scurried under an upturned cart, safely away from my searching blade. I let him live; reining in, panting, to survey the night and catch my breath.
Little John had been wrong. The battle was, to all intents and purposes, over, and as I turned to speak to him I saw that he too had disappeared into the night. I was alone, and just ahead of me was Sir Ralph Murdac’s black-and-red striped tent, now with a circle of pine-pitch torches burning around it. I walked my horse over towards the circle of light; praying fervently to St Michael that I should be lucky enough to find the little Norman rat still in his foul nest.
Murdac was not there, but Robin was. My master was unhorsed, the sheepskin mask hanging by a cord around his neck, a great war bow in his hands, an arrow nocked, the hempen string drawn back to his ear. He was aiming across my path, away from the light and into the darkness; my head turned and my eye naturally followed his aim. A small dark figure was racing a midnight-black horse away from the camp as fast as possible, its pounding legs snapping guy ropes and tumbling tents in his wake. And I knew in my bones that it was Murdac. A heartbeat later my master released the bowstring and sent a yard of ash, tipped with a needle-like bodkin point, flashing away into the darkness. The arrow struck Murdac. I saw the strike, high in his back on the left-hand side; it was a superb shot, one that only Robin and a handful of other men in the world could have made. The bobbing target was more than a hundred yards away by then, the range increasing with every moment as horse and rider surged towards safety. Murdac’s black-and-red surcoat could only be seen intermittently that dark night, when the horse and rider passed through a patch of firelight; it was a nigh-on impossible feat to hit the target, and yet Robin had made it. But it was not a lethal strike; I saw Murdac lurch forward in the saddle with the heavy impact of the shaft in his back. But he did not fall and moments later he was still in the saddle, swaying wildly, but remaining defiantly a-horse, and passing swiftly beyond view down the dale towards the River Locksley as the dark curtains of night closed behind him.
I heard Robin curse softly under his breath as I leapt off my mount to greet him and congratulate him on his stunning victory.
‘I meant to kill him, Alan,’ said my master after we had clasped right arms in greeting. ‘I meant to kill him for sure this time, and I honestly thought I had him, but once again it seems that I have failed.’
‘He may yet die from his wound,’ I said, smiling at him with affection. ‘Perhaps God intends for him to suffer a slow and hideously painful death, when the wound goes black and the pus runs thick and begins to smell of month-old rancid mutton…’
‘You’re just trying to cheer me up,’ said Robin with a wry laugh. ‘Or possibly make me feel peckish. Either way, thank you, Alan. No, I missed my mark with Murdac, and we shall have to deal with him again on some other occasion. Now, we have other matters to attend to; come, we’d better make sure these bastards are all dead, captured or gone from here.’
Robin turned away and was calling for his horse when William, Lord Edwinstowe, with a score of mounted men-at-arms behind him, trotted into the circle of torchlight around Murdac’s pavilion. I knew that Edwinstowe’s men had not charged with us when we rushed out of the castle gate to support Robin’s attack, and none of them carried the marks of battle — not a scratch nor a splash of blood on a single one of them. But the cautious baron must have seen the way the battle was going, that Murdac’s men were running, and come to the conclusion that he must join in if only for the sake of his knightly reputation. I realized then that, though he might be Robin’s brother, I thoroughly despised him.
‘Robert,’ Edwinstowe said curtly, nodding at my master. ‘William,’ came the equally terse reply. Then Robin, by now mounted, walked his horse over to his brother. He smiled at him without much warmth, and said: ‘I thank you for the great service you have rendered me over the past few weeks. I am in your debt.’
‘Well, Brother, when I got wind of Ralph Murdac’s plans to attack Kirkton, what else could I do but come here? I merely fulfilled my family duty,’ said Edwinstowe. ‘No more, no less. Duty to one’s family is a sacred trust, and it must supersede all other… considerations.’
‘And I am most grateful,’ said Robin. ‘I shall not forget what you have done for me here.’
Baron Edwinstowe half-smiled; he seemed pleased by Robin’s thanks. ‘It seems that I underestimated your battle plans. I must congratulate you on this scheme, this… ruse, and on your notable victory.’ His gauntleted hand described an arc that took in the shattered, smouldering enemy camp, now empty of Murdac’s men. Robin gave him a bright, gleaming smile. And for a moment the baron seemed to be about to say something more, but he merely nodded and then turned his horse and, leading his conroi of unmarked men-at-arms, he trotted back towards Kirkton Castle.
The prisoners looked tired and very frightened. Pale-faced and bound at the wrists and neck with stout ropes, a forlorn two dozen men, some lightly wounded — the very badly hurt had been mercifully dispatched to their Maker in the immediate aftermath of the battle — sat disconsolately with their backs to the wooden palisade, stripped nearly naked, and guarded by a handful of joyfully victorious archers, who were sharing flasks of mead and time-honoured army jokes. It was not long past dawn in the bailey courtyard of Kirkton Castle and Hanno was congratulating me on my kill the night before last. ‘I am very pleased with you, Alan,’ said my Bavarian friend, his round shaven head split with a grin to reveal his ragged assortment of broken grey teeth. ‘It is a beautiful killing, ah yes. Very nice, very quiet, and very nearly perfect.’