One day while we were sitting alone, indulging in yet another massive bout of gluttony, I plucked up my courage and directly asked Tuck for news of Goody.
‘Oh, she is very well. And I think she must be happy, too. She has a gentleman admirer who calls on her every day bringing flowers and sweetmeats, costly silks and perfumes.’
‘What did you say!’ Suddenly I felt sick and pushed away my plate, still piled high with rich food.
‘I said young Goody now has a gentleman admirer,’ Tuck repeated calmly, and then he drew my platter towards him and, with dainty fingers, he picked up and took an enormous bite from a crisp slice of a suckling pig.
‘And who is this lecherous bastard? Some scabby, rat-faced, turnip-muncher, I make no doubt!’ I realized that my voice had grown rough and loud and my cheeks were glowing hot.
Tuck leaned his head back and regarded me over his big red nose as he chewed. When he had finished his mouthful of pork, he said: ‘He is Lord Chichester’s eldest boy, Roger. A handsome lad, and quite refined — the ladies all say so.’ And he grinned at me.
‘All the ladies say so! I’ll wager they do. And you let this philandering, over-bred, chinless stripling get close to my Goody! How could you, Tuck? He’ll be smarming all over her, trying to weasel his way into her bedchamber with pretty words — sweetmeats, silks and perfumes, indeed! I hold you responsible, Tuck. God’s bones, I’d like to meet this horny little rich boy. If he has so much as laid a hand on her, I’ll cut his balls off, I’ll…’
‘Calm yourself, Alan! Do calm down. Why don’t you ride down to London yourself and you can meet this boy Roger. You will find that he is a very chaste and God-fearing fellow, mild-mannered…’
‘Chaste and mild-mannered, my arse,’ I muttered. ‘Nobody called Roger has ever been less than a full-blooded whore-mongering lecher…’ And then I stopped. I knew I was making a rare idiot of myself, but perhaps Tuck was right. Perhaps it was my duty, as Goody’s friend and honorary older brother, to pay a visit to this Roger person and make damn sure that he understood a few basic rules of gentlemanly behaviour: like no touching Goody, no fondling, no kissing — in fact, no speaking to her alone, or gazing at her longingly from afar, or sending her little scented love notes…
It was clearly my week for making a fool of myself. I brought up the prospect of a southern journey with Robin the next evening after a late supper. Most of the guests had departed by then and there were only about thirty of Robin’s senior men gathered around a table in the main cave finishing a modest meal of soup and bread and cheese. To my surprise, Robin thought it a good idea.
‘You can escort a packhorse train of silver to London for me,’ he said. ‘You’ve been sitting about for too long now. It’s been — what? — three, four weeks since we pulled you out of Nottingham. I reckon it’s about time you did something useful. Take at least twenty men with you, and be very, very careful. I’ve just heard that you have been formally declared outlaw by the shire court — it’s Prince John’s doing, of course — and there’s a price on your head: a pound of finest silver. Congratulations!’
I beamed at him. I felt a strange kind of pride to be an outlaw; I had been too insignificant to be properly outlawed when I was last living wild in Sherwood. Now I was a dangerous, wanted man with a price in silver on his head. And I rather liked it.
Robin continued: ‘Take heed, Alan, and be extra vigilant. Any man may take your life now and claim the reward, and if word gets out that you are carrying large quantities of specie, half the footpads in England will be lying in wait for you. And if you lose that money, I will be extremely displeased.’ And he gave me a cold, hard stare.
Then his expression softened. ‘When you get to London you can give my love to Marie-Anne, and little Hugh — and to Goody, of course.’ And he smiled at me, with a glint of something knowing in his odd grey eyes.
Despite his warning, I was feeling very pleased with myself. A pound of precious silver for my life — it was a goodly sum. I thanked Robin, and was about to leave the cave when a thought struck me and I turned back to my outlawed lord. ‘What is the price on your head now, Robin? Tell me honestly, I beg you.’
For a moment my master seemed almost embarrassed. Then he looked straight at me: ‘I’m told it is up to a thousand pounds by now.’
I felt instantly deflated. ‘A thousand pounds! A thousand pounds!’ I said the words too loudly, almost shouting — in that company, nobody raised his voice to Robin — and a tense silence descended over the supper table. But for some reason I couldn’t stop myself: ‘And what about John Nailor?’ I demanded of Robin, once again too loudly, and nodded over to the giant form of my blond friend who was watching us, grinning evilly from the far end of the table.
Robin coughed: ‘Ah, um, I think it is five hundred pounds of silver at present!’ He smiled mockingly at me. ‘And I believe even Much the miller’s son is worth ten pounds — and that’s dead or alive, of course.’
‘This is outrageous!’ I was suddenly very angry. ‘Why am I only worth one paltry pound of silver? That is nothing — nothing but a damned insult! I’ve a good mind to complain…’
‘To Prince John?’ said Robin, with a straight face, and the whole table — thirty big, tough, dirty outlaws — erupted in a deafening wave of laughter. I flushed a deep red, turned on my heel and stalked out of the cave with as much dignity as I could gather around me, while a cascade of boozy laughter and crude half-heard jests swept me out into the chilly night.
I rode south on a blustery October day with twenty heavily armed, mounted men at my back; half Welsh archers and half men-at-arms, guarding five packhorses each with two stout wooden chests strapped to its back. Beside me rode Hanno — and Thomas ap Lloyd. The dark Welsh boy had told me that he wished to become my squire, and train to be a fully fledged warrior one day, and while at twelve summers he was a little old to begin training, I felt he had promise, and that I owed him something for showing me the wrestling trick that I had used to defeat Milo. So he came, too, trotting along on a pony that was as brown, quiet and well mannered as he.
When he asked if he might serve me, I had asked him one crucial question in return.
‘What do you know of your father’s death,’ I said, looking directly into his calm oak-brown eyes.
He looked right back at me, his gaze perfectly level, and said quietly and soberly: ‘I know that he was offered money by Sir Ralph Murdac to kill the Earl of Locksley. I know that my life and the life of my mother were threatened by Murdac to encourage my father to comply. And I know that, instead of attacking our lord, he attacked you in the dark in the Earl’s bed-chamber, by mistake, and that you fought and killed him.’
‘Do you blame me for his death?’
‘No, sir, I do not,’ he said, and I was certain, as certain as I am of Damnation or Salvation, that he was telling me the truth. ‘My father was forced to do what he did by Murdac, and you killed him in self-defence,’ he continued. ‘He died by your hand, but his death is not to be laid at your door. You were protecting yourself, and your lord, which is right and proper. I blame Sir Ralph Murdac for my father’s death — and if I ever have the opportunity, I shall have my vengeance upon him.’ He said these words quietly, calmly and with an incredible conviction for one so young. I believed him utterly.