We moved towards each other, almost as if drawn by some invisible force, and then she was in my arms, held tight, squeezed, her white face pressed into my neck, and I could feel the burn of her tears.
Chapter Nineteen
King Richard stepped off the gangplank on to the wharf at the port of Sandwich on a bright, sunny March morning, and the cheers that rang out from the hundreds of men-at-arms gathered to meet him were loud enough to deafen the Heavens. He was thinner than when I’d last seen him, very pale, and looked a little older too — but he was still that strong, confident man who had led us to victory in Sicily, Cyprus and Outremer. His chief men — the earls and bishops and great barons — all those few who had remained loyal to him during the dark times — were gathered in the forefront of the crowd at the quayside, with their own loyal men behind them. And hundreds of small boats filled the brown water of the harbour with spectators, local Sandwich men and women, all wanting to catch a glimpse of the King’s triumphant arrival.
As our sovereign stepped off the narrow wooden walkway that ran down from the high deck of the ship, he staggered a little and then righted himself and smiled, and it felt as if the world was warmed. We cheered him, three times three, until our voices were hoarse. And Richard smiled and nodded at individuals in the crowd, lifting a thin hand to acknowledge a face here and there. He greeted each of the assembled magnates by name, walking slowly along the front of the shouting, jostling crowd, and giving each of them a word or two of thanks. Our King stopped by Robin, clasped him by the hand and pulled him forward. He muttered something in Robin’s ear and they both laughed, and then his eye lighted on me, standing as I was, directly behind my lord.
‘Blondel, well met,’ said the King. ‘How goes it with England’s most talented trouvere?’
‘I don’t know about that fellow, sire,’ I said, suddenly shy of conversing with the King, ‘but I can tell you that I am quite fit and well and ready to serve you.’
Richard laughed. ‘Good man. But we shall need your sharp sword more than your sharp wit in the next few weeks, Alan. And it may be some time, I fear, before we hear your elegant verses again,’ he added, looking grave.
‘I am yours to command, sire,’ I said, bowing.
The King nodded. ‘And I have not forgotten the debt I owe you for Ochsenfurt,’ he said.
I could find no reply but merely smiled mutely at him, and then he was off, past me and greeting the Earl Ferrers, who was standing nearby. I felt as if, for a moment, I had been standing by the blaze of an open hearth, and the warmth of the King’s greeting was sufficient to linger with me for hours afterwards.
As I was making my way through the throng back to the manor house where Robin and I were to sleep that night, I felt a hand on my arm and turned to see two bald elderly men, similarly dressed in white robes, much stained by travel. They were smiling at me, like old friends, which in a way they were. The foremost man extended a veined hand with a large jewelled ring on it for me to kiss. I bobbed down and made my obeisance, and grinned up at the abbot: ‘My lord Boxley,’ I said. ‘How very good to see you again. May I congratulate you on bringing our noble King safely home.’
A brief look of irritation flitted across his lined face, but he quickly recovered and smiled wryly at me: ‘I see that my good friend Alan is pleased to make merry with me,’ he said. ‘For he knows full well after all our adventures together in Germany that this is the Abbot of Boxley,’ he indicated his companion, who was nodding and beaming at me, ‘and I have the honour of Robertsbridge.’
‘Of course, of course, please forgive my foolish levity. I am most happy to see you both and long to hear of all your endeavours over the past few months — it cannot have been easy but you have certainly triumphed…’
After one night at Sandwich Manor, and an interminable meal with the two abbots, during which they gave me a blow-by-blow account of the negotiations to free Richard, we all took horse and followed the royal object of their efforts to Canterbury the next morning. As we rode, more and more knights and barons and their men-at-arms flocked to join in the procession — some men coming from as far afield as Cornwall to join the King, until we were a veritable army on the move.
On reaching the cathedral at Canterbury, Richard prayed at the shrine of Thomas a Becket and then commanded the Archbishop, Hubert Walter, a loyal, jolly but warlike prelate, to perform a Mass of thanksgiving for his safe release in the open air so that all the army could take part. After the service, the King called his chief vassals to him in the cathedral’s chapter house, and I was fortunate enough to be invited by Robin to attend him at the meeting.
As Robin mingled with the other earls and barons, greeting old friends and making new ones, I sat in one of the carved stone thrones around the walls and, with my back to the cool stone, I daydreamed about Goody.
After our passionate embrace, a tearful scene had followed: I had apologized to Goody for my jealousy and rude behaviour to Roger and she had begged my forgiveness for her coldness towards me, and we had laughed and joked and made everything right between us. We agreed to ask Marie-Anne, Goody’s legal guardian, to arrange a betrothal between us as soon as was humanly possible — and vowed never, ever to quarrel again.
Goody had said: ‘You have no need to feel jealous of Roger — he does not love girls. In fact, he came to me that day to tell me his heart had been broken by another boy.’
I felt as if a weight had been lifted from my own heart — suddenly everything seemed to make sense: his finely tended good looks, his meticulous, elegant dress, his bewilderment at my boorish aggression. Truly, Goody and Roger were no more than friends. And I thanked God.
I confessed to Goody the whole story about Nur. Even telling her about the curse I believed that she had cast on our love in revenge for my abandoning her, and how her malicious enchantment had been the real cause of our quarrel.
Goody went very quiet when I had finished telling my tale, and then she gently took my hand in hers and very quietly but firmly she said: ‘I don’t believe in enchantments, and I’m not frightened of unhappy women who go about pretending to be witches. You are not to blame for Nur’s misfortune; it was your enemy Malbete, not you, who cut away her beauty. And you cannot be blamed for the death of your love for her. Perhaps you did not truly love her before her misfortune; perhaps you did. It matters not. You do not love her now; and nothing she can do will persuade you to change your heart. You must give her a living, a cottage and some land to till in Westbury, some compensation in silver, perhaps, but that must be the end of the matter.’ She looked deep into my eyes with her lovely thistle-blue ones and said: ‘You are mine, now, not hers — and she has no right to meddle in our lives. If she does, I will make her regret it…’
I was startled out of my pleasant reverie in the chapter house by the sight of Robin talking to his brother, William of Edwinstowe, and a tall, familiar-looking knight. The knight wore a pure white mantle emblazoned with a blood-red cross on the breast; he was evidently Templar — of the very Order that had hounded Robin into outlawry only a year ago.
He was, in fact, Sir Aymeric de St Maur himself.
I sat upright with a jerk, my hand going instinctively to my sword hilt: the last time I had seen this man was in Nottingham Castle when he had been threatening me with hot irons to make me betray the very man with whom he was now congenially conversing not ten paces from my seat. The Templars had kidnapped little Hugh, tried my master for heresy, attempted to have him burnt at the stake and, on his escape, had had him excommunicated. And yet here was Aymeric, gossiping with Robin like a pair of goodwives at market. I had assumed that the Templars were backing Prince John’s cause — but now it seemed I was wrong. William of Edwinstowe, standing between his brother and the Templar knight, put a hand on each of their arms, smiled, said something quietly and walked away into the throng. And Robin and Aymeric were nodding, smiling at each other and now, miraculously, giving each other the kiss of peace before they parted — as if they were old and trusted comrades. I stood up as Robin came over to me. He laughed out loud when he saw my amazed face.