‘That surprised you, Alan, didn’t it?’ he said with a wide, easy grin.
‘I don’t understand,’ I said. My jaw was sagging.
‘It’s all about the money, Alan,’ said Robin. ‘It usually is. Sometimes with a little revenge thrown in, sometimes some honest religion, sometimes it’s a question of bruised pride. But mostly it’s about cold hard silver.’
‘What are you talking about?’ I said, bewildered.
‘As of today, when I’ve had a moment to dispatch a few letters to my people in the East, we are no longer in the frankincense trade.’
I goggled at him. ‘But why?’
‘To keep the peace, mainly; and to get these damned Templars off my back,’ said my master. ‘That’s really all those holy hypocrites wanted from me. That whole inquisition flummery about heresy and demon-worship was just a way of forcing my hand. And I have been persuaded to submit to their wishes.’
‘Explain!’ I was beginning to be irritated by Robin’s flippant answers.
He sighed. ‘The Templars are taking over the frankincense trade in Outremer. In exchange, my excommunication is rescinded; the interdict on the Locksley lands is lifted; and the Templars have withdrawn their support for Prince John and come over to our side. My brother William has arranged everything: he acted as a go-between, he spoke first to the Master of the Temple two months ago, and brokered the whole deal from start to finish. With a little help from Queen Eleanor’s people.’
‘But what about all the money? You will lose thousands in revenues every year!’ I was also thinking of the good men who had died for that God-cursed frankincense trade, and of one good Templar knight, a noble man and a staunch friend, in particular.
‘I believe I may be, ah, compensated for my losses,’ said Robin, nodding towards a tall regal figure with red-gold hair who was at this moment striding energetically into the chapter house at the head of a crowd of knights and priests. ‘The King insisted on my making peace with these holy hot-heads — and promised royal rewards if I did so,’ said my master with a wry grin. ‘And there is some more good news: you and I, Little John — everybody — we are all to receive full pardons for our alleged crimes and misdemeanours. We are wild outlaws no longer, Alan; we are now honest king’s men.’ His extraordinary silver eyes twinkled at me, as if in jest, but I detected a note of wistfulness in his tone.
As ever, King Richard was decisive: in a loud voice he gathered everyone into the centre of the chapter house and in very few words he welcomed all to the Council and called on Hubert Walter, the Archbishop of Canterbury, to summarize the state of the campaign against John’s forces.
The Archbishop, a short, wide but very muscular man, beamed at the company. ‘It goes well, Your Highness,’ he began. ‘It goes very well indeed. As you may already know, my men have already recaptured Marlborough Castle in Wiltshire, and without too much trouble, I may say. Hugh de Puiset sends to say that he is outside the walls of Tickhill Castle on the Yorkshire border — and he writes that Sir Robert de la Mare is almost ready to surrender the fortress, assuming we can give certain guarantees of safe conduct, no reprisals, full pardons, and so forth.’
‘Give them,’ said King Richard curtly. ‘I want the castles, not the misguided men inside them.’
Hubert Walter continued, with a nod at his sovereign: ‘Lancaster Castle has fallen to de Puiset’s brother Theobald — and as for Mont St Michel in Cornwall…’ Here the Archbishop consulted a scrap of parchment. ‘… It seems the constable, Henry de Pumerai, died of fright when he heard Your Highness had returned to England.’
The room erupted in a roar of laughter, a mass of burly men doubled over in hilarity, slapping each other on the back and knuckling their own eyes, and even the King joined in, tears of mirth streaming down his pale cheeks.
At last, the Archbishop called the chapter house to order: ‘There is one last nut to crack, Highness, and then all England is yours: Nottingham Castle.’
‘Tell me about Nottingham,’ the King growled.
‘Well…’ the muscular prelate began. The King silenced him with a wave of his hand. ‘Not you, Hubert. You’ve done your bit. Locksley, that’s your neck of the woods. What news of my royal castle of Nottingham?’
All eyes in the chapter house were now on my master. He sucked in a big breath and began to speak. ‘Sire, as my lord Archbishop has already said, Nottingham is a tough nut. It is the last hold-out of Prince John’s men, and knights and menat-arms loyal to your brother have been mustering there for the past few weeks since your release. There must be as many as a thousand fighting men there now — including a contingent of two hundred first-class Flemish mercenaries: crossbow men, and very good, I’m told.’
Robin paused for a moment to collect his thoughts: ‘Nottingham has ample provisions for at least a year. It has several layers of defences, so that even if we take the outer walls, they can retreat into inner fortifications, and even if we take those, they could defy us from the great tower for many months. Some men say that Nottingham is absolutely impregnable; that it cannot be taken by force. Ever.’
‘But can we take it?’ The King was frowning at Robin.
My master looked straight back at him, but for three heartbeats he did not reply. Finally he said: ‘Yes, sire, yes, it can be taken. It will cost many lives, but, yes. Assuming that Prince John does not return to England with a great army and march to its relief. We can take it. But the price in blood, the price in the lives of your men, will be very high.’
The King looked thoughtful. ‘Who is there at Nottingham now?’ he asked.
Robin replied, with no emotion at all in his voice: ‘The castle is presently being held by Sir Ralph Murdac, your royal brother John’s constable, who was sheriff of Nottinghamshire, Derbyshire and the Royal Forests under your father.’
‘Murdac, that slimy little shit-bag? Is he still on the chessboard?’ said the King, with more than a little surprise in his voice. ‘I thought he had been banished, or exiled, or outlawed or something. The man’s no better than a thief. A damned coward, too.’
‘He is no fool and he should not be underestimated,’ said Robin. ‘And he has a strong garrison at his command. It will be no easy matter to winkle him out.’
‘Why do you defend him? He is no friend of yours,’ said the King. ‘If I remember rightly, you have crossed swords with him on several occasions. And wasn’t there some saucy rumour…’ the King stopped, embarrassed.
‘He is no friend of mine — that is certain,’ Robin said coolly. ‘I would happily see him hanged as a traitor from the nearest gallows. But it would be a grave mistake to underestimate him. As we speak, my men are now outside the castle walls, with the Earl of Chester’s forces, keeping him under surveillance. There are not enough loyal men to hand — a few hundred at most — to keep Murdac penned in if he really wanted to sally forth. But my guess is that he believes he is safe behind those walls, and he is sitting tight and holding out until Prince John sends a relief force from France.’
‘We need not fear my royal brother overmuch,’ said Richard. ‘He is not a man to take a country, or relieve a castle even, if there is anyone with even the slightest will to oppose him.’ Dutiful laughter echoed round the chapter house — it was a jest Richard had used before. Even Robin smiled tightly.