Robin saw me peering at the instrument and said: ‘It’s a tool for removing arrow heads from deep wounds. The spoony part is inserted into the wound, closed around the arrow head, which allows the head to be withdrawn without causing any more damage. Totally unnecessary, in my view — Flemish crossbowmen don’t use barbed arrows for warfare. But Nathan here insists it is a marvellous invention and the decision must be his: after all, Nathan is the man who is to operate on John, when he can summon up sufficient courage.’
I looked at Robin quizzically. And my master said: ‘John has threatened to break both of Nathan’s arms if he causes him any unnecessary pain.’ And he gave me a lop-sided smile.
Little John was grinning owlishly at me from his position on the table. I could see that, unlike Robin, who was merely relaxed, John was thoroughly drunk. He had also been tightly strapped to the table, with several thick leather bands securing his huge chest and both meaty legs. I walked over to him. ‘Now then, John,’ I said, selecting my most patronizing tone. ‘There is no need to throw your weight about here and make such a childish fuss about a little thing like this.’
And with my index finger I flicked the shaft of the quarrel that was sticking out of his arse cheek — hard.
It wobbled satisfyingly, and John bellowed with rage and pain and tried to struggle free of the leather bonds that strapped him to the table. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Nathan the barber-surgeon looking stunned and Robin, heedless of his javelin wound, convulsed with laugher on his stool in the corner.
‘That,’ I said to the red-faced giant now writhing on the table and trying to reach me with great backward sweeps of his massive hands, ‘was for the punch in the face that you gave me at Carlton.’ And I grinned broadly at him to display the tooth he had chipped.
‘And this is to teach you not to bully poor barber-surgeons-’ I grabbed the shaft of the quarrel and pulled it free of the wound with one swift, clean jerk of my wrist. It came free easily, accompanied by a splash of black blood.
Followed only by John’s booming roar of outrage and the sound of Robin’s helpless laughter, I ran from the room and tumbled out into the street, hardly able to contain my own mirth. It had been a long, difficult day, but that image of Little John’s crimson face, contorted with impotent fury, was one that would warm me on many a cold night for years to come.
At dusk, the King summoned his chief counsellors to his big pavilion in the deer park. I accompanied Robin to the meeting, but only after I had ascertained that Little John was hors de combat, sleeping off a vast quantity of drink in a comfortable bed in the town, his bum cheek now cleaned, stitched and bandaged by the surgeon. I had resolved to stay well out of his way for a few days, at the very least, until he had calmed down; possibly a month — maybe even a year or two.
All the King’s senior barons and knights were there, crammed into the stuffy tent, some bearing the marks of the day’s battle. The Scotsman, David, Earl of Huntingdon, was chatting to Earl Ferrers, who had been lightly but unluckily wounded in the face that afternoon by a quarrel fired from the castle. His men had made a valiant attack on the barbican of the middle bailey, and had very nearly taken it. But the falling of dusk, and a surprisingly determined resistance by the defenders, had forced them to retreat at the last, leaving their dead in piles in the ditch below the middle bailey’s stone walls. William, Baron Edwinstowe, standing alone near the back of the pavilion, gave me a cautious nod and a half-smile; I bowed slightly in return. Ranulph, Earl of Chester, stood with Sir Aymeric de St Maur and another grey-haired Templar knight talking quietly in a corner of the tent. While we waited for the King, Robin and I passed the time in conversation with William the Marshal — he had been one of the knights who had charged to our rescue that day with Richard, and he had slain many of the enemy that morning with his own hand. I thanked him for saving my life, and the lives of my men.
‘I should be thanking you,’ said this grizzled old war-hound. ‘Without your valiant assault on the gatehouse, we’d never have taken the outer bailey.’
‘Not that it has done us much good,’ said Robin with a grimace. ‘Ferrers’ assault on the barbican failed. We are still no closer to taking the stone heart of Nottingham. You might say that we just wasted the lives of a good many men today — mostly my men.’
I knew that Robin’s wound was paining him, but he was also genuinely angry about the carnage that had occurred during the taking of the gatehouse. Of the one hundred and ninety-odd men-at-arms who had charged with Little John and me that morning, more than two-thirds were now dead or wounded. And many of the badly wounded would not live through the night. Robin’s forces had been severely depleted by the attack, and we could not even say that we now had mastery of the outer bailey. No one did.
‘I don’t care for that sort of talk,’ growled the Marshal, looking sharply at Robin. ‘It was bravely done, and Alan here is to be congratulated for a difficult task accomplished.’ I smiled gratefully at William. And Robin grinned a little ruefully at me. ‘You are right, Marshal,’ my lord said. ‘That was remiss of me. You did very well today, Alan. And I thank you from my heart for your gallant efforts.’
I wasn’t sure I liked the word ‘efforts’, but before I could raise the matter, Robin changed the subject.
‘What news from the heralds, Marshal?’
The old warrior scratched his grey head. ‘Nothing very surprising: the castle still formally defies us. The only ray of sunlight is that the heralds have reported that there are those inside who, it is believed, would surrender to the King in the right circumstances. But not while the Constable, Sir Ralph Murdac, is in command there. The wretched fellow is apparently devoted to Prince John, and he has told the heralds that he does not believe that the foe encamped before him really is King Richard. He is saying that our army is commanded by an imposter, some jumped-up knight pretending to be Richard!’
Robin snorted. ‘That’s a good one — the King is an imposter! And the idea of Ralph Murdac being devoted to anyone is quite amusing, too. That little hunchbacked rat has nowhere else to go, and he knows it, so he’s dressing it up as knightly loyalty. But that’s all by the by. I take it that there is no chance of a nice peaceful surrender, then?’
‘None — while Murdac remains Constable,’ said William. ‘We must take the castle by force. It will have to be done the hard way, the old-fashioned way.’
‘Maybe — but then again, maybe not,’ said Robin, musingly. ‘Will you excuse us, Marshal? I need to speak to young Alan on a private matter.’
And, hobbling slightly from his javelin wound, he pulled me aside and began to whisper quietly into my ear.
By rights, I should not have spoken out at the King’s Council. Although I believed Richard was fond of me, I was a nobody, a mere captain of men, a youth, not yet twenty years old, of no family to speak of, and with only one small manor to my undistinguished name. But I did speak, and it changed my life. And, as it was his idea, I have Robin to thank for the results.