Outlaw (30 page)

We made our way into the great hall of Winchester Castle to a blast of trumpets. Bernard walked over to the wall at the side of the great hall - it was to be my performance, after all, he was only going to accompany me in the
tenson
. Then, with an unnaturally loud voice, completely different to his usual gentle tones, Fulcold announced: ‘My lords, ladies and gentlemen, for your pleasure, I give you the renowned and talented
trouvère
Alan Dale.’ I bowed low, lifted the vielle to my arm and ran my eyes over my audience.

The guests were seated at a long table in the shape of a T in the centre of the great hall of Winchester Castle. At the high table, the cross piece of the T, sat Queen Eleanor, splendid in a jewelled gown of gold cloth, Sir Ralph FitzStephen, stern in black, Marie-Anne, the bloody red ruby glinting at her neck and Sir Ralph Murdac: handsome, glossy but seated on a fat cushion to disguise his lack of height. All the courtiers sat on either side of the long table that formed the down stroke of the T. I stood at the far end of the low table, concentrating my gaze on the most important guests at the top table. I struck the first chord of the vielle and began to play. I sang the first verse and then my voice began to tremble, for half way down the lower table, as I warbled on about the royal eagle and her joyous third nesting, was a grease-slicked face bulging with roast mutton that I’d hoped I would never see again. It was Guy. He looked almost as surprised as I was.

Somehow I managed to finish the song, though it can’t have been delivered with much finesse. There was a polite, muted scatter of applause and then, as in a dream where everything is moving with exaggerated slowness, Guy stood up, splendid in a clean surcoat of green and yellow, extended an accusing finger and shouted, as if from very far away: ‘That man is an impostor! Arrest him!’ Everything speeded up again and I heard him yelling, loudly now: ‘He is an outlaw, a thief, a henchman of Robin Hood.’ And just as Guy had done on that day when he had been accused of stealing the ruby, I panicked. I dropped the vielle and bow and rushed for the door.

Chapter Fifteen

Panic is a great enemy. As I discovered that day at Winchester. I have been told that the word comes from an ancient god of the Greeks called Pan, a terrifying flute-playing demon with the hind legs and horns of a goat, and the body of a naked man. But, to this day, whenever I ponder the unreasoning terror inspired by that long-dead Greek spirit, I cannot help but think of Robin, dressed as Cernunnos for that awful sacrifice, with his blood-daubed naked chest and antlers.

An all-encompassing, choking fear grew in my heart this spring, not quite a panic but very close to it, as the fever rose in young Alan, my grandson. He is the last of my line, the last of me in this world. As the days passed, he grew thinner, more like a skeleton, unable to keep down food or drink, silent and still, edging closer and closer to death. And I admit I was teetering on the lip of madness as I galloped through the woods on my mare, my old bones rattling, searching out a wooden cottage deep in Sherwood that I had not visited for almost half a century.

Brigid knew me immediately, despite the span of years, my time-worn face and ashen hair, and welcomed me, and asked to look at my right arm. But I thrust a live new-born lamb into her bosom and brushing aside the civilities, begged her on my knees to make a charm to help my boy. She placed a hand on my head, and immediately I felt calmer, soothed by her fingers running through my sparse locks. ‘Of course I will help you, Alan,’ she said. ‘And the Mother will not suffer your boy to die.’ She sounded so confident, so sure in her powers, that I felt a great weight fall from my shoulders. I let out a deep breath and my bunched muscles loosened a little as she busied herself at an old oak table, slitting the lamb’s throat and draining its blood into a bowl, grinding dried roots, mixing dusty powders and muttering charms to herself. I looked around the cottage. It had hardly changed in forty-odd years: the same bunches of dried herbs hung from the ceiling, the cobwebs in the dark corners were even thicker, even the skeleton was still hanging on the far wall. And yet, for all its witchery, the place felt homely. A place of goodness and healing. I began to relax as Brigid worked. The power of that ancient Greek demon began to wane.

At Winchester Castle, though, I was held firmly in the dizzying grip of that Greek deity. I dropped the vielle, something for which Bernard was very angry about long afterwards, and rushed for the door of the hall. I had not got five yards before half a dozen men-at-arms had grabbed me. Running was proof of my guilt in their eyes, you see. If I had held fast, said nothing and thought, I might have been able to talk my way out of it. But my instinct to run, ingrained after years of thievery in Nottingham, was too strong.

The men-at arms dragged me back to the spot where I had been playing, and despite my cries of innocence, appeals to the Queen and desperate struggles, they trussed me with a rope, and gagged me. The room had dissolved into uproar. The Queen was on her feet demanding loudly to know the name of the man who had interrupted her entertainment. Guy was shouting that he had known me at Thangbrand’s and that I had been one of the worst of that gang of cut-throats. The other guests were demanding to know who I was, who Guy was, and what the fuss was all about. Marie-Anne sat still, staring at me, the colour gone from her face, the ruby a bold red against her bloodless neck. It was Sir Ralph Murdac who restored order to the hall by shouting ‘Silence!’ again and again and again, until there was quiet.

‘Who are you, sir?’ said the Queen to Guy, her voice unnaturally loud in the sudden hush.

‘I am Guy of Gisborne, your highness, a humble soldier in the service of Sir Ralph Murdac.’

Oh yes, I thought, despite your proclaimed ‘humility’ you’ve picked up a territorial title in your travels, you turd. I’d heard of the manor of Gisborne, a moderately rich farm not far from Nottingham, whose lord had died a few years ago. Presumably Sir Ralph had given it to Guy for services rendered. What those might be, I could only guess, but I was sure it must be connected to giving up information about Robin.

‘You vouch for this man, then?’ said the Queen, turning to Sir Ralph. The little man smiled and ducked his black head. ‘He has been most useful to me,’ he said in his lisping voice. ‘And before he entered my service he was indeed a member of Robert Odo’s band of felons.’

‘Then continue,’ the Queen said to Guy, who, puffed with self-importance, then related to the assembly how he had grown up at his father’s farm in Sherwood, and how his father had been tricked into harbouring outlaws from Robin’s band. Alan Dale was one of them, he told the audience, a particularly vicious thief from Nottingham, much given to murder and blasphemy. ‘Bernard of Sezanne is also an outlaw,’ he continued, ‘and . . . and . . . the Countess of Locksley is affianced to Robin Hood.’

‘Impossible,’ interjected Sir Ralph Murdac coldly, frowning at Guy. ‘You are mistaken. The Lady Marie-Anne is a woman of the highest nobility, and a close personal friend of mine - she could not possibly consort with bandits. You are mistaken.’

‘And Bernard of Sezanne is a noble gentleman of Champagne,’ chimed in the Queen, ‘and he is my servant, my personal
trouvère
. You are clearly mistaken about him, too.’

‘But . . . but . . .’ stuttered Guy. He was interrupted by our host, Ralph FitzStephen. He had held his silence until this moment but now he wanted to stamp his authority on the extraordinary proceedings in his hall. ‘The accusations against the Countess of Locksley and . . . and Bernard of Sezanne are, of course, ridiculous and will be ignored. But the allegations against this Dale person are serious,’ he said, ‘and must be investigated. Take him down to the dungeon and hold him securely until the truth can be ascertained.’ And with that I was dragged from the room and marched through the castle, down, down to the lowest level where I was bundled through a cell door to sprawl on a pile of foul-smelling straw. The door closed behind me with a clang.

I lay in the blackness of that stinking cell, with its damp stone walls and ice-cold floor, and listened to the scurry of rats. My gag had come loose, thank God, but my arms were still tightly tied behind my back. And they were a cause of considerable discomfort in the following few hours. Although they were nothing compared with what came later. To take my mind off my bound wrists, I considered my situation: to the good, I had powerful friends in Winchester. Queen Eleanor had known about Marie-Anne’s visit to Robin, and presumably she had condoned it; and she also knew that we - Bernard and I - had been members of Robin’s band, and that had not troubled her when she accepted Bernard into her service. Marie-Anne, of course, was quite safe from the accusations of a jumped-up soldier and I knew she would try to come to my aid. To the bad, Eleanor was a prisoner herself, though a privileged one, and she might be powerless to help. Sir Ralph FitzStephen had authority over the castle and he would definitely not turn a blind eye to charges of outlaws running loose around his halls. But, worst of all, Murdac would no doubt want to put me to the test to get information about Robin. That meant pain, a great deal of pain.

To control my bounding fears, I played the scene in the great hall over and over in my mind: Guy’s spiteful face and out-thrust finger as he denounced me; Marie-Anne’s look of fear and shock; the Queen’s anger; Murdac’s ostentatiously gallant protection of Marie-Anne; Guy’s confusion at his master’s rejection of his accusations.

We had all assumed at Robin’s Caves that it was Guy who had been responsible for leading Murdac’s men to Thangbrand’s; that Guy had been the traitor, who, it would seem, had been rewarded with the manor of Gisborne. But, as I lay there on the damp straw, in the permanent midnight of that cell, thinking about his treachery, and imagining the bloody vengeance I would take, I realised something was wrong. Something was burrowing at the back of my mind; something about the letter that Murdac had written to the Queen. I remembered it clearly: . . .
his run of luck is nearly at an end. I know his every move before he makes it, and I shall soon have him in my grasp . . .

‘I know his every move before he makes it’; that implied that Murdac had someone in the camp who was a traitor, who was informing him of Robin’s plans. Had that been Guy? It would appear so. But why, what was Guy’s motive? Until I had spatchcocked him with the ruby, he was a fairly contented, if obnoxious, young man. And then, like the click of a latch opening a door, I knew Guy could not be the traitor. The letter was dated the eleventh of February, which was two months
after
Guy had left Thangbrand’s. And it followed that, if Guy was not the traitor in the camp, someone else was.

That thought gave me a chill of horror; somebody, one of my dear friends, was betraying our every move to Murdac. It could be anyone: Much, the miller’s son, Owain the Bowman, Will Scarlet, Hugh, Little John, even dear old Brother Tuck. Anyone.

But I was pleased with my conclusion; I would have something crucial to confide to Thomas when I saw him again. If I saw him again. Suddenly my spirits plunged once more. Would they hang me as an outlaw before I got a chance to talk to the ugly one-eyed brute? Where were my friends? I had been lying in this black pit for hours and nobody had come to visit me. My bladder was full and aching. I was determined not to wet myself but the prospect of sweet release, even if it meant warm wet hose, was almost too tempting. I bit my lip and held fast.

I dozed for a while and the next thing I knew the cell door was opening, blinding me with the yellow light of torches, and there was Murdac and his God-forgotten lackey, Guy. They stood silhouetted in the doorway for an instant, Guy towering over Sir Ralph, and then they entered that stinking room, followed by two men-at-arms. I sneezed violently; even above the dungeon stench I recognised Murdac’s revolting lavender scent. He came close to me and stared down at my curled form on the filthy floor. I sneezed again. Under Guy’s supervision, the men-at-arms lit torches and set them in beckets in the wall. Ominously, one of the men-at-arms set up a brazier, filled it with cordwood and oil-soaked wool and set it alight with a flint and steel. I knew it was not to keep me warm during the long, cold night. Another man-at-arms attached my bound arms, with a rope, to a hook in the ceiling and adjusted the length so that I was partially suspended from my wrists, which were still bound behind me. The strain on my arms was enormous, but by leaning far forward and standing on my tiptoes, I could make it just bearable. Then the soldier cut my new clothes from my body with his dagger, leaving me as naked as the day I was born. I was filled with shame at my nudity and kept my eyes on the straw below me. But worse than the shame was the fear. Rising like a river in spate was sheer skin-tightening terror. Somewhere in the corner, in the foul shadows of the dark cell, the Greek demon Pan was taking shape. And he was silently laughing. As I tried to control my dread, I was aware that Murdac was watching me, studying me with his extraordinary pale blue eyes.