The King’s Assassin (3 page)

I had heard, even down in the war-torn County of Toulouse, that the King was squeezing the country like a ripe plum in his greedy fist, and I had even expected that, as a knight, I might have to pay a small amount to the crown for my lands. But I had not foreseen this pillaging of my goods and chattels.

Baldwin tried to give me comfort. ‘Sir, you are not alone. Most of the knights in the north – even the great barons – have suffered in the same way. I dare say all over the country there are good men doing as we are and looking with dismay at their rolls and wondering how they shall maintain their dignity over the coming year.’

It was not much comfort, to be honest. Westbury was penniless, I was near enough a beggar for all my title and lands, and the sheriff wanted more.

Baldwin looked as if he would weep at any moment, so I hid my growing anger.

‘Calm yourself, Baldwin,’ I said. ‘If the sheriff’s men return we will defy them. Tomorrow or the next day, Sir Thomas Blood will be arriving with two dozen good fighting men and the carts and baggage. Once they are installed at Westbury, we will shut the gates in their faces and dare them to attack. My men have fought halfway across Europe; they will not be cowed by a few Nottingham Castle braggarts. I’ll warrant that if needs must we can hold this place against them till Judgement Day.’

The look of relief on Baldwin’s face warmed my soul.

‘They have only preyed on us because all the fighting men were away,’ I said, slapping the old fellow on his thin shoulder. ‘They thought we were weak. Maybe we were. We are not now. I’m here to stay and I swear that they shall not have another penny, not a slice of bread from me, not a cup of stale ale. Rest easy, old friend.’

‘But in the meantime, sir, how shall we eat…’

‘Sir Thomas is bringing stores with him – rough-and-ready travelling fare, twice-baked bread, hard cheese and some wine. It will serve for now, and Thomas has silver, too. Enough to replace the farm beasts, at the very least. We shall not starve, Baldwin, never you fear. And I will ride to Kirkton tomorrow to consult with my lord of Locksley. He will know what to do.’

I rode north with young Robert the next morning. It was a fine fair spring day, sunny but brisk, with a blue sky garlanded with wisps of cloud. Robert was in a fine tearing mood, galloping ahead of me on the dry road, causing his horse to rear, then circling back to urge me to greater speed. He was proud of his riding skills, as well he might be, for they were excellent for a lad his age. But we took our time, walking the horses often to rest them and discoursing happily in the saddle about my adventures in the south and Robert’s fancies and dreams. It was approaching dusk as we rode up the steep track from the Locksley Valley to the castle of Kirkton high above.

We rode past the church of St Nicholas and I nodded courteously at the ancient priest, half-dozing on a bench in the evening sunshine on the south side of the house of God, which overlooked the valley. The old man lifted a hand in blessing but did not move, and Robert and I made our way quietly past him through to the little graveyard and up the gentle slope to the castle’s wooden walls. We were admitted without fanfare by the porters, who seemed uninterested in the two dusty arrivals. Once inside the gates, I saw that we had arrived in the middle of a celebration.

Almost the whole population of the castle, and a goodly number of the folk from the village that sprawled beneath its walls, had assembled in the courtyard – several hundred people in a rough circle around the edges with a large space in the centre. It seemed that they had been there some time, perhaps all day, for stalls had been set up offering sweetmeats, cakes and ale around the inside of the castle walls, and the crowd displayed a jolly holiday mood. On the walls of the keep, a squat tower at the rear of the courtyard, a dozen bright flags flew proudly from the battlements, and a gaggle of nobility in silks and furs stood on the parapet watching the space below.

Two men in full mail stood in the centre of that space, both armed with sword and shield. Their faces were partially obscured by their helms, which were plain steel domes, with cheek guards and nasals. One was short and stocky, the other tall and thin: by the springiness of their steps as they circled each other warily I could tell that both were young and extremely fit.

I stepped down from my horse and quickly lashed the reins to a post, and then Robert and I pushed our way to the front of the crowd to watch the bout.

The taller one attacked first, and by God he was fast. He took two steps, feinted a lunge at his opponent’s head, and whipped the sword down to strike at his foeman’s forward thigh. The stockier fellow made a slow high lateral block, to counter the feint, realised his mistake and just got his shield down in time to stop the blade cutting deep into his thigh. He was given no time to recover, for the tall fellow was already striking again, a diagonal cut at the head followed up by a thrusting pommel strike that rang off the side of the stocky man’s helmet like a church bell. It was a move I had never seen before; utterly original and devastatingly effective.

The shorter man staggered comically away from the blow, which must have partially stunned him; and the slender fellow let out a peal of boyish laughter.

It was then that I realised that the two men sparring in the courtyard were Robin’s sons: Miles and Hugh. I glanced at my own boy, standing beside me; his eyes were shining with excitement, his two fists clenched white as bone as if he too might shortly be called upon to defend himself.

The crowd were cheering, calling out advice: some of it helpful, some absurd, some of it quite obscene. Robin was standing with both hands on the parapet of the keep, flanked by two men I did not recognise, and looking down impassively as his two boys battered away at each other. Hugh had recovered himself by then, which was just as well, for young Miles was subjecting him to a blizzard of strikes, each as fast as a darting kingfisher, a dazzling display of his sword-skill. Metal flashed in the spring sunlight, white chips of wood flew from Hugh’s shield, and the sword clanged once more against his brother’s helmet as it skimmed its pointed dome. But Hugh did not go down. He hunched himself under the onslaught, and his blocks and parries were exactly precise, a classic defence – standard, tried-and-tested moves and would have filled any master-at-arms’s heart with joy. Miles struck fast and hard, often in the most unexpected combinations, but Hugh’s bulwark was solid; every time Miles’s sword licked out, there was Hugh’s battered shield ready to take the blow, or his blade to make the block.

And I could see that Miles was tiring.

For any man, no matter how strong and fit, tires after only a short while in the fury of combat. No one can fight at full pitch for long; and wiser, older warriors know that if they can survive the initial onslaught, their enemy will be weakened, and they will surely have their chance. Hugh was no grey-beard, he was in his twenty-fifth year, but he had the patience and wisdom of a man twice his age.

Miles’s sword strikes were still coming fast as a viper’s tongue, and equally as deadly, but they were met with a stolid determination that smothered all his energy and flair. And slowly, gradually, Hugh began to show his dominance. He stopped a lightning vertical cut at his head and stepped in, turning his ringing block into a half-decent lunge at his opponent’s eyes. Miles, utterly surprised, only just managed to jerk his head out of the path of the blade.

And the tables were turned.

Hugh attacked: a strike on the right with sword, a punch forward on the left with shield; a feint at the head, a slash at the ankles. They were all well-worn, proven manoeuvres, the kind of moves that were drummed into all fighting men from the first moment we entered the practice-ground. They were utterly predictable. I could hear the echo down the long years of my own first sword-master, a grizzled outlaw called Thangbrand, bellowing out the numbers of the sequence. And yet, they were drummed into us all because they
were
effective; they were taught to generation after generation because they worked. Miles might affect a young man’s contempt for the traditional combinations, but he had his hands full trying to counter them. Hugh bored on, stubborn as an ass; pushing Miles back and back across the courtyard with his dull, age-old technique, until, as perhaps Hugh had hoped, Miles made a mistake.

The taller boy took a gamble. Instead of stopping Hugh’s sword blow to his left shoulder dead with his shield, absorbing the impact of the blade, and counter-attacking with his own sword – which would have been the usual response – he closed in and tried to shield-punch his brother’s fist as it grasped the hilt of the swinging sword, down and away. The idea clearly being to make him drop his sword or at the least to open his older brother’s body, and leave it defenceless against a wicked lunge to the belly.

But Miles mistimed it; he came in too close and moved too fast. The very top of his shield struck Hugh’s hand, rather than the centre. Hugh kept his grip. And while his sword was indeed pushed wide, he was not forced off balance. Miles, on the other hand, was – he stumbled slightly and the older boy merely pushed forward with his own shield, trapping his younger brother’s sword against his own chest, and then gave a hard shove, knocking him to the ground with a clatter of wood and metal equipment. An instant later, Hugh stood over his brother as he lay in the dirt of the courtyard, sword tickling his chin, and Miles was forced to yield.

Miles looked stunned as he lay there, then for a fraction of a moment, insanely angry. Then the fit passed and his face creased into a smile and he began to chuckle ruefully as his older brother held out a hand to help him to his feet.

Hugh’s expression showed not one scintilla of triumph at his victory. He even looked bored as he pulled his brother up and gently slapped the dust from his back.

The crowd of holiday folk cheered wildly, most of them, though I heard one or two curse God and the saints in a most vulgar manner, and I noticed many crossly handing over coins and even purses to their neighbours. Robin strode across the courtyard, in a rich dark green robe with fur as the collar and cuffs, and jaunty feathered hat atop his handsome head. His face a beam of pure happiness.

‘My friends, the hour is late, and we have seen some fine sport this long day. Our fighting men have spent themselves giving us all such fine exhibitions of their prowess, and now it is time for the revels of the day: for feasting and music and dance. More wine, ale and mead will be served, the cooks are roasting two whole oxen over the pits in the long meadow as we speak, and there will be food and drink for all far into the night. But before we give ourselves over to pleasure, I ask you to show your appreciation for my two sons and their skill at arms. Give me a cheer for Miles Odo, a gallant warrior…’ The crowd dutifully cheered, but not with excessive heartiness … ‘and for the victor in today’s final match, Hugh Odo, whose birth day this is, and in whose honour all this revelry is named. Eat, drink and be merry, my friends, and raise a cup to my heir while you do so.’ The cheer this time was an unforced genuine roar of approval which rolled around inside of the wooden castle walls like thunder. I had not realised till then that Hugh was so much liked.

We started to push our way through the throng towards the great hall.

‘Why does Hugh get a celebration for the day of his birth, Father?’ asked Robert. He scratched his cropped hair. ‘Why don’t I get a feast on my birth day?’

‘We always celebrate your birth on St Robert’s day…’

‘Which was two weeks ago,’ said Robert. ‘You were still in France. Baldwin took me to church, we had pease pottage and boiled turnips for dinner, no more.’

‘Pease pottage is a fine dish. Many a boy would be happy to have it.’

Robert went quiet, and I was stabbed by a shaft of hot guilt. I had not, indeed, been a very attentive father. Too often away, too long away.

‘I was thinking that it was about time that you had a decent sword…’ I said.

‘Oh, Father,’ said Robert, his face opening like a flower, ‘that would be so wonderful. One like Fidelity? A hand-and-a-half with a jewel set on the pommel?’

‘Well, perhaps not quite like Fidelity…’ I said.

And saw his face fall.

‘I mean one that is not quite so old and battered,’ I said quickly. ‘But a new sword, yes! – a proper blade for a promising young squire.’

While Robert fizzed with happiness, I cursed my own weakness. After the sheriff’s depredations, money was tight enough at Westbury without me promising to spend a fortune on a sword for a boy whose voice had not yet broken. But a promise is a promise and I made a private vow that I would visit a cutler’s shop in Nottingham in the next few days where the proprietor was an old boyhood friend of mine – and not quite an out-and-out rogue – to see what could be managed.

I also decided that Robert must have some proper training at last. Seeing the skills that Miles and Hugh displayed reminded me of how remiss I had been with my own son’s martial education. He must be trained as a squire by the best, the very best. He must be sent to a great household, the household of a knight famous for his prowess, where he would learn all the skills of a fighting man and proper conduct in war and out of it. And I thought I knew just the right man for the task.

I found Robin in the great hall of Kirkton surrounded by a throng of knights and men-at-arms from the surrounding area and their ladies and elder children. I knew most of them reasonably well and it took Robert and I a good deal of time to work our way through the crowd, nodding, smiling, clasping a hand here and there, offering a few words of greeting. Finally we reached Robin, who welcomed me with evident joy.

‘Sir Alan, I thought I spotted you in the crowd,’ he said loudly, in a somewhat artificial voice, ‘what a pleasant surprise.’

His odd tone indicated that he wished to give me some message. I had been with him at Portsmouth not a sennight before and yet he was treating me as if I was a comparative stranger. Something was wrong. Robin continued in his faux-jolly voice: ‘Come take a cup of wine with me and my friends. You have come to wish Hugh joy on the day of his birth, I make no doubt.’