by Angus Donald
‘He told me that I must speak to his brother Lord Edwinstowe as soon as possible, my lady. Would you be so good as to lead me to him?’
Marie-Anne leant forward and wrinkled her nose. Then she said briskly: ‘Of course, but I think before you are taken into His Lordship’s presence, you should change into a costume that more befits a noble warrior of Christ, one who has made the Great Pilgrimage to the Holy Land. And perhaps, before that, you might like to have a wash
…’
And so within a quarter of an hour, I was seated in the bathhouse in a steaming wooden tub, with my modesty covered by a sheet, while serving maids poured flagons of hot water around my pink and soapy torso. It felt wonderful. Marie-Anne was as good as her word and after my hot bath she saw to it that I was dressed in clean under-drawers, new green hose, a fine linen chemise and a grey woollen tunic. On top of that I wore a thick cloak of fine green wool with a gold-thread-embroidered border, and a new sword from the armoury was strapped around my waist. I felt a good deal better to be clean, it must be admitted, and to be garbed once again as the Lord of Westbury filled my heart with a deep, quiet satisfaction.
William, Lord Edwinstowe, was seated in a wide, brightly painted chair at the head of Robin’s hall, dressed in a long flowing purple robe, his shoulder-length curled brown hair held in place by a circlet of gold. I was brought into his presence by a servant and, after I had made my bow, the baron and I stared at each other for a while without speaking. He had the resemblance of Robin, I saw, but with a thinner face and harsh lines cut down either side of his mouth. His eyes were brown, however, rather than Robin’s extraordinary silvery-grey and, although he was seated, I could see that he was a shade taller than my master. When he eventually spoke, his voice too was different: higher, not so musical as my Earl’s honey tones.
‘So you have come to me from Robert of Locksley,’ he said. ‘And where is he now, may I ask?’
‘He is close, sir,’ I said, ‘in the hills to the north, well hidden, but he is watching the castle as we speak.’
‘So my little brother hides and watches, while I defend his castle from his enemies?’ His tone contained more than a touch of sneer, and I felt the beginnings of a blush of rage on my cheek. I knew, however, that I must keep my temper: I could not afford to offend the man. Robin’s plan depended on his goodwill and he must be encouraged to act as Robin desired for the plan to succeed.
‘My lord will attack Murdac’s camp tonight,’ I said calmly, ‘with all his men, at midnight.’
‘Will he now?’ said William. ‘And how many men does he have left at his beck and call, I wonder? I heard there was much slaughter in Outremer, that the Great Pilgrimage was a failure, and the long, difficult journey home… well, such distance bleeds away men like good liquor leaking from a pricked wine sack.’
‘He has half a hundred doughty men-at-arms yet,’ I said, gritting my teeth. The man was infuriating.
‘Fifty is far too few to attack Sir Ralph Murdac,’ William pronounced. ‘The fellow has three, maybe four hundred soldiers out there. If it had not been for my aid, they would have overrun this castle weeks ago.’
‘And Robin is most grateful. He also has a scheme, a clever trick, that he believes will sap the courage of the enemy and cause their legs to turn to jelly, their spines to water. With your help, he believes…’
‘With my help, you say? Yes, undoubtedly he wants my help. When did he not need my help! Even as a child he needed my aid, and then when he was cast out from all decent society and became an accursed footpad, running around Sherwood playing his silly games, I offered him my help then, too…’
I was beginning, despite myself, to get very angry with this baron, this lounging, purple-clad blockhead before me. Fearing that my anger would show in my eyes, I looked away and caught sight of Tuck standing by the wall of the hall. Beside him, watching me, were two enormous wolfhounds, giant beasts named Gog and Magog for their terrible destructive abilities in battle. One of the beasts yawned, a huge jaw-cracking gape that showed every one of his spear-blade teeth.
And my anger faded a little. Even the dogs found this man a pompous bore, I thought, and smiled inside.
‘… tricks and schemes, schemes and tricks, that is what my little brother has been relying on since he was a stripling. If I had a shilling for every time…’
I interrupted him then: ‘My lord,’ I said, aiming for humility and missing by a good English mile, ‘the Earl of Locksley requests that when he attacks the camp at midnight tonight, you will sally forth with all the forces at your command and help him to sweep these enemies before us. He trusts you will come to his aid once again in this matter. Your help is vital to the success of his carefully laid plans.’
‘Can’t be done, it simply can’t be done,’ said William grumpily. ‘He has too few men — fifty, and the handful of men in here, against the whole of Murdac’s force. He’ll be crushed. We’ll all be killed. No. It’s arrant madness. No, no, what we must do is wait. Wait here for reinforcements. I have sent letters to many of my friends begging them to come; and come they will, too, in vast numbers. And the King — our noble Richard — must return soon to his kingdom, and he’ll set things a-right. No, young man, you must return to your impetuous master and bid him to be cautious; bid him to wait till the time is ripe.’
I could see why Robin was not close to his brother: the man was deliberately obstructive, long-winded and — most surprisingly for a knight, a nobleman of Norman lineage — he appeared to be supremely cautious, even a little timid.
‘My lord,’ I said, as slowly and clearly as I could, ‘the Earl will attack at midnight tonight. I cannot return to him and, even if I could, he would not change his plans. You must support him tonight. You must.’
‘Must? You impertinent puppy! You do not tell me what I must or must not do! I am the master in this castle and you — you are dismissed. But I tell you one thing before you leave my presence: I will not risk my life and the lives of my men in this foolish venture. Now get out of my sight! Go!’
And so with a heavy heart, I went. I had failed my master. Because of my stupidity, the crassness of my appeal to Edwinstowe, there was a very good chance that Robin’s assault would fail and all my friends, facing overwhelming odds, would be cut down in the darkness. Because of me.
Chapter Three
The first hint that the attack was beginning came in the form of a spark of firelight, high on the brow of the hill; a red blinking eye in the darkness. Then came another, and another. They began to move — and grow. And the night air was ripped apart by a series of screaming wails, a clutch of different notes but blending together in a strange and disturbing way, an unearthly devilish sound that seemed to rise up from the very bowels of Hell itself. Even I, who knew the source of this weird, howling music, and had heard it several times before, was struck by its power to bring horror to the night. I had first heard the sound at the battle of Arsuf on the road to Jaffa in the Holy Land, where it presaged an attack by the fearsome cavalry of Saladin. It was the sound of Turkish trumpets, of massed clarions and shrieking fifes, of booming gongs and clashing cymbals and ear-scalding whistles; an infernal din designed to strike terror into any Christian heart — even when played rather poorly by a gaggle of Yorkshire villagers recruited specially for the task by their newly returned lord.
When I heard that hellish din, I was standing on the walkway behind the palisade on the north-eastern side of Kirkton Castle. I was in full war gear, which had been supplied by Marie-Anne: conical helmet with a nose piece, kite-shaped shield and long spear, a sword at my waist, the misericorde in my boot; knee-length chain-mail hauberk to protect my body over a big padded jacket known as a gambeson or aketon, leather gauntlets on my hands and stout boots sewn with strips of steel to guard my ankles and shins.
Within a few heartbeats, the first shouts of alarm were sounding from Murdac’s camp. And out of the darkness, down the gently rolling hill, the spots of flickering orange light g
rew and took shape and revealed themselves. Out of the black night thundered three wild moorland ponies, eyes rolling in terror, shrill neighs torturing the darkness, hooves madly churning the damp turf — and the source of their terror was firmly harnessed to them: for behind each wild pony was a wooden cart, piled high with wood and straw and soused with oil and pig fat, and burning like the infernos of the Devil’s own demesne.
The noise from the camp in the field below me was enough by now to wake the dead from their slumbers. But above the yells, and the hellish music, I thought I could make out a lone woman’s voice, with a slight Norman-French accent, shouting in English over and over again: ‘It is the horse-demons, the steeds of Satan — run, run. They are coming; the horse-demons are coming to steal your souls.’
The wild horses, maddened by the fiery carts they could not escape, charged straight down the hill into Murdac’s camp sowing destruction in their flaming wakes. They charged into the outskirts of the camp, trampling tents and crushing half-sleeping men beneath their hooves and the wheels of the heavy wooden carts. Many tents and shelters of the men-at-arms were burning by now; flags and pavilions set alight, pyramids of stacked spears collapsed and snapped like twigs beneath the wheels. The camp was humming like a kicked ants’ nest, half-dressed men running hither and yon, screaming in rage and fear and confusion. And the lone Frenchwoman’s voice continued to shout: ‘The horses of the Devil are coming; the steeds of Satan; they are coming for your souls,’ adding her mad shrieks to the bounding chaos. And the wild, eerie Saracen music wailed, boomed and screeched on, its hideous sounds adding eldritch notes of terror to the night.
Then the arrows began to hiss out of the darkness.
Men silhouetted by the leaping firelight were spitted like red deer by unseen skilful hands as they stumbled out of their shelters, barely armed, fuddled by sleep, confused by the noise, the blaze and the hot winds of panic. One man appeared to be more in control of himself, a captain no doubt, but as he barked orders to the men running about his tent, three arrows smacked into him in less than half a heartbeat. I knew that Robin’s archers, scattered around the perimeter of the camp and shielded only by darkness, had orders to shoot down first any who appeared to be in command. And there were few who were still in possession of their faculties on this night of chaos and cacophony, as the archers plucked the lives of Murdac’s men from this world one by one.
The wild horses with their fiery burdens were in the centre of the camp now, galloping in screaming terror, and as I watched, the wheel of a cart struck a large iron cooking pot and careered over, spilling its flaming, roaring load over a swathe of the camp and starting a dozen fresh fires. The arrows whizzed through the darkness, thumping home into the bodies of terrified running men who had nowhere to hide. One brave figure appeared out of the darkness and shot dead a maddened pony, which was galloping past him, with a single, well-aimed crossbow bolt to the head. But while the poor horse stumbled and died, and the cart tumbled forward and tipped its burning load over the convulsing animal’s dying body, the crossbowman was in turn skewered through the neck by a yard-long arrow that flickered out of the darkness to leave him choking on his knees in a circle of burning straw and roasting horse blood.
A high, clear trumpet blast, easily heard even over the noise of the blaring Saracen horns, dragged my eyes up to the north, where a mass of strange cavalry had appeared. The heavily armed, mounted men, about thirty of them, seemed huge and menacing, draped as they were in long, dark cowled cloaks that swept over the horses’ rumps and swirled down by their boots. Their long sharp spears pricked the fire-lit night, and their painted shields portrayed a crude red figure of a horse, daubed in dried blood on a white background; but their faces — or the place where their faces should have been — were the most dreadful sight of all. Each man, though mounted on a steed, appeared himself to have the long head of a horse, with pointed ears, white eyes, and blood-red flaring nostrils. Even I felt a twinge of dread, and I knew full well that it was merely Robin’s men, masked with rolled discs of sheepskin, ears and eye holes cut out and the mask painted to look like the muzzle of a hellish beast. They appeared to be Satan’s steeds indeed, come to carry away men’s souls.
The devilish horsemen charged. The spear points descended to the horizontal as one and this steel-tipped mass came on like a great black thunder cloud, surging down the slope in a shallow V-shaped formation to bring death and destruction into the camp.
‘Alan, Alan, come on! Come on! It is time,’ shouted a voice below me. And I looked down to see Tuck, flanked by his two enormous dogs, Gog and Magog, holding the reins of a horse meant for me. It was time: and if Edwinstowe and his men refused to join us, there were still more than a few stout men-at-arms who owed their loyalty only to Robin and who would ride out with us this night to heap more terror on the enemies of their lord.
The gates were thrown open and we burst out of them in a pack, perhaps a dozen of us mounted, with myself in the lead, and a score of men on foot: Robin’s spearmen and bowmen, left behind while he was on the Great Pilgrimage, supplemented with a handful of the braver or perhaps just more loyal men from the surrounding lands. Led by Father Tuck, the foot soldiers ran behind the cavalry, screaming their war cries, each man wielding a long spear or short sword from the castle armoury. I noticed with admiration and a little trepidation, looking over my shoulder, that the lad Thomas had armed himself with a kindling axe and had joined the other local men running behind the horsemen. I had no time to tell him to return to the hall as we surged out into the night towards the enemy.
We horsemen cantered out of the gate which lay at the southeast of the castle and turned left, spurring ahead of the infantry to hurtle into the southern section of Murdac’s camp. My chest was thrumming with the black thrill of battle, the unparalleled feeling of having a well-trained horse between my legs, a stout shield on my arm and a long spear couched under my right elbow. I knew that our chances were slim, but I felt little fear that weird, wild night. We were riding to the charge; and battle, with all its mad-flecked, God-cursed, sky-soaring joy, was upon us.
A terrified picket, a sentry in red and black, turned to run back into the camp when he saw us coming out of the night: a mob of galloping horsemen screaming like devils and heading straight for him. As he turned to run, a grey and reddish blur streaked past me, one of Tuck’s enormous battle-trained wolf-hounds. The animal leapt at the running man, his giant jaws opening and snapping shut, crunching deep into the meat of his right leg, and then they were both rolling on the dark turf, a tangle of grey fur and flapping black surcoat, appalling screams for mercy and bone-grinding growls. And then I was past them, and there were sleep-shackled enemies blundering from between the tents to my front, only half visible in the blackness. I lined up the horse and galloped straight at a man-at-arms who was struggling into a leather-backed mail shirt, his arms up above his head, his face covered by the hauberk, and I screamed ‘Westbury!’ as I drove my right arm forward and plunged the lance-tip deep into his unprotected doughy belly.
He dropped immediately and seemed to curl like a snake around my spear. But I managed to twist my wrist and pull the point free of the man’s guts as I thundered past. I had only just levelled the spear again when I found I was facing another enemy, a mounted man-at-arms in a boiled-leather cuirasse and helmet, screaming hate and waving a heavy mace at me. I rose in the saddle and my lance jerked forward and punched through the stiff leather and into his chest, the blood-smeared point given its enormous killing power by my galloping horse. He was a dead man before he was even within range to strike a blow. Releasing my spear, leaving it bobbing madly from his torso, his blood greasing the front of his cuirasse, I hauled out my sword. I could hear battle-charged shouts behind me as our assorted footmen tore into the south end of the camp, hacking and howling, stamping and stabbing at their foes, wiping out all in their path like a wave of human fury crashing on to a beach. Leaving them to their bloody business, I was intent on reachin
g the centre of the sweep of tents where I knew Murdac’s shelter to be. I longed to face him, to take my sword to him in the joyous carnage of battle, and send him to Hell where he belonged. But as I urged the horse forward, slicing my sword down into the neck of a passing man-at-arms and batting a terrified crossbowman out of my path with the flat of the blade, I could see that Robin’s plan was already working. Scores of men-at-arms in black and red were streaming from the camp and away eastwards into the darkness, some crying out loud to God in their terror, others saving their breath to make good their escape.
I guided my horse round the side of a broad, low tent and came face to face with a terrifying apparition: a giant man on a huge horse, a black monstrous shape lit only by splashes of firelight but seeming to loom over me. He had a great doubleheaded axe in one enormous fist, and I could see that it was dripping with fresh blood, and the head on those giant shoulders was that of a massive stallion, its nostrils seemingly breathing fire. I could not help myself but I reined back in alarm, and then the apparition used his free left hand to lift the sheepskin horse mask from his face and reveal the grinning, sweaty visage and yellow matted locks of John Nailor, Robin’s right-hand man and my good friend.
‘Boo!’ he said, as if playing a hiding game with a child.
I managed a shaky smile at my old comrade. And Little John said: ‘God’s dangling gonads, Alan, don’t tell me your bowels were loosened by all this mummery!’
I shook my head and lied through my teeth: ‘Of course not, but the trick seems to have worked on Murdac’s men. The bastards are all running away.’
‘Not all of them, Alan,’ said Little John. And he nodded to the east where a group of a dozen men-at-arms on foot were being pushed into line by a grizzled sergeant to form a forlorn-looking and very thin shield wall. ‘This little fight’s not over yet, Alan. Come on! There’s more sport to be had.’
