by Angus Donald
Robin took a deep breath and rolled his shoulders slowly. ‘It is true…’ he said, and paused, and there was a collective intake of breath around the church. ‘It is true that Ralph Murdac was before my castle of Kirkton with many hundreds of armed men. Contrary to the laws of the Church and the edict of His Holiness the Pope, he was attacking my property as I was returning from the Holy Land after fighting in the name of Christendom to recover the land of Our Lord’s birth.’
There was a murmur of approval around the church. Many of the men present had fought ferociously in the Holy Land, many had lost dear comrades there; in fact, one of the principal aims of the Templar knights was the defence of Outremer. And the Church did promise protection to knights and their property while they were away on pilgrimage. Robin had scored a point, and everyone in the church knew it. I saw the Bishop of London begin to relax a little; he smiled over at us, nodding his silver head.
‘When I returned from the Holy Land where Our Saviour Jesus Christ taught, much wearied by hard battle against the Saracens,’ continued Robin, shoving home his point ruthlessly, ‘I found Ralph Murdac besieging my castle. So many of my good men had fallen in the East in defence of Christ’s teachings that I found myself left with a mere fifty Christian souls capable of giving battle to my enemies. Unless I wished to surrender my family and my lands to a cur who holds the Church’s laws in contempt, I was therefore forced to resort to subterfuge, to use a low trick.
‘This man’s wild talk of fire-breathing horse-headed men is all nonsense, the babbling of a coward,’ said Robin, indicating Murdac with a flick of his left hand, but not deigning to look at him. ‘True, I rolled fire-carts into his camp; and true, my men wore sheepskin masks, painted to look like horses’ heads, to frighten his craven men-at-arms, but there was no heresy involved, and it is ridiculous to imagine that demons were summoned. We prayed to Almighty God and his only son Jesus Christ to deliver us from our enemies and by His good grace — and the strength and prowess of my men — the enemy were defeated.’
Here Robin stopped, and the Master stared at him for a few heartbeats, waiting to hear more. ‘Can you prove any of what you say?’ the Templar leader said finally.
Robin beckoned to me. ‘I call upon my loyal vassal Alan of Westbury to bear witness to the truth of what I say. Alan took part in that action, and he is a good Christian soul who would never allow himself to become involved in anything that went against the teachings of the Church. Stand up, Alan. Come forward and speak.’
I walked as calmly as I could into the centre of the church; my legs felt soft and my belly fluttery, and I was conscious of the gaze of more than thirty pairs of noble eyes. But keeping my chin up, I stared straight at the Master, and said: ‘What the Earl of Locksley says is Gospel true. There were no horse-demons summoned; it was merely a ruse de guerre, a trick to make the enemy fearful of us.’
There was a rustling sound from around the church and mutterings of approval. I could feel the opinion of those gathered there turning in our favour like a great tide. The men gathered here were warriors, first and foremost, and many of them had used a cunning ruse or two to achieve victory.
‘Very well, you may both return to your seats,’ said the Master.
As we walked back to our places in the south-western quarter of the church, Tuck was beaming at us. When we took our seats, he began to utter words of congratulation, but Robin cut him off. ‘It’s not over yet, Tuck,’ my master whispered, ‘not by a long march. That was merely the first clash of swords.’
‘I call upon Sir Aymeric de St Maur to produce further evidence,’ boomed the Master, and looking to my right, I saw that, as usual, Robin was correct.
The Templar knight was standing over a wretched creature: a man, half-naked and lying on his side, his arms bound behind his back, who had been beaten and misused in the most appalling fashion. Patches of his flesh were burnt, red raw and oozing from the hot irons — and I remembered with a shudder my own torture at the hands of Sir Ralph Murdac. But there was something else about him that troubled me even more: tattooed on the poor man’s chest, easily visible thanks to his bound arms, was a symbol in the shape of the letter Y. I knew that sign, and I knew what it meant.
My mind leapt back to an awful night in Sherwood Forest nearly four years ago and a wretch no less terrified than this man now before me — a man who was tied to an ancient stone and butchered in a demonic ceremony as a sacrifice to a pagan god — a ceremony of worship to Cernunnos, a woodland deity, a figure that the Church regarded as a foul demon. Robin had played a leading part in the ceremony, and worshipping the demon Cernunnos must certainly be viewed as heresy of the vilest kind.
Sir Aymeric de St Maur dragged the wretch to the centre of the church by his hair. And the man lay there weeping, either with pain or fear, cowering on the floor before the Master. Every man in the room seemed to crane forward to get a better look at him.
‘This villein is known as John,’ began Aymeric, speaking, as we all had until this point, in French. ‘He once belonged to the manor of Alfreton, but he killed a man and ran away from justice five years ago and took to living wild in Sherwood Forest. He became a beggar and a footpad — and a demon-worshipper, as is indicated by this mark on his chest.’
Aymeric pointed to the Y-shaped tattoo. Beside me, Robin sat up a little straighter and cocked his head to one side, observing the unfortunate villein with a speculative but still astoundingly untroubled eye.
‘We had to use a good deal of persuasion on him,’ said Aymeric, giving the prisoner a savage kick that caused the man to writhe on the floor, smearing the stone flags with his blood and burn fluids, ‘but finally he confessed to his foul deeds. And he told us a very interesting story concerning the Earl of Locksley.’
There was absolute silence in the church, not a cough, not a shuffled foot.
Sir Aymeric continued, his voice echoing in the stillness: ‘This man claims he participated in a diabolical ceremony at Easter four years ago in which a prisoner of war, a man-at-arms known as Piers in the service of Sir Ralph Murdac, then the High Sheriff of Nottinghamshire, was sacrificed to a demon called Cernunnos by a notorious local witch. During the ceremony, Robert Odo, who went by the name of Robin Hood in those days, fully took part in the bloody, heretical ritual. Indeed, he claimed that he had been possessed by the demon Cernunnos himself.’
There were gasps all around the church and every eye now fixed itself on Robin and our little group. I saw that the Bishop of London was shaking his silver head and chewing on one fingernail. He looked as if he were ready to burst into tears.
‘Is this true?’ asked the Master, addressing the wretch on the floor in English. ‘You, villein, is what Sir Aymeric says true? Did you participate in a blood-thirsty heretical ceremony worshipping a false god, in which the Earl of Locksley also played a central part?’
The tattooed man gave a little moan of fear, and stammered: ‘Oh yes, sir, please don’t hurt me. It is true, every word of it. I swear before Almighty God, and Jesus, Joseph and Mary, and all the saints, please…’
‘That’s enough!’ Aymeric reached down and cuffed the man violently around the head, and the poor wretch slumped to the floor and resumed his silent weeping.
‘Take him away,’ ordered the Master, switching back into French; and the poor man was dragged off and bundled down the steps to the crypt by two burly Templar sergeants.
‘What response do you make to this accusation?’ the Master asked Robin.
My lord rose to his feet. ‘That man has clearly been tortured out of his wits and would say anything to ease his pains. By Church decree, by the decree of the Holy Father himself, his testimony has no validity in an inquisition,’ he said briskly. ‘By Church law, a tortured man’s testimony is not acceptable. Am I not correct, Master?’
The Master conferred with his two wardens. There was much rustling of parchments and consulting of scrolls and then one of the wardens whispered at length in the Master’s ear. Fina
lly, after a lot of shrugging and frowning, the Master pronounced in a heavy, sullen tone: ‘It seems that we must disregard the evidence of this villein. It appears that he may have been tortured and his evidence is therefore not valid. But I believe that we will hear more on this matter in due course. Sir Aymeric, proceed!’
Robin shrugged. He turned on his heel and walked over to Tuck and myself and sat down again, crossed his legs and began looking at his fingernails. He still seemed absurdly unruffled by the proceedings.
I marvelled at his composure and was trying my best to emulate it when I heard the Master saying: ‘Call the next witness.’
Over the half-hour that followed, a succession of poor men and women were brought out into the centre of the church by Sir Aymeric de St Maur. Each vowed to tell only the truth, then each was asked two simple questions in English: ‘Have you ever seen Robert of Locksley by word or deed engage in heretical activities that run counter to the teachings of Holy Mother Church? And have you ever seen Robert of Locksley participate in a ritual that might be considered demon-worship?’
Each time the witness came to the centre of the church and mumbled his or her way through a story — some of which were sheer moon-addled fantasy, tales of the Earl of Locksley spitting and stamping and pissing on crucifixes in secret ceremonies at the dead of night, or copulating wildly with a black goat while flying through the air; some were no more than innocuous tales of Robin taking the Lord’s name in vain after stubbing his toe on a rock. All, as far as I could tell, were false. It soon became evident that all the witnesses had been well paid. One man even thanked Sir Aymeric in front of the court for the silver he’d been given.
Throughout all this — the lies and fantasies and lunatic accusations — Robin remained composed. Occasionally he would lean forward in his seat to hear a particular man or woman’s testimony, but he did so in the manner of a benevolent old priest listening to the outlandish confession of one of his parishioners. Occasionally he yawned and stretched as if overcome with ennui.
And Robin was not the only one in that church who appeared to be mildly bored by this pantomime. I caught some of the knights in the round chamber yawning, too, and muttering to their neighbours. They did not seem to be overly impressed with the evidence that the Templars had manufactured against my master. In fact the more outlandish and ridiculous the stories, the less credibility they had to their audience. Sir Aymeric de St Maur, I realized with joy, had been too zealous in pursuit of his cause. We were winning; we had the tacit support of the secular knights, at least, and many Templars would believe his record of service in the Holy Land should count for much. The Bishop of London was smiling warmly at us from across the church.
Then the Master spoke: ‘We have heard much evidence today concerning whether or not Robert of Locksley is a heretic and a demon-worshipper. We must disregard the testimony of the villein John, as this inquisition suspects that he may have been tortured. But I believe we have heard enough. We will hear only one more witness on this matter today and then we will make our judgement.’ He paused and looked briefly at a sheet of parchment in his hand. ‘Sir Aymeric, call your final witness,’ the Master said.
Aymeric de St Maur walked to the centre of the church. In a loud and ringing voice he said: ‘I call upon Alan of Westbury to come forward.’
And my heart froze.
I have no memory of walking the ten paces to the centre of the church, to the place beside Sir Aymeric. But I can recall clearly the intensity of the Master’s bloodshot glare and his next words: ‘Do you swear, by Almighty God, by the Virgin and all the saints, that you will tell the truth this day, in the knowledge that if you utter falsehoods the Lord God himself will strike you dead for your blasphemy and your soul will burn in Hell?’
My mouth was dry, my tongue suddenly seemed to be twice its normal size. I mumbled something and, at the Master’s irritated urging to speak up, I found myself making a solemn oath that I would tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. My back was towards Robin, and I was glad of it. I could not look him in the eye.
Sir Aymeric stood not two paces from me, to my front left: he waited till he had my attention and then asked me the fateful question. ‘Did you witness your master Robin Hood, now styled the Earl of Locksley, taking part in a demonic ceremony at Eastertide four years ago in which a living man-at-arms known as Piers, a prisoner of war, was sacrificed to a false god? Answer merely yes or no. And remember that you are on oath to tell the truth in this holy church, before the all-seeing eyes of God Almighty.’
I could not speak. My mouth seemed to be glued shut; my jaw muscles were locked.
The Master snapped: ‘Answer the question, man!’
And I found myself muttering: ‘Yes.’
‘Speak up,’ said the Master. ‘Speak up Alan of Westbury so that all may hear you.’
Sir Aymeric de St Maur stared intently at me; he was smirking like a fox who’s found a way into a chicken coop.
‘Yes,’ I said again. ‘Yes, I did witness my master taking part in a bloody ritual, a ceremony in which a living man was sacrificed to a demon, at Easter, in Sherwood, four years ago.’
Chaos erupted in the church; a great chorus of shouting voices, bellowing men. I wanted to turn and look over at Robin but I found I could not move my shoulders and neck.
I heard Prince John loudly croaking: ‘Guilty! Guilty, by God. Condemned out of the mouth of his own vassal. I say he is guilty. Burn the scoundrel! Burn him now!’
Then the Master was shouting for silence, while I merely stood there paralysed by what I had just done.
Quiet was finally achieved, and I dimly heard the Master saying: ‘I think we have heard enough… what say you, wardens?’
I stood there before the Master of the Temple, my hands hanging loose by my side, while he conferred with his two wardens and, still staring at the floor, my mind fogged by grief, I heard him say: ‘This inquisition finds Robert Odo, Earl of Locksley, guilty on all charges. He shall be taken from this place and imprisoned in the Temple crypt and in three days’ time, at dawn, he shall suffer the purifying fire that will cleanse him of his foul iniquities. May God have mercy on his soul.’
I finally managed to turn my head and look over at Robin. My master was standing now, with four Templar sergeants hovering close around him while another was binding his arms in front of his body. His silver eyes bored into mine with such a look of ferocity that I was almost blown backwards as if by a powerful gust of wind. He stared at me for a long, long moment, and then he uttered one word — a terrible word, said loudly and clearly so that everyone in the church might hear it; a word full of contempt and hatred. Then the sergeants dragged him away towards the crypt. The word was ringing in my ears. And I can hear that word still, more than forty years later. The word was…
‘Judas!’
Part Two
Chapter Eight
We are as busy as the bees now at Westbury: it is mid-June, sunny, and our broad blue Nottinghamshire skies are scarcely troubled by a single cloud — it is the time for my sheep flocks to be sheared, and the blacksmith’s forge has been busy fashioning new sets of wicked-looking shears and sharpening old ones. In the hot weather the animals become uneasy, burdened as they are with their winter coats, and the shearing is a mercy to them. It is a blessing to me, too, as the price of wool has risen greatly in recent years, and I look set to make a pretty penny from the thick grey fleeces. Also, in less than a week, if the weather holds fair, I shall be sending the teams out to mow the hay meadows, to dry, then gather and stack the long grass to make winter feed for my beasts.
Osric is fully occupied in this season; he will oversee the sheep shearing, and the sorting of the fleeces, and inspect the meadows after the hay has been cut. Indeed, we all have our allotted tasks to perform, myself included. But, although there is so much to do, I have set myself an extra task: I have decided to watch Osric from the shadows, quietly and constantly, using all the old, stealthy skill
s that Hanno taught me long ago. I aim to catch him at some misdeed and expose him as a villain to my daughter-in-law Marie. Then, only then, will I be free of him. I cannot sleep at night for worrying — indeed I have not slept so much as a wink for many nights now. I am still certain he is trying to murder me, but I have no proof, and proof will be needed to show Marie that she has married a monster.
It is surely a mercy that I have survived this long. Now it is time to act. So I will watch Osric, and watch well. I know that his malice is not a figment of my imagination. The other evening, about a week ago, I saw him adding a pinch of white powder to my bowl of soup as it stood on the sideboard — a slow poison, no doubt, of the type I had heard of on my travels in the East. Marie brings me supper in my chamber these days, as I work long after nightfall on these pages by beeswax candlelight — an extravagance, I know, but I feel a terrible urgency upon me. I have a premonition of my own death, and I wish to finish my tale before some evil befalls me.
I was fortunate to catch Osric in the act of poisoning my soup. I had been summoned by a groom to look at a sick horse in the stables and was returning through the hall to my chamber when I saw the mole-like fellow adding his infernal white powder to the bowl. I challenged him, of course, immediately, loudly, and the rascal had the nerve to claim that it was merely salt that he was adding to my evening meal to add savour to the broth. It was a lie, of course, I could see it in his blushing face — since when does a busy bailiff concern himself with flavouring of his master’s food? I poured the bowl away without tasting it, and gave orders to the servants that Osric must not be allowed near any dish that is destined for my table.
And yet, a part of me wishes that I had not challenged him so openly and accused him so angrily of wishing to poison me. I showed my hand to him, and it has put him on his guard. I have been watching him for a fortnight now, following him on horseback at a distance when he goes out to the fields or into the village of Westbury, watching him by day, all day, from a stool placed in a spot of shade outside the front of the hall. Sometimes I try to surprise him by appearing suddenly when he is out of plain sight, in an outbuilding, perhaps. And he often appears guiltily startled when I pop out from behind a door like a rabbit from its hole. But I have not caught him in any obvious crime yet. Indeed, most of the time he acts as innocently as a lamb, going about his business as if he did not have a care in the world. That is surely a mark of the man’s devilish cunning.
