by Angus Donald
Two days later, the wet conditions had left us all tired, dripping and irritable. With the exception of Hanno, who was delighted to be back in his homeland, a wide grin splitting his round shaven head and showing off the wreckage of his teeth. It was late afternoon by the time we came round a bend in the river and moored at a wide wooden wharf on the southern bank that belonged to the Premonstratensian monastery — or more properly canonry — of Tuckelhausen. Ochsenfurt was less than a mile away upstream, but we hoped that, in making Tuckelhausen our avowed destination, we might go some way towards averting suspicions as to our true purpose.
Our story, which I had discussed at length with Boxley and Robertsbridge, was that they were paying a visit to Tuckelhausen because they wished to see its famous scriptorium and peruse a rare copy of the Holy Gospel that was housed there. In truth, the Gospel in question was not of any outstanding merit, but few people would question the movements of two such august abbots who had travelled so far to see it. They would tell their hosts how they had taken passage with Adam and Perkin, a couple of fellow countrymen who were transporting a cargo of building timber upriver to Sweinfurt, where the local margrave was strengthening the fortifications of his town. We agreed that I should be presented at Tuckelhausen not as an exalted member of the company but an ordinary man-at-arms, brought along as protection for the churchmen. This was not so far from the truth, and suited me well: I had plans that would be better served if I were not shown any of the few courtesies due to my rank as lord of a small manor.
After announcing the abbots’ names and the purpose of our visit to the surly, white-robed canon who had charge of the wharf, he begrudgingly lent us a decrepit mule to carry our baggage, weapons and possessions. And while Adam and Perkin pretended to be attending to repairs on the sailing barge, Boxley, Robertsbridge, the four monks, Hanno and myself began the two-mile trudge in the fading light up a narrow track cut through the forest to the monastery of Tuckelhausen. The mule was particularly stubborn: it had no wish to leave its dry, comfortable stable by the river and venture out in a downpour when it was clearly time for its nightly feed. Only by hauling on its bridle and beating its hindquarters savagely with a hazel switch did we get the beast moving at all.
As we set out on the muddy track, to my left I caught a glimpse of Ochsenfurt itself, a mile away through the still skeletal limbs of the trees. It was a fortress, a compact town with high walls on four sides, built in the shape of a square with each walled side no more than half a mile long, and with four powerful round towers standing guard at each corner. Somewhere inside that stronghold, I mused, most likely in one of the four big towers, my King was being held captive. My sovereign lord, a man I respected as much as any I had met, a warrior I had followed loyally and fought beside in Outremer and with whom I had enjoyed merry-making and fine music, a man who had honoured me with his company and dare I say, friendship, was imprisoned there against his will. His enemies had seized him, a returning pilgrim from the Holy Land, against the laws of God and Man, and were seeking to make themselves rich from the sale of his person, as if he were a slave.
For the first time since I had heard the news of Richard’s capture, I felt a hot surge of genuine anger in my gut. If it were ever within my power, I vowed, I would punish those responsible. And the flame of my quiet fury warmed me as we splashed along the rutted track, hauling the reluctant mule by main force, towards the drab walls of Tuckelhausen.
Abbot Joachim was rather bewildered to find himself host to a bedraggled party of foreigners when we were ushered into his cosy, brazier-warmed chamber. But he greeted his fellow abbots with a kiss of peace and ordered his servants to bring us wine and to prepare food and beds for us. We had presented ourselves at the gates of Tuckelhausen just as night was falling and the church bells were ringing out for Vespers. The monastery doors were shut, but Hanno, who spoke the local Bavarian dialect, had explained to the porters that we were a distinguished party of noble English clergymen and that we must be given entrance even at this late hour.
‘But why, my noble lords, did you not write to advertise that you were paying our humble monastery a visit?’ Abbot Joachim kept on asking. ‘We could have prepared suitably for your visit. I fear we are in a state of some disarray here, readying ourselves for the feast of St George in a month’s time. He is a very popular saint in these parts — this house is dedicated to him, as I’m sure you know — and we have many pilgrims under our roof at this moment. Indeed, the dormitory is quite full, and everything is in the greatest turmoil.’
Joachim was a worried little man, small and plump and sad-looking, with only wisps of white hair around the wrinkled bald patch of his tonsure. And while he spoke to us in Latin, his accent was so strange that it was difficult to understand what he was trying to say. On more than one occasion, we had to ask Hanno to get the Abbot to repeat himself in German so that my bodyguard could translate for us.
‘If only you had given us some notice,’ Joachim went on. ‘Just a few days’ notice…’
‘Only the Lord God Almighty can say what happened to the messenger who carried the letter that we sent you,’ intoned Robertsbridge gravely, and I realized that, for a good Christian, he was rather an accomplished liar. ‘Have you much trouble with bandits in these parts?’ he added.
‘Oh yes, oh most decidedly, yes,’ said Joachim. He seemed relieved to have found a plausible solution to the problem of our unexpected arrival. In fact, the notion that our messenger might have been slaughtered by footpads while attempting to deliver the news of our coming seemed to cheer Abbot Joachim no end. He poured the abbots some more wine, now positively beaming.
‘Oh yes,’ he said, ‘scores of bandits, scoundrels by the dozen. I don’t know why Duke Leopold does not scour them from the land, the way they trouble God-fearing folk, devout pilgrims such as yourselves. We are famous hereabouts for our wine, our sausages, our women — and our bandits. Ha ha!’
Robertsbridge and Boxley, who were standing side by side, both smiled encouragingly at him and each took a small sip of wine at the same time.
‘Forgive me for asking’ — the German abbot peered closely at his two fellow prelates — ‘are you brothers, by any chance? Perhaps twins?’
‘We are all brothers in the sight of our Lord Jesus Christ,’ said Boxley with a pious smile. ‘But, no, we are not from the same earthly family.’
‘Ah, yes, I see, brothers in Christ — of course we are, of course we are.’
It seemed that we had confused the good man again.
While Boxley and Robertsbridge were given a fine chamber to share for the night, Hanno and I were told rather brusquely that we should make our beds in the stable. And that suited my plans very well.
The monastery was laid out in the shape of a hollow square around a big grassy court, with the big church at its eastern end. The stable stood at the western end of the square against the outer wall of the monastery, a long, warm building with a red-tiled roof and bays for a dozen animals. It was filled with the familiar homely smells of horse sweat and hay and oiled leather and, had I intended to sleep there, it would have made a very comfortable place to rest my head.
Instead, after we had eaten in the refectory with the canons and the other pilgrims and attended the service of Compline in the big abbey church, Hanno and I crossed the grassy court and, bidding a courteous goodnight to several white-robed canons that we passed, we retired to the stable. We pulled shut the wooden door and, checking that we were alone apart from half a dozen horses and the awkward old mule, began to examine the inside of the building by the light of a single candle stub. Hanno soon found the patch of damp straw on the ground at the far end of the stable that we were looking for, and staring up into the dim rafters above his head he noted that one or two tiles were missing from the roof, which had allowed rain water to leak in and wet the straw. He muttered ‘Perfect!’ and began to look for a way to climb the rear wall. Soon Hanno was balanced precariously on a manger, which was affixed to
the stable wall at about shoulder height, while he worked to widen the hole in the roof, shoving the loose tiles aside and cursing at the loud scraping noise that they made in the quiet night.
I, meanwhile, was making my own arrangements for the mission ahead. I dressed myself in dark clothes — two tunics for the night was chilly — warm hose, stout boots and a dark cloak and hood, and smeared a mixture of candle soot and goose fat over my face and hands. It reminded me of my preparations for the attack on Kirkton: could that have been only six months ago? It seemed like a lifetime. Though I hoped that I would not have to murder anyone tonight, I made sure that the misericorde was snug in my boot — and murmured a quick prayer to St Michael, too.
Hanno had wanted to come with me on my nocturnal jaunt, but I had said no. He might have been useful, for he was a master of silent movement at night, but I felt that what I wanted to accomplish would be better done by me alone. I did not want to worry about him, or for him to worry about me, if we became separated in the darkness. And, more importantly, I needed someone to remain behind to make some excuse for my absence if one of the monks should come into the stable or if Abbot Joachim should for some strange reason summon us. In truth, I also wanted to be alone for a while. After being cooped up on board the sailing barge for a couple of weeks, the prospect of being alone in the cool purity of the night, dependent on no one, responsible for no one but myself, held a great if unusual appeal for me.
And, I confess, I was also feeling that familiar pleasurable buzzing sensation of impending action: a tightness in my stomach and a heightened glow behind my eyes. I clasped Hanno’s hand warmly before he boosted me up, then, putting one foot on the manger, I cautiously popped my head through the gap in the roof that my Bavarian friend had opened. The rising peaked roof made it impossible to see anything inside the monastery, but I listened intently until I was satisfied that the whole community was asleep. Finally I levered myself up and out until I was lying face down on the sloping tiles beside the hole and, peering into the dark interior, I whispered ‘Hanno!’ into the space below. The shaven-headed huntsman was only just visible as a darker mass in the gloom, but I could make out enough of him by the moonlight to grasp the bulky bundle that he handed up to me. It was a large sack, with two long loops of padded cloth spaced shoulder width apart that enabled it to be slung from the back. Hanno told me that in southern Bavaria the mountain men used to wear these things when they had to carry heavy loads up and down the steep hillsides of the Alps there. Reaching into this ‘back-sack’, as they are known by the Bavarians, I pulled out a coil of rope in which Hanno had carefully tied fat knots every foot and, loosening one end, tied it securely to one of the beams inside the stable roof. The rest of the coil I tossed over the outer wall of the canonry. To the sound of a barely whispered ‘Go with God!’ from my friend below, I began, very carefully and quietly, to climb down the rope, the back-sack looped over my shoulders, my muscles creaking under the strain of my weight, walking carefully down the ten-foot wall to the ground below.
All was quiet as I found myself standing in a muddy patch of tilled earth, some sort of vegetable garden from the look of it. Leaving the knotted rope hanging against the outer wall, I set out to the south, following the wall until I came to the corner of the monastery, and then sprinting fifty yards or so into the cover of a copse that ran east-west to the south of Tuckelhausen. As my panting breath subsided, I took stock of my situation: the rain had stopped but the sky was still filled with scudding clouds and a three-quarter moon, which provided ample light to navigate by. Too much light, if the truth be told; I had hoped for a little more cloud cover, as I did not want to be too easy to spot as I went about my business.
It was perhaps an hour or so before midnight, I judged, as I adjusted the straps on my back-sack to allow it to sit more comfortably. Checking once again that the misericorde was still in my boot, I pulled the hood on my cloak far forward and began to march eastward, towards Ochsenfurt; towards the heavily fortified town in which my King was being held prisoner.
Chapter Nine
It took me no more than an hour to cross the three miles of farmland from Tuckelhausen to the high walls of Ochsenfurt. I stayed under the cover of woods and spinneys wherever possible, or walked along the lines of hedgerows or fences to minimize the silhouette that a walking man might make on a bright, moon-filled night. At about midnight, I found myself crouched at the foot of a tree in a scrubby stand of alders, not far from the River Main, chewing on a stick of dried meat that Hanno had thoughtfully placed in the back-sack for me, and looking over at the defences of the north-western corner of Ochsenfurt, which were no more than thirty yards away.
The town was protected by a deep ditch, about three-quarters filled with rainwater, which lay in front of a thick stone wall, some twenty foot in height. At this corner of the western and northern walls, as at every other corner of this square town, was a high, round tower with arrow slits at different heights on three sides. I imagined the arrow slits coming off a spiral stone staircase running around the inside of the tower and leading to a secure room at the top. I was fairly certain that King Richard must be imprisoned in one of these towers. There was one chance in four that I was now looking at the very prison that held my King.
Richard could, of course, have been held in the town itself, perhaps in a nobleman’s dwelling. But I had shinned up several tall trees as I was approaching Ochsenfurt and — apart from a large solid-looking church in the centre of the town — I could not make out another stone-built structure that would be suitable for holding a valuable captive for several days or weeks. The towers might be on the edge of town but the walls were patrolled by men-at-arms, and the only way out would have been a locked door at the base of the tower on the inside of the walls.
No, I was almost certain that Richard would be in one of the four towers. But which one?
Ten yards to my left, a well-travelled road ran east-west beside the broad, glinting flow of the Main and it entered Ochsenfurt by a strong-looking barbican beside the tower. The big wooden town gate, studded with iron for extra strength, was barred tight. It would have been closed at curfew, and would not be opened until dawn. On the battlements above the barbican, I could see the warm yellow glow of candlelight escaping from two or three windows, and the occasional moving shadow as a watchman walked past the light. I calculated that there must be about five or possibly six men up there. And these men-at-arms, charged with keeping the safety of Ochsenfurt, were awake and alert. In order to break into this town and talk face-to-face with King Richard, I would have to swim across a flooded ditch, scale a sheer twenty-foot wall, sneak past these six men-at-arms, or kill them all silently, and then wander around the maze of narrow streets after curfew, and locate my sovereign in one of four strongly defended towers — and do all this in the pitch darkness and without making a sound. To be captured would mean execution as a thief or spy.
I chewed on my strip of jerked beef and pondered the problem. It was impossible, I concluded. There was no way I could get into Ochsenfurt undetected. But that did not mean I would not be able to communicate with my King.
The big double door to the barbican was locked tightly shut, as I had already noted. Nobody could go in through it. On the other hand, it was very unlikely that anyone would come out. What sort of watchman is willing to leave his comfortable spot by a brazier, his allotted post, and venture out into the darkness? Who knows what strange, unearthly creatures, demons or witches, may lurk beyond the safety of the firelight? I thought of the superstitious villagers of Locksley and their fears of the Hag of Hallamshire, and smiled to myself. Then I dug into my back-sack and pulled out my polished apple-wood vielle and my horsehair bow. It was one of my most prized possessions, a gift from my old musical mentor Bernard de Sezanne. The vielle was about two foot long, and made up of about half neck, where I fingered the strings, and half woman-shaped rounded body, which generated its exquisite sound. It was light enough to carry in the back-sack with e
ase, yet fairly strong.
I repacked the back-sack, and readied myself to flee at a moment’s notice, then I began to tune the instrument as quietly as I could. Mutterings of conversation came drifting down from the candlelight above the barbican, not thirty yards away, as they heard me plucking at the five strings and adjusting the pegs on the head at the end of the vielle’s long neck. I could not hear the words distinctly, and I would not have understood them even if I had, but I knew that the guards were aware of my presence.
And then I began to play.
My master Robin had almost always been short of money during the Great Pilgrimage. Since he had commandeered the lucrative frankincense trade, that had all changed dramatically, of course, but for most of the time he had lacked sufficient quantities of silver to meet his obligations as the leader of nearly four hundred fighting men. And the fault had been King Richard’s. My sovereign had promised Robert of Locksley a certain amount of silver in exchange for Robin’s promise to come to war and bring his feared Welsh bowmen with him. Unfortunately, as is often the way with rich men, and especially kings, Richard had been slow to pay what he owed to my master, and Robin had suffered a lack of ready funds as a result.
As a favour to Robin, I had used an opportunity to play music with Richard to remind my King of his debt to Robin, and we had enjoyed a sort of musical duel: I had sung a verse suggesting that Richard should pay up promptly and Richard had replied by telling me not to stir up trouble. It had all been done in a spirit of fun and laughter, but the outcome was that Robin was paid a proportion of the silver he was owed, and Richard and I had formed a bond as fellow verse-makers.
That dark night, seated on the cold earth outside the barbican of the main gate of Ochsenfurt, I played the music that accompanied the song that Richard and I had written together. It was a simple, distinctive melody, repeated twice and then elaborated on in the third and fourth lines, before returning to the main melody again. I bowed the opening notes, and sang: My joy summons me To sing in this sweet season…
