by Angus Donald
The cloisters were thronging with monks, loud, cheering, jostling, excited monks. Scores of them. They filled every side of the square, hanging from the columns, shoving each other out of the way to find a better place. But for their sober black habits and rope belts, I could have taken them for a meeting of rowdy London apprentices. In the centre of the cloister, two big men, stripped to the waist and covered with oil, were grappling with each other. The one with his back to me was a giant of a man, with a vast expanse of muscular back, a bull-like neck and a thatch of grey-blond hair. On his right side a thick ridge of pinkish scar tissue curved all the way from his lower ribs to the small of his back, evidence of a grave wound taken in the recent past. But it seemed to be well healed. The second man was only slightly smaller and marginally less well built than the blond giant. I had a brief impression of a bald head, broad hairy shoulders; massive, thickly furred hands. Then I looked again and saw that the second wrestler had his hair cut in a tonsure, the pate shaved and a ring of brown hair resting above huge sticking-out ears. The noise of the crowd was ear-splitting. Monks were arguing with their fellows and roaring encouragement to fighters – I suspect there may even have been some discreet wagers taking place. The men heaved at each other for several moments, straining with all their might, their legs like trunks of oak planted in the stone flags of the cloister floor – and then the hairy man changed grip, pushed, pulled and all of a sudden the big blond fellow shot forward, flipped over his opponent’s hip and crashed to the floor.
The monks around the cloister bellowed – some cheering the hairy fellow, others crying shame for the blond man, who was panting on the floor, holding his side, but with a wide grin on his big ugly red face. It was, of course, my old friend Little John.
The winner of the bout raised both his hands in the air and called for silence, and oddly the cloister quietened immediately.
‘Right, back to your labours, you lazy scoundrels, the amusement’s over for today. Come on, come on, this is a place for peaceful contemplation of Our Lord, not a tavern for unruly layabouts. Back to work with the lot of you!’
He reached out a hand and pulled Little John to his feet with surprising ease.
My old friend pushed past the huge monk and came straight towards me, grabbed me by the shoulders, looked into my face and enfolded me in a huge embrace. He stank of sweat and oil, but I was very pleased to see him so hale and strong; even if I was a little astonished that he had been vanquished by this tonsured stranger. I was even more astonished by his next words: ‘Alan, may I present His Grace Abbot Gervaise, master of this unruly House of God’, and I found myself grasping hands with a sweaty, half-naked and rather furry prince of the Church.
When he was washed and dressed, Little John and I took a walk on the cliffs to the north of the abbey. It was a hot, sunny afternoon and a delightful cool wind came off the sea. I asked John to explain to me why he had been grappling with such a spiritually exalted opponent.
‘Oh, Gervaise and I have a bout almost every week. He loves to wrestle and, as you saw, he is a master of that noble form of combat. I challenged him initially, oh, six months ago, to get myself back in condition after my wound had begun to heal, and we have continued our meetings on a regular basis. The brothers enjoy it, as do we. Sometimes he wins, sometimes I do – and we take good care not to treat each other too roughly.’
‘You are fully healed then?’
‘Aye, but God’s bollocks, Alan, it took me long enough. For months I was hanging on by my fingertips; I truly thought I’d had it. The brothers say it is a miracle I survived. But I think it had something to do with drinking from the Grail, as we all did in the south … Any road, I’m healed and ready to return to England and Robin. I have enjoyed Fécamp, and I owe Gervaise and his brothers my life, but I tell you, Alan, I’m not cut out for this holy life. I grant you there are more than a few handsome novices here to gladden the eye, but there is far too much praying, too much repenting, not nearly enough honest slaughter. I need to put some fire back in my veins, Alan. I am sorry I missed the siege – it sounds like a rare brawl.’
‘We could have used you,’ I said. I told him all about the Iron Castle, of the battles in the baileys won and lost, and about the traitor, how the Sparrow had betrayed us at every turn, ushering the French in through the chapel window, revealing to them that we were digging a counter-mine, letting them into the keep – all of it. Little John looked as grim as midwinter. I told him about Kit’s death and the deaths of so many brave Wolves, and finally I told him I had discovered the identity of the traitor – and who it was. He stared at me for a long time.
‘Are you sure of this, Alan? It could not be some mistake?’
‘There is no mistake. And I am going to kill him, I truly am. Will you come with me and help me do this thing?’
Little John was silent for a moment. Then he looked me in the eyes and said, ‘Yes, he must die, and yes, I’ll help you do it. By God’s great hairy bum crack, you’ll only make a bloody mess of it if you try to do it all on your own.’
A week later, on a bright summer morning, Little John and I were riding up the steep rutted track from the River Locksley with the Castle of Kirkton, home of my lord, high up on the ridge, above the little church of St Nicholas. It was good to breathe the clean fresh air of Yorkshire once more and, although oppressed by what I knew must soon come to pass, I was infinitely encouraged to have Little John’s massive form at my shoulder and his cheerful crudities echoing in my ear.
We were greeted with joy at the castle by Marie-Anne, Countess of Locksley, and I was warmed to see so many familiar faces. I had not realised until then how much I missed the rough, happy company of honest English folk; I had been among sly Frenchmen and arrogant Normans for too long and I felt a great sense of happiness and of homecoming, despite the task at hand. But I could not afford to let my happiness at being home divert me from my grim duty.
I asked after Robin and I was told he was out hunting with his guests at Locksley chase, near the manor of Wadsley, which was a large area of wooded land to the east, a little to the north of the road to Sheffield. Little John and I set out immediately, dumping our baggage in the courtyard at Kirkton, without bothering to eat, drink or even wash the dust from our faces.
We found Robin an hour later, just before noon. We were drawn towards the party by the noise of a celebration, musicians playing, bawdy jests being shouted.
We dismounted, tied our horses to the branches of a tree and walked into a broad clearing where a large round table had been set out in the centre of the glade. The table was filled with gold and silver platters and vessels, and steaming plates of roast meats, brimming bowls of fruit and flagons of deep red wine. A dozen red-faced servants and hooded huntsmen bustled about bringing yet more food and pouring water and holding clean linen towels so the diners could wash their hands. A full-fig feast had been laid in the clearing; all the splendours of the hall at Kirkton.
Robin sat at the centre of the table, which was covered in a snowy white cloth. His laughing face had filled out since I last saw him in Paris and he looked completely relaxed and happy. On his right sat Sir Joscelyn Giffard, in the very act of washing his fingers, as we approached. To Robin’s left sat Sir Benedict Malet, his fat face already bulging as he chewed on a plump roasted chicken leg.
‘Alan! John! What an unexpected surprise to see you here. Welcome, welcome my friends. Come, sit with us, join the feast.’
Servants hurried here and there bringing stools for us to sit upon, a fresh ewer of water and clean towels, and I took my place beside Sir Joscelyn. Little John sat beside Benedict Malet and helped himself to a hunk of white bread. Robin’s guests looked surprised to see us but not unduly alarmed at our arrival.
I smiled at Sir Joscelyn and greeted him with full courtesy.
He enquired after my health and my doings since the siege and I replied affably enough, but without giving too much detail. He told me that after his capture he had been held
by the King of France himself and had only recently been freed upon the paying of his heavy ransom. I nodded as if I had expected this.
‘And how is my lady Matilda?’ I said casually.
He smiled at me, warily, and said, ‘I am proud to say, Sir Alan, that she has been admitted to the priory of Kirklees; only two days ago she was accepted as a novice by the Prioress. Praise God, she will spend her life in the service of Our Lord.’
‘You must be very proud,’ I said, spooning some venison stew on to my plate.
‘I am relieved, to tell you the truth, Sir Alan,’ said Sir Joscelyn. ‘My daughter was something of a wanton. I may admit this as I am her father, and we are among friends here, but she enjoys the company of men a little too much. Life as a Bride of Christ will safeguard her soul. I have the kindness of the Earl of Locksley to thank for her place at Kirklees. He has influence there, of course, and after the scandal at the abbey in Caen, I was lucky to find any House of God that would take her.’
‘Yes, I heard about that,’ I said, through a mouthful of stew. ‘I heard she frolicked all night in a tavern with several handsome young men.’
Sir Benedict made a noise somewhere between a grunt and a cough. Sir Joscelyn looked at me with drawn steel in his eyes.
‘You need not look so surprised, either of you,’ I said. ‘Bennie here had the pleasure of her during the siege, many times. I suspect that was just to persuade him to provide her with extra food from the stores. You were complicit in that crime, Sir Joscelyn, were you not? She gave herself to me, too, on the promise that I’d protect her if the castle fell. I think she gave her favours to a good many other men, as well, for some reward or other. She uses her body as coin to buy whatever she wishes.’
Sir Joscelyn was rising to his feet by this point, his face purple, his hand reaching for his sword hilt.
‘Enough, Alan,’ said Robin loudly. ‘Hold your tongue. I think we have all had enough of that kind of talk. Sit down, Sir Joscelyn, and let us have peace – and a toast. Let us all drink together to the brave men who died defending the Iron Castle.’
Robin raised his cup.
In an instant the clearing was all movement. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw two unfamiliar hunt servants seized by the rest of Robin’s serving men. Sir Joscelyn was shoved back down on to his stool by two of the huntsmen, who I only now recognised as Wolves who had fought with us in Château Gaillard. The Wolves relieved Sir Joscelyn of his sword and dagger and passed the weapons behind them to waiting hands while they, standing one on each side of the man, kept a firm grip on his shoulders. Sir Joscelyn said nothing at all.
Sir Benedict started forward as this unfolded. He managed to shout, ‘What! What! What is the meaning—’ before Little John, who was seated beside him, snapped a heavy elbow into the side of his head, knocking him off his stool to crumple unconscious to the turf.
I had not moved. My goblet was still in my hand for Robin’s toast, which of course had been the signal for the huntsmen and servants to secure Sir Joscelyn and his men. I lifted the goblet towards him: ‘Death to traitors,’ I said, and drank.
‘All that dirty chit-chat about his daughter was a bit beyond the pale,’ said Robin, frowning at me. ‘I don’t remember that being part of the plan.’
‘It is all true,’ I said. ‘It didn’t change the outcome of today; and it doesn’t change the way I feel about Tilda.’
‘What is all this about? Why have I been insulted and restrained? Why have my servants been bound and my good friend Sir Benedict beaten unconscious. I demand to know this instant!’
Sir Joscelyn had summoned up a little bluster.
As Little John hauled the unconscious Sir Benedict away to be bound and laid on the grass with the other two prisoners, Robin poured me another goblet of wine.
‘All this?’ said Robin. ‘All this is about loyalty to your comrades. All this is about honour. Not that you would understand the term, you treacherous cock-socket.’
‘I have no idea what you are talking about. Are you all mad? I demand that you release me this very instant. This is an outrage. The King shall hear of this.’
‘Which king?’ I said. I looked steadily at Sir Joscelyn and his face seemed to close like a shutter. I had been pondering his crimes since I read his name on the parchment in the Seigneur’s strong box. On that royal charter Philip had promised him the rights to half a dozen castles and towns scattered across Normandy and the lands that went with them. His seal had been attached to the document, he had even signed his name on it in his own hand.
I had absolutely no doubt about his guilt. I took a long breath.
‘You were given the charge of defending the town of Petit Andely,’ I said in a quiet, measured tone, ‘but you did not defend it. Instead, you evacuated the town after a token resistance and encouraged the citizens to seek refuge in the castle. That was an act calculated to weaken Château Gaillard. All those Useless Mouths, all the food stores they ate up in the weeks with us. An act of mercy, in your hands, became an act of war. And, when Philip was away from the siege, and his men, out of their goodness, let the Useless Mouths pass through their lines, you got word to the King – probably by some secret system of signals with lanterns on dark nights – and he promptly stopped the exodus and all those harmless people starved. Because of you.’
Sir Joscelyn said nothing. He stared at me blankly, his bluster abandoned, giving me nothing at all.
‘You told the French that the mortar in the walls was wet in the outer bailey, and when the belfry failed, you told them they would have more success if they tried to undermine the walls. You opened the window in the chapel and let the enemy into the middle bailey – and caused the death of my young friend Kit. You told them about the counter-mine – you encouraged me to dig the counter-mine, come to think of it, after the high council had considered it and rejected the idea, knowing it would weaken the walls of the inner bailey fatally. You stole the castle’s stores, with the help of that silly, lovestruck cretin Malet, and you ate them, knowing each mouthful you consumed weakened the defence a little more. And, finally, when we still would not surrender to your master, you unbolted the door and let the enemy into the keep and surrendered yourself into the grateful arms of the King of France. And you did all this because you wanted to be a great man in Normandy. You caused the deaths of so many, so very many of your comrades because you wanted more land and wealth…’
‘I chose a side.’ Sir Joscelyn spoke calmly, quietly; I sensed he was speaking from the heart. ‘King John is a weakling and a fool – we all know that. I realised very early on that he could not hold Normandy, and when Normandy fell my family lands would be forfeit. I have nothing in England. I am a Norman, I have always been a Norman. And if Normandy has a new master, I must serve that master or perish. I chose a side, that is all. I chose the winning side.’
‘You chose the wrong side,’ Robin said.
‘And for that, I suppose, you would murder me in cold blood,’ said Sir Joscelyn, with no emotion at all in his voice.
‘Yes, that’s exactly what I’d do,’ said Robin cheerfully. ‘But Sir Alan here will not have it.’
I spoke up: ‘You will face a court of swords, a trial by combat – you will fight me, here, now, to the death, and God Himself will judge whether you are fit to live.’
‘You are most kind,’ said Sir Joscelyn. I believe he meant it.
Robin’s men-at-arms, huntsmen and servants – most of them Wolves but with a few old familiar faces from years gone by, too – formed a large, loose circle around Sir Joscelyn. A few of the Wolves were bowmen who had arrows nocked on bowstrings; others had drawn blades. Giffard was given his sword back and his dagger, but when he looked around the circle of men, men whose comrades he had betrayed, he saw death in their implacable faces. They knew his crime; they were here to see him pay for it. I took off my cloak and tunic and drew Fidelity and my misericorde. Like Sir Joscelyn I wore no mail and I carried no shield. I wanted this to be an even
match. I had insisted on this in the long letter I had had a rider bring to Robin from Paris before I departed. I did not want to murder this man, I wanted to fight him fairly – then show the world the colour of his bowels.
Sir Joscelyn hefted his sword and dagger and looked around the circle of Wolves in the clearing in the heart of Robin’s territory. ‘So you invited me here, Locksley, to Yorkshire, Tilda and myself, just for this – this ridiculous duel,’ he said disbelievingly. It was not quite a question, and nobody answered him. Then he said, ‘And I have your word, my lord, that if I can defeat Sir Alan in this combat, you will let me go free.’ He looked directly at Robin.
‘Certainly, you may believe that if you wish,’ said my lord, smiling genially at the traitor.
‘Robin! This must be a fair fight,’ I said. ‘Swear on your honour that you’ll let him go if he wins. If I yield – or if I cannot rise and continue the fight. Swear it.’
Robin frowned but he nodded. ‘Very well, Alan. I swear on my honour that if you win, Sir Joscelyn, I’ll let you go.’
This seemed to satisfy Sir Joscelyn. He gave his sword a few experimental slashes to loosen his muscles – then he came at me.
He had a decent style, I must admit, and he had evidently been very well trained. He attacked down my left side, a succession of pounding strikes at my shoulder and head. I dodged to my right, keeping his blade away with the stout iron of the misericorde. I counter-attacked, sliced at his head with Fidelity, and he parried with the sword, a sharp, discordant clang in the quiet of the glade. We were circling, getting the feel of each other, exchanging short probing blows with our swords. I had his measure, I was certain. I knew I could take him. He was older than me, and slower – and God must surely be on my side. There seemed no point prolonging the fight. I stepped into him, feinted with the misericorde at his face, stepped forward for a fast chop to the back of his left knee – a favourite move of mine – trod a patch of slick mud and slipped. My right foot skidded forward and I thumped down hard on my arse.
