by Angus Donald
He was on me like a fox on a sleeping dove.
His sword flashed down towards my head, a clean powerful vertical chop. It seemed to be coming down at me for ever, the sunlight glancing off that bright sliver of steel; a grim look of triumph on his face, his sleeve flapping with the force of the blow – and sometimes in my nightmares the blade connects cleanly and splits my head like a melon from crown to chin – but somehow I got my misericorde between it and my skull. The sword snapped cleanly through my dagger and crashed into my left shoulder, cutting deeply into the flesh, the blood running red.
He drew back his arm for another strike. But I kicked out savagely from the ground and he had to hop backwards. Then I was up on my feet again. Me and Fidelity against his sword and dagger. My shoulder was throbbing and the blood had soaked through my chemise and was running down my arm in sheets. I could barely raise my left arm and had nothing with which to protect my body on that side.
I had been overconfident and had paid the price.
He came at me like a madman in a whirl of jabs and slices from sword and dagger. Fidelity had to be everywhere, parrying, blocking, lunging at his body to try and keep him away. I dodged and ducked, my shoulder screaming in red agony. But his blows were wild; he was tiring, he was slowing. He swung his sword at my head and I blocked it with the high lateral guard, the hilt forehead-high in my double grip, Fidelity’s blade extending in a straight line out to the left. He was performing a set manoeuvre, a series of actions that came to him purely on instinct thanks to hours of practice with a master-at-arms; a forehand slash with the sword in his right hand to distract the opponent; step in and thrust with the dagger in the left, which aimed to catch the enemy up under the ribs; then step back out of range. There is nothing wrong with the move, I have taught it to many a man myself. Indeed, I had taught it to Wolves in the ring around us. But it must be done swiftly and with perfect timing. One-two, three-four. Sword-slash, step in, dagger-thrust, step back. Feint and step in, strike and step back. But, as I have said, he was slow. And he had used this move twice before. The moment he opened his stance for the right-hand slash, I knew where his left wrist would be a few instants later. So I blocked his sword with the high lateral guard, then whipped Fidelity down hard to my right. The blade sliced neatly into his hand as his dagger licked out towards me, severing the thumb and first finger, the digits pattering to the ground in a splash of gore. He screamed once, horribly, but I was already moving past him on his now unguarded left side. I stepped past, half-turned and swung Fidelity, chopping savagely into the back of his neck with all my remaining strength. His head leaped from his body at the strike. Blood gushed from the stump. The knees on the headless torso folded and the body flopped to the ground, still pumping gore.
I found I was panting, my body sheeted in sweat. My left shoulder was on fire. But the cheers of the men in the circle, the glowing faces of the Wolves who had witnessed my vengeance on their behalf, well, that gave my soul wings.
Justice had been done.
Chapter Thirty-eight
I rode to Kirklees Priory a few days later. The joint of my shoulder, thank God, had not been damaged, but the thick pad of muscle that covered it had an inch-deep gash in it and any sudden movement was very painful. Nevertheless, I rode to Kirklees as soon as I was able. I did not want the news of her father’s death to come to Tilda from some other mouth.
The Prioress, a kindly half-blind old gentlewoman, greeted me and showed me into the meeting room where Tilda was waiting to see me.
Her first words were: ‘Oh Alan, have you come to take me away from this awful place?’ I had never seen her look so beautiful, in her black novice’s gown, her raven hair bound up in a white headdress. Her lips were red as a summer rose; her blue-grey eyes as big and wild as the sea.
‘I will if you want me to, my darling,’ I said. ‘But you must hear what I have to say first. It may change your mind.’
I told her about her father. That he had been a traitor in the pay of King Philip and responsible for the deaths of so many good people during the siege. I told her about the way in which he had died, at my hand.
‘It was a fair fight, my love. It was no execution or murder. If it helps you, you may think of it as the judgment of God on his sins. And, while I know it must grieve you to hear of his passing, I hope what I tell you next will ease your suffering. I love you with all my heart, dear Tilda. If you will have me, I would take you as my wife.’
I paused and looked at her. He face was set like a rock, just as cold, hard and unmoving. She did not seem sad or happy or stirred at all by what I had told her. I wondered if she understood.
‘I will take you away from this place, if you wish it. You will come to Westbury with me and we will wed in the little church on my lands and we can be happy together. I know about you and Sir Benedict, and the musicians in Caen, and the others. I do not care. I forgive you. I forgive you because I love you. Tilda, my darling, will you be my wife?’
‘Are you quite mad?’ Tilda’s voice was low and, but for the words she uttered, she sounded quite normal: ‘Are you completely fucking moon-crazed?’
She took a deep breath, I thought at first to calm herself, but she continued in the same foul-worded but reasonable-sounding manner: ‘You … You arrogant, dung-brained, war-mongering clod! You come here with the blood of my father still staining your clothes’ – the ride had opened the wound on my shoulder and a little red was showing through my thin summer tunic – ‘and you tell me that my father was some sort of traitor – so you killed him. Do you think I really care what side my father was on during your stupid battles and idiotic wars and tedious sieges? Do you really think I give a ha’penny arse-fuck who slaughters who and in what stupid cause? You killed my father! God damn you. And you have the nerve to tell me you forgive me! You. Forgive. Me. For the things I have done with my own body – a body you drooled over impotently for months before finally summoning up the courage to touch. And now you ask for my hand, and say you forgive me. God damn you to Hell! God damn you for a fat-headed, cowardly, murdering, slack-witted bastard…’
I confess I was moving back towards the door by this point, more than a little alarmed. The door opened behind me. I saw the Prioress in the passageway and two of her nuns bustled into the meeting room. ‘That’s quite enough, Tilda!’ said the larger of the two women, laying a hand on her arm. But Tilda was still spitting her quiet venom at me as I edged out of the room.
‘I’ll make you regret this, Alan Dale, if it’s the last thing I do. I promise you. I’ll make you and your bloody master pay for what you have done. You and Locksley killed my father together and I do not forgive that. I will never forgive you for that.’
By then, mercifully, I was out the door and out of earshot.
The Prioress had grasped only a portion of all that Tilda had said but she seemed unperturbed. ‘Don’t you worry, Sir Alan, she’s a feisty girl full of fire and wickedness and not yet resigned to the quiet religious life. But we will tame her, don’t you fret. Lord Locksley has been very generous to the Priory, and we are always happy to accommodate his wishes. We will keep her here, safe and sound, under lock and key, if necessary. Don’t you trouble your head about her, Sir Alan.’
As I rode to Kirkton, I realised, with a dazed sense of having escaped, that the paramount emotion in my breast was relief.
We let Sir Benedict Malet and the two Giffard servants go unharmed. Robin suggested we slit their throats and bury them in the deep woods alongside Sir Joscelyn’s corpse, but I did not have the stomach for it. The servants were guilty of no crime, as far as I knew, and Benedict – although he probably deserved death for stealing food during the siege – had a large and prominent family, including, of course, Lord de Burgh; murdering the fat toad would be bound to draw down the anger and vengeance of his clan upon our heads. So we let him go with a warning never to come north of Nottingham again if he valued his skin.
When I told Robin about my interview with M
atilda, he laughed. ‘What did you expect?’ he said. ‘Women don’t see these things the same way we do. And who knows, maybe they are right: maybe war is idiotic.’
‘You did kill her father, Alan,’ said Marie-Anne, who was sitting by the hearth in the hall of Kirkton working at her embroidery.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I was a fool to ask for her hand after that.’
‘I think … I think you wanted to love her more than you truly did love her,’ said Marie-Anne. ‘I think, perhaps, you would not have killed her father if you truly wanted her as your wife. You could not really have had both your vengeance and her as your bride. Her father’s ghost would have stood behind her every day at the dinner table glowering at you.’
I thought about her words. I desperately wanted to return to Westbury and to my son Robert – but I did not relish returning to a hall empty of my wife Goody. I wanted a woman by my side. I wanted a woman in my hall. In my bed. A faithful one, a woman of impeccable honour. But I did not, I realised, want Tilda.
In the event I did not return directly to Westbury. Robin asked me, as a favour, to accompany him and Little John on a short visit to Nottingham Castle, where he had arranged an audience with King John.
‘He’s being difficult about Kirkton and the Locksley lands,’ said Robin, as we walked our horses southwards down the great north road. ‘He says he will not set his seal on the charter that grants me the full rights over my lands. He wants me to serve him for another three years. He wants, in fact, for me to raise another army and go and reconquer Normandy for him.’
‘But he made a solemn and binding agreement with you – three years of service for a full pardon and your lands restored. You served him well. The three years are up.’
‘He did. And now he is breaking his word.’
We walked our horses along in silence.
‘Why do we serve this King?’ I asked quietly.
‘Oh, do shut up, Alan,’ said my lord.
In the great hall of Nottingham Castle, King John lolled in a vast oak chair. Little John and I bowed low and then hung back as Robin approached the throne and knelt humbly before his King.
‘Ah, Locksley,’ King John croaked. ‘What have you to say for yourself after that disgraceful affair at Château Gaillard? I ought to have you slung in a dungeon. You failed me at the Iron Castle, Locksley, and as a result of your failure, Normandy is overrun. What have you to say for yourself, eh?’
‘I have nothing to say about the loss of the Iron Castle or the loss of Normandy. We did our best, and were beaten, and the corpses of many a brave man in the earth there can attest that we fought long and hard in their defence. But I did not come for that. I came so that you could affix your royal seal on this charter’ – he stood and pulled a stiff yellow roll from his belt – ‘as you swore to do more than three years ago. I have abided by the terms set down on this parchment. I served you loyally, and if you will now affix your seal, I will continue to serve you to the best of my abilities as Earl of Locksley with full rights in perpetuity over all my lands.’
‘And why should I?’ sneered the King. ‘I disagree that you served me loyally. Some men say that Philip had you in his pouch all the time. Did you take his silver? I heard rumours there was a traitor in Château Gaillard. Perhaps it was you. By rights, I should have you punished.’ The King paused, tilted his head back and looked down his nose at Robin. ‘But, as I am a merciful man, I shall allow you to serve me for another three years to prove your loyalty. Then, if I am satisfied, I will grant all that you ask with regards to the Locksley lands. I think that is more than fair.’
Robin stepped in closer to the King. He spoke very softly, so that Little John and I could barely hear his words but raw menace crackled about him like a thunderstorm.
‘First, if any man wishes to assert to my face that I was in the pay of Philip, I will gladly prove my innocence on his body with my sword. Second, I shall tell you why you should fix your seal to this parchment, Sire.’ Robin took a deep breath. ‘You will seal this document because, if you do not, I will tell the world about the circumstances of the death of Duke Arthur. It will be a mystery no longer. You and I and Sir Alan over there are the only living witnesses to that crime – no one else knows the truth of that crime. But that will not remain the case for long. Do you think your barons will remain loyal to you when they know what you are capable of. That you murdered your own bound and helpless nephew. Will you ever have their trust and support again? And, with the greatest respect, Sire, without the support of your barons, exactly how long do think you will remain King of England?’
As I listened to Robin speak quietly and firmly to the King, the Seigneur’s words came back to me: ‘A kingdom is like a house, and the barons are the pillars that hold the roof up. If the pillars fall or are destroyed or taken away, the house falls; if the barons are tempted away the kingdom falls, and the king is lost.’
I watched King John’s face as Robin spoke to him. For a moment, just for a moment, his expression of cruel satisfaction slipped and I caught a glimpse of his true state of fear. Robin stood up straight before the King, his face as hard as iron, his steady hand holding out the parchment.
The King turned his head to the left, took a deep breath and bawled, ‘Someone had better bring me a candle, the black wax and the Great Seal. And someone had better bring it right now!’
Over the clatter of running servants’ feet, the squeal of tables being moved, drawers being opened, cupboards slammed, I was just able to hear Robin say, ‘There’s a good boy.’
Epilogue
When I began this labour, this recounting of the tragic events surrounding the loss of Normandy, I wrote that it was a tale of blood, and a tale of slaughter and sacrifice. And so it is. But now I am done with my task, I realise it is truly a tale about honour. It was Lord de Burgh’s sense of his own honour that saved Duke Arthur from cruel mutilation at Falaise – although that poor boy’s sad doom was only delayed. It was Robin’s discovery that he loved his own honour more than lands and riches that allowed him to forego the blandishments of King Philip. It was Roger de Lacy’s sense of honour that kept us fighting for so long inside the Iron Castle against overwhelming odds. It was my own honour, and the honour of the men who died, that made me decide I must kill Sir Joscelyn Giffard, for his lack of it.
Honour is what lifts us above the brutish cruelty of warfare, it makes us better men, and in that way it brings us closer to God. Without honour we are but greedy fools indulging our appetites and whims. We are not men. Yet it is not only men who must guard their honour: Matilda Giffard, in her whoreish schemes, forgot her own, as did her father, and both came to ruin.
And Agnes, the sheep farmer’s daughter from Stannington, willingly offered hers up to my grandson. And he took it.
I love him, young Alan, for all his surly drunkenness. The greatest gift I can give him is to instil in him a true sense of the importance of his honour. It is not the same as rank. A man can be the highest in the land – a King – and have no honour, as John proved by failing to come to our defence despite his solemn promises to Roger de Lacy. A man’s honour is like his soul. He must tend it, he must guard it, he must not let it tarnish. He must always strive to follow the right, the true, the honourable path.
This is the truth that I desperately want young Alan to grasp.
It was a fine wedding. Agnes was every bit as beautiful as I had been told, even though her belly was like a huge boulder stuffed beneath her buttercup-yellow linen dress. And young Alan was touchingly solicitous of her comforts at the church and afterwards at the feast in the courtyard of Westbury manor. He seemed very happy, in truth, and so did she. I did not need ask if he truly loved his new bride – the fact of it shone from his face like a silver mirror reflecting the sun.
The Earl of Locksley attended with all his household knights, and though I watched carefully to see if any of them made mock of my grandson for his choice of bride, I saw nothing of that nature. And, at least for the
first part of the celebration, they kept the drinking, ribaldry and noise to an acceptable level.
My legs were troubling me on that happy day, swollen and painful, and I was carried to and from the little church in the village of Westbury by a couple of farm servants in a chair. I did, however, force myself to stand for the traditional toasts at the end of the wedding feast, and then I raised my arms for silence.
‘My friends,’ I said, ‘on this joyous occasion I have a piece of further good news to impart to you all. From this day forward the manor of Westbury shall be solely under the care of the happy couple. My beloved grandson Alan shall hold it of the Earl of Locksley in my stead – everything has been arranged; they and their children shall have this place in their charge henceforth and I devoutly hope they shall cherish it, as I have, for many a long year. I am an old man and very tired, and I have decided I shall retire from this sinful world and tend my soul for the remaining days of my life. The monks of Newstead Abbey have kindly allowed me to join their ranks, and I am told I shall be allowed to labour for as long as I am spared among the jewels of their famous scriptorium. And so, my friends and neighbours, I bid you farewell, and I urge you to raise your cups high and drink deeply to the health of the new lord of the manor of Westbury – Sir Alan Dale, the younger – and to his beautiful lady wife.’
We all sometimes stray from the path of honour; I know that I have done so many times. And when we do, we need the help of those who truly love us. Young Alan strayed but, by quiet persuasion and by means of a small but willing sacrifice on my behalf, I believe I have helped him to find his way back to it once more.
Historical note
I would not say that writing historical novels is easy – no creative process is without its share of hard slog – but it does have the advantage over other forms of the scribbler’s art in that sometimes the period you are writing about offers up such superb ready-made plots that they barely need to be fictionalised at all. The storylines and themes are there for the taking, low-hanging fruit, and all a novelist has to do is insert his characters into the historical narrative, sit back and take all the credit for a rattling good yarn.
