by Angus Donald
‘I cannot pay it; I truly cannot!’ I said, speaking to the friend, the cousin whose sight I could not afford to save.
‘But I can,’ said a voice, a strong, commanding voice, the voice of an outlaw, or an earl. ‘I shall pay this trifling ransom. You have made an offer of two hundred pounds, and I accept it. There will be no further negotiations. Cut the Frenchman free.’
Mercadier looked over at Robin who had appeared at my shoulder. He frowned at my lord, confused and angry. ‘Very well, my lord. I will release him to you — when I have been paid the full amount — in silver.’
Robin turned his head and shouted across the courtyard: ‘John, be so good as to bring me two of the chests from Paris. Quick as you like.’ A few moments later, Little John and two Locksley men came lumbering over with a pair of heavy wooden boxes, which they dumped on the ground at Robin’s feet.
‘Open them, would you, John; their contents are for our zealous friend here, Captain Mercadier.’
I think I was as astonished as the mercenary to see what the boxes held: each chest was packed with small, lumpy white canvas bags marked with a bold red cross. It was a symbol I had seen before. Each bag was the same size as the one Robin had given me after fleecing the merchants of Tours and, as I knew very well, they contained five pounds in silver pennies. If each chest held twenty bags, and they looked as if they did, I was staring at two hundred pounds in silver: to be exact, two hundred pounds of silver that had come from the vaults of a Templar preceptory.
Roland gulped at his wine cup, emptying it and silently holding the vessel out to be refilled; and who could blame him? My cousin, Robin and I were sitting at a table on the ground floor of the Dangu keep, in an area that the Locksley men had made their own. A few of Robin’s men-at-arms looked at the young French knight curiously — word of the vast sum that Robin had expended on him had spread speedily through their ranks.
From the courtyard outside came the sound of screams — although we had rescued Roland, the blinding continued. Mercadier was making sure that these French knights would never fight again. Each time a scream echoed around the courtyard, Roland flinched. I did too — I thought of Mercadier’s parting words as we walked away with our shivering captive and shuddered: ‘Would you like any more of them, my lord?’ the scarred mercenary had asked with elaborate courtesy. ‘I have another ten of these French rascals, if you have the silver to spend on saving them.’
Another agonizing scream tortured the night; another brave man’s sight was burned away.
‘The Seigneur d’Alle will return the money to you, my lord,’ Roland said, looking earnestly at Robin. ‘Though it will take a while, even for him, to raise that amount of coin, he will pay it. But, as God is my witness, I can never repay what you — both of you — did for me tonight.’
‘That is very good of you,’ said Robin. ‘But there is absolutely no hurry; after all, you are one of the family, in a manner of speaking.’
I looked at Robin, his face kindly in the candlelight: and I felt a strange melange of emotions. This man, who so often appalled me with his ruthless money-grubbing, with his unstoppable lust for silver, had saved my cousin with an act of stunning, reckless generosity. And I knew that it was entirely in character. He had lightly mentioned the word ‘family’ when referring to Roland, but I realized then how seriously he took that word. I was inside his circle, that charmed circle of friends, family and servitors, for whom Robin would give his all, and so Roland, my cousin, must be saved — whatever the cost. Robin’s relentless money-chasing, his silver-greed, his methods of enriching himself, were always at the expense of people outside that circle. They were his prey.
The Templars were outside that circle: they were prey. For I had worked out by then how Robin must have obtained those chests of silver, the gleaming bounty that he gave away so lightly. He must have copied the letter of credit that I had received from the Templars, or found some clever man in Paris, perhaps a former disgruntled Templar clerk who understood the codes, to do it for him; he had then changed the sum denoted and presented the copied letter at the Paris Temple. I could imagine his cold smile when the forged paper was honoured by the Templar clerks, and his satisfaction as several chests of their silver, in bags marked with a red cross, were delivered up to him.
A part of me admired the scheme, and I found that I could fully understand Robin’s motives. To his mind, the Templars had deprived him of the lucrative frankincense trade in Outremer, and when Richard had disappointed him, he had taken his compensation directly from the Knights. Another part of me was incandescently angry: I was the man who had been issued with the promissory note by the Templars in Paris. The theft would be discovered at some point; perhaps not for a while, if the clerks were none too rigorous, but at some time in the future Robin’s crime would be detected, and I would be blamed. It might be that the Templars would seek to revenge themselves on me. And who would protect me against the wrath of the mighty Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ and of the Temple of Solomon? Who else but Robin?
I took a sip of wine and smiled reassuringly at my cousin, who was still badly shaken. But I was thinking that Robin had, indeed, been rather clever. He had revenged himself on his enemies the Templars; and he had drawn me even further into his tight circle. It occurred to me that, after Robin’s massive fraud, there was no way that I could join that band of holy warriors now, even if I had wanted to. But then there was Roland: Robin had saved my cousin from a horrible fate, and it had cost him dearly. Would I have stolen from the Templars to save Roland? Yes, the truth was that I would. In that terrible moment when Mercadier ordered his blinding, I would have done almost anything to save him. And so I could not reproach Robin for his crime. I did not even find myself surprised by his actions. That was my master, my friend: a cunning thief, an outlaw still in his heart of hearts, and a truly generous lord.
King Philip called for a truce again that autumn, and Richard, perhaps surprisingly, agreed to it. Before we had had time to bring our full strength against Gisors, news came in that a large company of French knights was loose in Normandy to the south of the Seine, burning and pillaging manors to the south and west of Chateau-Gaillard. They had penetrated as far as Evreux, we heard, and burned the town to the ground. And Richard was obliged to send many of his best men south to push them out of his lands. We also retaliated to the wanton destruction of Evreux with an attack in the north: Mercadier raided Abbeville during a trade fair there and slaughtered hundreds of unarmed merchants from all the lands of northern Europe, very few of whom were enemies of King Richard. Both the French and we, by this time, were quite regularly blinding our prisoners; and I made a silent vow to myself that I would not allow my person to be captured — I would rather die in battle, I told myself, than live the life of a helpless blind beggar. Such is youth: today I know that life, almost any life, even that of a despised blind man, is better than death.
So when Philip asked for a truce, Richard agreed. The cruel fighting that bloody year had thinned the ranks of his knights, and the King needed time to recruit more. Also, the completion of the fortifications of Chateau-Gaillard meant that the swarming workmen were now at liberty to begin work repairing and improving the other castles that Richard had taken that summer. But a period of peace was urgently needed to allow the necessary work to be done.
Richard had demanded possession of Gisors as part of the truce negotiations, but Philip had sensibly refused to surrender the key to the border. However, our sovereign did make other significant gains as part of the new accord. As the King said to me, shortly before Christmas that year: ‘King Philip has given up almost everything in Normandy, except Gisors, and next year, Alan, we shall take that too.’
I recalled that he had said something similar the year before, but held my tongue. Our position had improved a good deal since then: on the border we held Dangu, Courcelles, Boury and Serifontaine; we had recovered large stretches of lands to the north of Gisors, west of the River Epte, and the broad
fields of grain north of the Avre were ours once again: even poor ruined Clermontsur-Andelle was back in our hands, although I had not attempted to return there and rebuild the manor, and I had not troubled to ask Richard to confirm me in its possession. Maybe this time, I thought to myself, maybe this time King Richard was right, perhaps next year we would hold our Christmas feast in the great keep of Gisors, and this long war would truly be over.
On a freezing January morning, the two Kings met to discuss the truce in quite extraordinary circumstances. Philip, protesting that he did not trust Richard not to attack his person, insisted that Richard remain on one of our trading galleys in the middle of the Seine for the meeting, which took place a few miles to the south of Chateau-Gaillard. Meanwhile, Philip and his knights remained a-horse on the bank of the river, able, should their trembling terror of our lionhearted king overwhelm them, to rush away at a moment’s notice. It was an insult, we all agreed; King Richard had always rigorously observed the codes of honour in war, and he was not a man to break his sacred word. Nonetheless, despite this grave affront, a solemn truce was agreed for five years — although I don’t think a man present believed it would last for even half that time.
We celebrated yet another cessation of hostilities with a lavish dinner in the big round audience room in the keep of Chateau-Gaillard — a great number of the King’s senior knights and barons were there — and, naturally, when we had eaten and drunk to repletion, the talk turned to the war. ‘How should we pass our time during this irksome truce?’ That was the question on every man’s lips.
My master Robert, Earl of Locksley, had the answer. He stood up from his place at the high table, a place of honour that only Richard’s closest barons enjoyed, and raised a silver goblet: ‘Sire, if I may say a few words,’ he said in his battle-voice, and his tone caused a hush to fall around the room. ‘We have done mighty deeds this past year,’ Robin said, ‘and we have lost many dear companions…’ There was a murmur of assent around the circular room. ‘But now we have a truce, for however long it lasts, and our righteous war has been suspended for a time. We have sworn before Almighty God that we shall not trouble King Philip — even though his liegemen still hold many lands and castles that belong by right to our noble King Richard.’
‘Hear, hear,’ roared a royal voice from not very far away.
‘So what is to be done? Shall we sit in idleness, wrapped in costly furs, supping good wine by our hearth-fires and toasting our toes?’
‘Sounds like an excellent idea to me!’ said William the Marshal, with a tipsy grin. There was a burst of laughter.
‘You would not be able to sit idle by your warm hearth for long, Marshal, even if I had you chained there,’ called out the King, to more laughter.
‘My friends, we are men of the sword, we are knights sworn to King Richard’s service, not sleepy, muddle-brained, old drunkards — well, most of us are,’ said Robin, inclining his head towards the Marshal. More laughter, and the Marshal scowled grotesquely like a mystery-player and shook his fist in mock anger at the Earl of Locksley.
‘My friends,’ Robin continued, his voice deepening and his face becoming serious. ‘We are knights sworn to Richard’s service, and yet there is one unruly baron who yet defies his rightful King; there is one who has rebelled against his lawful lord and with whom we have made no treaty, one who is not protected by this truce. Can we call ourselves the King’s loyal men and not punish those who insult him? I say that we must hunt down this rebellious dog and destroy him!’ Muttering rumbled about the tables like wine barrels on cobblestones; the company had become uneasy — a good many men at the feast had at one time or another rebelled against Richard.
‘I speak, of course, of the traitor Viscount Aimar of Limoges,’ said Robin, to a general sigh of relief. ‘He is a wealthy man, with a hoard of silver and jewels, and his sun-lit southern lands are wide and rich.’ More appreciative murmurs. ‘And I say that, come the spring, we must go south and teach this proud rascal that our King will not be mocked! In the spring, let us go down to the Limousin, punish this haughty Viscount Aimar, and take our swords to this plump nest of rebels!’
A few cheers, but most knights confined themselves with nodding in benevolent agreement, and beginning to discuss with their fellows the delightful prospect of looting the rich territory of the Limousin.
The next day, in the mid-afternoon twilight of the short winter day, the King called me to his private chamber: he wanted me to play a little music for him, he said, to cheer a dreary season. But the real reason he summoned me, I soon discovered, was that he wanted me to play the informer.
‘What was all that nonsense about Viscount Aimar?’ he asked me. ‘Why does Locksley so urgently want me to go down and have at him?’
‘He has rebelled against you, sire,’ I said.
‘I know that,’ the King said impatiently. ‘He’s a fool and Philip has sent him silver and knights and turned his head with extravagant promises. But other men in Aquitaine have rebelled too. Ademar of Angouleme, for example: he’s made an alliance with Philip, too, and he’s a much bigger fish than Aimar. Why does Robin want me to go after the Viscount of Limoges?’
I stood there flat-footed, not knowing what to say to my King. I knew, of course, exactly why Robin wished the army to go south and attack Aimar. And, while he had not actually sworn me to secrecy, it was understood that one did not discuss Robin’s private affairs with anyone, king or commoner. I mumbled something about my lord being a loyal man, who hated all of Richard’s enemies equally.
The King looked hurt; his bright blue eyes clouded with sorrow: ‘My good Blondel,’ he said, ‘we have fought together, side by side, on many a bloody field, over many long years; we made the Great Pilgrimage together to Outremer and battled the Saracen hordes; you came to Germany when I was in despair and languishing in darkness, and you found me and brought me back into the light. Do not speak falsehoods to me now. Why does the Earl of Locksley wish me to humble Aimar of Limoges?’
I could not bear it; I felt that I was being pulled in two, my loyalty to my lord and to my King tugging my soul in different directions. And so I answered him.
‘There is a treasure,’ I said. ‘There is a great and wonderful treasure that Aimar of Limoges, or rather that one of his relatives has in his possession. And my lord the Earl of Locksley burns to possess it.’
‘Not that same treasure that he went off on a goose chase in Burgundy to discover last year?’ said the King.
‘The same.’
‘What do you know of this treasure?’ he said, looking at me keenly. ‘Have you ever seen it? Is it truly valuable?’
‘I have not seen it,’ I said, ignoring the first part of his question. ‘But I believe that it is truly valuable — perhaps the most valuable object in Christendom and certainly something that many men: counts, kings, even the Pope himself, would give a fortune to have in their possession.’
‘I think I should like to see this treasure,’ said the King.
Chapter Twenty-eight
That spring Richard’s knights and Mercadier’s routiers ravaged the Limousin without mercy: and Robin and I played our parts, too. We burned farmsteads, stole livestock and destroyed crops, although I would not allow my men to despoil churches — it was Lent, the season in which all Christian warriors are expected to observe the Truce of God and lay down their arms, but we served King Richard, and he was not a man to allow the strictures of the Church to stand in his way. So, may God forgive us, we fought all through that March even though it was Lent, harrying Viscount Aimar and his knights from manor to manor. We ate meat and eggs, too, when we could get them, but we left places of worship unmolested. It was a sop, a gesture, but my men were not unhappy at that curb: in battle we all need God’s protection, and it would not do to anger Him by stealing from His house. However, I felt the dark shadow of guilt on my soul during that southern spring of blood and fire: I believed Richard and his barons’ enthusiasm for the harrying of the Limou
sin, and the relentless pursuit of Count Aimar and his men, might have had a good deal to do with my talk of the fabulous ‘treasure’ in his possession. These rich lands were ruined, and many poor peasants were put out of their hovels, their meagre wealth snatched, their children brought to starvation, because Robin and I had moved the King to make it so. Such is war; but I felt the burden of it as a heavy weight on my conscience.
I do not know how Robin came into the knowledge that the Master and the remaining Knights of Our Lady had taken refuge with Viscount Aimar, but Robin had many friends in Paris, and all over France, who had been searching for news of the Master for nearly five years now, and so perhaps a better question would have been why had we not uncovered his whereabouts sooner. From the little that Robin had gleaned, it seemed that the Master and his men had been in hiding on the far side of the Pyrenees, in lands that the original members of the Order would have campaigned over in their glory days fighting the Moors. Doubtless, the Master still had allies there. But recently, Robin’s informants had told him, he had grown in confidence and forsaken the wild lands beyond mountains and had taken up a more comfortable position with his cousin Viscount Aimar — exactly as Bishop de Sully had predicted. And one thing was certain: wherever the Master went, the treasure we sought, the Grail, would go, too.
Whenever Robin spoke of the Grail, which was not often, I noticed that he became strangely animated; and I confess I was puzzled by this. Robin, as I have often mentioned, was not a godly man. Or perhaps I should say he was not a man who respected the Church or subscribed to its teachings, and yet this Grail, this object that was said to have once contained Our Lord’s sacred blood, seemed to have seized his imagination. I think he pretended to himself that it was the vessel’s worldly value that drew him; for it surely would have fetched a mountain of gold if it were shown to be the genuine article. But I think there was more to it than his usual lust for money; in my private heart, I think that Robin was searching for an object that could demonstrate for him the truth — or otherwise — of the Christian faith. For him, the Grail was the embodiment of God — and I dreaded the likely discovery that this thing, which was claimed to have once held the holy blood of Jesus Christ and to possess miraculous powers of life and death, was merely an ancient, dusty bowl.
