Holy Warrior

by Angus Donald

  From the trot, they moved swiftly to the canter and then, a moment later, they were at full gallop. Behind them the second line followed suit. The thunder of hooves seemed to vibrate the very turf. I could not run; there was no time, and Ghost would not bear me more than a quarter a mile at a gallop, so I tugged my plain old sword from its battered scabbard, and with a loud cry of ‘Westbury!’ I turned my mount towards them and charged straight at the fast approaching line of pounding warhorses and implacable mail-clad men.

  In no more than three heartbeats they were upon me. The bareheaded leader, a tall youngish man with light brown hair and a mocking grin on his handsome face, raced towards me, sword held high and to his right. As our horses met he cut hard at my head with his long blade. If it had connected with my skull it would have killed me on the spot but I blocked the blow easily with my own sword, and the clash of metal rang out like a church bell. Then, as he swept past me, I twisted my wrist and swung my sword at his mailed back with all my strength. But the leading rider had anticipated this and spurred to his left, away from me, causing my blade to slice through empty air.

  Then the second line of horsemen was upon me. I snarled at an onrushing rider, gripping Ghost tight with my knees, and smashed my sword into his kite-shaped shield, kicking out a long splinter of wood; I caught a glimpse of red hair under a badly fitting helmet, a gap-toothed open mouth and a terrified expression on his face as he thundered past me - and then I was through the lines, untouched, and there was empty green grass ahead of me and the diminishing sound of hoof beats behind.

  I pulled up Ghost, and wheeled him round to face my opponents. They were half a hundred yards away, still going at the gallop, the two lines of horses merging into one long pack, bulging in the centre around the bareheaded leader. Then a trumpet rang out: two notes, bright and clear, a beautiful sound on that perfect sunny afternoon. The riders reined in, sawing at their bits, the horses’ forelegs clawing the air and, turning their sweat-streaked mounts, swiftly re-formed the two ranks. It was impressive - or it would have been if all the horses and riders had responded to the trumpet. A handful of men, perhaps a dozen, had lost control of their animals and they were still thundering away from the main body in the opposite direction, heading over the shoulder of a hill and disappearing south down the slope towards the River Locksley. It looked as if nothing would stop them before they were in Nottinghamshire. But there were still eighty or so riders in control of their mounts, reformed, in line, spears levelled once again. The bareheaded leader’s sword came down and, once more, they thundered towards me. I remained still, this time, silently applauding this display of horsemanship, sword resting casually on one shoulder, as the ranks of the enemy cavalry hurled themselves at me. At a distance of fifty paces, the trumpet rang out again one long note, repeated three times, and, miraculously, the reins were hauled back once again, the lances rose to pierce the sky, and with much snorting from the protesting horses, tearing of the turf, and swearing from the riders, the whole huge mass of sweaty horse and armoured man-flesh came sliding to a halt about a spear’s length from Ghost’s soft nose. I stared at the heaving ranks of cavalry, saluted them with my sword, and slid the blade back into its battered scabbard.

  ‘Did we give you a good scare then, Alan?’ said the bareheaded rider, only slightly out of breath, and grinning at me like a drunken apprentice celebrating a holy day.

  ‘Of course, my lord,’ I said gravely. ‘I was so terrified by your fearsome manoeuvres that I believe I may have soiled myself.’ There were a few guffaws from the ranks, which I had intended. Then I grinned back at Robin and said with mock humility: ‘It was, truly, a very impressive display. But one suggestion, sir,’ I paused. ‘I’m no expert on horsemanship, of course, but would it not be even more effective if all the horses charged together ... in the same direction ... at the same time?’

  There was more merriment from the horse soldiers as I pointed behind Robin to the other side of the dale, where a dozen of the Earl of Locksley’s newly formed cavalry could be seen tiredly forging up the far slope, the horses lathered in white and still wildly out of control. Robin turned, looked and smiled ruefully.

  ‘We’re working on it, Alan,’ said Robin. ‘We’re working hard on it. And they’ve still got a little time to learn before we get them to Outremer.’

  ‘They are a damned indisciplined rabble, that’s what they are. You ought to have the hides off the lot of them!’ snapped a man seated on a magnificent bay stallion next to Robin. I looked at him curiously. The ranks of heavily blowing cavalry were filled with familiar faces and I had nodded cheery greetings to half a dozen former outlaws by now, but he was a stranger to me. A tall man of late-middle years, clearly a knight from his dress, weaponry and the quality of his horse, with sandy blonde hair and a battered, much-creased face, the result, I assumed, of a permanent frown.

  Robin said: ‘May I introduce Sir James de Brus, my new captain of horse, the man responsible for knocking these rascals into shape. Sir James, this is Alan Dale, an old comrade, a good friend and my very talented trouvère.’

  ‘Pleased to know you,’ said Sir James. I noticed that he had a slight Scottish accent. ‘Dale, Dale ...’ he said in a puzzled tone. ‘I don’t think I know the name. Where are your family’s lands?’

  I bridled instinctively. I was ashamed of my humble origins and I hated to be asked about my family, particularly by members of the knightly class, who loved to talk about their Norman lineage as a way of demonstrating their superiority. I glared at the man and said nothing.

  Robin spoke for me: ‘Alan’s father came here from France,’ he said smoothly. ‘And he was the son of the Seigneur D’Alle, of whom I am sure you will have heard. Alan is the lord of Westbury in Nottinghamshire.’

  What Robin said about my father was true. He had been the second son of an obscure French knight, but Robin had not mentioned that he had been a penniless wandering musician, a trouvère like me, but without a master. He had made his living, for a time, singing in the halls of the nobility, where he had met Robin, before falling in love with my mother and settling down to raise crops and three children in a small village outside Nottingham. When I was nine, soldiers had burst into our cottage before dawn, ripped my father from his bed and, after falsely accusing him of theft, had hanged him summarily on an oak tree in the centre of the village. I have never forgotten the sight of his swollen face as he choked out his life on that makeshift gibbet. And I have never forgiven Sir Ralph Murdac, the Sheriff of Nottinghamshire, who ordered his execution.

  Sir James grunted something to me that might have been: ‘At your service, sir,’ and I inclined my head at him with the barest civility. Robin said: ‘Well, that’s enough fun for today; shall we adjourn to the castle? I think it is time for a bite of supper.’

  ‘I have urgent private news for you, sir,’ I said to Robin.

  ‘Can it wait till after supper?’ he asked. I thought for a moment and then nodded reluctantly. ‘Come to my chamber after the meal, we’ll talk then.’ He smiled at me. ‘Good to have you back, Alan,’ he said, ‘Kirkton has been dull without your wit and dour without your music.’ And then: ‘When you are fully rested, perhaps you’ll sing for us. Tomorrow?’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  And we turned our horses and began to make our way up the hill to the castle.

  The smell of hot soup from the kitchens filled my mouth with water. It is one of the most pleasant experiences that I know: to be physically tired, but washed and clean, and to be hungry, but with the knowledge that good food is just around the corner. I was seated to the left of Robin’s place, which was empty, not immediately next to where he would be sitting, but not far away - a position that reflected my standing in Robin’s court at Kirkton. In a few moments, Robin would join us and the food would be brought in, and for me it couldn’t come soon enough. I gazed around the hall as I waited for the meal to begin. The wooden walls were hung with rich, brightly coloured tapestries, and the ban
ners of the notable diners: Robin’s device of a snarling black wolf’s head on a white background being most prominent, his wife Marie-Anne’s badge of a white hawk on a blue field hung beside it, and next to that a strange device, a blue lion on a red and gold background, which I guessed must be Sir James’s emblem.

  About three dozen of us were waiting to be fed: Robin’s familia — his closest friends and advisers, top lieutenants, and the senior members of his armed troops. Some of the faces about the long table I knew very well - the giant man seated next to Robin’s empty place with a thatch of straw-coloured hair was my friend and sword-teacher John Nailor, who was Robin’s right-hand man, and the iron enforcer of his master’s will; farther along was a squat muscular shape clad in a raggedy brown robe: Brother Tuck, a Welsh master bowman turned monk, who men said jokingly acted as Robin’s conscience; across the table were the gap-toothed grin and red curls of Will Scarlet, a friend of my own age and the nervous horseman I had clashed with that afternoon - but Robin had been recruiting busily in the weeks that I’d been away and at least half the members of the happy throng were unknown to me. Sir James de Brus, I noted with satisfaction, was seated further away from Robin’s place than me, his bulldog face creased in to its habitual scowl. He did not seem to fit in that cheery, easy company, where little distinction of rank was made and, saving Robin’s superiority over us all, every man believed himself to be equal in worth to his fellow.

  But, I noticed as I looked round the hall, things at the castle had changed in my absence. Not just new faces, but a new atmosphere: it was more formal, less like our carefree days as an outlaw band. Of course, that was right: we were no longer a pack of murderers and thieves, with every man’s hand against us - we were a company of the soldiers of Christ, blessed by the Church, and sworn to undertake the perilous journey to Outremer to save the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem for the True Faith.

  Many of the changes to Kirkton were physical, too: indeed, the bailey courtyard had been almost unrecognisable to me when we had cantered into through the high wooden gates that afternoon. It was filled with people, teeming - soldiers, craftsmen, servants, traders, washerwomen, whores - all hurrying about their tasks, and it seemed crammed with new buildings, too, wooden structures thrown up to house the bustling multitudes. The castle courtyard was designed as a vast circle, about a hundred paces across, surrounded by a high oaken palisade, with a wide empty space in the centre. Before I had left, there had been a handful of buildings around the edge of the circle: the high hall where we now sat, with Robin and Marie-Anne’s solar, or private sleeping chamber, attached to one end; the kitchen, the stables, the stoutly-built counting house that was Robin’s treasury, a few storehouses and that was all. Now, the courtyard almost resembled a small town: a new low building had been constructed to house the men-at-arms, a large two-roomed blacksmith’s forge had been set up against the palisade, and a burly man and his two assistants were hammering endlessly at bright strips of metal, manufacturing the swords, shields, helmets and spearheads necessary for the troops. A fletcher was at work outside a small half-built hovel, watched closely by his apprentice, painstakingly binding a linen thread around the goose feather flights of an arrow to hold them in place, with a stack of finished missiles beside him.

  They would both have plenty of work in the weeks ahead. A good archer could fire twelve arrows a minute in battle and Robin was planning to take nearly two hundred bowmen with him to the Holy Land. If they had to fight only one battle, which lasted only for an hour, that would still mean expending a hundred and forty-four thousand shafts. Even if the fletcher was busy for months he could not hope to provide enough arrows for the expedition and so, on the march, the men would make their own arrows, and Robin had been buying finished shafts by the thousand from Wales. Many of Robin’s hired archers came from that land: tough men, often not particularly tall but thick in the chest and short in the arms, and with the immense strength necessary to draw the huge deadly war bow that was their weapon of choice. It was easy to tell the archers in the throngs of people about the castle by their low, powerful shapes. The bow, six foot long and made from yew wood, could sink a steel-tipped ash shaft through a knight’s chainmail at two hundred paces. In the time it took a knight to charge an archer, from two hundred yards away, the bowman could sink three or four arrows into the mounted man’s chest.

  The stables had been extended, too, to almost treble their length, to house the mounts of the hundred or so mounted men-at-arms that Robin planned to take with him on the Great Pilgrimage. And, though the horses would be expected to feed themselves along the way whenever possible, vast amounts of grain must still be carried with us to feed the animals when the grazing was poor, or in the dust-dry deserts of the Levant. As well as fodder, the horses needed blankets, brushes, buckets, feed bags and a dozen other accoutrements, as well as saddles, girths, bridles, bits and a host of other straps, buckles and leather gear. Then there was the weaponry: each mounted man would be armed with a shield and a twelve foot spear as his primary weapons, but each would also carry a sword, and many horsemen preferred to bring with them a mace or axe for close-quarter work in the melee.

  So, as we entered the courtyard, which echoed with the shouts of men, the whinnying of horses, the ringing of hammers and the bleating of livestock, I was mildly shocked. I marvelled at the castle’s transformation from sleepy family home to hive of warlike activity. Even the strong high tower, the motte, which stood on its own hill behind and above the bailey courtyard, was buzzing with activity as a stream of men carrying heavy burdens struggled up the steep earthen ramp to the small iron-bound oak door. The tower was the castle’s last line of defence: when an enemy threatened to breach the palisade of the bailey, the occupants of the castle would retreat to the tower. It was always well provisioned and kept stocked with a vast supply of fresh water and ale in giant barrels. Now it was being used as a storehouse for the baggage necessary for the great adventure and it was packed with sheaves of arrows, bundles of swords and bow staves, sacks of grain, barrels of wine, boxes of boots, bales of blankets ... everything that would be needed to feed, clothe and arm four hundred soldiers on a two thousand mile journey to the Holy Land.

  The food, whose smell had been tantalising me, finally arrived. Robin was still absent, which concerned me as I was bursting to deliver my news to him and I hoped he had not been called away on some errand before I had the chance to speak to him. However, despite his high-backed chair being empty, the meal was carried in by a train of servants and placed on the long table with little ceremony, and we all fell to eating with a will. The evening repast consisted of vast tureens of hot thick vegetable soup, or pottage, and platters of bread, cheese, butter and fruit - but no meat. It was Lent, and while we at Kirkton ignored the usual religious strictures on cheese and eggs, we did normally forgo meat for form’s sake. Robin cared nothing for these matters and always ate what he wished.

  I filled a wooden bowl with the thick, wonderful-smelling soup and with a horn spoon in one hand and a chunk of fresh bread in the other I began to fill my growling belly.

  ‘God’s hairy backside,’ roared a deep familiar voice, ‘our wandering minstrel has returned!’ I looked up to see that Little John was saluting me with a huge, old-fashioned horn of ale. ‘And you’re sucking up that soup like you haven’t eaten for a week! What news, Alan?’

  I raised my own cup in reply. ‘Bad news, I’m afraid, John. Very bad news. The world is about to end, if you believe the learned monks of Canterbury.’ I took a mouthful of soup. ‘The Antichrist is loose and is filling the Earth with fire and blood.’ I paused for dramatic effect. ‘And I hear the Evil One particularly wants to have a word with you.’ I tried to look grave but kept breaking into a grin. It was an old joke between John and me, to pretend that the end of the world was nigh. But several people around the table glanced at me in fear and crossed themselves.

  ‘Well, if your Antichrist shows his face here in Hallamshire, I’ll cut his cock a
nd bollocks off and send him pissing blood all the way back to Hell,’ said John carelessly, cutting a vast wedge from a round cheese and cramming it into his mouth. ‘Are you singing tonight?’ he added, through a spray of yellow crumbs.

  I shook my head. ‘Too tired. Tomorrow, I promise.’

  ‘You mustn’t joke about things like that,’ said Will Scarlet, his nervous face staring at me from across a steaming tureen. ‘The Antichrist, and all that. Your jests only serve to give the Devil more power.’

  Will had become noticeably more religious since we had discovered that we were going on this great and holy adventure. ‘Quite right, Will,’ said a kind voice with a faint Welsh accent. ‘Quite right. But young Alan’s not afraid of the Devil, are you?’ It was Brother Tuck, smiling at me from the far end of the table. ‘These days, with a sharp blade in each hand, young Alan’s not afraid of anything ... but a couple of years ago, mind, when I first met him, the boy would jump when he caught sight of his own shadow - why, he regularly used to burst into tears over a spilled milk pail...’

  Tuck broke off his teasing abruptly as a hurled bread roll crashed into his bulbous red nose, caromed off and skittered away on the hall floor. I was pleased with my accuracy. I had always been a good shot with a rock or stone as a boy, hunting rats in the granary barns with the other children of the village, and I was gratified to see that I had lost none of my skill, even if the missile this time was merely a piece of bread. Tuck roared with outrage and flung a half-eaten pear back at me, missing and striking a thin man-at-arms next to me on the ear. As if by magic, the whole table suddenly erupted in a hailstorm of thrown food as each diner immediately began to pelt the man opposite with bread, fruit, pieces of cheese rind ... For a dozen heartbeats it was sheer, joyful chaos; a big lump of cheese whizzed past my cheek, someone flicked a spoonful of soup down the front of my tunic. I prepared to retaliate ... and then checked myself.