Holy Warrior

by Angus Donald

  ‘I’m not concerned about that,’ I said, and I wasn’t. ‘Is he wearing the ruby?’

  ‘Yes, sir, on the gold chain, as always.’

  I grinned: ‘Then let us go to him!’

  William and I pushed through the thick market crowds none too gently and soon found ourselves at the southern end of Goldsmith’s Street. As we wanted to avoid being recognised by Murdac or his men, William had smeared his face with mud and wore a hood pulled far forward over his brow. I was dressed like an off-duty soldier, in a distinctive blue cloak, hauberk, and sword, with a bloody bandage covering one eye and a good deal of my cheek. I had also pasted some short clippings of Albert’s black hair on my upper lip and chin and covered up my blond locks with a floppy-brimmed hat. To be honest, I felt slightly ridiculous, but Albert assured me that no one would recognise me; the black artificial stubble, though it was crudely stuck on, made me look older, and a much rougher customer; they might comprehend later that I had been a person in disguise but, as everyone in the castle believed that the gifted trouvère Alan Dale had left Nottingham two days before with his serf-born tail between his legs, I would not be immediately suspected as the thief.

  Our plan was very simple, as the best plans always are. And it was a manoeuvre I had made several times before, though not for a couple of years or more. It depended on surprise, timing, and the natural human reaction to a hard, winding blow to the stomach.

  Sir Ralph Murdac was standing beside a shop counter that opened on to the street; inside the shop, I could just see two young goldsmiths hard at work, tapping away at delicate work with their tiny hammers. I felt the usual thrill of pleasure in my gut at the thought of imminent larceny. On the street, standing next to Murdac, was the master goldsmith, who was showing him a fine gold brooch. He had clearly made the effort to come out of his shop to wait upon to such a distinguished customer. Two men-at-arms, in Murdac’s personal colours of black and red, were standing about ten yards away, leaning against a wall and looking bored.

  I walked towards the shop where Murdac was haggling with the goldsmith and stopped at the one before it, keeping my face hidden from the former Sheriff and pretending to examine some rather fine gold-chased spurs. William had been following me at a discreet distance. I was about twenty feet from Murdac and half-facing away from him. Out of the corner of my eye I could see William, coming towards me stealthily. He was a natural, moving like a predator, stopping now on this side of the street, now on the other, browsing, never touching the bright metal that was laid out on public display, never drawing attention to himself. But anyone watching him, if they cared to notice his movements, would think he was stalking me, like a house cat sidling up to an unsuspecting starling. Then he was next to me, on my right hand side, between Murdac and myself.

  He didn’t look at me, the obedient boy, just tapped his finger against my thigh. I whispered: ‘Now!’ and then immediately shouted ‘Hoy! Stop thief!’ and quick as a cornered rat William darted away from me directly towards Ralph Murdac. I shouted: ‘My purse!’ and pelted after him. We were only twenty feet from Murdac and, in two heartbeats, William had charged straight into the little black-clad knight, butting him hard in the belly, just below the ribcage with his head as he ploughed forward. I was right on his heels bellowing: ‘Thief! Thief!’ As William’s brown head smashed into Murdac’s midriff, I was less than a yard behind him. All the breath came out of the evil little bastard in a short, agonised ‘whoomf!’ His body doubled over, and, as William bounced back and dodged away around Murdac’s bent-over form, I pointed and shouted at William to stop. While the world watched William take to his toes, I pretended to steady Sir Ralph Murdac with an arm round his shoulders and neatly whipped the gold chain and ruby over his lowered neck, and thrust the jewel into a sleeve of my tunic. Then I was past the winded knight, and the gaping, flat-footed men-at-arms and with a great cry of ‘Forgive me, sir, I must catch him!’ I was away and around the corner hot on William’s heels.

  William was quick, I have to give him that - quicker than me, and I believed that I was as fit as I have ever been. In ten heartbeats we were a hundred paces away and at a crossroads where three roads converged. I had stopped shouting by this time - I hadn’t the breath - but also I wanted no one to intercept William. At the crossroads, William came to an abrupt halt, and ducked into the porch of a church. I followed him in, swiftly handed him the ruby, and walked away to the centre of the crossroads. The mid-afternoon crowds were fairly thick and the streets were crammed with ox-carts, horsemen, pedlars with big packs, housewives with their baskets and even a drover herding a great passel of sheep. William blended into the throng and began to walk swiftly but without appearing to hurry down the street to the left.

  I looked behind me: the two men-at-arms were approaching at speed, and I pointed up the right-hand street and shouted: ‘There he is! Stop him, somebody!’ indicating an imaginary William some distance ahead. Then I ran. I bolted up the wrong street, shouting and halloo-ing and causing a quite a stir. People stopped and left their businesses and began to run with me. By sheer luck, for this was no part of the plan, I saw a boy about William’s age walking up the street ahead. I shouted: ‘That’s him, that’s the thief,’ and urged my fellow pursuers to lay hands on him as I lent against a wall and pretended to catch my breath. The unfortunate lad saw a crowd of enraged townsmen racing towards him shouting ‘Thief!’ and took off like a frightened rabbit. Once the pack had passed me, I was down the first alley I saw; the distinctive blue cloak, eye bandage and hat buried in a mound of wet straw, and I was doing my best to scrub off the fake stubble with a spit-wetted palm as I walked south to rejoin William at Albert’s house.

  ‘That was bravely done,’ said Robin, He was chuckling at my tale, but his mirth was nothing to Little John’s reaction: his big man’s laugh boomed out across the hall, drawing attention from scores of Robin’s men, and the tears were pouring down his cheeks as he slapped sturdy Owain on the back with glee. Even Sir James de Brus gave me a wintry smile.

  ‘And you have the ruby with you?’ asked Robin.

  ‘I have it,’ I said. And unbuckling my saddlebag, I pulled a cloth-wrapped lump from inside. Robin sent a servant for Marie-Anne and while my lord’s good lady waddled over to the table, bringing her lady-in-waiting Godifa with her, I unwrapped the parcel and pulled out the fruits of my larceny.

  ‘We must reward William with employment in your household,’ I reminded Robin.

  ‘Certainly, certainly, I can always use talent for mischief like his,’ he said but his eyes were fixed on the great jewel. It seemed to sparkle with a demonic light in the dim hall, glistening and malevolent, like a congealed drop of the Devil’s blood.

  ‘This belongs to you, my lady,’ I said and, lifting the jewel on its bright gold chain, I presented it to Marie-Anne, holding it in outstretched hands. She took it, but reluctantly. And then she turned to Godifa, a slim girl of about twelve years on the very lip of womanhood, who had grown up with Robin Hood’s outlaws, and who now served Marie-Anne as maid, companion and friend.

  ‘This is yours, Goody, surely you remember it?’ said Marie-Anne, placing the gold chain around the girl’s neck. ‘It was your mother’s, and you kindly lent it to me, and then I foolishly lost it when I was held captive by Sir Ralph last year.’ She was smiling at the girl. ‘I think you are old enough for it to look well on you now.’

  Goody gazed down at the bright gold around her neck and at the great red jewel nestling between the buds of her breasts. She looked up at me, shining with happiness: ‘What do you think, Alan, does this stone become me?’

  ‘You look beautiful,’ I said. And it was true. Her face had changed shape since I last saw her, only several weeks ago; it had become longer, less round and the cheekbones more prominent. Her hair was long and fine, its colour the exact same shade as the gold around her neck. I could clearly see the beauty that she would become in a few years. And so I said again: ‘You truly look wonderful.’ And then
strangely, her face became flushed bright pink, and she slipped off the bench she had been sitting on, came over to me, kissed me on the cheek, muttering, ‘Thank you, Alan’ before pelting off to the solar, shouting rudely behind her to her mistress, as she ran from the table without a by-your-leave, that she must look directly into Marie-Anne’s silver mirror.

  ‘She’s still not quite tamed, that one,’ said Robin, with a rueful smile at me. ‘Still wild deep in her soul.’

  I knew Robin was right: the year before, after a catastrophe of fire and blood in which Goody’s parents had perished violently, she and I had been hunted like beasts by Ralph Murdac’s men through the remote places of Sherwood. We had survived the swords of mounted men-at-arms, attack by wild wolves and a madman who wanted to eat our flesh - and it had been Goody who had dispatched the lunatic with a brave dagger thrust through the eye. She had a strong, savage flame in her soul, which I knew would never be extinguished.

  ‘She’ll need a husband soon, Alan. Perhaps you are the man lusty enough to tame that wildcat,’ said Little John, and gave one of his great, hearty big-man guffaws.

  I glared at him: ‘Goody is a child,’ I snapped. ‘I think of her as my sister, under my protection, and I will not hear talk like that about her. From anyone!’

  Little John looked astounded by my outburst but he said nothing in reply. Marie-Anne spoke then - as always, her tact in a difficult situation smoothing the rough waters: ‘We all thank you for returning the jewel, Alan,’ she said. ‘But can I prevail upon you to tell the tale again of its recovery? I have not heard it. Could you bear to tell it again?’

  And so, mollified, I told my beautiful friend Marie-Anne how brave and clever I had been, and how foolish and sore Sir Ralph Murdac must now feel, while others who had heard the story drifted away from the table and still others joined the throng about me. Wine was fetched, and then food for the mid-day meal. Marie-Anne told me how she and Robin had visited the wise woman in Locksley village, and been forced to spend the night because of the lateness of the hour, how and the woman had said that the baby would be a boy, and that he would grow into a powerful man, a great warrior. ‘He kicks like a warrior, at least,’ said my lady, wincing as a ripple shuddered across her great belly.

  It was a Sunday, and no work was to be done, and so the day passed in eating and drinking, storytelling and riddles and laughter, and other gentle amusements. As the light began to fade, and the candles were lit, I brought out my apple-wood veille, and played and sang for my master’s wife, and the men of our bold company, until it was time for sleep. But that night I dreamt of a huge mound of German silver coins, half as high as a man, standing, glinting, in a pool of Robin’s blood.

  We trained hard at Kirkton; each morning I was out in the fields giving basic lessons in swordcraft to the archers. If an archer has run out of arrows, he is more or less defenceless, so each of our bowmen had been issued with a short sword, and it was my task to teach them the rudiments of its use. It is not easy to train two hundred men, but they were broken down into groups of twenty under the command of a junior officer called a vintenar, who was paid double wages. The vintenars answered to Owain for the conduct and discipline of their men and they also received extra training from me and from Little John in the sword. Usually I would gather the ten vintenars together an hour or so before a training session and explain what we would be practicing that day, perhaps a simple block and thrust routine, and work with them until they understood it. Then the vintenars were expected to demonstrate it to the men. I would wander about the flat-ish piece of worn field where we practiced, watching groups of twenty men hacking and lunging at each other, giving advice, and correcting technique where necessary. I was treated with a great deal of respect after my midnight encounter with the would-be murderer and, despite my tender years, on the subject of sword play I was listened to as if my words were The Gospel itself. After a couple of hours with the archers, I would dismiss them and have a one-on-one sword practice session with Little John; often a crowd of bowmen lingered to watch.

  John had been master-at-arms for Robin’s father and he was the finest man with any weapon that I ever saw, perhaps save Robin himself, and one other. The big man preferred, in battle, to wield a great double-bladed war axe but, when we practised, he usually fought with an ordinary sword and shield, and I with my old sword and my Spanish poniard. Sword and shield was a foot soldier’s normal combination, perhaps with a long spear, too. Two fields over from where my archers were banging away at each other with their short blades, Little John would be putting our hundred or so spearmen through their paces. At his bellowed commands, the spearmen would perform intricate evolutions with locked shields, creating a number of massed formations - ‘the hedge-hog’, a defensive circle of spears, ‘the boar’s snout’, an attacking arrow-shaped configuration, and ‘the shield wall’, the standard line-up against a similarly arraigned enemy.

  Little John and I had a long running argument about my choice of weapons: he strongly believed that I needed to use a shield; I preferred the freedom and speed gained by fighting without one. I also argued that my role in battle was not primarily as a fighting man but as Robin’s aide-de-camp and messenger: I would be galloping to the various parts of his army, scattered where ever they might be, and delivering his orders. The kite-shaped shields that we used were heavy and cumbersome items, and I needed to be swift and light on the field. Of course, I did know in theory how to use a shield - its uses had been knocked into me since my first days with Robin’s outlaw band - but I preferred, if I had to fight, the elegant dance of poniard and sword. Little John muttered that I was being far too fancy. ‘Battle is about killing the most men as fast as you can, and keeping as many of our men as safe as possible. It’s not a dance; it’s not a game. It’s about killing him quickly, and saving your own neck from his blade. And for that you need a shield.’ I shook my head. In battle my Spanish dagger was sturdy enough at its hilt to block a sword strike, my body was usually armoured with a knee-length hauberk and heavy boots, my head defended with a stout helmet and, in a melee, I liked to be able to give out deadly blows with both hands.

  When John and I made our battle practices, the main difficulty I had was overcoming his brawn. I was a mere youth then, still slim of hip and, although very fit, not yet in my full bodily strength. John was a seasoned warrior of more than thirty summers, nearly seven feet in height and with a chest that was nearly two foot thick. When he struck at me with the sword, I had to avoid the blow altogether, as its power would have smashed straight through the sword-and-dagger blocks I might have tried with another man. Instead, I always waited for him to launch his brutal attack, evaded it and then counter-attacked against his sword arm. I knew that a powerful blow from a sword on the upper arm could break bone, even if it could not penetrate a chainmail hauberk. And a man before me with a broken sword arm is a dead man.

  One fine morning not long after my return from Nottingham, John and I were circling each other on the scrubby grass. I was taunting him, suggesting that, as he was so long unmarried, his preference for bed partners must be handsome boys, and making damn sure that I stayed out of his long sword’s reach. He was suggesting that I come a little closer and find out what he really liked to do to insolent children like me. It was all good ribald fun and raised many a laugh from the watching circle of archers and spearmen. But I thought I had genuinely managed to anger him this time, and when I was reciting a little rhyme that went, if I remember rightly, ‘Little John, he’s not pretty, but he loves to get his member shitty ...’ he gave a great snarl like a maddened bear and lunged at me, slicing down hard at my head. I thought I saw my chance and, dodging outside the massive blow, swung my blade hard, back-handed at his outreached arm. And missed. He was feinting, of course, and my blade never came within an inch of his arm. I was off balance and the next thing I knew, John’s shield had crashed with stunning force into my sword arm and side, I was lifted high in the air - I saw the faces of the watching
men whirling around me - and then God deposited me softly on the turf before the hard world came hurtling up and smashed into my back. There was a noise like the roaring of the sea and I found, panicking, that I could not breathe. My lungs had ceased to function, I was drowning on dry land.

  ‘You all right, youngster?’ said a huge head with a thatch of straw-coloured hair, directly above me. It was almost blocking out the sun. I could not breathe and I only made the merest of nods. ‘That,’ the giant head continued, ‘is another use of the shield. Take note.’ An enormous hand came towards me and, taking a bunch of my chainmail hauberk in its fist, raised me to my feet. ‘Had enough?’ said John, as I stumbled around on legs of jelly trying to collect my dropped sword and poniard.

  “Course not,’ I said, but I was weaving on my feet, trying to find my balance and walking in circles. ‘Do your worst, John, you big ... bug ... bigger ... Come on, come on, I’ll have you this time ...’ Suddenly I vomited; a heave and a gush of half-digested food splashed out on to the green grass.

  ‘If that is your weapon of choice,’ said John indicating the pool of stinking vomit, ‘I surrender to you, O noble knight. You have bested me.’ And he bowed low, to ironic cheers from the crowd.

  A tall figure with sandy blond hair and a crumpled face pushed through the throng and made his way over to me. ‘Dale,’ said Sir James de Brus, ‘Lord Locksley wants to see you in his counting house. If you are at liberty...’ He looked down his nose at me, as I stood there swaying: sweaty, winded, with strands of yellow spit-vomit hanging from my mouth. Then he sniffed once and turned away.

  I recovered my wind on the way back up to the castle, but my right forearm and ribs ached from the mighty blow that John had dealt me. But, by the time I was entering the courtyard of the castle, my head had cleared and I was thinking about my next bout with John. And I knew exactly how to get him ...