Holy Warrior

by Angus Donald

  ‘What is that churchy smell?’ I asked Reuben when Father Simon had finished his endless beseeching of God for Robin’s deliverance from the Devil’s grip.

  ‘It is frankincense,’ said Reuben, not quite meeting my eye. ‘Do you not know it? It is burnt in every great church in Christendom. I would have thought you Christians would be entirely familiar with it.’

  ‘I know its scent, I was just not familiar with the name.’ I said with a touch of hauteur. I hated it when my low-born ignorance was unearthed. ‘So, frankincense, then,’ I said tasting the word as if it were a fine wine. ‘Does it come then from France?’

  Once again Reuben gave me a slightly strange look. ‘Have you been talking to him about this?’ he asked, nodding at the sleeping form of my master on the bed - who but for the very slight movement of his chest looked as if he were dead.

  ‘No, we’ve never mentioned it. So does it come from France; is it the incense of the Franks?’

  ‘No.’ Reuben said nothing more. I stayed silent, too, and just stared at my friend, willing him to go on.

  ‘Oh, well, if you must know everything,’ said Reuben grumpily, ‘it is called frankincense because it is the ‘true’ or ‘pure’ incense. It is worth more than its weight in gold, far more, and it comes from my homeland Al-Yaman, in the far south, beyond the great deserts of Arabia.’ Then he turned back to his patient and ignored me. I sat down on a stool and thought for a while about frankincense. Was it truly worth more than its weight in gold? And every great church in the whole of Christendom was burning it at every holy service? Somebody was making a lot of money from this ‘pure’ incense. I realised that I had been staring at Robin’s battle standard, which was hanging on the wall of his chamber, for some time: the image of a snarling wolf’s head in black on a white background that always seemed to be leaping out of the cloth towards me.

  An idea suddenly struck me, like a bolt of lightning. ‘Reuben,’ I said, ‘could ... could it possibly it be wolfsbane that is poisoning him?’

  Reuben, jerked his head round and stared at me. ‘Oh my God, I’ve been a fool,’ he said. ‘An utter fool. I was thinking of more exotic Sicilian poisons. Or something subtle and Persian...’

  Suddenly he seemed to come to a decision - he turned back to Robin and very gently began slapping his face.

  ‘Robert, Robert, wake up; I need to see your eyes,’ said the Jew. As Robin struggled up from the depths of sleep, Reuben peered into his eyes. He seemed satisfied by what he saw and turned to me.

  ‘He has been poisoned with aconite; as you correctly guessed, what we would ordinarily call wolfsbane. So I need you to find some foxglove,’ he said. ‘It’s the only thing that I know can cure him. And don’t let him have any more wine. Just boiled water from now on.’

  I looked at Reuben doubtfully. Foxglove was a known poison; why would he want to give a man who had already been poisoned more poison? And where on earth was I to find an English flower in Sicily?

  Reuben must have seen my indecision. ‘Go to the herbalist in the old town, the shop next to the butcher’s in the main street. Mention my name, he is a good fellow and we have met several times to discuss medicinal matters; tell him that I need an ounce of powdered digitalis leaves. You will remember the Latin name? Digitalis — like fingers. Hurry boy, your master is dying.’ And so I went.

  I found the herbalist easily, and procured the powder. But it was with some misgivings that I gave the little packet to Reuben, and watched him brew up a concoction of boiling water, honey, sage and the digitalis powder. He saw me watching suspiciously and gave me a hard stare. ‘Leave us, boy,’ he said. ‘Let your master have some peace to get well.’

  I left, but I could not shake the dark thoughts that were gathering in my mind about Reuben. Could he be the one who was trying to kill Robin? It was impossible, surely. Robin had saved Reuben at York. But then, the dark side of my mind argued, Robin had also been indirectly responsible for the death of his beloved daughter Ruth.

  Until that moment, I’d half-assumed that the poisoning had been accomplished by some wretch in the pay of Malbête. He had directly threatened Robin, and me, on the night Messina was sacked and I found Nur. I could easily imagine the Beast suborning a man-at-arms with money and the promise of a good position in his service, slipping him a box of poisoned candied fruit, and laughing into his wine at the reports that Robin was at death’s door. But a dark maggot was eating away at my trust; could it have been Reuben? No, never - Reuben was loyal to Robin. He would never stoop to poisoning his friend. If he had a problem with Robin he would either leave him or, if it was a serious matter of honour, challenge him to fight. But poison? Never.

  But, argued my distrustful maggot, he knew about poisons and medicine - did he not just admit that he discussed such matters with the herbalist in Messina - and he didn’t recognise that the poison was common wolfsbane, which was odd ... unless he did know that it was wolfsbane because he had given it to Robin himself, and now he was giving him another poison - foxglove! I was on the point of rushing back into Robin’s chamber and confronting Reuben with an open accusation when reason was restored to its throne and the maggot banished to its fetid hole. Reuben was loyal; Reuben was a true friend. Besides, there was nothing I could do. I had no proof. If I accused Reuben, he might take offence and stop treating Robin, who might then die. For all I knew, foxglove might well be a miracle cure ...

  In the end, I did nothing but prayed hard for Robin’s speedy recovery in the cathedral and vowed to visit my master regularly to check his health. If he sank any lower, perhaps I would consult the King’s personal physician. If he died, I would take bloody revenge on the Jew.

  In the event, Robin began to recover. Slowly, at first, his pulse became stronger and more regular. His colour improved and within three days he was able to sit up in bed and sip the hot concoctions that Reuben prepared for him. I was terribly relieved and happy: Reuben was not the poisoner and, thanks to his care, Robin would live. But I had another reason to be filled with great soul-filling joy: Nur and I had become one.

  One evening I came late to my cell, after sitting with Robin for several hours, to find William looking worried. He was waiting for me outside the door of the little chamber.

  ‘I, I, I think there is so-something wr-wrong with Nur,’ he said as he saw me walking up the corridor towards him. ‘She’s cr-crying her eyes out but I can’t understand what the pe-pe-problem is.’

  I walked into the monk’s cell and saw Nur sitting on the padded stone shelf that served as my bed, wrapped in my warm green cloak. Her eyes were red and the black kohl that she used around them was streaked down her cheeks. She looked like a little lost girl and my heart melted inside my body. When she saw me she burst into a fit on uncontrollable sobbing and in two steps she was in my arms. ‘You ... have ... no ... love ... for ... me ...’ she said between gasping sobs. She said it like a phrase that she had leamt by heart, parrot-fashion. And I believed I knew who had taught it to her: a certain meddling Jew, who was also a wonderful, miraculous, life-giving friend. I held Nur tenderly and stroked her silky black hair, smoothing it over her head and down her long back. My hands discovered that she was naked under the cloak, and I just had time to gruffly dismiss William, who was gawping at us from the doorway, and watch him leave and gently shut the door, before I surrendered to the searing passion that had been raging inside me for so many weeks and crushed her soft mouth against mine.

  What can an old man write about lovemaking? Each new generation believes that it has discovered it for the first time and that its elders are utterly grotesque in their coupling. But even though I am old now, I was not then, and I remember the first time that I made love with Nur as perhaps the most beautiful, moving, deeply wonderful night of my life.

  After the initial kiss, which was like a long draught of sweet wine, we tore at each other like wild beasts in our passion. She ripped my clothes from me and I mounted her without hesitation and felt the exquisite plunge
as I slid deep inside her, the heat roaring in my loins, her legs wrapping around my waist, her soft breasts crushed against my chest. I was swiftly swept away in a whirlwind of pleasure; I bucked and plowed and kissed her, teeth clashing, whenever I could find her mouth, the unbearable pressure building beneath my balls as I teetered on the brink of explosion, each stroke more exquisite than the last, until at last I erupted in a series of gasping shudders deep inside her.

  That night lasted for the blink of an eye, and will stay for ever in my memory. Time had no meaning when I was with her, inside her, beside her and, in the breaks between each bout of lovemaking, we kissed long and deep, as if we were sucking life itself from each other’s sweet lips. After we had made love twice, Nur began to show me a little of the arts she had leamt in the big house in Messina. With her tongue and fingers, kissing and licking and stroking in every secret place, she brought me to the point of ecstasy, and then let me subside before it was too late. Again and again, I was made breathless by her wanton, silky camality, her suppleness, and her willingness to bring me pleasure by every means possible, including some delightful practices of which I had never even dreamed, and which I was fairly sure would have been thoroughly condemned by any priest or monk. Near dawn, we lay in each other’s arms, spent, and I stared in wonder into her fathomless dark eyes, her slim, infinitely precious body in the circle of my arms. We did not speak, for my Arabic had not progressed much beyond the formal greetings, and Nur had only that phrase of French that Reuben had taught her, but in that moment we needed no words. We lay together in a bubble of love, wrapped safe in each other’s tender gaze.

  I believe I reached a pitch of happiness in those early morning hours, after our first night together, with the monastery silent around us and that dark head sleeping on my shoulder, the like of which I have never reached again. My body felt empty and yet so full of joy; light of soul and yet weary beyond belief.

  After that wondrous, magical night she came to me again the next evening, and the next. William was banished to the monastery dormitory, which he told me was occupied by a lot of snoring, farting men-at-arms, but the boy bore his exile with fortitude and I caught him smiling at me on several occasions, happy for my happiness.

  Sir James de Brus made no comment about my new situation, but I knew that he knew, and he seemed to show me a greater respect as I honed my technique at the quintain and on the practice field. One day, as we were just finishing our routines, I noticed that Sir Robert of Thumham had been watching, with an entourage of knights. We rode over to him, and he greeted us both with a cheery salute.

  ‘Your skills are coming along very nicely, Alan,’ said Sir Robert in a friendly tone. ‘You are almost as good with a lance as a well-seasoned knight.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir Robert,’ I said, bowing from the waist. ‘But I think the skill resides mainly in my horse, Ghost.’

  Sir Robert laughed. ‘Nonsense; I’ve had my eye on you for some time now and I see the makings of a first-class chevalier. If you can impress the King on the field of battle in the Holy Land, who knows - maybe, God willing, he will one day grant you the honour of knighthood, of serving him as one of his household knights; the elite of the army. Your father was from a noble family, I believe, and you hold some land of the Earl of Locksley?’

  I nodded, surprised that he knew all this, and very pleased. It had never crossed my mind that I would ever make it into the ranks of the knighthood, to be Sir Alan of Westbury. In my own head, I was still a ragged cutpurse from the stews of Nottingham, an orphaned thief and outlaw. It was a wonderful thought and I beamed happily at Sir Robert.

  ‘The King is already impressed with your courtly talents,’ he went on. ‘He likes you; he much admired your rendering of Tristan and Isolde, a month or so ago. In fact, I come directly from him, bearing an invitation to dine with him on Christmas Eve. The King wishes you to sing for his party. How about that?’

  It was a great honour, but as often happens to me in the presence of great men, I was unable to think of a suitable reply. So I muttered something about how grateful I was and bowed once again.

  ‘The day after tomorrow at noon, then. In the new castle,’ he said nodding up at the dark bulk of Mategriffon, which loomed over us. Then he smiled, turned his horse and, followed by his knights, he rode away.

  ‘That is a rare privilege,’ said Sir James. ‘To dine with the King. You’d best make sure you don’t disgrace yourself.’

  He was right, and I had to perform, too. I bid him a swift farewell and hurried back to the monastery to begin working on the music; I needed to create something really special, I said to myself. But inside my head the words Sir Alan Dale, Sir Alan of Westbury, and Alan, the Knight of Westbury, were darting about like a flock of sparrows trapped in a hall.

  Robin was pleased for me when I told him I would be playing for the King. He was out of bed and feeding Keelie with scraps from a plate of boiled mutton. He had lost a lot of weight but seemed cheerful considering how close to death he had been. ‘I’ve decided that I should have more fun,’ he declared. ‘Life is short and death awaits us all, and as I am doubtless damned for all eternity for my many sins, I have decided that I will have some pleasure before I face the fires of Hell. So come on Alan, let us drink a flask of wine together and you can play something for me.’

  And so I indulged my master. And we passed a very pleasant evening, singing, drinking, making merry. At midnight, when my head was swimming and my hands were stiff and cramped from the vielle, I laid down my instrument and made to leave. Nur would be waiting for me in my cell and I longed to be naked with her under the blankets.

  ‘Alan,’ said Robin, as I had risen and was making unsteadily for the door. ‘Sit down again for a moment. I want to talk to you.’ I duly sat down again on a stool by the big table. ‘I want you to do something for me,’ Robin said, and he seemed entirely sober, his eyes shining in the candlelight. ‘I want you to find out who is trying to kill me. Discreetly and quickly, find out who it is, and report back to me. There have been three attempts in the past year, and by sheer luck, I have survived them all. But I will not always be so lucky. If you wish to serve me well, find the man responsible.’

  I had been half-expecting something like this. Robin was right; the situation could not go on with a killer running loose, undetected in Robin’s familia.

  I nodded my acceptance at Robin. And he said: ‘Tell me what we know so far of the three attempts...’

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘the first attempt, in your chamber at Kirkton, was made by that archer Lloyd ap Gruffudd - Owain has discovered from his enquiries in Wales that Lloyd was promised the hundred pounds of German silver by Murdac’s man, and also that his only son’s life had been threatened if he did not kill you. Obviously, he’s dead but his wife back in Wales was quick to tell Owain’s man everything she knew; she wanted to be sure there would be no reprisals from us. Owain sent her a handful of coins for her honesty and has brought her and her son to live at Kirkton Castle where they will be safe. So Lloyd is dead, but the lure of Murdac’s blood money could be inducing anyone, any archer, man-at-arms, or even knight to try to claim it.’

  ‘I wish I could claim it myself,’ said Robin gloomily. I knew that he was growing very short of money; the King had yet to pay him a single penny piece, and the money he had borrowed in England was nearly gone - but I did not wish to be distracted from the discussion of the assassin and so I ignored his comment and said: ‘We also know that, who ever it is, it is someone close to you because both times, with the snake and the poisoned fruit, the killer had easy access to your private chamber or pavilion, therefore it is someone whose presence there would not be commented on. But that still doesn’t narrow the field. Almost anyone who serves you could find an excuse to come in here; they could say, if asked, that they were delivering a message from Owain, or Little John, or Sir James, for example. So that doesn’t help us much.’

  ‘Well, that stops now,’ said Robin decisively. ‘From now
on, the only way to get in touch with me, to speak to me, to see me is through you ... and through John, I suppose. I can’t believe John Nailor would want me dead after all these years. In fact, if he did want me dead, I’d already be dead.

  ‘So,’ my master continued, ‘all contact with me must go through you and John. You bring me my food, tasted by Keelie, of course,’ and he smiled at the yellow bundle that was curled up peacefully in the corner of the chamber, ‘you bring me my wine, any orders for the men go through you, anyone who wants to speak to me talks to you or John and you relay that to me. If I leave this place, either you or John accompanies me at all times. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘but it all this really necessary? It’s going to look very odd - and the men won’t like it. They will feel you don’t trust them.’

  ‘Can’t be helped,’ said Robin. ‘The more quickly you find out who the assassin is, the more quickly we can stop this charade. Have you any ideas?’

  ‘I have a feeling the assassin may be a woman,’ I said. ‘And I’m not truly convinced the motive is Murdac’s money. It may well be Sir Richard Malbête. When I ran into him in Messina, the night after the battle, he promised me that he would have his revenge on you - and me.’

  ‘It could be Malbête,’ he said, musingly. ‘But that would mean the attempt in France was still made by somebody else, as the Beast did not join us until Messina. Could there really be three assassins - one in Yorkshire, one in France and one here? I can’t see it. It must be one person.’ He rested his chin in his left palm and stared into space for a while.