Outlaw

by Angus Donald

  And so Sir Richard at Lea, the renowned and noble knight, taught me to move my feet. For the rest of the morning, and then every morning after Thangbrand’s battle practice for the next few weeks, I stood in the dirt circle as Richard lunged, swiped and hacked at my dodging body. He attacked slowly at first, building the basic foot movements into my mind, so that they became second nature. Then he would speed up, even try to take me by surprise. After a month, he let me use my sword to defend myself and he started by teaching me the basic blocks, and after a while some more complicated patterns; but, he emphasised again and again until I was sick of hearing it, it was my feet that mattered.

  As Sir Richard and I practised in our dirt circle, we were often watched. Bernard, come to collect his daily rations from the hall, would lounge against the side of the building, grinning as I swiped at Richard and missed or was tumbled into the dust. And most days little yellow Godifa would stand solemn-faced by the edge of the practice ground and gaze at us as I sweated, and skipped, grunted and lunged on the exercise yard. She never said a word and always by the end of the session, at noon, when Richard and I would go and drink a pint of ale together in the buttery, she was gone.

  I enjoyed the after-exercise drink as much as the sword-work itself. Sir Richard was taciturn at first, though perfectly amiable. But gradually I began to learn a little about him. He was more than just an ordinary knight, I discovered. He was a Poor Fellow-Soldier of Christ and the Temple of Solomon: one of the famous Knights Templar. They were the elite forces of Christendom, trained for many years in all forms of arms to become perfect killing machines for the glory of God. I was being taught to use a sword, it slowly dawned on me, by one of the best soldiers in the world. The previous year, Sir Richard told me, he had been one of the few Templar Knights to escape the massacre at Hattin, when the infidel Saladin had smashed a Christian army and murdered hundreds of Christian knights who had been taken prisoner. Later that year, Saladin had captured Jerusalem itself and the Pope had ordered a new expedition to free the Holy City from the hordes of Islam. Sir Richard had been sent back to his homeland to preach Holy War to the English and help King Henry raise forces for the great battles to come in Outremer.

  He had ridden out with Murdac’s men that spring morning on a whim, feeling a need for some exercise and excitement; he had believed he was going out on a jaunt to punish a rabble of outlaws and the last thing he expected was to be grievously wounded and taken prisoner for ransom.

  ‘But God always has a plan, Alan,’ he said to me when I asked if he cursed his fate. And I remembered that he, like all the Templars, was a monk as well as a soldier.

  The autumn approached and, with Sir Richard’s help, I grew quick with a sword. I was making musical progress, too, with Bernard; and with his encouragement I was beginning to compose my own songs. They were embarrassing little ditties but Bernard was kind - on occasion he could be scathing, but he never made adverse comments about my attempts at composition, never. So I made love songs, picturing Robin’s beautiful lady Marie-Anne in my mind and pretending that I was her lover.

  At first, I found it quite difficult to play the vielle. Bernard was introducing me to some of the simpler songs he had written. But even for an easy canso, the fingering on the strings had to be precise and the changes of position executed swiftly. One day Bernard lost his temper and shouted at me: ‘On that stretch of mud over there, with a heavy sword and shield in your hands, you seem to move your feet quite daintily for that knightly oaf - all I’m asking for is that you move your fingers half as neatly for my music.’ In a flash of inspiration, I realised he was jealous of Sir Richard, and the time we spent together. I was touched. It made me realise, perhaps for the first time, that I had real friends in this wilderness.

  A week later, Robin returned to Thangbrand’s.

  Chapter Six

  The Lord of Sherwood arrived at Thangbrand’s just after dawn on a bright September day, accompanied by half a dozen grim archers led by their captain Owain, and a string of thirty unladen packhorses. The whole community turned out to greet him and he and his brother Hugh embraced as if it had been five years rather than five months since they had seen each other. I felt rather shy around Robin; the few days we had spent in each other’s company seemed a long time ago and I wondered if he had changed, and even whether he would remember the callow boy he had sung with, and fought beside, and then left behind in the spring. So I hovered on the edge of the scrum of outlaws surrounding their returning master like eager hounds round a huntsman.

  He saw me through the throng and pushed his way towards me. ‘Alan,’ he said, ‘I have missed your music,’ and I felt a great rush of warmth for the man. I immediately forgave him for leaving me at Thangbrand’s but felt an almost ungovernable urge to blurt out that I had missed him too. Thankfully, I controlled myself. ‘How are you keeping?’ he asked, clasping my shoulders with both hands and boring into my head with his silver eyes. ‘I hope Bernard has not led you astray from your studies with drink and loose women?’ He smiled at me. I grinned back.

  ‘Bernard is . . .’ I began. ‘Bernard is . . . well, he’s a great musician,’ I said foolishly. He laughed and said: ‘Well, I hope he can spare you from your music-making for a day or so. I have need of your famous light fingers. Pack a warm cloak and a deep hood, and get saddled up. We’re going to an ale house in Nottingham - just you and I - and leaving within the hour.’ Then he turned away to speak to Thangbrand.

  I found this news, in my boyish way, tremendously exciting - and also slightly unnerving. The last time I had been in Nottingham, I’d been arrested as a thief, and nearly lost my arm. And a tavern seemed a strange destination as we had plenty of ale, and wine too, at Thangbrand’s. But just to be going on a journey alone with Robin made me feel special. Privileged. My master had picked out me as his travelling companion; we were going on an adventure together. I collected cloak and hood, strapped on my sword, and saddled a brown pony, the rouncey that Hugh had taught me to ride on. The horse was a placid creature, not worth much in terms of silver, but he had a lot of stamina, and could run all day and all night, if necessary. And he knew me and would not throw me off and cause me to be shamed in front of Robin.

  Within the hour we were on the road, jogging along, apparently in no particular hurry, and Robin explained what was to be required of me. It all sounded simple enough, I was relieved to hear: an easy job for a cut-purse, and something I had done a hundred times before.

  ‘We are going to The Trip To Jerusalem, the new ale house just below the castle in Nottingham. You know it?’ said Robin as we trotted along in the September sunshine. I knew it: it was a lively place with good ale, hacked out of the sandstone rock that the castle was built on, and much frequented by armed pilgrims headed for the Holy Land and Sir Ralph Murdac’s off-duty men-at-arms. When I had been in Nottingham, I tended to avoid the place, not because it lacked conviviality, but because of the military clientele. But I knew it, right enough.

  ‘There is a man who drinks there every night,’ continued Robin. ‘Name of David. A sot. And he carries a key in a pouch at his waist all times. I want you to steal that pouch, that key, without him noticing. Can you do it?’

  ‘As easy as kiss my hand,’ I said. ‘That’s the simple part. But the difficult part is getting away afterwards. He will surely miss the purse sooner or later after I’ve lifted it; if luck is against us, perhaps only a few moments afterwards. Then there will the hue and cry, and we will be out in the streets of Nottingham after curfew, two thieves with no home to hide in and every man’s hand against us. They’ll catch us, sir. No doubt about it.’

  ‘They won’t. Trust me for that. We will not stop long in Nottingham; we shall be out of the gates and on the road before your victim knows what he is missing.’

  ‘But the gates are locked at sundown, and none may pass till dawn, by order of the sheriff.’

  ‘Trust me, Alan. I know another kind of key, a golden one, which will open any gate gua
rded by a poor man. But we must make haste now. We must be at The Trip an hour after sundown.’

  We put spurs to our mounts and raised dust for many long miles until, by late afternoon, our horses lathered, our hoods pulled well forward, we were passing through the open gates of Nottingham and into the familiar crowded streets of my larcenous childhood.

  We tied up our horses at a rail outside The Trip and, ordering a flagon of ale, we took our places at a rough table in the corner of the dimly lit place. My aching back - I was not used to such long rides - rested against the cool sandstone of the wall as I sipped my ale and looked around me.

  The room was moderately full of drinkers; there were perhaps a dozen, seated at small tables or on benches around the wall. A large communal table dominated the place, at which simple food, soup or bread and cheese, was served by a full-fleshed wench with forearms as plump as my own legs. A tall, thin, dark man stood sipping a mug of ale and leaning against the wall by the fire. He looked a little foreign; sinister even. I saw him look at Robin, then stare round the room and then glance over to Robin again. He seemed unnaturally interested in us. I wondered if he were a spy, or an informer, for the sheriff, and a ripple of fear went through my body. We sat sipping quietly in the corner, saying little, minding our business. I hunched down and pulled my hood further forward to cover my face. When I looked up again, the dark man was still looking at us. He caught Robin’s eye and then indicated, with a very slight inclination of his head a hugely fat man seated at the communal table, half-stupefied with drink, his head lolling. Robin nodded almost imperceptibly at the dark man, and I felt a surge of relief rush into my stomach. The dark man finished his mug of ale, put it down on a nearby table and walked out of the door.

  Robin put his head close to mine and said very quietly, ‘You see our mark?’

  I nodded.

  ‘You are the master, in this situation,’ he said in a voice only a little above a whisper. ‘This is your work. How do you want to do it?’ I turned to look at him in utter astonishment. My cheeks flushed with pride. Robin Hood, Lord of Outlaws, was asking my advice on the execution of a crime. I quickly collected my wits and said: ‘Distraction. I need you to make a distraction while I’m taking the purse.’

  ‘Very good,’ said Robin. ‘What do you suggest?’

  Again I was surprised and flattered by his confidence in my opinions. It was a novel sensation taking charge in the presence of my master. And, I found, a pleasurable one. Reflecting on this later, I realise that Robin knew exactly how to cut a purse - he had after all been living, thriving even, outside the law for many years. He was merely testing me. But at the time, his deference to my views gave my soul a great lift.

  ‘I will sit beside him on his left hand side, the side the pouch is on,’ I whispered. ‘You sit opposite, on the other side of the table. Take your cloak off and put it beside you on the table. Pretend to be drunk. We order food and drink, and sit for a while, we order more, and when a fresh pot of ale arrives, you drunkenly spill it all over the mark. Then, crying aloud how sorry you are, damning your own clumsiness, you come round on to his side of the table and begin to mop at his clothes with your cloak. Do it roughly, loudly crying your shame at having wetted such a fine gentleman. He will ask you to stop pawing at him, but you must insist that he must be dried and that you must dry him to make amends. Play the drunken fool to the hilt, but make sure, make certain-sure that his lefthand side is covered by your cloak, as you mop away at his clothes. That’s very important.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Robin gravely. ‘And while the cloak covers his left side, you cut loose the pouch?’

  ‘And in the confusion - let us hope that he becomes angry at your clumsy ministrations and makes a fuss; you may also raise your voice, become angry yourself - I shall leave the inn and wait for you in the alley by the horses. Leave as soon as you can after me. Then we ride.’

  ‘A good plan, Alan,’ Robin said. ‘A very good plan. Are you ready?’ I nodded. Robin rose, and strode towards the communal table, weaving slightly and shouting for the pot boy to bring more ale, quickly, d’ye hear, and some bread and cheese, not too mouldy, you dog! I followed after him with lowered eyes, like a servant embarrassed by his drunken master, and slid into my place beside the mark.

  ‘That,’ said Robin, trying hard, and failing to control his laughter, ‘was the most fun I have had in an age.’ We were trotting up the road leading north out of Nottingham, Robin having bribed the gatekeeper handsomely to let us out, curfew notwithstanding. I was almost helpless with laughter, too, and having difficulty staying on the back of my rouncey. Robin had a natural talent for play-acting, and clearly he had enjoyed the role of drunken boor to an almost indecent extent. He had roared for more ale, spilled it, apologised to the mark, mopped him and cursed himself with huge enthusiasm. His placing of the folds of the cloak had been inch-perfect and my hands were under it with my little knife as he dabbed at the poor mark’s face with the far edge of the garment, covering the man’s eyes as I slipped the pouch into my tunic and walked quickly towards the outdoor privy and away into the night. Then he joined me only moments later, roaring backwards to the inside of the room about innocent mistakes, anyone can spill a drink, and some folk should not think themselves too good to mix with honest men.

  We tried to pull ourselves together, but every time I caught Robin’s eye we would both begin giggling, louder and louder, until we were howling with mirth again. Finally, tears streaming down our cheeks, we managed to drive the horses into a canter, the road lit only by starlight and a sliver of moon, and put some miles between Nottingham and ourselves.

  Dawn found us riding up the slope of a small hill towards a squat stone tower, about halfway between Nottingham and Thangbrand’s. I had no idea where we were going and for the past hour exhaustion had been hanging heavily on my shoulders. But a day and a night in the saddle seemed to have had no effect on Robin. His back was still straight and he rode with a jaunty grace that I tried my hardest to imitate. At the top of the hill, with the sun bright and cheerful over the eastern horizon, we pulled up at a copse at the summit of the hill and my mouth fell open in surprise. For waiting for us there was Owain the Bowman, his six men and the train of packhorses.

  The key in the pouch, I discovered, opened an iron door in the strongly built tower and once it had been flung back, and Owain and Robin had entered with lit torches, I realised why our jaunt into Nottingham had been so important to Robin’s plans.

  For any bowman, it was a storehouse of riches. Though it contained no silver, no gold or jewels, it did contain stack upon stack of the best-quality arrows, newly fletched and arranged in bundles of thirty around two leather discs which prevented the goosefeather flights from being crushed against each other. There were also seasoned yew bowstaves in thick bundles, and swords, shields, lances, even a few elderly chain-mail hauberks standing on T-shaped stands.

  ‘We didn’t bring enough packhorses,’ said Owain.

  ‘What is this place?’ I asked Robin, staring around at this cornucopia of arms, enough to equip a small army.

  ‘This is one of our King Henry’s armouries. He is amassing weapons for a great pilgrimage to free the Holy Land from the infidel. Our good friend David, who by now I hope will only just be discovering that he has lost his key, is the King’s Armourer, charged with collecting stores in the north for the great adventure. The King doesn’t trust Ralph Murdac with these weapons, otherwise they would be locked up tight in Nottingham Castle. So David, a loyal King’s man, if a little bibulous, has their charge.’

  ‘Had their charge,’ I said.

  ‘We’d better hurry, sir,’ said Owain. ‘The armourer will have raised the alarm by now.’ And so we did.

  An hour later, with thirty packhorses tottering under monstrous loads, we were back on the road north towards Thangbrand’s. The armoury was only half empty. Robin left the door open and carefully hung the key on a nail on the wall. With a piece of chalk he wrote the words
‘Thank you, Sire,’ on the grey stone beneath it.

  Robin was in high spirits as we trotted along on a narrow path through the trees but suddenly he stopped and raised a hand. We all paused, the bowmen taking the bridles of the heavy-laden packhorses to keep the beasts quiet and still. There was a clatter of hooves on the path and I saw the bright yellow thatch and giant frame of Little John approaching at speed round a bend in the road. He was mounted on a huge sweat-lathered horse, and accompanied by two men-at-arms that I had seen at Thangbrand’s but didn’t know well.

  Robin waited impassively, silently as John reined his sweating horse in savagely and they stared at each other as the big horse steamed gently in the late summer sunshine.