Outlaw

by Angus Donald

  When the priestess had completed the purification of the congregation, she stepped into the circle of light by the fire and, eyes flashing and with a great cry of: ‘Behold the Mother!’ she stepped out of the robe in one quick movement and stood there, quite naked, her arms outstretched. Her body was painted with a jumble of mad symbols, the images running one into another: on her lower belly were three intersecting crescent moons in a bright white entwined star shape. They could only dimly be made out behind the red and blue and yellow stripes and swirls that seemed to grow up her body to her chest. Her full breasts had been painted red, with black zig-zag lines seeming to shoot from her nipples; her outstretched arms had been painted with green serpents, speckled with bright yellow dots; it looked as if the snakes were coiled around her arms and were squirming towards her heart. Where there was room, the rest of her body was covered with symbols depicting the animals of the hunt: stags and hares, dogs and hawks - a wild boar growled silently from her hips through a great pair of tusks. She stood still, allowing us to admire the designs on her naked body. And in spite of my revulsion at this pagan display, I felt my loins move. She had a beautiful body, in the full flush of womanhood: round perfect breasts, still pert and bountiful, a slim waist, flaring to smooth generous hips, and the dark bush nestling in the crotch of her long slim legs. I could feel my prick stiffening in my drawers.

  I tore my gaze away from her nakedness and looked, as if as a punishment for my lust, beyond her to Piers, bound to the rock. He too seemed mesmerised by her nakedness; his eyes were huge and dark and I guessed that he had been drugged. Then I noticed, in the far edge of the firelight, behind the great stone, the form of a wild deer. A great spread of antlers and the muzzle of a noble beast were just visible in the moving shadows. It couldn’t be real; no hart would come this close to such a gathering. There were gasps of wonder from the congregation as they caught sight of the beast and a murmur went up like the whisper of wind through a willow tree: ‘Cernunnos, Cernunnos, Cernunnos . . .’ And out from behind the grey stone stepped a creature, the like of which I had never set eyes on before.

  It walked on two legs, like a man, but the body was much smaller, hunched over and covered with tanned brown leather almost to the ground. Huge wide antlers sprouted from its head and over its face it wore a wooden deer mask. But the way it moved was unmistakably like a deer, the nervous movement of the head, the sudden starts and then that incredible stillness that overcomes an animal when it is watching for danger. As it began to make its way around the circle of celebrants, I was struck by how uncannily real it was; something about the delicate steps, the angle of the head. And then I knew what - or rather who - it was. It was Hob o’ the Hill - I had seen him imitate the deer and several other beasts for our amusement the day before. Now he was playing the part of an ancient forest god. When the man-deer had walked the circle, with a leap, the creature disappeared behind the rock exactly as a stag will bound away into the forest when it sees the hunter.

  I turned to watch the priestess and saw that now she was armed with a tiny bow and arrow, like a child’s play-thing, and, as I looked, she fired a shaft into the darkness behind the rock. A great wail went up from the congregation, and the cry of ‘Cernunnos, Cernunnos . . .’ began again growing from a whisper into a full-blooded chant. From behind the rock stepped a man, naked but for a deer-skin kilt around his loins. His face was painted brown, the eyes circled in white to make them appear huge, and on his head was mounted the same great spread of antlers that Hob had worn before him. His hand was clutched to his heart, from which an arrow protruded between his fingers, a very thin trickle of blood, as if from a light scratch, running down his naked chest. It was Robin, I realised with a sinking feeling of inevitability. And as the cry of ‘Cernunnos’ reached a peak of frenzy, he collapsed gracefully in front of the stone and lay still, the arrow in his heart pointing to the sky. As I stared down at his body, amid the whirl of conflicting emotions, something struck me as strange about his brown-painted face; it was his mouth. Every now and then it seemed to give a faint twitch. In this solemn moment, at the height of this powerful ritual, which was clearly an offence to all that was Christian and decent, Robin’s corpse looked as if it were trying not to laugh.

  The congregation fell silent - nobody but me seemed to have noticed Robin’s facial contortions - and into the quiet, into the firelight in front of Robin’s dead body, stepped Brigid, now robed again, but with the hood thrown back and a fierce, determined expression on her face. She was holding an iron mace in her right hand, and a rope noose, and the iron pot in her left; around her neck, on a thin leather string, was a large black flint knife that glittered in the firelight with ancient malice. She walked to the great stone. Piers, gagged and bound, was staring up at her with pleading eyes. Their eyes met, I’m sure, for an instant but there was no mercy in her and raising the mace she cried: ‘In the name of the Mother . . .’ and smashed the heavy iron ball into the side of that poor wretch’s head.

  He slumped immediately, lolling at the neck, and I felt nothing but a sense of great relief. ‘Dead or unconscious,’ I thought, ‘he feels nothing now.’ And then I realised that, in my mind, I had already accepted the inevitability of his death - and my guilt began to flow like the blood that ran down Piers’s cheek.

  Brigid looped the noose around his unstrung head and, crying ‘In the name of the Mother’, once again in a shrill voice, she pulled hard on the end of the rope, tightening the hemp until it cut deep into the soft skin of his neck. Piers made no movement except when Brigid tugged a few times on the rope and I thought: ‘Thank God, he is at peace now.’ I was wrong.

  The priestess removed the noose and, tilting the head to one side and positioning the iron pot carefully beneath, she raised the black knife and screamed: ‘His life for the Mother,’ and sliced hard through the limp neck, cutting his pale throat right to the bones of the spine. There was huge spurt of blood and a great collective sigh from the congregation; his still beating heart forced the gore to jet crazily from his body and then slow to a pulsing flow that ran down his bare white shoulder to drain into the little iron pot. I closed my eyes and offered up a prayer to our Lord Jesus Christ for his wretched soul. And for mine.

  Dipping her fingers in the blood running from the victim’s neck, Brigid knelt by Robin’s side and carefully drew the shape of the letter Y on my master’s chest as he lay on the ground in his death-pose. Then she held out her bloody hands to the circle of watchers and cried: ‘Arise, Cernunnos, arise Lord of the Wood . . .’ and the gathering echoed her cries, quiet at first and then growing louder and louder. ‘Arise, Cernunnos, arise Lord of the Wood . . .’ and Robin, as if awakening from a deep sleep, climbed unsteadily to his feet and raised his arms above his head, the shape of his body echoing the bloody Y on his chest and the two great antlers above his head.

  The chant had changed to ‘Hail, Cernunnos, hail, Cernunnos . . .’ growing louder and louder until it was nearly deafening, and the drums began again, beating in time to the chant and growing more frenzied with each beat. Finally, suddenly, Robin lowered his bare arms and the noise ceased immediately. An eerie quiet spread over that stretch of God-cursed moor, Piers’s body hung limp, bound to the rock, the last drops of blood dripping into the iron pot. And Robin said, his voice unnaturally loud in the quiet: ‘Those who would receive the blessing of Cernunnos, step forward, and kneel before him.’

  A woman stepped from the crowd and knelt before Robin. He reached a finger into the pot of Piers’s blood and, stooping, drew the bloody stag sign, the sign of the Y, on her forehead. She shuddered with ecstasy as his fingers touched her head and she turned away, grabbing a man from the congregation and dragging him away from the firelight, tearing at her clothes in her haste to begin coupling. Another outlaw stepped forward and knelt before Robin and was marked with the sacrificial gore . . . but I had had my fill of blood and play-acting and unnecessary death and as more people surged forward to receive Robin’s blessing, I
melted back into the darkness and, with a heavy, guilty heart, I began to make my way back to the cave. Behind me I could hear the howls of men and women, strangers to each other but inflamed by this night of blood, engaging in frenzied sexual excess. I knew I would not be missed.

  I left Robin’s Caves the next day. Not, I must say, because I had found the courage to leave such a wicked crew of murderous heathens. No, because Robin sent me away. He summoned me the morning after the sacrifice. He looked weary and there were still traces of brown paint on his face. I made no mention of the brutal ceremony I had witnessed the night before, though I had to bite my tongue. As I had been well hooded, and had left without receiving Robin’s bloody pagan benediction, I believed that my master would not know that I had attended his foul rite, but if I started to talk about it, to ask questions, I knew my disgust would gush out like Piers’s lifeblood.

  ‘I’m sending you to Winchester,’ Robin said to me; he seemed to sense my disapproval and his voice was cold. ‘Your singing is good, though Bernard says you don’t practise enough; and John tells me you can handle a sword well. But I don’t need another swordsman, I need a trouvère , like your father, a man who can travel from castle to castle and deliver messages for me and pay his way at any gentle home he enters with good music and good manners. So I think it is time that you acquired a little more polish and knowledge of the world. And the court of Queen Eleanor at Winchester can provide that. The Countess of Locksley will take you there and steer you safely through the halls of the mighty.’

  At these words, my disapproval evaporated. I said: ‘Thank you, sir,’ and I meant it. I would be travelling with Marie-Anne to visit the Queen! And I would live at court with the noblest folk in the land. Me, a grubby parentless cut-purse from Nottingham, rubbing shoulders with lords and ladies, even royalty! I was lost in an elaborate fantasy in which the King pardoned me, called me his good and faithful friend and made me a Gentleman of the Privy or something when I realised that Robin was still speaking.

  ‘ . . . Godifa needs to grow up a lady, which she won’t do here. And Bernard - well, Bernard is falling apart in these surroundings.’ He paused. ‘Are you listening, Alan?’ I nodded. ‘Marie-Anne has her Gascons, of course, but I want you to keep a special eye on her for me. Will you swear to keep her safe on the long road? He fixed me solemnly with his great silver eyes.

  ‘Oh yes, sir,’ I said. ‘It will be my honour.’ I could have hugged him. All thoughts of Cernunnos and human sacrifice had flown from my head. He had that effect on many people; whatever wrongs he did it was impossible to stay angry with him for any length of time. That was his true power, I believe, not his ranks of bowmen and cavalry.

  We set off at noon. But before we departed, Robin presented each of us with a gift. Marie-Anne received a gorgeous necklace of a hundred fat pearls, with two matching pearl-cluster earrings. To Bernard he returned his apple-wood vielle, retrieved from the cottage at Thangbrand’s. Our cosy former home had not been razed by the sheriff’s marauding horsemen, though the place had been ransacked. Miraculously, though, the precious vielle had not been stolen - perhaps Murdac’s men were not musical - and was rescued by one of Robin’s long-range patrols, which had buried the dead and gathered up anything of value.

  To Goody he presented Freya’s ruby. My jaw fell; I had never expected to see that great blood-red jewel again. I had assumed it was lost in the fire. But Robin’s men had been told exactly where to look by Hugh and they had dug it out of the charred floor. As he handed her the ruby, Robin said: ‘This stone once belonged to your mother and so I give it to you, for you to remember her by. But have a care with it. I feel in my bones that it is not a lucky jewel. Guard it well.’ He had had it mounted in a clasp on a fine golden chain and I had to admit it looked magnificent. But Goody, curtseying and thanking Robin prettily, turned to Marie-Anne and offered it to her. ‘Won’t you take it, Marie-Anne?’ she asked. ‘It is too fine a jewel for a little girl; I might lose it or it might be stolen from me but I think it would look fine on you.’

  Marie-Anne accepted the great jewel. ‘It is beautiful,’ she said. ‘I will keep it safe for you until you are fully grown, and perhaps, on special occasions, I may be permitted to wear it?’ Goody smiled at her. And they both fell to examining the gorgeous red stone.

  To me, Robin presented a flute, a beautiful ivory instrument, chased with gold. I suspected that it had once been owned by a musical clergyman, who had had the misfortune to bring it with him on his travels through Sherwood, but I kept silent. I put it to my mouth, holding it vertically, as I blew into the mouthpiece. The notes were as sweet and rich as butter and I thanked Robin once again for his kindness. ‘We also found this at Thangbrand’s,’ he said. ‘Buried in the ruins of the hall.’ And he handed me a long object wrapped in an old blanket. It was my sword, my old friend; the wooden handle a little charred and with a few scorch marks on the battered scabbard, but it was my blade. The blade with which I had killed my first man. My own shabby Excalibur. My eyes were misting with emotion, so I bowed low to hide my face.

  Just before we left, Hugh drew me aside. ‘Robin has asked me to speak to you about this matter,’ he said, gravely; he looked quite ill, no doubt suffering from yesterday’s wine. ‘While you are in Winchester, he wants you to be our eyes and ears in the castle. Just gather what information you can about the people there, who’s talking to whom; who’s not talking to someone else. Any plans the King may have, any news from France, anything concerning Robin or any of us, in fact.’ I nodded. It sounded exciting, Robin was giving me a grave responsibility: I was to be a spy. I grinned at him. ‘I thought that might appeal to your larcenous spirit,’ said Hugh, smiling back at me. ‘See if you can purloin the Queen’s private correspondence, or something.’ I laughed at this absurd idea. Then I realised Hugh was quite serious. He continued: ‘There is a man in Winchester called Thomas - you can find him at a tavern, the sign of the Saracen’s Head. He has only one eye and he’s probably the ugliest man in Christendom but you must identify yourself to him by saying: “I am a friend of the woodland folk.” He will say: “I prefer town people.” Give him any message you want to relay to us here. Got it? Thomas, Saracen’s Head, woodland folk, town people. Got it?’ I nodded again and he said: ‘Good lad.’ Then he gave me a fat purse full of silver pennies, more money than I had ever owned in my life. ‘Expenses,’ he said. And then he frowned and, in his best schoolmasterly voice, added: ‘And it’s not to be spent on ale while you lark about in taverns, nor on saucy Winchester wenches, either.’

  He was one to talk about drink; and I had no thoughts of saucy Winchester wenches. I would be riding south with a perfect specimen of womanhood, who drove all thoughts of others out of my head. We set off, two by two, on horseback with mules behind us carrying our possessions. Four Gascon cavalrymen rode at the head of the column, and four at the rear, and four rode up and down the column as we jogged along. The road was busy with revellers from Robin’s great feast making their way slowly back to their lives. Many looked the worse for wear, but, at first, there was a carnival atmosphere as we made our way down the highway. I rode next to my Marie-Anne, taking my role of bodyguard very seriously; Bernard and Goody rode behind. Bernard looked like a rotten cheese; badly hung-over, eyes bloodshot, his face saggy and grey. Goody, on the other hand, was in irrepressible high spirits. She felt we were going on an exciting adventure with a glittering prize at the end of the journey. And she kept pestering Bernard with questions about what a royal court was like and how we should be treated when we arrived. Most of the time he merely grunted in reply.

  In the late afternoon, the weather turned cold and a storm began to brew in the south. The merry revellers seemed to have disappeared and I couldn’t shake the feeling in my gut that we were riding into trouble.

  As we trotted along, wrapped in our warmest clothes against the chill wind, I began to ask my lady about her life when she was away from Robin’s band. ‘As you know,’ she said, ‘I am a royal wa
rd. I became one when my father, the Earl of Locksley, died several years ago. Ranulph de Glanville sent some of his men with a letter from the King, claiming me as his ward. The Locksley lands are rich and wide, and the King wishes to have control over who marries me and becomes the new Earl. They said it was for my own protection, of course, but they lied. It is to enrich the King. Whoever wishes to marry me - and I pray with all my heart that it will be my Robin - must pay the King a fat price for that honour. I sometimes feel like a prize cow at market, up for auction to the highest bidder.’ She laughed but her mirth had a touch of bitterness in it. ‘Even so, Robin cannot buy me at the cow auction. King Henry would never allow me be married to an outlaw. He would always look for some advantageous match; or I might well become a way to reward a faithful servant. And that would certainly rule out Robin.’

  She sounded so sad that I felt a pang of guilt about my jealousy. I said quietly, though the words choked in my throat: ‘You must love him very much.’

  ‘Very much. And I know that he loves me. I have always loved him, since we first met ten years ago. He came to stay at my father’s house when I was just a girl - but I loved him from the first day. He was kind, he was funny and handsome. He made time to listen to my foolish prattling. He did not love me then, the way that he does now; how could he? I was just a child, barely out of my mother’s apron strings. But he was kind to me. And that is the quality that I find most attractive in a man.

  ‘As we grew older, his feelings changed towards me and he became more ardent. He would ride over to visit me from his home in Edwinstowe and bring fresh flowers and ripe fruit, and tell me wonderful stories about our future together, how we would be so happily married and live in a great castle and have dozens of children, and laugh and love all the days of our lives until one day, we would die together, of extreme old age, at exactly the same moment, hand in hand.’ She smiled at me, a sad, mocking smile, as if to say, ‘Ah, the folly of youth’. Then, after a pause while we negotiated our horses around a muddy pothole in the road, she continued.