by Angus Donald
The men were dressed in a bewildering variety of styles from the dark woollen robes of clergymen to the bright silks of courtiers, with here and there a knight in chain mail. Even in my smart new green silk tunic, I felt out of place. I had a nagging fear in some part of my mind that one of these fine ladies and gentlemen would see me for what I really was: a grubby thief from Nottingham, and everyone would point and laugh, before I was dragged away to be hanged as an impostor.
One of the soldiers in the party throng, a big man with a bushy black beard, was dressed particularly severely in mail from head to foot, over which he wore a pure white surcoat with a large red cross on the breast. He was talking to two other men, both knights wearing identical gorgeous surcoats of scarlet and gold. As I looked at the knight in white, he must have felt my gaze and he turned away from the two men and looked directly at me. To my surprise, his strong black-bearded face split into a huge white grin and he shouted: ‘Alan! By the Cross, it’s Alan Dale!’ and he strode over to me holding out his arms in welcome. It was Sir Richard at Lea, whom I had last seen at Thangbrand’s, and in this crowd of elegant strangers, I was as glad to see him as I was surprised.
‘Where did you spring from?’ he asked, embracing me. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve been pardoned?’
I blushed. ‘I came with the Countess of Locksley,’ I said shyly, and Sir Richard looked at Marie-Anne in close conversation with the Queen and nodded and said: ‘I see, still with Robin, then?’ And, as I murmured agreement, he said, ‘Let me have a look at you,’ and he grinned at me. ‘I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you in clean clothes before.’ He kneaded my shoulders and arms and said: ‘And you’ve put on some muscle; still practising with the sword?’ I nodded again. ‘Good man, you’ve a talent in that direction; let me introduce you to some friends of mine, good fighting men both,’ and he led me over to the two men in scarlet and gold. ‘This is Sir Robert of Thurnham, and his brother Sir Stephen; I’m trying to convince them to take the Cross and come on the Great Pilgrimage with the King next year. We will need a good many Christian warriors to win back Jerusalem from the infidels, as His Holiness the Pope commands. Perhaps you too can be persuaded? I offer certain salvation for your immortal soul?’ He looked me in the face, his sincerity blazing out of his bright brown eyes.
I shook my head and said: ‘I’m sworn to Robin,’ but I felt a little ashamed. It would have been a wonderful thing to be a warrior for Christ, to cleanse my soul of its many sins in battle against the Muslim devils. Sir Richard turned to the two men, who were looking slightly surprised by his offer to me. ‘Young Alan here is a very decent swordsman; he’d make a fine companion for us. I know . . . because I trained him personally.’ The brothers looked impressed; clearly they knew of Sir Richard’s great skill on the battlefield. My big bearded friend looked at the poniard hanging at my belt. ‘Learnt how to use that yet?’ he asked, pointing at the blade.
‘Not really,’ I replied, ‘but it has already saved my life twice.’ I didn’t mention that both times the poniard had been wielded by a little girl.
He nodded: ‘Told you so! How about a little practice? Show you a few moves. Might even convince you to come out East. Tomorrow at dawn in the courtyard?’
‘I would be honoured,’ I grinned at him. ‘But doubtless I won’t be upright for long.’
Sir Richard just snorted. ‘Nonsense. You’ll probably have me rolling in the dust; if, that is, you can remember how to move your feet.’ We stood there beaming at each other like idiots and then Sir Robert of Thurnham coughed and said: ‘If I may make so bold, sir, whom did you say you served?’
This was tricky. I had never officially been declared outlaw; there was no price on my head, as I was beneath the notice of the powers that be. But Robin was certainly beyond the pale and, by association, so were all who served him. But in this southern part of the country? Under the protection of the Countess of Locksley, ward of Queen Eleanor; I was surely safe. So I lifted my chin, looked Thurnham in the eye, and said proudly: ‘I serve Robert Odo of Edwinstowe.’
His brother Stephen choked in surprise: ‘You mean Robin Hood, the notorious outlaw?’
Sir Richard started laughing. ‘Keep that under your helmet, Stephen, if you don’t mind. And you, young Alan, should probably keep it to yourself, too.’ He grinned at the brothers: ‘Alan is a good friend of mine. We met when Robin captured me last year; that slimy toad Murdac of Nottingham refused to pay my ransom, but Robin was a gentleman about the whole business. How’s that old scoundrel Thangbrand?’ he said looking keenly at me.
‘He is dead, sir,’ I said. Sir Richard frowned, and I looked at the floor, suddenly overwhelmed with images of the burning hall and the blood-drenched snow.
Robert of Thurnham took a step towards me. ‘Many a knight has spent a little time outside the law and yet was an honest man at heart,’ he said. ‘But tell me, it is said that Robin Hood is training an army up in Sherwood; how would you rate them as an effective fighting force?’ I was glad that the conversation had moved on from Thangbrand and flattered that this knight should ask my opinion on a military matter, but I didn’t feel comfortable discussing Robin’s affairs with a stranger.
Sir Richard answered for me. ‘It’s damned good, if the skirmish I saw is anything to go by: Robin knows how to use archers and cavalry in combination. Few commanders do. I have to say it was a very efficient force, serfs and outlaws to a man, of course, but damned good.’
Stephen sniffed, and began to say: ‘Surely, mere bandits—’ But he was interrupted by the blast of a herald’s trumpet. We all turned and I saw Bernard striding into the centre of the room, grasping his vielle in one hand.
I have never heard Bernard play so well as he did that evening in front of the Queen. It reminded me of his performance the first time I saw him at Thangbrand’s; the simplicity of the notes, and the purity of his voice. He began with a canso, a love song, in langue d’oc, which, of course, I didn’t completely understand. But it was beautiful nonetheless: his fingering on the vielle was absolutely precise, his phrasing exquisite. I felt a lump in my throat, and I vowed then and there to master that gorgeous liquid language so that I might attempt one day to produce music of such splendour. Queen Eleanor, I swear, had tears in her eyes.
He performed several other songs, some in French that won applause from the assembled ranks of knights and ladies, even one in English, to more muted applause as it was still viewed as a slightly uncouth tongue, not quite the thing for refined company. Sir Richard cheered lustily, but then he was an Englishman to the bone. When Bernard had finished, the Queen presented him with a purse of gold, described his music as sublime and invited him to attend her and her ladies in her garden the following day.
My music teacher was walking on clouds. Afterwards, with a smile a foot wide on his glowing face, he said: ‘I’m made, Alan - no more squalid caves, no more oafish outlaws.’ He danced a few steps around our shared chamber. ‘The Queen, may she live a thousand years, loves my music, and I am made. I shall never go back to that damp forest, I shall live the life of a prince, a trouvère to royalty.’ He went on and on in this vein. But the odd thing was, though he had had a cup or two of wine, he was not drunk. He just sat upright in our huge shared bed - it was, by the way, the finest bed I had ever slept in by a long chalk, with a feather bolster, fine linen sheets, and goose-down filled pillows - and glowed with happiness. I was exhausted and, while he remembered every note aloud, and pointed out to me the moments of particular musical genius, I fell into a delightful and dreamless slumber.
We settled comfortably into life at the castle over the next few weeks. As spring turned to early summer, I practised my sword and dagger work with Sir Richard in the castle courtyard each day at dawn and became, if not Christendom’s most accomplished warrior, then at least proficient in the use of those arms. On one memorable occasion I did even manage to tumble Sir Richard into the dirt by back-heeling his legs as we were chest to chest, swords and daggers locked. To
my joy, and I pray God will forgive me for the sin of Pride, Robert of Thurnham was watching when I performed this feat. He congratulated me and said that if I ever needed employment as a man-at-arms he would welcome me into his service.
I liked Sir Robert, though I was a little wary of him; although he came from Kent, our conversations seemed to turn a little too often to Robin’s force in Nottinghamshire: how many men did he have? What proportion of them were cavalry? How many archers? And so on. I turned aside his enquiries as best I could by claiming ignorance, and to his credit, after a while, he seemed to realise how uncomfortable his questions made me feel. One day he said to me: ‘Alan, I do not wish you to betray any confidences; but, believe me, I do not hold any ill will towards your master. As you may know, I have now taken the Cross and a good company of archers, such as those commanded by Robert Odo, could be indispensable in the Holy Land against the fierce mounted bowmen of Saladin. But, I beg you, you must tell me to mind my business, if it makes you uneasy to talk of such matters.’
Bernard was as happy as I have ever seen him. He attended the Queen almost daily, performing in the sweet-smelling garden at the back of the castle for her ladies, including Marie-Anne. They made music there and played childish games, such as hoodman blind with the ladies, blindfolded, running around and trying to catch young gentlemen by the sound of their voices. Bernard soon embarked upon several love affairs with the Queen’s attendants and quite often I would awake in the night to find him gone from our shared bed. The next day he would be tired but smug. I attended these garden jollities several times, at Bernard’s invitation, sometimes accompanying him and playing my gilded ivory flute to feminine acclaim. But I found the company of perfumed ladies, day after day, a little stifling and often escaped to talk about manly military affairs with the Gascon guard, who were also teaching me to speak langue d’oc. In later years, when I performed my own music in that lovely, rippling southern tongue, I acquired a reputation for using ripe, earthy language in my love songs, inadvertently using words for dalliance and lust that I had picked up from the Gascons. Strangely, the crude soldiers’ phrases that I used were applauded as fresh sounding and original, in a style of music that was often ridden with flowery conventions and clichés.
Marie-Anne had set about the process of ‘taming’ Goody, as she put it, with real determination. My little friend was being taught to spin wool into thread, an endless task that seemed occupy all the time when she was not using her hands for another purpose; to embroider, to sing (though Bernard had given her a thorough grounding at Thangbrand’s); to act demurely; to walk gracefully; to serve wine in an elegant manner and a thousand other skills that a gentlewoman needed to attract a husband of knightly status. Occasionally, she rebelled, sneaking out of the castle to roam the city with a pack of grubby Winchester boys, causing mischief, even fighting other urchins, and returning with a torn gown and dirty, bruised face to the scolding of her keepers. I saw little of her at that time, but I sensed that she was happy; and so, I realised one day, was I.
There was just one dark cloud on the horizon: my promise to gather information and report back to Robin. The problem was that I did not, particularly, have anything to report. The first time I went to the Saracen’s Head, which was not far from the castle on St Peter Street, it was a cold and rainy night. I met Thomas there and after the ritual question and response of the woodland folk and the town people, he told me to tell him what I had learnt in the past few weeks since we had arrived. So I told him about Bernard’s triumph, and Goody’s adventures, and I offered him all the best and latest gossip of the court: how so-and-so was sleeping with so-and-so; that this courtier was in favour with the Queen and that courtier was in disgrace.
Thomas was a truly ugly man. Apart from having only one eye, the other being just a mass of pink and red scar tissue, he had a great round head adorned with several huge smooth bumps the size of acorns on his forehead and crown, a flat, brutish nose and a sparse mangy-looking head of curly black hair. He resembled a troll or some other outlandish monster bent on the destruction of mankind. In fact, he was a decent man, if a little sardonic - and devoted to Robin. When I had finished giving him a particularly juicy story about two of Eleanor’s young male clerks who had been caught naked in each other’s arms and had been banished back to France in ignominy, he cocked his big, misshapen head on one side, staring at me out of his one dark eye and said: ‘All very interesting, no doubt. But the pot-boy here could tell me tales of the filthy frolics of young clerks. What else have you got for me? What news of the King? Or of Duke Richard?’ My face fell. I knew that they were both in France and at daggers drawn, but no more beyond that. Thomas realised that he had hurt my feelings and quickly added: ‘But you are new at this game; never fear, we will make you a spy as great as Joshua in no time.’ And he clapped me on the back and ordered another pot of ale for me.
When I had recovered from my embarrassment, he leaned forward and said: ‘What you need to do, Joshua, is to get close to Fulcold, the chamberlain. You have met him? Good. Now you need to gain his trust. And, eventually, through him to get a look at the Queen’s private letters. Hugh tells me you can read and write, that you are litteratus?’ I nodded. He continued: ‘That will be very helpful. Go to Fulcold and offer to help him in his duties, now that he is short of two clerks, he will be overworked; flatter him, say that you wish to learn how a clever man organises the affairs of the greatest lady in Christendom.’
He took a small sip of ale. ‘Don’t push things,’ he said. ‘Don’t ask too many questions. Be helpful, be hard-working. Never complain if he asks you to undertake a difficult or dull task. And watch for your chance.’ He was getting to his feet, preparing to leave.
‘Robin wants to know what Eleanor is saying to Richard in her letters to him, and how he is answering. But don’t do anything too dangerous, young Joshua, don’t risk getting caught. Robin says you are very valuable to him and that he is quite fond of you. I’m under strict instructions not to let anything happen to you.’ He gave me a smile and lightly punched my shoulder. Then he went on: ‘I’ll meet you here at the same time, on the same day of next month, and you can tell me how you’ve been getting on. If you need to see me before then, leave a message for me here. And give your name as Greenwood. Understood?’ I nodded, we clasped forearms, and he disappeared quickly out of the ale house and into the black, wet night.
Chapter Fourteen
I presented myself to Fulcold the next day, flattered him and gave him a present of a little yellow songbird in a small wicker cage that I bought in the town. Master Fulcold liked it well enough, and he told me that I might assist his team of clerks who kept the rolls of the Queen’s accounts and learn how a great household was managed.
He was a strange little man, immensely fat, shy and sentimental. He adored music and loved the idea that the jongleur of such a noted trouvère as Bernard de Sezanne was working under his auspices. When there was not much work for me to do, which was quite often, he had me play my gilded flute for the entertainment of the clerks.
As well as recording the Queen’s accounts on great rolls of parchment, the clerks of the royal household were mainly concerned with Eleanor’s correspondence - and she wrote and received letters constantly. Every morning, the Queen would rise at dawn, wash, break her fast and attend the service of Prime at the Cathedral. After that she would attend to her correspondence. She wrote to everybody, from her beloved son Richard, the Duke of Aquitaine, and Philip Augustus, the King of France, to humble knights in Poitou or Germany. And they wrote to her. But these exchanges had to be discreet as she was in theory a prisoner and the King had given orders that she was to be kept incommunicado. But the King was unwell; likely to die, many said, and if he did, Richard would inherit the throne of England.
So, every morning, the Queen would stride about her chamber dictating letters to Fulcold, who would scribble notes on parchment, which would be taken away to be turned into a fair copy by his clerks. However, as
a novice, I was not permitted to do this work, not because Fulcold did not trust me, but because the parchment or vellum - the finely stretched skin of a calf or young sheep that we wrote on - was very valuable and I might make mistakes or ink blots and ruin a fine piece of writing material.
This was frustrating: Thomas would have loved to have knowledge of everything that the Queen wrote, but I dared not push the clerks too far and, when I did casually question them about the Queen’s letters, they seemed to have a blind spot as to their content, almost as if they were merely copying the words without truly taking in their meaning. So here I was, able to physically see the letters she was sending out, but unable to read their messages. I dreaded my next meeting with the one-eyed man.
Then two events occurred that were to change my mood - and the course of my life. My duties with Fulcold were light and on sunny afternoons I was still occasionally performing with Bernard in the castle gardens for the ladies. One day, after we had played together and been lavishly praised, Bernard suggested that I should make my debut as a solo trouvère in front of the court. The ladies thought it was a wonderful idea and the Queen suggested that I perform at a feast that was taking place in a week or so, at the beginning of July, to honour some important visitors to the castle. I would be performing in front of Sir Ralph FitzStephen, the constable, for the first time and so I was determined to make a good impression. The second event occurred when one of the clerks fell ill and Fulcold asked me to help with the making of palimpsests. As I have said, parchment was very expensive, even for a Queen, and so many of the letters that were sent to Eleanor were scrubbed clean and reused. Fulcold gave me this task and this is how I finally learnt a secret worthy of Thomas.
