Warlord(124)

‘Is he recovered?’ I asked anxiously. A wound, even a small one, could easily become infected and gangrenous on campaign. I had seen several good men die from mere scratches in the Holy Land, and quickly too, sometimes only in a matter of days.

‘Oh, you can’t keep Richard down for long,’ Robin laughed. ‘He’s back on his feet now and still taking big risks as if he were some brash young knight trying to make a name for himself. Come to think of it, he reminds me of you! But he has changed his strategy of late. The few weeks he was incapacitated gave him time to think: since then it’s been more about diplomacy than mad dashing about.’ Robin glanced about him quickly to check that we were not overheard. ‘Richard’s planning to suborn Philip’s new northern allies. If we can get the counts of Boulogne and Flanders away from the French and on to our side, Richard believes that we can outflank the French King and attack him from the north and the west simultaneously.’



We had left the coast behind us and were entering an area of scrubby woodland. Robin halted his horse and summoned his fat-headed squire Gilbert from the column of a hundred or so men behind him. He issued a rapid series of orders; Gilbert seemed not to understand them, but after several repetitions the oafish lad finally managed to grasp what was required and galloped off to the rear of the column.

Robin looked at me and grimaced: ‘He’s very nearly an idiot; but I can’t get rid of him. His father is an old friend. Where were we? Oh yes, the King. The other thing that is greatly occupying our sovereign’s mind at the moment is his damned “saucy” castle.’

‘What’s wrong with it?’

‘Nothing. Brilliant idea – a large forward base, packed with well-armed knights and powerful enough to resist a siege for months, if not years. A big, looming threat right on the edge of the French lands. It’s an inspired strategy. But the King seems to want to have it constructed in a matter of months. A castle that size, with its many layers of defences, might ordinarily take ten years to construct: Richard wants it done by tomorrow morning – before breakfast. He is stripping materials and men from across Normandy and sending them to Andeli, and now bringing in craftsmen from England too,’ Robin jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the marching masons behind us, who were singing a jaunty song in time to their steps.

‘He is spending everything he has on Château-Gaillard, and more – he seems to have no money left for anything else. No money for bribing Boulogne and Flanders to come over to our side; no money to feed the troops; no money to spend on new siege engines or weapons or replacement horses. Mercadier’s ruffians haven’t been paid for months. They take their living by force from the French lands – or from our own Norman peasants, when they can get away with it. And the other paid men are drifting away from the army day by day. Meanwhile, the rest of us are being worked to the bone to keep Philip’s men at bay. On top of that, he asked me to make him a large loan.’

I gave an involuntary snort of laughter, and regretted it immediately. ‘It’s not funny,’ Robin said crossly. ‘All the barons were asked to make a contribution to the building of his precious Château-Gaillard and I had to hand over five hundred marks. No way of getting it back either. Richard hinted that he knew about the Tourangeaux arrangement – you remember that? – and also suggested that I had hogged more than my fair share of the booty from the royal wagon train we took at Fréteval – and when I countered that the manors he had “given” me were deep in French territory, and that I had many hungry mouths to feed, he merely replied that that should inspire me to strive harder to drive back the French and claim what is rightfully mine.’

I stifled a grin, and said: ‘But surely, Robin, as the Earl of Locksley, you can easily spare the money …’

‘Is that what you think?’ Robin glared at me. ‘When you grow up a little, Sir Alan of Westbury, you will realize just how fragile the dignity of a title really is. What counts is land and revenues and cold, hard silver in your coffers. Thanks to Richard, I have given up the golden frankincense trade, and have not been recompensed for it, and Locksley is a minor honour, compared with some English earldoms, and the income it provides is relatively meagre. And it could be taken away from me like that’ – he snapped his fingers under my nose – ‘at the whim of the King. I cannot spare the money for Richard’s grand designs. For the security of my family, for my sons, I need to keep every penny. But I cannot afford to refuse him either.’