Warlord(155)

I knew that secret now; I knew that it was this man, the ‘man you cannot refuse’, presently unarmed and, in turn, on his knees before me, holding out that sliver of precious silver in his left hand – I knew it was he who had ordered my father’s shameful death. Yet through some strange alchemy, or because of an invisible strength in his words or emanating from his soul, I could not strike him down.

The Master rose to his feet. He jerked the tiny silver crucifix at me, and I took an involuntary step backwards. Fidelity was still poised above my head, forgotten. The Master looked deep inside me, his clear blue eyes filled with all the sadness and pity of the world. ‘I shall pray for your soul, my son,’ he said. And he began to walk lightly, easily towards the door of that high, round room.

I could not move: I was locked tight, with Fidelity held impotently, absurdly, above my head as the Master – the man I hated more than the Devil, the monster who had killed my friend and my father – walked serenely towards the door. Not a man moved to stop him. The Westbury men, even my steady, reliable Thomas, moved out of his path, parting before him like a red curtain as if moved by an unseen force: this truly was magic, this was a powerful enchantment of a magnitude that put all of poor, crazed Nur’s shabby countryside tricks to shame.



The Master walked unmolested to the door. Under its lintel, however, he stopped dead. I could see nothing but the back of his tonsured head. He was motionless, as frozen as I, or any other mortal man in that room.

‘Back in there, I think,’ said a calm, familiar voice.

And the Master took a step backwards, into the round room. His thin face had paled, I could see even from my poor angle of view, and a shining steel blade extended horizontally from under his chin into the darkness of the stairwell.

‘Keep going, Brother – if you want to live,’ said the voice. The Master took two more steps back into the room. And Robin emerged from the darkness of the stairwell, his unwavering sword held to the Master’s throat.

‘Well done, Sir Alan,’ said my lord. ‘I thought you’d kill him out of hand. It is so gratifying to see self-restraint practised by the young men of today. Well done, indeed.’ Then louder: ‘Sam, Gerry, bind this slippery bastard securely and take him down to the camp; he’s our prisoner.’

And two burly Locksley men bustled through the doorway, and brushed roughly past the dazed, spell-bound Westbury men to carry out Robin’s orders. I looked at my lord, his silver eyes sparkling with unholy merriment, then I lowered Fidelity with more than a little effort, shook my head to clear it, and managed a feeble smile of welcome.


‘Where is it? Where is it, you maggoty little turd?’ Robin’s face was a mask of cold fury, and only inches from the Master’s. We were in Robin’s large green campaign tent, on the flat land below the castle. It was two days after we had stormed Château Châlus-Chabrol, and while the men had celebrated the victory in the usual raucous, bibulous manner, there was an air of bleached grey gloom over the whole camp like a dank mist. The King was sinking fast: his shoulder was swollen, greeny-black and stinking, and the poison was spreading down his arm, Robin had reported. Richard had summoned his priests to hear his last confession, and written to his mother Eleanor of Aquitaine, and we heard that she was hurrying south to see her beloved son one last time on this Earth.

I felt as if my heart was breaking, breathless, sick and dim of sight as if the sun was guttering and fading: my King, one of the finest men I had ever known, was slipping away, killed by a silly, insignificant wound – one that on another day he might have been shrugged off with a golden laugh and a flash of his strong teeth. It had been no more than a lucky shot with a crossbow, a shot that should have missed at that distance, which might easily have been stopped with a small movement of his shield. It was a useless death, a paltry, ignoble, meaningless end for such a man, for such a king – how could the greatest hero of Christendom be laid low by an unknown peasant’s chance shot? And yet he had been: and Richard was as forthright when facing death as he was in life. I finally managed to see him, face to face, on the sixth day after he had taken his wound. For all that he had wanted to keep the hurt a secret, he had failed, and hundreds of men from the lowest beggars to the haughtiest barons wished to speak to him one last time before he went to the Great Beyond. He had time for them all.

To me, when I was finally admitted to his tent, he said in a low scratchy voice: ‘We had some rare times together, Blondel, my friend – some laughter, some song, some joy and a little shared glory …’ I could not prevent my eyes from blurring with tears. He was clad only in a dirty chemise, propped up on sweat-stained silk pillows in a low pallet in his pavilion, his face waxy-white, eyes brilliant against the pallor, his once-bright hair now lank and flat. ‘And I thank you for all you have done for me these many years; I hope you will remember me fondly when I am gone.’