Warlord(25)

King Richard had come to Verneuil in all his power and might. And King Philip had lost his siege train.





Chapter Five



The King, delighted by our successful defence of Verneuil, was so overcome with happiness that he embraced Sir Aubrey and myself in turn, and kissed us both the minute he stepped off his horse in the centre of the battered castle courtyard. He promised a pouch of bright silver for each of the men-at-arms who had fought there so valiantly, and lands and honours for Sir Aubrey and myself.

‘I knew you would not fail me, Sir Alan,’ Richard said when he had embraced me, holding me by the elbows like an old friend. ‘You are clearly a man who can be trusted with a castle. Some of my counsellors suggested that you were too inexperienced a knight to hold this place against Philip’s might,’ he shot a stern glance at Mercadier, who looked levelly back at him, his dark, scarred face unreadable, his brown eyes devoid of any expression, ‘but I knew you had the right stuff in you for this task.’

I wallowed in King Richard’s praise; it seemed to warm the very corners of my soul, and somehow it made all the slaughter and suffering of the past few days seem worthwhile. But while I was happy to see my King again, and receive his gratitude, there were two other men in his company who doubled my joy at the royal arrival.



As the sun began to sink, we had lit the courtyard with many torches to welcome the King. And as Richard clapped me on the shoulder and strode away across the open space towards the small hall, shouting for his steward and ordering the servants to prepare a victory feast as swiftly as possible, in the flickering torchlight I gazed up at my lord, Robert, Earl of Locksley, as he looked down at me fondly from the back of a huge red bay horse. My friend, the erstwhile outlaw, the reluctant pilgrim, the man the common people still called Robin Hood, said: ‘Well, Alan, I see you’ve been bathing in glory once again.’

‘Just humbly doing my duty, sir,’ I said grinning up at him. My heart was full at the sight of him, though I noticed that he was paler and thinner than I recalled. Nevertheless, he was here in Verneuil in the flesh and I felt the weight of command, the warlord’s responsibility for the lives of his men, float from my young shoulders and pass to his infinitely broader ones. And for that, and for the sight of him alive and well, I gave thanks to God.

‘I’ve never much cared for humility,’ said my lord, with his familiar mocking smile. ‘And duty is merely the name we give to an unpleasant task that is unlikely to be rewarded. But I will say this: well done, Alan. You’ve done a man’s work here. And I am proud of you.’

I held his horse’s bridle while Robin swung down from the saddle; he was moving a little stiffly and he winced when his boots hit the beaten earth of the courtyard.

‘How is the leg?’ I asked. The wound he had taken at Nottingham was the second to that same limb in two years.

‘Almost mended. The muscles are still weak and I could have done with more rest; but the King summoned me and so I had to obey – obedience to one’s lord is one virtue that I do hold with.’ My own lord gave me a quick smile, to show that he was half-jesting, and his strange silver-grey eyes twinkled at me in the torchlight.



A massive blow, like a kick from an angry mule, exploded in the centre of my back, knocking me a pace forward. I turned fast, dropping the reins of Robin’s horse, my hand going to the hilt of my sword and half drawing the blade. A huge figure loomed over me, a human tower only half-visible in the leaping light of the pine torches. A thatch of blond hair crowned a vast lumpy red face that would have terrified an ogre – if it wasn’t for its broad, friendly and very familiar grin. It was my old friend John Nailor, known by all as Little John. I released the handle of my weapon, allowing the long blade to slide into its scabbard, and clasped the extended meaty hand that had slapped me so hard on the back.

‘God’s bulging ball-bag, young Alan, you are as jumpy as a lady rabbit in a fox lord’s bedchamber,’ said Little John, shaking his head in mock sorrow. ‘It must be a bad conscience. Feeling guilty about something, are you? Been indulging in one of your legendary bouts of onanism again, eh? Have you, lad? You can tell your old uncle John. Bit too much of the old hand-to-cock combat, eh? You’ve got to leave it alone sometimes, you know, Alan. You can’t go on threshing the barley stalk all day and night. It weakens your nerve, rots your brains, can make you go blind, too.’

‘You do talk some rare horseshit, John Nailor. My nerves are absolutely fine. Nothing wrong with them at all.’

I was blushing and I could see Robin trying hard not to laugh, covering his mouth with his hand and making as if to scratch his chin.