We were heading south-west, along the line of the River Avre, and we would soon cross that natural barrier and enter the realm of Count Geoffrey of the Perche, a vassal who had renounced his allegiance to King Richard and sided with Philip. Geoffrey was now our enemy and the troops had the royal licence, as long as they did not stray far from the slow-moving column, to raid farms, empty barns, and collect domestic beasts – in short, to steal anything that they wanted while we travelled through his territory. We did not expect to meet the count and his forces; they were holed up down in the south at Chateâudun and Richard did not want to waste time in reducing the minor castles of the county. His thinking, Robin told me that morning, was that Geoffrey was a trimmer who would always go with the prevailing wind. If Richard were in the ascendant, then Geoffrey would come back to our side. There was no need to squander men, resources and valuable time in reducing his fortresses when, if we triumphed in the south, he would come meekly back into the fold anyway. And Richard harboured no personal grudge against the man – Geoffrey was Philip’s cousin, after all, and while Richard was his lawful lord, his lands bordered on those of the French King. A victory in the south was what we needed, Robin said, not petty vindictiveness against a man who, anyway, would have had little chance of resisting the might of King Philip’s armies.
The sun shone brightly as we rode, but a keen wind prevented the day from becoming oppressively hot, clad as we were for battle in heavy mail and helmets. I had spoken to Robin about Father Jean’s death before we left Verneuil, and he had informed the King, but there was no time to make a proper enquiry. So the great column had departed, lumbering its slow way south-west, leaving Sir Aubrey de Chambois to recover from his crossbow wound with a fresh garrison of men-at-arms and two experienced masons whose task it was to repair the castle’s walls. Sir Aubrey had been shocked by Father Jean’s death – and he had vowed that he would make all the necessary enquiries and discover whatever he could about the murder. But I had no high hopes that he would uncover the man who had killed my father’s old friend, and I said as much to Robin as we crossed the River Avre by a mossy wooden bridge and rode into the foothills of the County of the Perche.
‘I think you are right, Alan,’ said my lord. He seemed distracted that bright morning, almost fidgety. ‘I fear we shall never know who killed the man. And perhaps it would be best to put the matter from our minds.’ And then he fell silent, shading his eyes to scan the forested country ahead.
I was puzzled by his answer. ‘Surely we should seek justice for the poor fellow?’ I said. ‘He was a good man, a fine priest, and he did not deserve such an ignoble end.’
‘He was a priest, yes – so surely you believe that he is in the Kingdom of Heaven now. So he’s happy, isn’t he?’
I was a little taken aback by Robin’s words; I had long known, and indeed it was an open secret among his friends, that Robin was no Christian – indeed, he often mocked the Church – but I did not expect him to be so offhand about murder. I bit my lip, and Robin, sensing my discomfort, glanced over at me.
‘I have no objection to justice as a general principle,’ he said, giving me a half-smile, ‘so long as it does not greatly inconvenience me. But he was not one of our men, nor kin to any of us, and so I see no reason why we should be concerned about punishing his murderer.’
I opened my mouth to protest, and then closed it again. Robin and I had had this conversation many times before and I knew well his position. His philosophy was as brutal as a butcher’s cleaver. He entertained no notions of a fair and just common-wealth of mankind; he considered such a notion a childish fantasy. Robin’s view was that a man had a duty only to protect those around him: his family and the men and women who served him or whom he served. He called this small group of souls his ‘circle’ or his familia – anyone inside it was to be protected with all his strength and resources, and I knew that he would readily give his life for anyone in that charmed ring. But anyone outside that circle – strangers, enemies, even fellow countrymen with whom he had no connection – meant nothing to him. It was a point we had differed on in the past: I felt that Christ’s teachings, indeed the whole essence of the idea of Christendom, of civilization itself, was that all men were members of a whole, beloved by God, and all deserved mercy, justice and the chance of Salvation.
‘Well, I should like to see Father Jean’s killer caught and punished,’ I said, somewhat lamely.