Warlord(31)

‘Perhaps he will be, perhaps he won’t. We do not gain or lose from it, so far as I can tell.’

I found Robin’s disinterest irksome, and for some reason I could not stop myself adding: ‘I wonder whether there might have been anything more he could have told me about my father’s death.’ Although in my heart I was certain that he had had nothing further to divulge.

Robin looked at me sharply – he knew all about the shadowy ‘man you cannot refuse’ and my quest to find him. ‘Alan,’ he said, ‘I understand why this is of interest to you, but I must urgently counsel you not to pursue this matter. Your father is dead, he has been dead for ten years; Sir Ralph Murdac killed him; and Murdac is dead – you must let this go. I promise you that no good will come of raking over the past. You will achieve nothing – and you may well disturb something evil that is better left in peace. Now, be a good fellow, take a dozen men and sweep that covey yonder: it’s a likely spot for an ambush.’ He handed me a small polished cow’s horn with a silver lip-piece. ‘Give three blasts on that if you get into any trouble, and we’ll come running to save you.’

He gave me a not-altogether pleasant smile as I looped the thong attached to the horn over the pommel of my saddle, but I had the sense to keep silent. And for the next two hours, accompanied by a band of mounted archers, I thrashed through the dense under-growth of a small wood, scratching my face and hands, and my poor horse’s hide, on brambles and branches, fruitlessly searching for foes that Robin and I both knew were not there.

The next day, Robin, it seemed, was in a better mood. As we rode along through the hilly, green and surprisingly tranquil countryside of the Perche, he gave me the news from home. Marie-Anne was as delighted as he was to be pregnant again: ‘She’s glowing, Alan – I mean absolutely radiant – and already becoming plump. I think it will be a boy; a fine tall son for me to leave behind when I’m cold in my grave.’

Robin already had one son – a sturdy four-year-old called Hugh, but there was a secret about his birth that was never mentioned in my lord’s presence. Hugh was the true child of Sir Ralph Murdac. This erstwhile sheriff of Nottinghamshire had raped Marie-Anne and got her with child, yet Robin had publicly acknowledged Hugh as his own son – indeed, he made it clear that he would instantly kill anyone who suggested otherwise. And I admired him deeply for this act of compassion. It was a measure of his love for Marie-Anne that he took her to wife despite the fact that she had been despoiled by Murdac’s touch, and that her son Hugh was not truly his. Even so, it was clear that he was elated to have another child that was his own blood beyond a shadow of doubt.

‘And I have had a letter from our old friend Reuben,’ Robin continued. ‘He has left the Holy Land and settled in Montpellier to study medicine. He writes that he has a fine big house with a large herb garden, and hints that he has formed an attachment to a local widow. He’s trading a little too, he says, with the Moors of Spain.’

‘Not frankincense?’ I asked. Reuben, a tough, dried brown stick of a man, was a Jew who until recently had managed Robin’s lucrative frankincense concerns in Gaza.

‘No, not frankincense,’ said Robin. ‘Leather, spice, precious metals … Reuben is now a wealthy man, you know. Somehow, I can’t see him settling down and growing fat just yet; he has a restless spirit that will not take its ease. But I may be wrong.’

‘Tell me about Goody – was she well and in good spirits when you last saw her?’

Robin smiled at me. ‘She is a fine lass, Alan, and you are a lucky man. Yes, she is healthy, and all is well at Westbury. It seems that she and your steward Baldwin have made an alliance and are turning Westbury into an orderly, productive and well-run place. She wants to please you, Alan, she wants you to be proud of her. So take a note of what she has achieved at Westbury, when you return, and make sure you praise her for it. But there is one thing that troubles me …’

‘What? What is it?’

‘It may be nothing, Alan, but … I still have many friends in Nottingham and in Sherwood from the old days who tell me things from time to time. And I have heard rumours, evil rumours of black magic and witchcraft …’

‘It’s Nur, isn’t it?’

‘It is. It may all be overblown, Alan. And it may well come to nothing. But they say she has been gathering followers – the mad, the deformed, the ugly, and some unhappy women who have run from their menfolk. And I have heard she has sworn vengeance on you and Goody.’