Warlord(35)
Robin seemed to read the unasked question in my mind. ‘The Tourangeaux are frightened of us, Alan, and they are right to be. And I intend to make them even more uncomfortable. They should be here any moment.’
‘What have you in mind for them?’ I asked.
‘You are the man who is so keen on justice: I think they should pay for their wavering loyalty to the King. In the name of justice.’ Robin grinned at me; I did not particularly care for his expression.
At that moment, Little John came into the tent. He was dressed in an old-fashioned, short-sleeved knee-length mail coat, freshly burnished, that seemed too snug for his massive chest; he had a round shield slung across his back, his blond hair was neatly plaited into two fat ropes that framed his battered face, and he was gripping his double-bladed axe, which I noticed had been polished to a bright sheen. He was accompanied by two of Robin’s biggest and ugliest bowmen, all scars and scowls and knotted muscles, who after acknowledging me cheerfully, pulled up their hoods to shade their faces and stood like statues at the back of the tent emitting menace like heat from a brazier.
‘Is this really necessary, Robin? All this … thunder and lightning? The Tourangeaux are not the enemy. They have declared for Richard, you know.’ I had divined what my master was up to, and while I knew it would amuse him, I also recognized that it was not the sort of behaviour the King would have condoned. But sometimes, in his lordly pomp, when he played the great earl, I forgot that in his heart of hearts Robin was still an outlaw thief, his love of easy money and mischief embedded deep into the bone.
‘Just trust me, Alan, and follow my lead – we will all profit handsomely by this. You’ll see.’
We did not have to wait long. Robin told his new squire, a big oafish lad called Gilbert, who was son of a Yorkshire neighbour, to serve John, himself and myself with golden cups of wine, but not to offer anything to our guests when they arrived. If they were so bold as to complain of thirst, they were to be given earthenware beakers of water, he said. Poor Gilbert looked utterly confused by this breach of etiquette, and so I sent him to summon Thomas, and Robin repeated his instructions to my squire. Thomas said nothing but merely nodded his head in his steady, intelligent way, and went immediately to see to the arrangements.
The delegation of Tourangeaux arrived at dusk. It was headed by the Archbishop of Tours, a sharp-eyed old stick named Barthélemy de Vendôme, and he was accompanied by the castellan of Tours Castle, a mutton-headed knight of middle years called Sir Roger. The bulk of the delegation consisted of merchants from Châteauneuf – I remember them only vaguely as plump, greasy, balding men, nervously wringing their velvet caps in sweaty hands – wearing as many jewels as Robin, but somehow making them seem like cheap, tawdry copies. The Archbishop was calm, almost regal; the knight Roger was scowling, but the merchants of Tours did, as my lord had prophesied, seem extremely frightened.
They stood in a slightly forlorn huddle in the southern entrance to Robin’s tent, while my master observed them coldly from a throne-like chair at the back. Fine beeswax candles had been lit, and their yellow light danced across the planes of Robin’s handsome, impassive face. To the right of Robin’s throne, Little John and the two ugly bowmen glowered and glittered at the delegation full of martial spirit and apparent bloodlust. To Robin’s left, Thomas and I stood in silence, trying to look stern.
For a long, long while nobody spoke. Finally, one of the merchants cleared his throat, but before he could say a word, Robin roared: ‘Silence, you traitorous dog!’ It was shockingly loud and jolted every man in the tent. And then Robin returned to a brooding silence for another seemingly endless length of time.
Finally my master began, in a voice as cold as a crypt: ‘King Richard is coming here,’ he said. ‘He is coming in fury, with all his might – a thousand noble knights of England and Normandy. He will arrive at this wretched place on the day after tomorrow.’
Archbishop Barthélemy was smiling crookedly, apparently enjoying some private source of amusement. The head merchant licked his lips. Sir Roger looked deeply puzzled: ‘We are all, of course, Richard’s loyal men, entirely at the King’s command,’ the knight said hesitantly.
‘Loyal? Faugh!’ said Robin, and once again silence fell over our gathering. He raised his right hand and pointed his index finger accusingly at the group of bewildered laymen clustered around the knowing bishop, moving it slowly left and right, like a crossbowman taking aim.
‘King Richard … is … coming,’ my master intoned slowly, jabbing with his finger at the foremost merchant, a fat man in a red robe trimmed with fox fur, ‘and when he is here, his wrath will know no bounds. The torments of Hell will be unleashed upon your miserable, turd-hoarding, flea-breeding, rat-feasting excuse for a town.’ He paused for a moment, and said: ‘He knows everything. He has learned the full extent of your perfidious dealings with King Philip.’