Warlord(54)

A horn.

A hunting horn blown with two short notes and one long one, repeated twice: ta-ta-taaaa; ta-ta-taaaa. And in an instant Hanno and I were no longer fighting alone.

Robin’s men came hurtling through the trees on foot – silent, deadly, their green cloaks merging into the gloom of the forest and making them all but invisible. I saw Robin’s lean face contorted in a snarl of rage as he sliced his sword into the back of a knight on the outskirts of the circle around Hanno and I. Much the miller’s son, a pace or two behind Robin, let out a roar as he carved a knight from shoulder to opposite hip with one blow of his long sword. And the Locksley men were swarming everywhere, tackling the knights, two or three to each enemy, hacking with sword and knife, lunging with spears. The wise knights fled deeper into the woods – and some escaped, though many were pursued and savagely cut down – the unwise knights died where they stood.

Robin stopped before me, breathing great heaving lungfuls of air, but smiling at me, his merry grey eyes dancing. ‘You are a childish, stubborn, high-minded prig, Alan Dale,’ he said, when he had caught his breath. ‘But I would not care to be without you. I’m glad at least that you had enough wit in you to summon us with your horn.’


The next day, shortly before noon, I poked my head inside Robin’s tent, and my lord cheerfully invited me to enter. I wanted to thank him formally for saving my life. I had survived the encounter with the knights of the blue cross miraculously unscathed, except for a few bruises caused by falling from Ghost. I had recovered the body of my loyal animal friend and, although some of the Locksley men had sniggered at my sentimentality, Hanno, Thomas and I had dug a grave for Ghost and buried him at the side of the road, near the spot where he had died. I could not bear the thought of wild animals eating his carcass – or worse, hungry men of the lowest sort from King Richard’s army cutting bloody chunks off his noble frame. So we buried him deep, and I wept over his grave.

Hanno had been lightly wounded in the knights’ attack by the crossed oak trees, just before Robin’s men had arrived – a bloody score up his left forearm. But Elise, the Locksley wise woman, had washed the cut, packed it with cobwebs, stitched it and bandaged it neatly.

Robin was in a cheerful mood when I entered the tent: although the sound of my horn had forced him and two score or so of the more sober men to abandon their looting of the royal baggage train and come to my rescue, and the rest of the army, including Mercadier’s rapacious mercenaries, had come up while Robin was away, Little John had remained behind and had managed to secure a sizeable amount of loot for our company. And Robin had been praised by King Richard for having captured such a great prize; so my lord was quite content with the day.

When I entered it that hot July morning, Robin’s tent was taken up with a vast mound of scrolls, books and parchments, and half a dozen dusty clerks were on their knees by the pile, pulling out items, examining them and occasionally giving sharp little bird-cries of delight. One of the wagons of the baggage train had been found to contain the royal archives – letters and deeds, charters and correspondence, some of which stretched back to the beginning of King Philip’s reign fourteen years ago. And Robin had been asked by Richard to go through the correspondence and discover which of the King’s vassals had secretly been corresponding with the French. Robin was enjoying himself enormously, I could see, and I watched him as I awaited his attention, sipping a cup of light wine on a stool in the corner of the tent.

‘Here’s another one, Alan,’ my master called out, waving a piece of parchment that one of the King’s clerks had handed him. ‘William de St-Hubert is offering to do homage to King Philip for all his lands in Normandy – the disloyal little weasel. He was having breakfast with our King this very morning, I believe. Lamb’s kidneys and eggs. This letter will make him squirm when Richard reads it, that’s for sure.’

I was glad to see Robin so happy; our quarrel of the day before over the looting of the royal train seemed to have been completely forgotten.

‘This one might be of interest to you,’ said Robin, and he lobbed a scroll overhand to me across the tent, narrowly missing the tonsured head of a clerk who was rummaging through the pile of parchments. I caught the scroll one-handed, and carefully untied the ribbon that secured it and unrolled the thick yellow cylinder. It contained a charter from His Royal Highness Philip Augustus, by the grace of God, King of France, and so on … to one Thibault, Seigneur d’Alle granting him the right to build a hotel on the Rue St-Denis in the Ville de Paris. The charter was dated just over a year ago. It took me a few heartbeats to recognize what this meant: my uncle Thibault, the man who had refused to help my father in his hour of need, was now favoured enough by the French King to be allowed to build a large town house in the centre of the royal capital.