‘I have to go to Paris,’ I said.
Robin frowned. ‘Why? Do you care so much for your French relative? You’ve never even met the man.’
‘Cardinal Heribert was murdered,’ I said, ‘and so was Jean the priest. The only two people that I know of who knew my father – and who are still alive – are in Paris: my uncle Thibault d’Alle and Bishop Maurice de Sully.’
Robin was still frowning at me. ‘You are dimly aware, Alan, are you not, that we are in the middle of a war with the French?’ he asked in a mocking tone. ‘And that Paris is the capital of the French King – our sworn enemy?’
I didn’t deign to answer. So Robin continued: ‘This is madness, Alan. Your duty is to serve me and serve the King, and remain with the army. All this talk of exonerating your father is pure foolishness. He is dead, Alan, dead! He does not care whether you clear his name or blacken it. I urge you; I am in truth begging you – please stop this foolishness. No good can come of raking up the past like this. Leave it alone.’
‘I understand how you feel, Robin,’ I said, evenly. I was determined to be calm about this subject, even though I found Robin’s opposition to my quest hurtful and more than a little baffling. ‘But I must resolve this mystery – or it will cost me my own life.’
‘We’ve found another one, sir,’ said one of the clerks, holding up a large sheet of parchment. ‘Robert de Dignac in correspondence with King Philip last year—’
‘Not now,’ said Robin to the clerk, but he was staring at me. ‘What do you mean, cost you your life?’
‘Those knights yesterday – the men with the blue crosses on their shields – they hunted us like wild animals. And when I offered my surrender, they would not accept it. They wanted me dead – and I would be, too, were it not for your intervention. Somebody, most probably this “man you cannot refuse” is trying to prevent me finding out about my father. Those knights of the blue cross serve this “man you cannot refuse”, I am quite certain of it, and while initially he was content with silencing those who might tell me about my father, now, it seems, he has decided to have me killed too.’
Robin put his head on one side, and half-smiled at me: ‘Mysterious knightly assassins hunting you down? A sinister, all-powerful, “man you cannot refuse”? Are you sure this is not some addle-brained fantasy?’
‘Those knights of the blue cross wanted me dead – and not just because I was their foeman in a skirmish. They wanted me, Alan Dale, dead. Cardinal Heribert is dead; so is Father Jean – so too is poor Brother Dominic. I’m not inventing this; this is no addle-brained fantasy. I must go to Paris. If not, the knights may succeed at the next attempt.’
Robin gave a long sigh and stared at the floor of the tent for a while. ‘Well,’ he said finally, ‘if you can persuade the King to release you, I won’t stand in your way.’
I found the King at the horse lines, inspecting a dozen fine new warhorses that had been sent to him as a gift from Count Geoffrey of the Perche. Clearly, that wily nobleman, currently sitting up the road behind the walls of Chateâudun, and shortly expecting to give shelter to Philip’s retreating army, was sniffing the wind and attempting to assure himself of a welcome should he decide to change sides and renew his allegiance to our King.
Richard was gracious enough to receive me and listen once again to my petition to take my leave of the army. I told him that it was urgent that I speak with Bishop Maurice de Sully, who must now be an aged man, before he died. But I did not mention my uncle Thibault – having a close relative, and a rich one too, on the side of the French King might, I felt, cast some doubt on my devotion to Richard. As the Lionheart seemed in a jocular mood that morning – I even essayed a jest to sweeten my request.
‘If I may make so bold, sire, it is entirely your fault that I need to embark upon this journey. Were it not for your hasty actions in Nottingham, I would already know the name of the man who ordered my father’s death.’
The King looked at me quizzically. ‘So it is all my fault, is it, Blondel? How so?’
‘Well, sire, had you not ordered Sir Ralph Murdac to be hanged as a lesson to the other traitors in the castle, he would have been able to tell me the man’s name!’
The King chuckled. ‘You cannot blame me fully for that,’ he said. ‘It was at your master Robert of Locksley’s suggestion that I had the man hanged. If Robin had not bent my ear, that rascal Murdac might even be alive today. I might well have pardoned him.’ And the King laughed.