The Green Man by Kate Sedley

of bed himself to test the bolt on the door. But, of course, there wasn’t one. Abbeys, as a general rule, don’t have locks and bolts. They are the houses of God and, as such, are free of access, one brother to another. The cell we were occupying had been made as comfortable as possible, but it gave on to a badly lit passageway without the luxury of an ante-room or a guard of any sort.
    Albany was in no doubt as to what must be done.
    â€˜You must sleep outside, across the doorway, Roger. It’s warm tonight. Wrap yourself in your cloak. You won’t be cold.’
    He was right. I wasn’t cold, but it was damnably uncomfortable, in spite of a pillow for my head, and I tossed and turned, dozed and woke all night, angry and resentful. I wondered, in those brief intervals, when I managed to gain a few moments relief from my bodily aches and pains, why mention of the Green Man affected Albany with such profound unease. I had noticed it when I first broached the subject to him. Did it hold some special significance for him? And who was the man in the mask, anyway? My original thought had been that it could be neither of the squires, but further consideration changed my mind. Either one of them could have planted the ‘leaf’ for me to find with a view to exonerating himself. Whatever had roused me the previous night – and I was still uncertain what that had been – could have been caused by Donald or Murdo creeping into the duke’s chamber, reaching through the bed curtains and touching my arm, perhaps, before scurrying back to the ante-room and feigning slumber. Something of the sort …
    But here I must have fallen into my final sleep of total exhaustion and was only wakened again by the abbey bells tolling for Prime, and by the general hurry and scuffle of men scrambling to get dressed and be on the march again as soon as possible. We were, in fact, saddled up and on the move while the mist still lay thick upon the ground, and had left Leicester behind us, a dark smudge on the horizon, before it dissolved like smoke trails blown on the wind.
    We rode northwards for Nottingham, a mere distance, or so I was told, of between twenty and thirty miles, and where our mounted vanguard would wait for the rest of the army to catch us up while my lord of Gloucester held a council of war. And it was indeed barely mid-afternoon when we rode across the hills encircling the town and ascended to the massive fortress that is Nottingham Castle, towering above the surrounding houses on its dark up-thrust of rock.
    Nottingham is a royal castle, so there was no makeshift accommodation here. My lord of Albany was accorded every deference and given a bedchamber, two ante-rooms and his own private garderobe in keeping with his status as a future king.
    â€˜Well, at least we can shit in private, if only for a night,’ he remarked jocularly as one of his many chests of clothing was carried into the bedchamber by two of the castle’s lackeys. ‘I do so hate baring my arse to the public gaze. Make the most of it, Roger. When we finally get to Berwick – if we ever do – and join the siege, it’ll be a different story. We’ll be lucky if it’s a hole in the ground with the whole of the army looking on. You’re not a fighting man, I believe.’
    â€˜Your Grace knows full well that I’m a pedlar,’ I answered drily, unpacking my few modest belongings from a saddle-bag, which I had humped indoors myself, through various dark and dingy passageways smelling of dirt and damp to this large and airy chamber strewn with fresh rushes and flowers. ‘I assume your lordship doesn’t wish me to accompany you to the council meeting this afternoon?’
    The duke grimaced sourly. ‘I doubt your presence would be welcomed. But I want you close to me at the feast this evening, mind that! So to prevent a repetition of the night before last, you’d better spend the