dark-eyed, the way a hawk watches a field mouse.
‘Calm yourself, Alan, I talked him out of it … in the end. But you’ve got to be punished, do you see? So I’m docking you a month’s pay. I am now admonishing you, Alan: you are a naughty fellow. Hear me? And you’re being sent away from the army, back to Falaise. And, since you have incapacitated his guards, your duty is to look after our most important prisoner – the Duke. Take him to Falaise and lock him up there until the King decides what to do with him. If he escapes, it’s your head on the block. No excuses. Chop. You are responsible for him. You alone. Understand?’
I nodded, relief rushing through my whole body. I do not think I am a coward, I have proved myself often enough, but hanging holds a special terror for me.
‘Thank you, my lord,’ I said.
‘Don’t thank me, just don’t make my life any more difficult than it has to be.’
I turned to go, but at the flaps of the tent, I turned back.
‘Robin,’ I said, ‘remind me – why do we serve this King?’
‘I serve him because I swore a solemn oath to do so. You serve me for the same reason. Is that good enough for you?’
‘I’m not sure,’ I said and pushed my way outside.
I left the next morning, accompanied by a score of the Wolves, our spare horses and baggage and the ox-cart that held the cage of Arthur, Duke of Brittany, heading north. I went to visit Little John before I left but he was deeply, unnaturally asleep on his bed of bloody straw and I did not care to awaken him. He looked worse than the night before – painfully gaunt, with white strands mixed in with his yellow hair, and blackberry bruises under his eyes. But when I bent down and put my ear to his lips, I felt the tiniest waft of his breath.
I prayed to God as we rode away from the column that He would spare Little John’s life, but I do not believe He heard me. A dozen miles out, I halted the march and burst open the prisoner’s cage and allowed Arthur to stumble into the warm August sunlight. He was very weak – from despair at his capture, mostly, and from lack of food over the past few days since the battle at Mirebeau.
I said, ‘If you will give me your word of honour not to try to escape, I will let you ride to Falaise as a member of my company. We will feed you and give you our fellowship. But you must know that if you do try to run, these men will hunt you down and I will bind you and drag you the rest of the way at the tail of my horse.’
‘I will ride,’ said the young man. ‘I give you my word of honour that I will not try to escape.’
The Duke of Brittany was as good as his word. For the next three days he rode with the Wolves, he ate and drank with us, and he made no attempts to run for freedom. My squire Kit, and Christophe, Richard the Lionheart’s grey-bearded veteran, kept a close eye on him at all times, even when the Duke went into the woods to relieve himself, but it proved unnecessary. The boy quickly realised I would not mistreat him and there stood a very good chance his countrymen would soon raise the colossal sum necessary for his ransom, and he would be freed. After a couple of days riding beside him, I began to like the fellow. He had shown himself brave in the fight at Mirebeau, and though he was rather undernourished, he had the strength, speed and enthusiasm of youth. He was not as haughty as he might have been for the grandson of a king, and once he had had a couple of decent meals, his natural good humour shone out like the August sunshine. We had stopped in a woodland glade, just inside the borders of Normandy, to breathe our horses and to take a drink from our wine-flasks, when I noticed him watching a pair of squirrels play-fighting in the branches above our heads. As the two nimble animals squabbled and chased each other through the leaves, I saw him laughing with pleasure at their antics. When we rode hard and fast for long periods, he never complained of fatigue.
‘Calm yourself, Alan, I talked him out of it … in the end. But you’ve got to be punished, do you see? So I’m docking you a month’s pay. I am now admonishing you, Alan: you are a naughty fellow. Hear me? And you’re being sent away from the army, back to Falaise. And, since you have incapacitated his guards, your duty is to look after our most important prisoner – the Duke. Take him to Falaise and lock him up there until the King decides what to do with him. If he escapes, it’s your head on the block. No excuses. Chop. You are responsible for him. You alone. Understand?’
I nodded, relief rushing through my whole body. I do not think I am a coward, I have proved myself often enough, but hanging holds a special terror for me.
‘Thank you, my lord,’ I said.
‘Don’t thank me, just don’t make my life any more difficult than it has to be.’
I turned to go, but at the flaps of the tent, I turned back.
‘Robin,’ I said, ‘remind me – why do we serve this King?’
‘I serve him because I swore a solemn oath to do so. You serve me for the same reason. Is that good enough for you?’
‘I’m not sure,’ I said and pushed my way outside.
I left the next morning, accompanied by a score of the Wolves, our spare horses and baggage and the ox-cart that held the cage of Arthur, Duke of Brittany, heading north. I went to visit Little John before I left but he was deeply, unnaturally asleep on his bed of bloody straw and I did not care to awaken him. He looked worse than the night before – painfully gaunt, with white strands mixed in with his yellow hair, and blackberry bruises under his eyes. But when I bent down and put my ear to his lips, I felt the tiniest waft of his breath.
I prayed to God as we rode away from the column that He would spare Little John’s life, but I do not believe He heard me. A dozen miles out, I halted the march and burst open the prisoner’s cage and allowed Arthur to stumble into the warm August sunlight. He was very weak – from despair at his capture, mostly, and from lack of food over the past few days since the battle at Mirebeau.
I said, ‘If you will give me your word of honour not to try to escape, I will let you ride to Falaise as a member of my company. We will feed you and give you our fellowship. But you must know that if you do try to run, these men will hunt you down and I will bind you and drag you the rest of the way at the tail of my horse.’
‘I will ride,’ said the young man. ‘I give you my word of honour that I will not try to escape.’
The Duke of Brittany was as good as his word. For the next three days he rode with the Wolves, he ate and drank with us, and he made no attempts to run for freedom. My squire Kit, and Christophe, Richard the Lionheart’s grey-bearded veteran, kept a close eye on him at all times, even when the Duke went into the woods to relieve himself, but it proved unnecessary. The boy quickly realised I would not mistreat him and there stood a very good chance his countrymen would soon raise the colossal sum necessary for his ransom, and he would be freed. After a couple of days riding beside him, I began to like the fellow. He had shown himself brave in the fight at Mirebeau, and though he was rather undernourished, he had the strength, speed and enthusiasm of youth. He was not as haughty as he might have been for the grandson of a king, and once he had had a couple of decent meals, his natural good humour shone out like the August sunshine. We had stopped in a woodland glade, just inside the borders of Normandy, to breathe our horses and to take a drink from our wine-flasks, when I noticed him watching a pair of squirrels play-fighting in the branches above our heads. As the two nimble animals squabbled and chased each other through the leaves, I saw him laughing with pleasure at their antics. When we rode hard and fast for long periods, he never complained of fatigue.
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