Warlord (Outlaw 4) (16 page)

I told Robin and he was characteristically uninterested.

‘That will teach you to annoy Mercadier,’ he said, with a shrug. ‘You should count yourself lucky that he didn’t decide to cut
your
throat at the same time.’

But despite his apparent callousness, I heard later from Little John that the Earl of Locksley had been to see Mercadier privately, taking John with him, and had told the mercenary captain quite bluntly that if any harm at all were to come to his friend Sir Alan of Westbury, he, Robin, would take it as an act of provocation and there would be very serious, painful and fatal consequences for Mercadier.

‘Give the black-souled bastard his due, he didn’t turn a hair when Robin threatened him,’ Little John told me. ‘And Robin can be very unsettling when he chooses to be. The man just smiled, cool as a trout, and said: “I hear you, my lord – young Westbury is your man, and is under your protection.” And he flatly denied having anything to do with the old priest’s murder.’

I was touched that Robin should take my side, but a little irritated too. Did he think I could not take care of myself? And, in our tent,
I noticed that Hanno and Thomas also took turns to stay alert all through the next few nights – Robin was not the only one who seemed to believe that I needed protection.

Then word reached us that the King of France, Philip Augustus himself, was heading down towards us with an enormous army to confront Richard and to try and salvage something, after the fall of Loches, from the collapse of all his carefully wrought schemes in the south.

So we turned back north to meet him and, by the beginning of July, Richard and his entire force of knights, footmen, mercenaries and mighty castle-breakers, were camped outside the gates of Vendôme – and I must confess that I was well pleased. I felt that finally I might have the chance to arrange an audience with His Grace Cardinal Heribert of the Holy Trinity Abbey to ask about my father, the theft and his fateful visit to Paris two decades ago.

The city of Vendôme was held against us by a small and presumably rather nervous French garrison – like Loches, it had been handed over to Philip by Prince John while Richard was imprisoned the year before – but the garrison was attempting to hunt with the hounds and run with the hart, and it was in almost constant communication with Richard’s heralds, sending costly gifts to Richard, and dispatching embassies from the various city guilds and religious institutions. The feeling in our camp was that, if we were to beat the French in the coming battle, Vendôme would happily surrender to King Richard without a fight and accept his magnanimous forgiveness. If we were to be beaten by Philip – and I could not for a moment imagine that we would be – then Vendôme would remain in French hands, and would no doubt welcome Philip with flower-strewing maidens and sung hosannas. It was a truly practical, unsentimental arrangement – Richard did not have to waste lives and
materiel
capturing Vendôme, which would fall into his arms like a swooning virgin if he managed to see off the French King. This unspoken agreement also meant that there was a large
amount of daily traffic between Richard’s camp and the great men of Vendôme, negotiations of all kinds were taking place, knights inside the walls were looking for future favours from the King, merchants were making discreet deals with the army’s quartermasters to supply them with food and equipment that was badly needed. And I had decided to take advantage of this unofficial accord to go myself into the city of Vendôme, and pay a visit to Cardinal Heribert.

I had been quite prepared to make a clandestine visit to the town, a knotted rope flung over the walls on a dark night, perhaps, or a quiet purse of silver passed to a venal sergeant manning a gate, but I was aided in the accomplishment of my desire by a most unexpected source. Robin mentioned that Sir Aymeric de St Maur and his Templar entourage were making an official embassy to the knights and burgesses of Vendôme, on behalf of King Richard, a formal mission to prepare the ground for the submission of the town after the French defeat. On hearing this, I approached the Templar and asked his leave to accompany them into Vendôme. When he asked why, I stretched the truth and said that the Cardinal had been a friend of my father’s when he lived in Paris, and I wished to pay my respects. To my surprise, the Templar readily agreed.

‘Certainly, Sir Alan, if I can be of service, I should be happy to oblige you,’ said Sir Aymeric, smiling at me in a benevolent, avuncular fashion.

I was slightly unnerved by this – we had met on several occasions and he had never been this friendly. The last time I had been this close to him, he had threatened me with torture with red-hot irons to persuade me to reveal the whereabouts of the notorious outlaw Robin Hood.

‘And how is the noble Earl of Locksley? In excellent health, I trust,’ Sir Aymeric said gravely as we parted, having agreed that I would join him and his embassy the next day before dawn and we
would ride into Vendôme under the Templars’ black-and-white banner together. I assured him with the utmost courtesy that his former mortal enemy, and the object of his almost diabolical fury one year earlier, was in the finest fettle.

The next dawn, Sir Aymeric was just as cordial. Hanno, Thomas and myself joined their party, which comprised his beaming lieutenant Sir Eustace de la Falaise, six sergeants, and several of King Richard’s senior barons and clergymen. I nodded a stiff greeting at Sir Eustace, a good-looking young Norman knight whom I did not know well but who had a decent reputation as a fighting man if not as a deep thinker, and Sir Aymeric enquired with infinite concern whether I had broken my fast that day. When he discovered that I had not, he pressed a cup of wine on me and a perfectly delicious honey cake.

I had told Robin of Sir Aymeric’s extraordinary affability the night before. ‘I don’t think there is anything sinister about it,’ said my lord. ‘He merely wants to put the unpleasantness of the past behind him. We are reconciled, Alan, remember that. Whatever he has done, we are all supposed to be amicable now. I expect you to be on your very best behaviour—’

‘Yes, you play nicely with Sir Aymeric,’ interrupted Little John, chuckling heartily. The big man had been listening to our conversation from the corner of Robin’s big tent. ‘Let him share your toys, but don’t let him bully you.’

I was irked by both Robin and John’s attitude. Of course I would behave myself. Did they think I was going to brawl over some harsh words the previous year?

‘So you have completely forgiven him, have you, Robin, for attempting to have you burnt at the stake?’ I said, a little truculently. Robin was not a man known for his abundance of Christian forgiveness.

‘If ever I get the chance to do him some damage – or shove a blade into any of his sainted Order of blood-thirsty, God-struck
maniacs – I will gladly do it; as long as it doesn’t put my people at risk or harm my interests in any way. But, for the moment, it suits me to treat him as an ally. So behave yourself, Alan. As John says, play nicely with the Templars like a good boy – for now.’ And he grinned at me, his eyes twinkling with vicious amusement.

As Hanno, Thomas and I joined the column of mounted men that morning and began to ride out of the camp and towards the walls of Vendôme, less than half a mile to the south, I pondered Robin’s description of these Templar knights as ‘blood-thirsty God-struck maniacs’ – it seemed a bit too harsh to me. They were the vanguard of Christian knighthood: superbly trained in all forms of combat, deeply committed to the cause of Our Lord, and aloof from the petty squabbles of the princes of Europe. They served a higher cause: Christendom itself. Much feared by the Saracens, and merciless in battle against all infidels, they were men that I felt a good deal of admiration for: men I looked up to as an example of how to be. I would have no trouble ‘behaving myself’ in their company.

Vendôme is built into the crook of a bend in the River Loir, where that great artery of trade divides into three streams. Vendôme itself seemed to be almost floating on water; and I imagined the inhabitants must have a good deal of trouble with flooding in wintertime. We approached on the main road from the north through brown-yellow fields of ripening barley and halted our horses outside the gates of the city, which lay on the far side of the first bridge across the Loir. One of the Templar sergeants walked his horse across the bridge and in a loud, officious voice announced who we were. As if pushed by an invisible giant’s hand, the huge wooden gates of the citadel swung open to receive us.

Once through the portals, we entered the crowded, narrow streets of Vendôme, bustling with traders and ringing with the cries of its citizens. Apart from the occasional jovial curse as we forced our horses through the throng, we were almost ignored. The people
seemed to have no fear of us, which I found rather odd, given that we came from a mighty and victorious army that was camped less than a mile away. Ahead of us, I could see the tall spire of the Abbey Church of the Holy Trinity – seat of Cardinal Heribert – and beyond, half a mile to the south of the abbey, the stone walls of the castle, glowering over the town from a prominence at its most southerly point. Shortly we clattered across a second wooden bridge and found ourselves riding beside the walls of the abbey itself.

I called, ‘God be with you, sir,’ to Aymeric de St Maur, who was at the head of the column, and he turned in the saddle and raised a friendly hand in salute. I had told him that, rather than accompanying the embassy to the castle where the negotiations were to take place with Lord Bouchard, Count of Vendôme, I would be heading straight for the abbey. And a few moments later, Hanno, Thomas and I were dismounted and pounding the big brass bell outside the porter’s lodge of that venerable religious house.

I gave my name to the hosteller, whose duty it was to welcome guests to the abbey, mentioning briefly that I had been acquainted with Brother Dominic. He greeted me with joy, embracing me and thanking me for saving the old monk’s life. Evidently the poor fellow had been in communication with the abbey while his feet had been healing. Then I had to deliver the sad news that Brother Dominic was dead – murdered by unknown hands – and I told the hosteller that I needed to speak to the Cardinal, hinting perhaps just a little dishonestly that it concerned Dominic’s death. I felt guilty about that, but reasoned that if I told the Cardinal my true reason for wanting to speak to him, and he had something to hide, I might well find myself escorted out of the abbey, never to be admitted again. Needs must when the Devil drives.

The hosteller sent a novice scurrying away to relay my information to the Cardinal’s secretary and to see if I might be granted an audience. In the meantime, our horses were taken away and
stabled, and Hanno, Thomas and I were ushered into the refectory, offered cold spring water and rye bread with butter, and asked to wait.

After a while, the hosteller returned and told me that His Grace would see me, but only for a few moments as he had been summoned to the castle to take part in the negotiations for the surrender of Vendôme to King Richard. I nearly kicked myself – I had made a silly mistake. Of course the Cardinal would be required to receive the embassy! But I quickly stammered out my gratitude that I might be permitted a few moments of the prelate’s time before he departed for the castle.

Leaving Hanno and Thomas in the refectory, I followed the hosteller across a large well-swept courtyard to the Cardinal’s palace, a huge stone building on three storeys that, after the abbey church, was the largest structure in the vicinity. Once inside, I was swiftly shown into the presence of the great man himself.

Cardinal Heribert was enormous – perhaps the fattest man I have ever seen, a mountain of flesh with a baby’s head on top, dusted with light brown hair. I knew that he must be at least fifty, but he had the face of a man half that age. Had it not been for his huge, wobbling bulk, he could almost have been a young fellow of my own generation. When I was shown into his private chamber on the second floor, he was seated in a vast chair by a bay window, wrapped in a scarlet robe but bareheaded, clutching a big goblet of wine in one hand, while stroking a fluffy, white-haired lapdog with the other. I was announced, I bowed, and then went forward to kiss the hand, and the enormous jewelled golden ring squeezed on to his pudgy middle finger, that was extended towards me; it smelled of damp dog.

‘God’s peace be upon you, my son,’ said the Cardinal in a kindly tone. He had a surprisingly high voice for such a large man, and he wheezed slightly when he spoke – but his beady bright blue eyes, sunk deeply in the flesh of his face, glittered with a feverish, cruel intelligence.

‘Thank you, Your Grace, for seeing me,’ I said, releasing his massive, doughy hand and standing straight and tall in front of him. I was wearing my finest clothes – a dark blue tunic, scarlet hose, and soft black kidskin slippers – my jaw-length blond hair had been washed the previous day, and well-combed before dawn, I had been shaved by Thomas and I carried no weapons save for a small eating knife in a sheath at my waist.

‘I can only spare you a few minutes, my son, but I did wish to thank you personally for saving the life of our dear Brother Dominic – may he rest in Heaven. He was a good man called to God before his time. Do you have any knowledge of who it might have been who murdered him?’

‘Your Grace, I must confess that I do not, although I have my suspicions … But I must admit that it is not truly the matter of Brother Dominic’s death that brings me to you today. My name is—’

‘I know who you are,’ the Cardinal interrupted me; his voice had lost its kindly tone and cracked like a rotten branch breaking under a weight of winter snow. ‘And I know what you want. You are Sir Alan Dale –
trouvère
, former outlaw and liegeman of the Earl of Locksley. I know who your father was, too – that accursed thief Henri d’Alle – and I did not believe even for a moment that you came here to console me for the loss of one elderly monk.’

He glared at me, wheezing slightly in his passion, his tiny blue eyes like chips of smashed glass.