trying to collect my dropped sword and poniard.
“Course not,’ I said, but I was weaving on my feet, trying to find my balance and walking in circles. ‘Do your worst, John, you big ... bug ... bigger ... Come on, come on, I’ll have you this time ...’ Suddenly I vomited; a heave and a gush of half-digested food splashed out on to the green grass.
‘If that is your weapon of choice,’ said John indicating the pool of stinking vomit, ‘I surrender to you, O noble knight. You have bested me.’ And he bowed low, to ironic cheers from the crowd.
A tall figure with sandy blond hair and a crumpled face pushed through the throng and made his way over to me. ‘Dale,’ said Sir James de Brus, ‘Lord Locksley wants to see you in his counting house. If you are at liberty...’ He looked down his nose at me, as I stood there swaying: sweaty, winded, with strands of yellow spit-vomit hanging from my mouth. Then he sniffed once and turned away.
I recovered my wind on the way back up to the castle, but my right forearm and ribs ached from the mighty blow that John had dealt me. But, by the time I was entering the courtyard of the castle, my head had cleared and I was thinking about my next bout with John. And I knew exactly how to get him ...
Robin’s counting house, the treasury where he kept his silver was a low, strongly built structure next to the hall. I knocked on the door and was called in and I found Robin seated in front of a large table covered with a chequered cloth of black and white squares, on which he used to reckon his accounts. Coloured pebbles were placed on various squares of the cloth, tokens that represented different amounts of money. The room was dim, the narrow windows not permitting much light, and Robin had a candle on the table in front of him. He looked half-furious, half-puzzled and was alternately peering at a sheaf of parchments gripped in one fist and glaring at the pebbles on the chequered cloth.
‘I don’t understand it,’ he said. ‘This can’t be right... I wish Hugh was here to deal with this ...’ and then he stopped abruptly as if he had bitten his tongue.
I knew why: Hugh, his older brother, had at one time been his chief lieutenant, chancellor and spy master and had controlled the money for Robin’s band when they had been outlaws. But Hugh was now dead.
Robin threw down the parchments on the table in disgust. ‘I can’t make head nor tail of this,’ he said, ‘but I can show you in a much more simple way why we have a big problem. Go to the big coffer yonder and open it.’
On the far side of the room was a huge iron-bound chest. In more carefree days, it had contained Robin’s hoard of silver; the river of money that flowed from robbing wealthy travellers in Sherwood, or which had been paid to Robin by villages seeking his protection, or offered as tribute by friends, rivals, even enemies, seeking his justice - the silver river had flowed into that huge, oak-and-iron bound box, filling it to the brim.
I hesitated - in our outlaw days, to touch the coffer was an offence punishable by death. ‘Go on,’ said Robin with a touch of irritation, as he saw me pausing, ‘just open it. You have my full permission.’
I turned the key in the lock, with some difficulty, and slid back the locking bar. Then I pushed up the heavy oak lid of the box. I looked inside: the coffer was empty, apart from a handful of silver pennies that winked at me from the bottom of the wooden space. The money was gone.
Chapter Three
I looked at Robin aghast. ‘It’s been stolen,’ I blurted. ‘Who would dare? And how could they ...’
‘It hasn’t been stolen, Alan, at least I don’t think so,’ interrupted Robin, ‘it has been spent. By me. I handed over an earl’s ransom - quite literally - to arrange our pardons and outfitting this company for war in Outremer has not been cheap. The Locksley rents are mostly paid in kind, and with an army to feed ... No, Alan, I have simply
“Course not,’ I said, but I was weaving on my feet, trying to find my balance and walking in circles. ‘Do your worst, John, you big ... bug ... bigger ... Come on, come on, I’ll have you this time ...’ Suddenly I vomited; a heave and a gush of half-digested food splashed out on to the green grass.
‘If that is your weapon of choice,’ said John indicating the pool of stinking vomit, ‘I surrender to you, O noble knight. You have bested me.’ And he bowed low, to ironic cheers from the crowd.
A tall figure with sandy blond hair and a crumpled face pushed through the throng and made his way over to me. ‘Dale,’ said Sir James de Brus, ‘Lord Locksley wants to see you in his counting house. If you are at liberty...’ He looked down his nose at me, as I stood there swaying: sweaty, winded, with strands of yellow spit-vomit hanging from my mouth. Then he sniffed once and turned away.
I recovered my wind on the way back up to the castle, but my right forearm and ribs ached from the mighty blow that John had dealt me. But, by the time I was entering the courtyard of the castle, my head had cleared and I was thinking about my next bout with John. And I knew exactly how to get him ...
Robin’s counting house, the treasury where he kept his silver was a low, strongly built structure next to the hall. I knocked on the door and was called in and I found Robin seated in front of a large table covered with a chequered cloth of black and white squares, on which he used to reckon his accounts. Coloured pebbles were placed on various squares of the cloth, tokens that represented different amounts of money. The room was dim, the narrow windows not permitting much light, and Robin had a candle on the table in front of him. He looked half-furious, half-puzzled and was alternately peering at a sheaf of parchments gripped in one fist and glaring at the pebbles on the chequered cloth.
‘I don’t understand it,’ he said. ‘This can’t be right... I wish Hugh was here to deal with this ...’ and then he stopped abruptly as if he had bitten his tongue.
I knew why: Hugh, his older brother, had at one time been his chief lieutenant, chancellor and spy master and had controlled the money for Robin’s band when they had been outlaws. But Hugh was now dead.
Robin threw down the parchments on the table in disgust. ‘I can’t make head nor tail of this,’ he said, ‘but I can show you in a much more simple way why we have a big problem. Go to the big coffer yonder and open it.’
On the far side of the room was a huge iron-bound chest. In more carefree days, it had contained Robin’s hoard of silver; the river of money that flowed from robbing wealthy travellers in Sherwood, or which had been paid to Robin by villages seeking his protection, or offered as tribute by friends, rivals, even enemies, seeking his justice - the silver river had flowed into that huge, oak-and-iron bound box, filling it to the brim.
I hesitated - in our outlaw days, to touch the coffer was an offence punishable by death. ‘Go on,’ said Robin with a touch of irritation, as he saw me pausing, ‘just open it. You have my full permission.’
I turned the key in the lock, with some difficulty, and slid back the locking bar. Then I pushed up the heavy oak lid of the box. I looked inside: the coffer was empty, apart from a handful of silver pennies that winked at me from the bottom of the wooden space. The money was gone.
Chapter Three
I looked at Robin aghast. ‘It’s been stolen,’ I blurted. ‘Who would dare? And how could they ...’
‘It hasn’t been stolen, Alan, at least I don’t think so,’ interrupted Robin, ‘it has been spent. By me. I handed over an earl’s ransom - quite literally - to arrange our pardons and outfitting this company for war in Outremer has not been cheap. The Locksley rents are mostly paid in kind, and with an army to feed ... No, Alan, I have simply
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