Read Online The Death of Robin Hood by Angus Donald - Free Book Online

heard from one of the Boxley monks that his father was sick, and did not know if he would live long. I allowed him to go, but I gave him instructions to join me in London as soon as he could and, if I had already left with the relief force when he arrived, to make his way back to Rochester. I was grateful to the youngster for his fine shooting in the sheep pastures – he had probably saved my life and the lives of many of the townsfolk – and felt he was more than owed a little time off duty to bring order to his family affairs.
    Lord Fitzwalter was to be found in the great hall of the Tower of London. I made my way there and was announced by a herald at the vast double doors. Upon seeing my face, Fitzwalter gave me a friendly, long-armed wave from the centre of a throng of knights, priests and merchants, a dozen yards away. Then a servant quietly told me that his lordship was extremely busy at present and asked with exquisite politeness whether I would prefer to wait for what might be some little while or return the next day. I elected towait and was shown to a bench by a window, served a cup of wine and told to possess my soul with patience.
    I was not the only one waiting for a chance to speak to the great man. There was a young dark-haired fellow, evidently a man of wealth, dressed entirely from top to toe in cream-coloured velvet and silk embroidered with silver stitching. Even his shoes were pure white kidskin. The man was playing with a tiny tortoiseshell kitten in his lap, teasing it with a long white feather, tickling its pink nose and jerking the feather out of the way when the little bundle swiped at it with its miniature claws. He looked up as I sat on the bench a few feet from him, and smiled. His long, lean face was bloodless, white as a lily, and with the same soft yet dense waxy texture as the petals of the flower, as if it had never once seen the light of the sun. His eyes were pale blue, and brilliant, but lacking humour or warmth. They did, however, display a keen curiosity and intelligence. Overall, he seemed to project the impression that he was somehow less – but also more – than completely human: indeed, he had a rather ethereal, angelic quality that was most disturbing, as if his soul were superior in every way to an ordinary mortal’s. The friendly smile he offered did nothing to change the blank expression in his chilly blue eyes.
    ‘God’s blessings on you, sir,’ he murmured in French. This, in itself, was not that significant: many, indeed most members of the English nobility in those years spoke to each other in French. But his accent was strange. It was not the jocular, barrack-room, no-nonsense Norman French spoken by the turbulent knights of England, his silky accent and precise intonation came straight from the perfumed courts of France. Indeed, his voice carried more than a whiff of the great city of Paris itself.
    ‘Sir Alan Dale, knight of Westbury, at your service,’ I said in the same language, taking care over my pronunciation and trying, perhaps not very successfully, to echo his sophisticated Parisian style.
    ‘Thomas, Comtedu Perche, minister to His Royal Highness King Philip Augustus, at yours,’ he said, then extinguished his smile and resumed playing with the kitten, driving it to a tiny frenzy with the feather tip.
    So, he was an ambassador from Paris and Fitzwalter
was
either in talks with or contemplating talks with the French about military aid. Well, after what Abbot Boxley had said, it was only to be expected. And, God knew, a few score well-trained, well-armed French knights on our side would be most welcome in the struggle against the King and his legions of brutal Flemish mercenaries.
    I looked at the man under my brows. He did not look like much of a fighting man. He was too slim in the shoulder and chest. And his long, pale hands were unscarred – most unusual in a man who wielded a blade with any degree of regularity. My own two fists were criss-crossed