Angus Donald - Holy warrior

From the trot, they moved swiftly to the canter and then, a moment later, they were at full gallop. Behind them the second line followed suit. The thunder of hooves seemed to vibrate the very turf. I could not run; there was no time, and Ghost would not bear me more than a quarter a mile at a gallop, so I tugged my plain old sword from its battered scabbard, and with a loud cry of ‘Westbury!’ I turned my mount towards them and charged straight at the fast approaching line of pounding warhorses and implacable mail-clad men.

In no more than three heartbeats they were upon me. The bareheaded leader, a tall youngish man with light brown hair and a mocking grin on his handsome face, raced towards me, sword held high and to his right. As our horses met he cut hard at my head with his long blade. If it had connected with my skull it would have killed me on the spot but I blocked the blow easily with my own sword, and the clash of metal rang out like a church bell. Then, as he swept past me, I twisted my wrist and swung my sword at his mailed back with all my strength. But the leading rider had anticipated this and spurred to his left, away from me, causing my blade to slice through empty air.

Then the second line of horsemen was upon me. I snarled at an onrushing rider, gripping Ghost tight with my knees, and smashed my sword into his kite-shaped shield, kicking out a long splinter of wood; I caught a glimpse of red hair under a badly fitting helmet, a gap-toothed open mouth and a terrified expression on his face as he thundered past me — and then I was through the lines, untouched, and there was empty green grass ahead of me and the diminishing sound of hoof beats behind.

I pulled up Ghost, and wheeled him round to face my opponents. They were half a hundred yards away, still going at the gallop, the two lines of horses merging into one long pack, bulging in the centre around the bareheaded leader. Then a trumpet rang out: two notes, bright and clear, a beautiful sound on that perfect sunny afternoon. The riders reined in, sawing at their bits, the horses’ forelegs clawing the air and, turning their sweat-streaked mounts, swiftly re-formed the two ranks. It was impressive — or it would have been if all the horses and riders had responded to the trumpet. A handful of men, perhaps a dozen, had lost control of their animals and they were still thundering away from the main body in the opposite direction, heading over the shoulder of a hill and disappearing south down the slope towards the River Locksley. It looked as if nothing would stop them before they were in Nottinghamshire. But there were still eighty or so riders in control of their mounts, reformed, in line, spears levelled once again. The bareheaded leader’s sword came down and, once more, they thundered towards me. I remained still, this time, silently applauding this display of horsemanship, sword resting casually on one shoulder, as the ranks of the enemy cavalry hurled themselves at me. At a distance of fifty paces, the trumpet rang out again one long note, repeated three times, and, miraculously, the reins were hauled back once again, the lances rose to pierce the sky, and with much snorting from the protesting horses, tearing of the turf, and swearing from the riders, the whole huge mass of sweaty horse and armoured man-flesh came sliding to a halt about a spear’s length from Ghost’s soft nose. I stared at the heaving ranks of cavalry, saluted them with my sword, and slid the blade back into its battered scabbard.

‘Did we give you a good scare then, Alan?’ said the bareheaded rider, only slightly out of breath, and grinning at me like a drunken apprentice celebrating a holy day.

‘Of course, my lord,’ I said gravely. ‘I was so terrified by your fearsome manoeuvres that I believe I may have soiled myself.’ There were a few guffaws from the ranks, which I had intended. Then I grinned back at Robin and said with mock humility: ‘It was, truly, a very impressive display. But one suggestion, sir,’ I paused. ‘I’m no expert on horsemanship, of course, but would it not be even more effective if all the horses charged together… in the same direction

… at the same time?’

There was more merriment from the horse soldiers as I pointed behind Robin to the other side of the dale, where a dozen of the Earl of Locksley’s newly formed cavalry could be seen tiredly forging up the far slope, the horses lathered in white and still wildly out of control. Robin turned, looked and smiled ruefully.

‘We’re working on it, Alan,’ said Robin. ‘We’re working hard on it. And they’ve still got a little time to learn before we get them to Outremer.’

‘They are a damned indisciplined rabble, that’s what they are. You ought to have the hides off the lot of them!’ snapped a man seated on a magnificent bay stallion next to Robin. I looked at him curiously. The ranks of heavily blowing cavalry were filled with familiar faces and I had nodded cheery greetings to half a dozen former outlaws by now, but he was a stranger to me. A tall man of late-middle years, clearly a knight from his dress, weaponry and the quality of his horse, with sandy blonde hair and a battered, much-creased face, the result, I assumed, of a permanent frown.

Robin said: ‘May I introduce Sir James de Brus, my new captain of horse, the man responsible for knocking these rascals into shape. Sir James, this is Alan Dale, an old comrade, a good friend and my very talented trouvere.’

‘Pleased to know you,’ said Sir James. I noticed that he had a slight Scottish accent. ‘Dale, Dale…’ he said in a puzzled tone. ‘I don’t think I know the name. Where are your family’s lands?’

I bridled instinctively. I was ashamed of my humble origins and I hated to be asked about my family, particularly by members of the knightly class, who loved to talk about their Norman lineage as a way of demonstrating their superiority. I glared at the man and said nothing.

Robin spoke for me: ‘Alan’s father came here from France,’ he said smoothly. ‘And he was the son of the Seigneur D’Alle, of whom I am sure you will have heard. Alan is the lord of Westbury in Nottinghamshire.’

What Robin said about my father was true. He had been the second son of an obscure French knight, but Robin had not mentioned that he had been a penniless wandering musician, a trouvere like me, but without a master. He had made his living, for a time, singing in the halls of the nobility, where he had met Robin, before falling in love with my mother and settling down to raise crops and three children in a small village outside Nottingham. When I was nine, soldiers had burst into our cottage before dawn, ripped my father from his bed and, after falsely accusing him of theft, had hanged him summarily on an oak tree in the centre of the village. I have never forgotten the sight of his swollen face as he choked out his life on that makeshift gibbet. And I have never forgiven Sir Ralph Murdac, the Sheriff of Nottinghamshire, who ordered his execution.

Sir James grunted something to me that might have been: ‘At your service, sir,’ and I inclined my head at him with the barest civility. Robin said: ‘Well, that’s enough fun for today; shall we adjourn to the castle? I think it is time for a bite of supper.’

‘I have urgent private news for you, sir,’ I said to Robin.

‘Can it wait till after supper?’ he asked. I thought for a moment and then nodded reluctantly. ‘Come to my chamber after the meal, we’ll talk then.’ He smiled at me. ‘Good to have you back, Alan,’ he said, ‘Kirkton has been dull without your wit and dour without your music.’ And then: ‘When you are fully rested, perhaps you’ll sing for us. Tomorrow?’

‘Of course, sir.’

And we turned our horses and began to make our way up the hill to the castle.