Angus Donald - Holy warrior

I filled a wooden bowl with the thick, wonderful-smelling soup and with a horn spoon in one hand and a chunk of fresh bread in the other I began to fill my growling belly.

‘God’s hairy backside,’ roared a deep familiar voice, ‘our wandering minstrel has returned!’ I looked up to see that Little John was saluting me with a huge, old-fashioned horn of ale. ‘And you’re sucking up that soup like you haven’t eaten for a week! What news, Alan?’

I raised my own cup in reply. ‘Bad news, I’m afraid, John. Very bad news. The world is about to end, if you believe the learned monks of Canterbury.’ I took a mouthful of soup. ‘The Antichrist is loose and is filling the Earth with fire and blood.’ I paused for dramatic effect. ‘And I hear the Evil One particularly wants to have a word with you.’ I tried to look grave but kept breaking into a grin. It was an old joke between John and me, to pretend that the end of the world was nigh. But several people around the table glanced at me in fear and crossed themselves.

‘Well, if your Antichrist shows his face here in Hallamshire, I’ll cut his cock and bollocks off and send him pissing blood all the way back to Hell,’ said John carelessly, cutting a vast wedge from a round cheese and cramming it into his mouth. ‘Are you singing tonight?’ he added, through a spray of yellow crumbs.

I shook my head. ‘Too tired. Tomorrow, I promise.’

‘You mustn’t joke about things like that,’ said Will Scarlet, his nervous face staring at me from across a steaming tureen. ‘The Antichrist, and all that. Your jests only serve to give the Devil more power.’

Will had become noticeably more religious since we had discovered that we were going on this great and holy adventure. ‘Quite right, Will,’ said a kind voice with a faint Welsh accent. ‘Quite right. But young Alan’s not afraid of the Devil, are you?’ It was Brother Tuck, smiling at me from the far end of the table. ‘These days, with a sharp blade in each hand, young Alan’s not afraid of anything… but a couple of years ago, mind, when I first met him, the boy would jump when he caught sight of his own shadow — why, he regularly used to burst into tears over a spilled milk pail…’

Tuck broke off his teasing abruptly as a hurled bread roll crashed into his bulbous red nose, caromed off and skittered away on the hall floor. I was pleased with my accuracy. I had always been a good shot with a rock or stone as a boy, hunting rats in the granary barns with the other children of the village, and I was gratified to see that I had lost none of my skill, even if the missile this time was merely a piece of bread. Tuck roared with outrage and flung a half-eaten pear back at me, missing and striking a thin man-at-arms next to me on the ear. As if by magic, the whole table suddenly erupted in a hailstorm of thrown food as each diner immediately began to pelt the man opposite with bread, fruit, pieces of cheese rind… For a dozen heartbeats it was sheer, joyful chaos; a big lump of cheese whizzed past my cheek, someone flicked a spoonful of soup down the front of my tunic. I prepared to retaliate… and then checked myself.

‘Enough, enough, by God,’ Little John was shouting, giving a very good imitation of fury. A thick slice of barley bread thrown by an unseen hand bounced off the back of his big blond head. ‘Enough, I say,’ he bellowed. ‘The next bastard who throws something, I swear I will batter him into bloody meat.’

‘For shame, Alan,’ said Tuck, trying to look solemn, ‘for shame. Have we not taught you any manners in your time with us? Are you still the uncouth lout we first met two years ago? Just because Robin is away from the table…’

I had an apple snug in the palm of my hand and my fist was cocked back and ready to throw; but I managed to still myself; I knew that Little John did not make idle threats.

‘Where is Robin, anyway?’ I asked. I had caught a glimpse of Sir James’s face — his expression was one of total disgust, and I wanted to change the subject. Despite the joyous, silly anarchy of a food battle, my ill news was still looming at the back of my mind like a dark cloud. ‘Why is he not with us for this fine gathering of noble gentlemen?’

‘He’s gone to collect the Countess from Locksley village; she’s been consulting a wise woman there,’ said Tuck. ‘He told me he would be back later this evening, God willing.’

Marie-Anne, Countess of Locksley, was heavily pregnant and very near her due time, but the pregnancy had not been an easy one. She had felt sick and out of sorts for much of the early period of her term, and then restless and unhappy more recently as she became very large indeed. Marie-Anne was a beautiful woman, perhaps the most beautiful I had ever seen, with a slim figure, chestnut hair and glorious bright blue eyes, and she hated becoming so fat and lumpy as the baby grew inside her — like a great lumbering sow, as she put it — but there was something else too that was troubling her about the pregnancy. I knew not what, but it was something between her and Robin. I had once come into their solar unannounced to find them shouting at each other. This was very unusual — Robin almost never lost his temper. And Marie-Anne had always appeared to have an almost angelically serene outlook on life. I put the incident down to the trials of pregnancy and forgot about it.

Locksley village was only three miles away and even transporting Marie-Anne in a donkey-cart — she was now too big to ride a horse — it would only take Robin a couple of hours to go there and pick her up and return to Kirkton. I was sure he would return within the hour, and felt a sense of relief. The brief meal was coming to its conclusion and, one by one, the men rose from the long table. Some gathered around the fire in the centre of the hall, squatting by its heat, gossiping, throwing dice, and finishing off their cups of wine or ale; a few wandered outside the hall to the farthest building that contained our latrine — a mere plank-covered trench in the earth; some began to make up their beds against the walls on the rush-strewn floor, laying out their blankets and furs and curling up for the night. Robin had still not returned, but he had told me to wait in his chamber, and so after a quick visit to the stables to check that Ghost was comfortable, I collected two goblets of wine, a plate with a large piece of cheese, a loaf of bread, two apples and a small fruit knife and took them on a tray into Robin’s and Marie-Anne’s solar, which was at the end of the hall. I reasoned that Robin and his lady might be hungry when they returned. Then I settled down to wait in their chamber.

The solar was lit by a single good-quality beeswax candle, in a silver candlestick on a small table of the far side of the big four-poster bed. I came around the bed and placed the food on the night table; then I sat gingerly on the embroidered silk bedcover, and looked around the room as I awaited Robin’s return. It was a good-sized chamber, perhaps ten paces long by six paces wide, the walls panelled with dark wood and hung with one or two small tapestries depicting the hunt. It had a polished wooden floor that creaked slightly in the centre under a person’s weight and was partially covered by a large wolfskin rug. The great oak bed was at one end of the room against the wall, perhaps three paces in from the door. Beside the bed was a large window with a stout wooden shutter, bolted from the inside, which opened out on to the castle courtyard. At the far end of the room were two clothes chests, one each for Robin and Marie-Anne, and a washbasin on a thin iron stand with a jug of water beside it. A large dresser, on the wall opposite the door, held feminine items such as jewellery, hair pins, face powder, perfume and a large silver mirror. From my seat on the bed, I could just see my reflection in the mirror: a big lad looked back at me, taller than average, and with the broad shoulders and thick arms of a swordsman. My oval face and regular features seemed entirely unremarkable to me, save for the mop of bright blond hair on top. The merest fluff of a beard showed on my cheeks and I remembered that I had not shaved for several days. I ran a hand over my face, and looked away at the rest of the room, noting an antler rack that held cloaks and hats, a crucifix hanging on the wall — which must belong to Marie-Anne — and a large throne-like oak chair.