Holy Warrior by Angus Donald Read Free Book Online
Authors: Angus Donald
to beg my pardon for killing my father, beseech forgiveness for torturing me and murdering my friends ... so I unclenched my fists and folded my twitching hands behind my back. And I began to sing.
I don’t remember what I sang, truly I do not, perhaps one of the dozen or so cansos that I had written by then and knew by heart. My tired old brain has rubbed out the memory; shame can sometimes do that. After the first song, they made me sing another, although my teeth were chattering so hard that I’m sure nobody could make out the words; and then another. Finally, Prince John seemed to tire of this cruel game and he dismissed me. I bowed low, my cheeks flushed with rage and mortification, and the Prince reached into his purse, groped about for a moment, and then tossed a couple of silver pennies on the floor in front of me. The foxy man laughed out loud. It was a calculated insult. Trouvères might well expect to receive discreet gifts from satisfied lords, but to throw the money on the floor, as if rewarding a tumbler for turning somersaults, or some beggarly street musician, was worse than a slap in the face.
I bowed a second time and, ignoring the money glinting in the dirty rushes at my feet, amid the discarded animal bones, the dog hair and ancient grime of the hall floor, I turned my back on my three tormentors and walked out of the hall.
‘What an extraordinary fellow!’ I heard Prince John croaking loudly in his harsh voice at I approached the great oak doors. ‘Did you see that? He turned his back on me. I ought to have him flogged.’
‘He’s from serf stock, you know,’ said Murdac loudly. ‘No breeding, no manners.’ I stumbled slightly over the threshold, longing to be out of earshot. ‘An outlaw too,’ the little shit-weasel continued. ‘That was before he was pardoned by your royal brother. I had him in the cells once for his misdeeds but the slippery villain wriggled out of there somehow. Escaped ...’
And I was through the door, and out into the huge courtyard of Nottingham castle. My legs were faltering beneath me and I found a stone mounting block to sit upon and, under scowling leaden skies, I slumped down and closed my eyes, hoping to wipe the shame and embarrassment from my mind. I concentrated on images of Sir Ralph Murdac begging for his life, tied to the rack, bloody and screaming for mercy, and was just beginning to feel slightly better when I heard the patter of running feet and opened my eyes to see a poorly dressed servant boy standing before me, panting and holding out one hand with the palm flat. On his palm were three greasy-looking silver pennies.
‘Sir, be-be-begging your pardon, sir, but this is your silver,’ said the boy.
For a moment I wondered if this was some fresh humiliation, dreamt up by Murdac and his new royal master. Then I looked again at the servant boy, at his earnest face and shabby clothes, his outstretched hand trembling slightly, and I knew it could not be. He was a fairly good-looking lad, about 11 or so, well-made and tall for his age, with light brown hair and brown eyes. I stared at him for a few moments and then said brusquely: ‘You keep it, boy.’
He looked distressed. ‘But, sir, it is your money. The prince gave it to you. A roy-roy-royal gift.’
‘I do not care to receive it,’ I said shortly. And then, realising that my public shaming had not been his fault, and that there was no reason to be unkind to him, I smiled: ‘Buy yourself something in the market, a pie or two, or get yourself a good new knife ...’ He looked doubtful and I wondered if he was perhaps slow in the head, but suddenly I did not have the patience for him any longer and so I sat back on my stone block, closed my eyes and returned to my dark thoughts.
‘Please excuse my im-impertinence, sir,’ said the boy, breaking in on a delightful reverie in which Murdac was dangling by his thumbs over a pit filled with snakes. I opened my eyes; the boy was still there, but
I don’t remember what I sang, truly I do not, perhaps one of the dozen or so cansos that I had written by then and knew by heart. My tired old brain has rubbed out the memory; shame can sometimes do that. After the first song, they made me sing another, although my teeth were chattering so hard that I’m sure nobody could make out the words; and then another. Finally, Prince John seemed to tire of this cruel game and he dismissed me. I bowed low, my cheeks flushed with rage and mortification, and the Prince reached into his purse, groped about for a moment, and then tossed a couple of silver pennies on the floor in front of me. The foxy man laughed out loud. It was a calculated insult. Trouvères might well expect to receive discreet gifts from satisfied lords, but to throw the money on the floor, as if rewarding a tumbler for turning somersaults, or some beggarly street musician, was worse than a slap in the face.
I bowed a second time and, ignoring the money glinting in the dirty rushes at my feet, amid the discarded animal bones, the dog hair and ancient grime of the hall floor, I turned my back on my three tormentors and walked out of the hall.
‘What an extraordinary fellow!’ I heard Prince John croaking loudly in his harsh voice at I approached the great oak doors. ‘Did you see that? He turned his back on me. I ought to have him flogged.’
‘He’s from serf stock, you know,’ said Murdac loudly. ‘No breeding, no manners.’ I stumbled slightly over the threshold, longing to be out of earshot. ‘An outlaw too,’ the little shit-weasel continued. ‘That was before he was pardoned by your royal brother. I had him in the cells once for his misdeeds but the slippery villain wriggled out of there somehow. Escaped ...’
And I was through the door, and out into the huge courtyard of Nottingham castle. My legs were faltering beneath me and I found a stone mounting block to sit upon and, under scowling leaden skies, I slumped down and closed my eyes, hoping to wipe the shame and embarrassment from my mind. I concentrated on images of Sir Ralph Murdac begging for his life, tied to the rack, bloody and screaming for mercy, and was just beginning to feel slightly better when I heard the patter of running feet and opened my eyes to see a poorly dressed servant boy standing before me, panting and holding out one hand with the palm flat. On his palm were three greasy-looking silver pennies.
‘Sir, be-be-begging your pardon, sir, but this is your silver,’ said the boy.
For a moment I wondered if this was some fresh humiliation, dreamt up by Murdac and his new royal master. Then I looked again at the servant boy, at his earnest face and shabby clothes, his outstretched hand trembling slightly, and I knew it could not be. He was a fairly good-looking lad, about 11 or so, well-made and tall for his age, with light brown hair and brown eyes. I stared at him for a few moments and then said brusquely: ‘You keep it, boy.’
He looked distressed. ‘But, sir, it is your money. The prince gave it to you. A roy-roy-royal gift.’
‘I do not care to receive it,’ I said shortly. And then, realising that my public shaming had not been his fault, and that there was no reason to be unkind to him, I smiled: ‘Buy yourself something in the market, a pie or two, or get yourself a good new knife ...’ He looked doubtful and I wondered if he was perhaps slow in the head, but suddenly I did not have the patience for him any longer and so I sat back on my stone block, closed my eyes and returned to my dark thoughts.
‘Please excuse my im-impertinence, sir,’ said the boy, breaking in on a delightful reverie in which Murdac was dangling by his thumbs over a pit filled with snakes. I opened my eyes; the boy was still there, but