Outlaw by Angus Donald Read Free Book Online

down to pick up the tray. And then I burst into tears.

Chapter Three
    It seems incredible, now as I look back, that I had the nerve as a beardless boy to join in the private carolling of my master, the murderous outlaw Robin of Sherwood, and his lady. But I believe that my actions were inspired by God, for I know that He loves music. And, as events proved, it was one of the most important performances of my life. In fact, if I had not forced my harmonies on my master, my life would have taken an entirely different path.
    I stood there, weeping like an infant on the threshold and holding out the tray of food, until Robin opened the door fully and ushered me into the room. So then I set the tray down and, drying my eyes, I looked around the candle lit chamber. Sitting on a ledge by the window was the most radiant, transcendently beautiful woman I have ever seen - and I have bedded many a lovely wench in my time. But, that night she . . . she was perfection, a living angel. She looked like paintings I have seen of Mary, the mother of God, but a little younger. She was dressed simply in a long bright blue dress, embroidered with gold thread, and a white headdress, which flowed from a silver band around her forehead, above a perfect heart-shaped face. She smiled at me and my own heart gave a lurch. Her hair, a coil of which peeped out from under her headdress, was a glossy brown, the colour of chestnuts fresh from their casings. Her eyes were innocent, happy and blue, like a cloudless summer sky.
    It was a plain room, as you would expect in a farmer’s house deep in the countryside, but far grander than any I had been invited into before: a comfortable-looking four-poster bed, with the curtains tied back, and a chamber pot on the floor underneath, just showing; a table strewn with sheets of music with a bowl of fruit pushed to the back; two wooden chairs and a chest for clothes. That was it. It smelled of beeswax and warm wine, honest sweat and old wood: the smell of an old much-loved spade’s handle; and the merest whiff, a spike of scent, from the chamber pot, filled by a woman, by this gorgeous woman. I was, in that instant, drowned in love.
    Compared with the homely austerity of the room, Robin seemed to be magnificently dressed. Gone was the shabby grey travelling apparel of the day; in its place - a peacock. He was resplendent in a brilliant emerald green satin tunic, buttoned at the neck and wrists, with a wolf’s head embroidered in gold and black on the chest. His long legs were clad in tight black hose and ended in pointed dark green shoes of kidskin. His hair was combed and his face and hands were clean. It was a remarkable transformation from the shaggy outlaw dispensing justice in the church.
    As I cuffed away my tears, Robin poured me a goblet of wine and bade me sit in the chair at the table.
    ‘May I present my lady Marie-Anne, Countess of Locksley,’ he said to me. ‘And, my darling, this is Alan Dale, the son of an old friend, who has newly joined our strength.’
    ‘You have the voice of an angel,’ said Marie-Anne and smiled at me with those huge happy blue eyes. She was truly lovely, about eighteen, I’d have guessed, and in the full bloom of her looks. Robin drew his chair up beside her and, entwining his hand in hers, looked at me.
    ‘You sing just like your father,’ said Robin. ‘I thought you were he when I opened the door.’
    ‘You knew him well, sir?’
    ‘Yes, he was a good friend to me many years ago. We had many a happy evening making music together at Edwinstowe. But I could not match his skill, the way he had - that you clearly have - of pitching the notes so pleasingly to make harmony.’ He smiled at me, and then frowned. ‘But you said “knew”. Does he no longer live?’
    I dropped my gaze. ‘He was hanged, sir. The sheriff’s men came . . .’ Suddenly the tears were pressing at my eyes again and I could not go on. I was determined not to cry again in front of my master, so