The Death of Robin Hood by Angus Donald

mantel in my passion. ‘You must find the courage to go on, sir. A swift march, a dawn attack—’
    ‘You would do well not to question my courage, sir,’ said Fitzwalter, pulling his cloak free from my grasp. ‘I will hear no more of your wild talk. I command here. Not you. And I command you to quiet yourself and leave my tent this instant.’
    ‘Sir, those men in Rochester are my friends. Yours, too.’ I was trying to be reasonable, trying to find some lever that would move him. ‘Theyare loyal men of the Army of God. And you gave your solemn word that—’
    ‘Get him out of here,’ Fitzwalter said to someone beyond my shoulder and before I knew what was happening, a powerful grip shackled my chest and my thighs. My feet left the ground and I was bundled like a bag of dirty laundry out of the tent by two huge knights.
    Outside the flap, I picked myself up – a pair of guards levelled their spears at me, while the two knights who had ejected me growled a warning, hands on their hilts. A dozen biting phrases came to my lips. I wanted to haul out Fidelity and throw myself at all of them. But it would have been useless and I knew it. So I said nothing; did nothing. I stumbled away, sightless, on unsteady feet, with a black cloud of despair descending. My task had been to bring Fitzwalter and his army to the relief of Rochester Castle and the salvation of my friends. My friends who were now trapped inside with several thousand of King John’s men around their walls.
    I had failed.

Chapter Eight
    Iwept then in sorrow for myself and my friends as I wandered through the camp back to my horse. I leaned my head against its warm flank and the tears ran down my cheeks. I could not for the life of me think what to do. I could not move Fitzwalter, I could not force this army to march. I did not wish to return to London and my lonely lodgings. I had half a mind to ride for the north to be with my son Robert and guard him if the King’s men attacked Westbury or Kirkton. But it would have felt like desertion. I could not just go home. I have rarely felt so directionless – but the plain truth was that my lord, Miles, Thomas, Mastin, the Westbury men, William d’Aubigny and all the good knights in Rochester were counting on me to come to their aid with a relief force, and I had failed.
    I have found that sometimes, when one is mired in despair, it is better to do something, anything, rather than to do nothing. So I slowly climbed on to the back of my mount and threaded my way through the camp. Even now, at dusk, it was stirring itself to leave, with servants bustling about, knights calling their squires, all seemingly eager to return to their debauchery behind the walls of London.I walked the horse over the shallow ford across the Darent and spurred out the other side in the growing dark.
    When neither I nor my beast could see, I tied the animal to an oak tree, just off the main road, and sat with my back to its rough trunk to think. It seemed the very least I could do was return to Robin and report this catastrophe; the garrison must be told that no help would be coming from London. And, to my surprise, I found a glimmer of hope in that. The usual conventions of war allowed a garrison that had no hope of relief to surrender with honour to a besieging force. Perhaps some deal could be struck; perhaps, if we renewed our homage to the King, swore to be his loyal men once more, we would be allowed to depart with our arms and return to our homes. In truth, I longed for peace, for Westbury, Robert and my own hearth. With that pleasant thought in my head, I fell asleep.
    The next morning, after breaking my fast with a heel of almost-stale bread from my saddlebag and a drink from a nearby brook, I set out once again: but not for Rochester. I pointed my horse’s head more to the south and began to make my way through the lush pasturelands below the Thames towards Boxley Abbey. I saw a few bands of mounted men from time to time,