The Death of Robin Hood by Angus Donald Page B

misericorde, a dagger for close-quarter killing, and very lethal in the right hands; yet it was covered by the sleeve of my tunic and would not betray me as a fighting man, unless I was captured and searched. I loved that weapon – I can find no other word for it but love – it was sleekly beautiful and made entirely of oiled black steel in a cruciform shape, with a razor-like cutting edge and a needle point that could easily punch through the links of iron mail. The handle was a series of rounded cubes that fitted snugly into my right hand. It had been given to me by Lord Fitzwalter himself and while the very thought of the man, his treachery towards my comrades, the breaking of his solemn word, made my blood seethe, the touch of the cool steel against the skin ofmy wrist and its gentle weight on my arm gave me both the courage and strength to continue.
    The river was a dark snake before me, moonlight reflecting from the gentle ripples like a thousand silver scales, and I could see no sign of life on either bank, except for several hundred yards up to my right, where a dozen camp fires glowed. Suppressing a shiver, I slid down the muddy bank and with as little noise as possible, lowered myself into the water.
    God it was cold. The water soaked through my woollen clothes, weighing me down, sheathing me with its chill. I dipped my head under and smoothed the hood over my head and shoulders. I smeared a handful of foul-smelling mud across my face to darken my pale skin, then began to swim across to the far bank. I wanted to be as far from the campfires as possible.
    The swimming was surprisingly easy, for the current carried me naturally down towards the sea, and I lay on my back and made only a few strokes from time to time to keep close to the northern shore. As I passed the encampments of the enemy, I turned on my front, keeping my head low, only my nose above the water line, and watched the blundering of black shapes around the tents and heard the low laughter of sleepy men-at-arms and a snatch of a peasant song in Flemish. I saw the flare of light as a man threw a billet of wood on the fire. I drifted silently and safely past. My whole body was numb with the cold; it ate into my marrow and knotted the muscles of my back. I would have given a fat purse of silver, just then, to be sitting by that blaze, passing a jug of warmed ale, gnawing on a mutton chop and joshing merrily with my comrades.
    But my comrades were behind the tall shadowy walls, inside the great stone bulk of the keep that I could clearly see grey on grey in the moonlight, with, yes, little bars of jolly yellow candlelight beaming from the arrow slits. The bridge, what remained of it, was up ahead, ghostly ruins with a few stark uptilted timbers like accusingfingers pointing at the night sky. I swam a dozen swift strokes to the southern bank, fighting the tugging current that would have swept me past, and pulled myself on to a spit of muddy shingle. I lay there quiet for a dozen heartbeats, listening, watching, as my body began to shake involuntarily and my teeth clashed wildly in my head. Something splashed in the water behind me, a leaping fish or a night-hunting owl. I waited for a count of twenty, then stood fully upright.
    The wall of the outer bailey was forty yards in front at the top of a steep grassy slope. I saw the shadow of a sentry pass along the walkway. I considered trying to scale that wall but it occurred to me that I would most likely get a crossbow bolt in the eye for my pains, if I were seen. And the main gatehouse, the barbican, was up ahead, over a hump of land, beyond my view. If I could attract the attention of a sergeant, someone with a scrap of wit, I could identify myself and – I hoped, I prayed to God – merely knock at the small door inset in the massive gates and be admitted. That was the plan, anyway.
    I scrambled up the slight rise of the shoulder of land and looked down on to the flattish section of turf between the