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the dark, while you were fast asleep, and you managed to swiftly dispatch him with, what, a nail-paring knife?’ he said as we walked out of the bright sunlight of the courtyard and into the dimness of the hall. It was strange to hear him pay me a real compliment without teasing me.
    ‘It was a fruit knife, actually,’ I said.
    Robin waved my correction away. ‘I always knew that you could weave a good heroic chanson, Alan, I didn’t realise that you wanted to be the hero in these tales, as well.’ He grinned at me. The mockery was back in his voice.
    ‘Well, since I was asleep on your bed, and as a result was mistaken for you, my lord, I felt that a little heroic behaviour was expected of me.’
    Robin laughed. ‘Your flattery is shameless. You know better than anyone how far I am from being a hero.’
    ‘All those excellent songs say that you are, my lord, and so it must be true,’ I said with a grin.
    He gave a snort of laughter and then abruptly stopped smiling and drew me over to the long table in the hall, where we both sat down. Playtime was over. ‘So tell me,’ he said, all seriousness, ‘who was he, and why was he trying to chop me into cutlets?’
    ‘There is a very large price on your head,’ I told him soberly, ‘very large indeed.’ I paused. ‘It is a hundred pounds of weight in pure German silver, and it is being offered by our old friend Sir Ralph Murdac.’
     
    There was a long silence at the table while Robin stared at me, his bright grey eyes boring into mine. It was a staggering amount to offer for one life, more than enough to allow a man to live in comfort for his whole span on Earth and still to have a large inheritance for his sons and a fat dowry for his daughters. It was more than the whole manor of Westbury was worth.
    ‘So the little viper has come out of his hole,’ said Robin. ‘Go and get Little John, Owain, Sir James and Tuck, then you’d better tell us all the whole story.’ I stood up and handed Robin the letter from the King, which had been burning a hole in the breast of my tunic all morning. He broke the royal seal on the parchment and began reading while I went to pass the word for his closest lieutenants.
    While we waited in silence for Robin’s top men to assemble, I noticed Robin looking at me curiously.
    ‘What on earth are you wearing on your head?’ he asked. ‘You look like a procurer of loose women.’
    I bridled a little; I was wearing a new sky blue hood that I had bought in London. It was made from the finest wool, soft as a baby’s cheek; it was embroidered with tiny flakes of gold in the shape of diamonds, red woollen stars and had a long plump tail that dangled over my shoulder like a pet snake. It was the height of city sophistication, the smart London hood-maker had assured me, and I treasured it. I didn’t deign to reply to Robin’s question and ten minutes later, Little John, Sir James de Brus, Owain the bowman, Robin and I were sitting at the long table, with mugs of ale in our hands. ‘Tuck is in the churchyard, burying the dead fellow,’ John said. Robin nodded and said nothing. He visited the little church of St Nicholas, at the southeastern foot of the castle, only when it was absolutely necessary, when not to go would be very strange. And I knew why: in his heart, Robin was no Christian. A brutal priest who tormented him while he was growing up had given him a deep hatred for Mother Church, and though he was bound by solemn promises to go on this Great Pilgrimage, he had no room in his soul for Our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ. As shocking, as downright evil as this must seem to you, the reader of this parchment, for some strange reason Robin’s men accepted his lack of faith. Or pretended to be ignorant of it. They loved him and followed him despite the fact that he was clearly a damned soul.
    ‘By the Baptist’s bleeding bunions, that was good work last night, youngster,’ said Little John, jerking my thoughts back to the