to Hanno’s snores?
I unpacked the vielle, feeling a little discouraged, and with very little ceremony I launched once more into the first verse of ‘My Joy’. Again, there was no response, not a sound from either a guard or royal prisoner. Dispirited, I began a listless rendition of the second, the royal verse. And then it happened.
A light showed at a tiny window at the top of the tower; a little spark of good cheer. I stopped playing, dumbfounded. It couldn’t be, it couldn’t be …
And then I heard a voice: not strong, nor particularly tuneful, the voice of someone only just awakened – but familiar, very familiar, and it made the skin all over my body pimple like a plucked goose’s flesh. The voice sang:
A lord has one obligation
Greater than love itself
Which is to reward most generously
The knight who serves him well.
It was Richard. I had found my King. And he had remembered, and sung back to me, the verse I had written so long ago, to remind him of his debts to Robin.
I had tears stinging my eyes as I struck the strings of the vielle for the final verse: and I sang it in unison with my lord, my captain, my King, his voice growing in strength with every note.
A knight who sings so sweetly
Of obligation to his noble lord
Should consider the great virtue
Of courtly manners, not discord.
When we had finished, there was a long silence. My throat was too choked to speak. And finally, I saw a pale face at the window high up on the tower, and a royal voice called out: ‘Blondel, Blondel, is that truly you? Or are you some night phantom sent to taunt me in my misery?’
‘It is me, sire. It is Alan Dale. It is truly me, and we – myself and my lord abbots Boxley and Robertsbridge – have come to accomplish your freedom. Take heart, sire, your friends are close at hand.’
At that moment, something flashed in the corner of my eye. Purely out of instinct, I moved back half a step as a shining steel sword blade slashed past my face, missing my nose by a quarter-inch. If the blow had landed, it would have hacked straight through my skull, killing me for sure. But, God be praised, I was young then, and very fast. I dropped the bow and turned to face my attacker with only a frail wooden vielle in my hands. He was a tall, very thin man, taller than me by half a foot, and he was not slow either. And suddenly I knew him. He was the man I had seen beside the fire with Prince John, at the siege of Kirkton six months ago. I had no time to reach down for my misericorde, but my beloved musical instrument was enough to deflect the next strike; a lightning lunge at my heart. By God, he was quick! Holding the instrument by the neck, with the sound box towards my enemy, I caught and deflected his sword as it flickered towards me – and what a sword: a long, slim blade, chased with gold, a crosspiece decorated with ropes of silver, and a large blue gem, a sapphire, I assumed, set in a ring in the centre of the silver pommel. I saw all this in an instant, and at the same time, my vielle swept up and to the right and pushed the magnificent blade safely past my body. I riposted instinctively; hours and hours of training in the strike. And if the vielle had been a sword, my counterblow would have killed him. As it was, the blunt end of the vielle’s round body smashed into his face with enough force to crush his nose and send him staggering back. I fumbled at my boot top for the dagger; I needed steel for this work, not frail wood. He looked angry and surprised as we circled each other. I watched his sword arm, waiting for his next move and trying not to think of how much I wanted to own that lovely blade, but my hind brain was shrieking another warning: one that I could not at that moment decipher.
I had the misericorde in my left hand and the vielle in my right when he attacked again; a scything diagonal back-hand cut with the long sword aimed at my head and coming fast from my right-hand side. I swept up the vielle and the sword crunched into it, leaving me