Hood

by Toby Venables

  De Percy drew closer. “I know what energies you have spent in Hood’s pursuit. What his capture and his escape meant to you. We wish only that you, with our aid, see this task to its ultimate end, in whatever way you see fit. In pursuit of it, we can put as much wealth and resources at your disposal as any king can muster. A deal more than some, I dare say.”

  Gisburne frowned. “Do you begin to see yourself as king now, Sir Richard?”

  De Percy tensed. His horse stamped in response. “We have a king,” he snapped. “And his return is assured. Until then, we do what we must.” He leaned towards the dark figure. “I am loyal to King Richard, but loyalty is not enough, in these troubled times. We must also show strength. If we reveal ourselves, the guardians of the North, unable to deal with one common outlaw, well...”

  Gisburne nodded slowly. “Be careful you do not appear so strong the King takes you as a threat, Sir Richard. The Lionheart has spent a lifetime crushing those he did.”

  “And doubtless he will return to that task. In France. He has made his feelings about our damp island plain. But we... We remain to make the best of it. These are our lands. And we will not let our hard-earned birthright go.” He leaned forward again, his hands pressed on the pommel of his saddle. “Let me put this to you another way, one I know you will appreciate. Hood’s army is growing. The people already sing of him as their champion. One clear victory, and every empty-bellied peasant who feels himself wronged will flock to his cause. And then the trickling dam will break. We would face open rebellion. Civil war. The whole of this fragile, leaderless kingdom would fall into chaos.” Gisburne’s expression shifted again, and he pushed home his advantage. “Fight him. Your own way. As only you know how. Defeat him at last, as you did Tancred de Mercheval in the northern islands...”

  Gisburne’s brow furrowed at the mention of the name. “How do you know of that?”

  “I know many things, Guy of Gisburne. I know that you care for the order of this realm. That you alone can prise this grub from his tree. And that you are not a coward...”

  Gisburne stared at him for a long time, and de Percy knew, finally, that he had him—that in this moment, he had won over the barons, too. “Do it, Sir Guy,” said de Percy. “If not for us, then for the kingdom. For justice. For order.” It did not matter that he and Gisburne were enemies. It did not matter that de Percy himself only half-believed what he had said. What mattered was that he was asking Gisburne to do the one thing the man desired above all else. As de Percy’s father had been fond of saying during the Lenten fast: “Most men find it easy to resist anything—except the things they want.”

  “Justice!” came a scoffing voice. Roger de Montgard urged his horse forward. “I hear you have turned your hand to protecting common peasants, Gisburne. That you helped a murderer escape the noose out by Farleton not two weeks past. Is that what you call ‘justice’?” His eyes flicked at de Percy and away again. “Perhaps the trouble is, you yourself are a little too much like Hood.”

  A group at de Montgard’s back muttered agreement. De Percy fumed—but it was Gisburne who beat him to the response.

  “The man was not a murderer,” he said. “I spoke for him, not because he was a peasant, but because he was innocent.”

  “Innocent?” said de Montgard. “He shot an arrow through the heart of a tax collector from the upper window of his cottage. In broad daylight, no less! And now he’s free. Free to run and join the other troublemakers in Sherwood, who make outrages like this a daily occurrence!” There were cheers this time.

  “If there’s one thing that proliferates during a famine, it’s enemies of tax collectors,” said Gisburne, then shook his head. “That man shot no arrow.”

  “Two men witnessed him at the window,” insisted de Montgard. “One saw him draw and shoot with his own eyes. And there was a longbow found in the house.”

  Gisburne turned fully to face him. “Damn near every house in England holds a bow. And the arrow entered the body not from a high angle, but straight. It was shot by someone standing upon the ground, not the window.”

  “And the man who saw him draw?”

  “A liar. One who had been in dispute with the accused man in the past; very likely himself the murderer.”

  “By what authority do you assert such a thing?”

  “By the authority of common sense. Have you ever tried to shoot a longbow from a cottage window, Sir Roger? Have you even set foot in such a place? If you had, you would know what his judges plainly did not—that such an act is impossible. That damned bow was six feet long. The ceiling by that window was barely five-feet-and-a-half high and the dormer no more than three wide. These are not castles with high ceilings and arrow slits; one could no more shoot a longbow from that window than send a horse down a rabbit hole.”

  “Fa-doodle!” sneered a voice in the crowd. De Percy recognised the mannered tones of Simon de Shirburn. “Are these the same jongleur’s tricks you employed in London when Hood led you a merry dance and gave you the slip?” The speaker—and several around him—snorted at the jibe.

  “You of all people should know I speak the truth, Sir Simon,” said Gisburne. He did not even bother to look in the knight’s direction. “It is by the same trickery that I know you grew up in just such a cottage. The castle in your own demesne has high lintels, yet when I saw you last in Nottingham I noticed you duck your head each time you pass through a door. You have done well to hide your humble origins, but some habits are hard to break. Good of your late father to acknowledge his bastard, though.” One or two laughed at Sir Simon’s expense, but there were rumbles as well.

  “Enough!” roared de Percy, shocking the assembled men into silence. “This bickering is pointless. We know why we are here. What we want.” He eyed Gisburne. “What we all want... We await only Gisburne’s word for the deal to be struck. Then we can all be free. Well, Gisburne, what do you say?”

  Then the one thing happened for which de Percy was not prepared.

  “I say no.”

  For a moment, de Percy did not grasp his meaning. “No?”

  “I am done with Hood.” Looking around, the rain pattering more heavily against his horsehide coat, he added: “And you could have asked me this in a tavern.”

  De Percy stared, dumbfounded, as Gisburne started to turn his horse around.

  The lords began to mutter, all eyes once more on de Percy. He felt his head throb. His neck grew hot. Suddenly, it seemed this meeting, this night, everything he had planned—his entire future—was slipping away from him. His mind racing, De Percy rode forward, blocking Gisburne’s path. “Done with him?” he said, with a dry, humourless laugh. “How can you be done with him? How can you not see this to its end?”

  “Because it’s what he wants,” said Gisburne. “I am done doing my enemy’s bidding.” And he began to manoeuvre his horse around de Percy’s.

  “You’ll not leave here, Gisburne!” called de Montgard. De Percy turned and saw the old man advancing, sword drawn. “If we can’t deal with one pest tonight, we might as well rid the world of another!”

  Others now drew their swords as de Montgard, just yards from Gisburne, raised his blade... then suddenly stopped.

  It was a sound that had stayed his hand, that made them all stop dead, in frozen silence.

  It was, of itself, unremarkable: the sound of one leather-clad hand clapping against another. Slowly, languidly. What marked it out was that it came not from the gathered company, but beyond, from the trees.

  III

  “EXCELLENT!” CALLED A reedy voice. “A fine night’s entertainment!”

  De Percy saw Gisburne’s face register the shock of recognition. All eyes now turned towards the distant speaker—and from the shadows at the edge of the forest walked a dozen or more horses. As de Percy clapped eyes on the rider in the midst of them, his jaw fell slack.

  Prince John, circled by twelve Norman mercenaries, dressed for war.

  “Not fled to France, as you see. Well, n
ot just yet, anyway.” There was a buzz of consternation among the assembled nobles. The Prince looked drawn and tired, but nonetheless managed to muster his customary smirk. “You must pardon the intrusion, but I thought it the opportune moment to announce myself. Do please put that sword away, Sir Roger, before someone gets hurt.”

  De Montgard gaped, his blade drooping. William de Mowbray flapped, as if he was trying to speak. John waved a dismissive hand. “No, Sir William, before you say it, I was not invited. But you cannot imagine I take no interest in what goes on in my own lands—especially when my brother’s Great Council seeks to boot me off them.”

  “This is Gisburne’s doing!” hissed de Montgard, finally finding his voice.

  “No, it was not Gisburne who told me,” said John. “Formidable as his talents are, they are no longer put to work for me.” He looked momentarily pained. “All the better for him, things being what they are. But you may thank me later for saving your life, Sir Roger.”

  “Thank you?”

  “Had I not interceded, and had you made your attack on Sir Guy, you would undoubtedly already be dead.”

  De Montgard glared at Gisburne. “Other blades would have followed mine. But for you, he would not have left this glade alive.”

  The Prince narrowed his eyes. “I wouldn’t bet on it, Sir Roger. And I am quite the betting man.” He broke his horse away from the escort and rode forward through the assembled barons, eyeing their swords, still drawn against each other. “It would seem your alliance is more fragile than you thought, Sir Richard. That’s the trouble when loyalty is freely given. Even my trusted Sheriff, William de Ferrers, has seen which way the wind is blowing and defected to the other side. That is why, on the whole, I prefer to pay for loyalty—although there have been one or two exceptions...” He drew close to Gisburne. “You are well I hope, Sir Guy?”

  “I could be worse. And you?”

  De Percy marvelled at the familiar manner with which this dishevelled figure addressed his Prince, as if the two were equals.

  Prince John gave a weak smile. “I could be better,” he replied. “Well, anyway... Here we all are. I confess I’ve always wanted to know what my loyal barons get up to at night.” He turned his horse about, as if surveying them, then looked back at Gisburne. “I also wanted to know what your answer would be.”

  “You came all the way out here just for that?” said Gisburne.

  John smiled. “I’m often hearing stories that my pleasures are perverse. But it’s enlightening to know how one is regarded, is it not Sir Guy?” He turned back to the barons. “I also wished to look upon your happy faces one last time before departing for France—to know better what lay behind them. And that, I believe, I have done. Something to bear in mind for when I return, which I shall.” He narrowed his eyes, then broke into a smile again. “Anyway... Since it is such a bitter night, and since Gisburne is not taking up your offer, perhaps we can all now return to the comfort of our beds?”

  “My lord,” pleaded de Percy, “we need him...”

  “You have his answer. I have no say in the matter.”

  De Montgard snorted dismissively and muttered something about having “no stomach for a fight.”

  As little as a week ago, none would have dared do such a thing in John’s presence, but circumstances were making them bold.

  “I would trust Sir Guy’s judgement on this matter, Sir Roger,” said John, tersely. “And with regard to my stomach for a fight—if it is mine to which you refer—you will not be surprised to learn that I differ greatly from my brother. When Longchamp was cowering in the Tower, I knew I had only to wait. So my army did nothing. They sat and ate and drank in comfort. A good day’s work, for them. None were injured, none died. Their bellies were full. My brother, the great warrior general, would have thrown them at the impregnable walls and wasted dozens of lives. Doubtless it would have rooted out Longchamp in the long run and been hailed as a great victory. But that is not my way. Much as I enjoy extravagance, I also abhor waste—as should you, in these straitened times.”

  De Percy’s anger welled up. “Gisburne would do it if you told him to.”

  John smiled. “My, but you’re a saucy fellow, de Percy... We’ll have to keep an eye on you. Perhaps he would; but I have released him from my service. And I am a man of my word.” A mix of laughter and disapproval erupted at his claim. “To those I respect, at any rate,” added John above the commotion.

  “Your word?” grunted de Montgard. “You’ve broken your word to half the men here!”

  “Well, there you have it...” said John, and smiled. The laughter died; the grim mutterings did not. John pressed on. “The fact of the matter is that Gisburne is now his own man. Who else here can say that?”

  De Percy had thought he could, until just moments ago. The evening had begun with him basking in the hard-won respect of his peers, brimming with confidence—in control. Now, all was in tatters. He brought his horse close to Gisburne again, his voice little more than a whisper. “I don’t understand. You know you can do this. I see it in your eye. It could bring you wealth, success, respect—yes, even among those here. It could make you a man of influence. A man others would fight to know. All that is yours for the taking...”

  Gisburne looked past him. “It is not whether a man can, Sir Richard, but whether he will.”

  And with that, he turned his horse and rode back into fog and darkness.

  IV

  The village to which no roads lead

  February, 1194

  MICEL STARED AT Hood’s beaming smile and saw nothing behind it. The outlaw’s big hand clapped him roughly on the shoulder, then those teeth—the whitest Micel had ever seen—flashed in the bright sunlight, and Hood turned and strode with fierce energy along the ranks of archers waiting their turn to shoot at the butts.

  There were more fighting men here than Micel had ever seen. They were looking less like outlaws now, and more like soldiers. He was not party to Hood’s grand plan, but one old man-at-arms who had seen service under King Henry spoke of it as preparation for war. He knew the signs, he said. Micel felt a strange thrill at it, and saw Hood’s eyes blaze as he surveyed them. But it was a cold fire, and the thrill knotted his stomach.

  Behind Hood’s left shoulder walked the monk, Took. At the other, the cutthroat Will Gamewell—who they called “the Scarlet.” Both were feared, if for quite different reasons. Behind them walked John Lyttel, and at his heels trailed Micel—now known to all by the name Hood had given him, Much. Lyttel had taken on the mantle of Micel’s protector since the boy’s arrival, and Hood had never ceased to find amusement in the odd pairing, with their ill-fitting names. “Lyttel understands Much, and Much understands Lyttel!” There were seemingly endless variations upon this theme. That John Lyttel was no longer greatly amused by these quips was plain to see; these days, he did not even pretend to smile. Now, the big man’s head was bowed, and even from behind, Micel could tell his eyes were fixed on the ground. Micel worried about him—about his fate. He wanted to throw an arm about the big man, laugh and cajole a smile out of him. But somehow, in spite of everything, he lacked the will.

  “Extra rations of the Prince’s venison if you get all three arrows within the garland!” Hood slapped the nearest man on the shoulder as he passed—hard enough to almost knock him off his feet. But the man beamed. The rest gave a hearty cheer, and urged on those who were shooting with renewed vigour.

  Micel felt his heart lurch at that cheer, and he understood, more keenly than ever, that he was alone. A failure. It seemed the harder he tried to serve his master, the harder it became. Sometimes he envied the others their unquestioning faith.

  It had all been so simple when Robin Hood’s band was a distant, seemingly unreachable goal. An ideal. It was easy to love him then. But then the dream had become reality; the ideal, a real man. As Micel had drawn closer to his idol—revelling, as everyone did, in the man’s ability to inspire all around him—that vision had begun to blur. As t
he ideal faded, so other unwelcome details came into focus: the sweat on his shirt, the blood beneath his nails.

  Then there was the occasional look in Hood’s eye, beyond the heroic defiance. To Micel, it looked like cruelty, though it had not once been directed at him. After the escape from the Tower, Hood had even afforded him the greatest honour possible, admitting him to his inner circle; had given him the mark, shared only by the most trusted: Took, Lyttel, Scarlet, O’Doyle... and Marian. He looked at the crude tattoo upon his wrist—the snarling head of a wolf—and itched at it. Why he had been so honoured, he was not certain. A couple of those Hood kept close had fallen from favour of late, so perhaps he was looking to the future. Ensuring a supply of fresh blood. Whatever the reason, his master had shown him such favour that to disappoint him seemed, to Micel, the worst thing imaginable.

  Lyttel had been some help at first, but not now. The big man had been withdrawn of late. Micel had no idea now what went on in that shaggy head, and, in truth, he feared finding out.

  No. It was his problem—his failing—and he would fix it alone. These were challenges to be overcome, like those God had sent to His most devoted, to test them, and he would serve Hood to the end. Apart from anything else, Micel yearned to recapture that heady thrill he had once felt when he looked upon his master. It was, perhaps, the one thing driving him on. He wondered if Christ’s disciples underwent such struggles. Thinking so was a help to him.

  Hood stopped before the rock that marked the far edge of the village, and turned and turned again, as if looking for somewhere else to go; but there was nowhere, except back again. Along the same ranks of archers. The gleaming smile faltered, and gave way to a flicker of explosive rage, as fingers flexed into claws. It was fleeting, but in that moment Micel felt he was looking upon a terrible beast pacing the limits of its captivity. Hood drew his leather gloves from his belt and slapped them against his palm in irritation.