Hood

by Toby Venables

  Richard snorted. “Well, I took his advice to heart, clearly.”

  “You murdered him.” Gisburne thought he heard another sound from the shadows. Something like a gasp. Well, let them send him to Hell if they wished. He had given them every excuse.

  “There is no murder in war,” said Richard, his manner disconcertingly matter-of-fact. “His loyalties were in question; he knew what to expect. If he’d kept his opinions to himself, he’d still be alive.” He shook his wet shoulders and looked up at the night sky. “But we’re wasting time, and I am being rained on. Here’s the nub of it: all the resources I have are at your disposal, and while I will never acknowledge this arrangement openly, whatever reward you desire can be yours. Gold, land, a wife, all three. Name it.”

  “You know that I stood before an assembly of barons not two nights ago who brought me the very same offer?”

  “I know it.”

  “Then you also know that I refused them. That their riches left me unmoved.”

  “But you will not refuse me.”

  “What makes you think so?”

  Gisburne prepared himself for the predictable response. Because I am your King. But it did not come. Instead, Richard sighed and turned towards the shadows. “Sir Robert?”

  Gisburne heard the clank of spurs. Into the feeble moonlight stepped Sir Robert Fitzwalter—and for the second time that night, Gisburne stared in disbelief.

  Fitzwalter—and his daughter Marian—had been a constant feature of Gisburne’s childhood. They had taken the trouble to visit him when he had been training in Normandy under Gilbert de Gaillon, and when he had returned home to see his parents, they had been there then, too. Though he did not know if it had ever been spoken of, at one time it seemed that Marian was the natural match for him—one both he and his father had dreamt of.

  Then came the rift. When Richard turned against his father Henry II, intent on wresting the crown from the Old King, John had remained loyal. Fitzwalter had declared for Richard, but Gisburne’s father—a loyal servant to Henry and participant in the young Prince’s Irish campaign, and a man perpetually worried about his precarious fortunes—had aligned himself firmly with the King. It had proven to be his undoing. Not only had it brought to an end his long friendship with the more prosperous Fitzwalter—and the dream of a union between the two families—it had given Richard all the excuse he needed to seize Gisburne’s lands when the crown became his. Gisburne’s father, destroyed by events, had died soon after—and so it was that in that one moment, both Gisburne’s past and his future had been utterly swept away. Until, at his lowest ebb, a chance encounter with an outlaw had led him into the company of John.

  Though he had maintained contact with Marian in the years that followed—for all the fading dream had been worth—not once had he stood face to face with Sir Robert. Now that he did, he felt not anger—that had long ago burned out—but shame. Not because of a pointless feud, and not because of his service to the rebel Prince; but for his failure to save Fitzwalter’s cherished daughter from her fate.

  “If you will not do it for your King, then do it for me. For Lady Marian—or the memory of her. You will know that no word has been heard of my daughter since she was taken by Hood’s men. No ransom has come; no threat, nothing. She may already be dead. But I will do my damnedest to prove otherwise and return her to safety, or at the very least see the perpetrators of this vile act brought to justice. Help me do this.” Fitzwalter’s voice cracked with emotion.

  This, Gisburne found harder to refuse.

  In spite of their differences, Gisburne had always regarded Sir Robert as a paragon of strength and constancy. When he was growing up, he had seemed somehow impenetrable. A giant. Seeing him now, in the depths of a despair that he fought to contain, he seemed suddenly small, and old. What made Fitzwalter’s words pierce him to his core, however, was the knowledge that Marian was not only alive, but one of Hood’s most fanatical followers. Only by the most strenuous of efforts had Gisburne kept secret the fact that she had also been instrumental in Hood’s bloody escape from the Tower.

  “There is one thing I would take in payment,” said Gisburne.

  “Name it,” replied Richard.

  “Restore the good name of Gilbert de Gaillon. Have his body taken from its pauper’s grave and given a proper burial, with all due honours. Have a mass said in his name, an effigy carved. Make sure his story is told, that people know and think well of him.”

  After a long pause, Richard nodded in agreement.

  “Then I will go to war for you, this one last time,” said Gisburne. “But I cannot do it alone.”

  “You have your pick of my army,” said Richard.

  “I don’t need an army, just a half-dozen fighters. But I choose them myself. They must be paid handsomely. And there’s to be no argument about my choices. No interference or questioning of my methods.”

  “There will be none.”

  “And I need six weeks to prepare.”

  “In six weeks I will have arrived in England. It must be done before then. You have a month.”

  Gisburne sighed, and nodded reluctantly. “A month. But know this: when unleashed, this war will be total. No half-measures.”

  Richard’s eyes glinted with satisfaction. “That is as it should be. When you’re done, bring me his head. And his right hand. He has a distinctive scar upon it.”

  “I do not lop off body parts of my enemies,” said Gisburne. “That is what the Red Hand did, and I am not him. Even Hood is deserving of greater respect.”

  “Then what assurance will I have that you have succeeded?”

  “My word,” said Gisburne. “And the songs that the poor folk will sing of his death.” Richard’s eyes narrowed. “I do this my way. You either trust me or you don’t.”

  Fitzwalter drew out a heavy purse, and tossed it towards him. It landed with dull thump in the mud at Gisburne’s feet. “That is my pledge,” he said. “There is more. But that will get your fighters together.”

  Gisburne picked it up the purse. He stood for a moment, staring at the sheen on the wet, muddy leather and marvelling at the sheer weight of the thing. It had to contain a fortune in gold. Already a plan was starting to form.

  He breathed deep. In spite of everything—of all he had said—anticipation of what was to come was changing him as he stood. It was a chance, after all, to put things right. Not the matter of Hood—Hood was just a detail. But all the others. All he had neglected, or let slip from his grasp. He knew precisely where this quest needed to start, and his heart pounded at the thought of it. He felt alive again.

  “Well done, Gisburne,” said Fitzwalter, for a moment sounding like his old self. “You are now in the service of King Richard of England.”

  II

  WAR

  VIII

  Dover Castle

  16 February, 1194

  MÉLISANDE DE CHAMPAGNE placed her palms upon the cold stone battlement and looked out across the crimson ocean, the distant coast of France just visible in the early evening haze.

  “Are you sure we are supposed to be here?” she said. She was rather pleased how utterly naive she made the question sound.

  “Oh, fear not, my lady,” said her companion, puffing himself up a little more. “The Constable of the castle—Sir Matthew—and I are very good friends.”

  It did not surprise her for a moment that Sir Jocelyn of Streynsham and their host, Sir Matthew de Clere, were friends. Such creatures, in her experience, flocked together.

  “I thought you might appreciate a glimpse of your homeland, since you are so far from it,” he continued. “A magnificent view, is it not?”

  “Indeed.” Mélisande flashed a bland, pleasant smile. A cold wind whipped across the parapet; she shivered and pulled the thick, emerald-green cloak closer about her. “How clever of you to arrange it.”

  Sir Jocelyn beamed at her words, thrust his chest out a little more, and looked about him as if the view itself were all his o
wn creation. She did not fail to notice, however, how his eyes darted in her direction, and did not always come to rest on her face.

  Well, let’s give him something to look at, then. Throwing her head back a little, she turned her slender body slowly around, his furtive glances sliding about her as she moved. She was not looking at the view, however—no more than was her fatally distracted escort—although she made it appear so. She was looking at the castle itself. From the outer curtain wall below them, to the sheer walls of the great keep, she took in every detail—assessing, counting, measuring.

  Dover, the jewel in Old King Henry’s crown, was the most formidable fortress in England; the first line of defence against invasion—both royal palace and impenetrable stronghold. In truth, she had wanted for years to get up onto these ramparts and survey its defences. Once, it would have been in the service of King Philip of France. Now, that allegiance was at an end, but the urge remained. So, when dear Sir Jocelyn had suggested it in the hopes of impressing her out of her chemise, her initial eagerness had been impossible to hide—a fact that had clearly delighted him, and furthered her cause all the more.

  She could not entirely blame the man for his interest. It had been with the express purpose of finding a suitable husband that she had come to England again—or so she told herself. That, after all, had been her father’s final wish for her.

  It was not hers, by any means. But she had been defiant all of her life, and had paid the price. Now, if she could just put one thing right...

  The trouble was, with her father dead, the protection of the family name gone, her inheritance nonexistent and even her King turned from her, there were few among the nobility who looked upon her as marriageable. All they saw was a tarnished reputation, and an uncontrollable woman. She had many admirers—she had never wanted for those—but none, now, who would pledge their troth, none who were prepared to accept her as she was.

  Well, one, perhaps; but a formal gathering of those most fiercely loyal to King Richard was the very last place she would find him.

  As ever, she had determined to make her way despite her circumstances. Free of her duties to King and Country—carefree, but with precious few resources and little to lose—she found her restless mind occupied by new challenges, new opportunities. Opportunities of which her father certainly would not have approved—the most recent of which had occurred to her only in the last few excruciating hours. There was, after all, far more gold within Dover’s walls than these idiots could put to proper use.

  But first, there was the issue of good Sir Jocelyn.

  “One question...” she said, almost sing-song this time. “Where are the guards?”

  “I had them remove themselves. With our host’s full accord, naturally. So we may enjoy greater privacy.”

  Privacy. She felt her stomach churn. Oh, God...

  The wind gusted again, as if in response to the thought, tugging at her wimple. She firmed the gold circlet upon her head. “Do they not need to keep a watch for invasion?” she said, managing, this time, to sound like a lucky guess from an empty-headed idiot. “I have heard that Prince John is even now in France, seeking support from his friend, King Philip.”

  “Please, my lady,” chuckled Sir Jocelyn. “Such talk makes enemies of us, and that is the very opposite of what I would wish.”

  Mélisande smiled sweetly, dropped her eyes, then looked back out across the sea, idly wondering what pattern would be made upon the stonework if she were to vomit over the parapet.

  “To answer your very pertinent question, my lady,” said Sir Jocelyn in his most reassuring, masculine tones, “the men atop yonder towers have their eyes upon the sea.” He loomed in a little closer. “And they have strict instructions to keep them fixed there...”

  Oh, Christ. Mélisande girded herself for what was to come. At that moment, she heard a curious, muffled clank of metal against stone. It seemed to come from a crook in the battlement, where the projection on which they now stood met with the main inner bailey wall. She slid sideways in the hope of getting a better look—just as Sir Jocelyn, who evidently had not heard it, chose to swoop. Instead of soft, feminine lips, he met empty air. It was all Mélisande could do not to laugh at the sight of him.

  “I was sorry to hear about your father,” he sighed, with all-too-obvious impatience.

  Mélisande inclined her head in recognition of his sympathy, devoid though it was of any trace of feeling. Then he smiled to himself—a wicked kind of smile that unnerved her. “Is it true what they say about him—that he abducted your mother when she was a nun, and forced her into marriage?”

  “Regrettably, yes.”

  “Oh, do not regret it, my lady. It is part of your heritage. Why, you would not even exist, had he not acted thus, so we can hardly wish it undone.” He licked his lips and smiled. “Do you suppose such traits run in families? I believe they do. Look at your own escapades...”

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Sir Jocelyn,” she said, her faux innocence somewhat slipping. She knew exactly what he meant, of course, and it did not please her. No more did the undisguised greed she saw in his eye, like a fox in sight of a chicken. She noted, without having to look, that his gloved left fist was twisting on his sword pommel. So here it comes, she thought, bracing herself.

  “Where exactly is ‘Streynsham,’ anyway?” she said.

  Suddenly, with all the speed of a predator, he was upon her—one hand about her waist, the other questing eagerly between her thighs.

  “Sir Jocelyn!” she exclaimed, and thrust the offending hand aside.

  “Come now, madam,” he breathed, his face barely an inch from her own. “You know well enough why you are here...” The questing hand fought to regain its place.

  “I come seeking a suitable match among...”

  “Marriage!” scoffed Sir Jocelyn. “You dressed as a man! Cavorted with thieves and mercenaries! Brawled outside a dockside tavern in a London street with your hair flying free! Even your own father rejected you when he heard of it! What nobleman would wish to marry that... But I bet you could show them a thing or two...” He leered closer still, onion and sour wine on his breath. Mélisande felt the stone battlement cut into her back. “You’re a woman of experience. I have heard that you spent time amongst the heathens in the East. That you learned a few nice tricks whilst there—the way the Saracens give favours...”

  Mélisande’s attention was no longer on Sir Jocelyn’s monologue, but on the shape emerging from the shadows behind him. “Oh,” she said, peering past her suitor’s looming face. “Hello, Gisburne.”

  Sir Jocelyn recoiled as if struck across the chops, and, whirling about, reeled again at the sight of Sir Guy of Gisburne standing fewer than three yards from him.

  “What the...? But how did you...?” Jocelyn’s sword, drawn with impressive speed, waved in the air, its point inches from the interloper. Gisburne—hooded and black as a crow—did not move. Sir Jocelyn, his boldness returning, squinted at the shadowed face. “Gisburne, is it? Why, you’re Prince John’s hound... What business have you here? Are you even invited?”

  “I need your help,” said Gisburne. “I have been called to war and am gathering fighters, the best I know. A small band to carry out a challenging and dangerous task.” He paused for a moment, then added: “It is by royal command.”

  Sir Jocelyn’s eyes widened. His wavering sword drooped. His face flushed, and a smile that almost became a laugh spread across it. “Well... I am... honoured. Pray, sir, let me...”

  “I wasn’t talking to you,” snapped Gisburne, and turned back to Mélisande. “Will you join me?” He stepped towards her, shoving the astonished Sir Jocelyn to one side as he did so.

  She saw Sir Jocelyn’s baffled eyes turn momentarily from Gisburne to rest on a shape in the shadows on the stonework: a grapple, sheathed in black, like a raven’s claw, hooked over the parapet. By the time he turned back, she could see realisation dawning.

  Then it happened.

/>   Perhaps, she flattered herself, it was sight of her that distracted Gisburne—though, in truth, this thought was more annoyance than delight; she had no desire to be his weakness. Perhaps he simply underestimated Sir Jocelyn’s martial skills; already she had noted the swiftness of the knight’s reactions.

  Whatever the reason, Gisburne did not hear Sir Jocelyn’s sudden move towards him. He did not see the sword pommel raised, nor did he anticipate the blow that dashed upon his unprotected temple. Gisburne’s legs crumpled beneath him, and in the next moment, Mélisande was again facing Sir Jocelyn alone.

  Why he had not already called the guards, she could not fathom, but seeing him preparing to rectify that fault, she stepped over Gisburne’s groaning form, her face fashioned into an expression of eager gratitude. As predicted, he lowered his guard. She drew close—inches from his face, now registering triumph—and grabbed him by the balls. His eyes bulged.

  “You want to know how they give favours to people like you in the East?” she hissed. Then she butted her gilded forehead into the knight’s face. There was a crunch of bone, and blood spattered down his tunic; the gold circlet had cut his nose wide open. As he tottered backward, his face a picture of utter disbelief, she deftly twisted the sword out of his hand, brought the pommel up under his chin and kicked him in the groin. He went down like a sack of grain. She stood over him, holding his own sword point at his throat. But Sir Jocelyn was done.

  It was almost dark now—a further blessing. There were no shouts of alarm. Behind her, she heard a shuffle, then an irritable grunt, and Gisburne rose unsteadily to his feet.

  “Was that supposed to be a rescue?” she said.

  “What were you doing up here with this idiot anyway?”

  “Jealous, Sir Guy?”

  Gisburne scowled, and she smiled sweetly in response.

  “It’s good to see you, too, Gisburne. I did have plans for the evening, but I suppose you’ll do instead.”