Hood

by Toby Venables

  Gisburne shoved Sir Jocelyn with his toe. “This was your plan..?”

  “No. Not him. He was just a means to an end.” She reached out and touched Gisburne’s face, then pulled away suddenly. “I was actually resigned to knocking him senseless long before you turned up.” She glanced down at the sprawled body. “I had an idea to do something here. Something grand, memorable. But it will wait. For now, it looks as if I am to join you in your war. I take it it pays?”

  “Handsomely.”

  “Good. I need it. My father left me nothing.”

  “But your brother...”

  “Hates me. I shamed him into a fight in front of his friends when I was eighteen.”

  “I take it, then, that you won?”

  She smiled a wry smile. “He was twenty-one and had been a knight for precisely three days, and I wanted to prove a point. He never forgave me.” With a great sigh, she hauled off her wimple and dented circlet and shook her hair free. “Well, I can at least be myself again, thank the heavens. Though you didn’t have to pick a fight to get to see me. Where have you been?”

  Gisburne side-stepped the question. “I didn’t pick this fight. It picked me.”

  Looking Gisburne up and down, she frowned, then reached out and pinched his arm. “You’re thinner.”

  “There’s a famine. Hadn’t you heard?”

  “Ask them down there, in the great hall. The poor may starve, but the tables of the rich are still groaning. You’ve been neglecting yourself, Gisburne.” She knelt by the insensible Sir Jocelyn. Out cold, not dead. He would come to in time. “Sir Jocelyn did you a great favour tonight. He had the guards removed from the battlement.”

  “That was indeed fortunate,” said Gisburne, “since you turned out to be up here and not with the guests below. I wasn’t expecting that.” He looked about him anxiously. “Nor to have to remain exposed up here for quite so long. We must move.”

  “Tell me, where did you plan to make yourself known to me? In the great hall? In my bedchamber...?” In the deepening darkness, she wasn’t sure if the expression on Gisburne’s face was a smile or another scowl. “Do you ever consider simply knocking upon the front gate and being invited in?”

  “I find it best not to rely on invitations,” said Gisburne. “I get precious few.”

  Mélisande smiled. “The guards were gone because I was here. But you’re right—we should move before someone in the tower neglects his duty and starts looking where he’s supposed to.” With that, she pulled open the deep neck of Sir Jocelyn’s bloody tunic and shoved her gold circlet inside.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Leaving something for Sir Jocelyn of Streynsham to remember me by. Now, pull down his hose and braies...”

  “What? Are you mad?”

  “Well, I’m not doing it. Quickly now!”

  With a shrug and a swift glance over his shoulder, Gisburne did as instructed. “‘Streynsham’?” he said with a frown, whilst fighting with Sir Jocelyn’s hose.

  Mélisande shrugged. “I have no idea.”

  Gisburne yanked down Sir Jocelyn’s braies and stood back, a look of slight distaste on his face.

  Mélisande regarded the stricken figure for a moment. “Well, it’s hard to see what Sir Jocelyn had to be so proud of.”

  “What will you tell them?” said Gisburne, nodding towards the great hall below.

  “Them? Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  She crouched, grabbed the hem of her bliaut—emerald green, to match her cloak—hauled it above her knees and tucked it through the belt at her waist.

  “What’s that for?” said a bemused Gisburne.

  “I need my legs free so I can climb down the rope.”

  “What?” he looked suddenly panic-stricken. “No, no, no... You can’t come with me.”

  “You don’t think I’m going back in there?” She drew a pair of green leather gloves from her purse and pulled them on. “You said you needed me.”

  “I do. But not now!”

  “Are you sure?” she said. “You needed me a few moments ago.”

  Gisburne glanced at the courtyard in nervous exasperation. “What about your entourage? Are you to leave them without a word?

  “You’ll find my entourage has dwindled as dramatically as my income. All my loyal servants have been dismissed. Just three now—chosen by my brother, and paid to keep an eye on me—and they have access to more coin than I. Let’s make them work for it...”

  “You don’t even know what I’m asking of you...”

  “You can explain on the way.”

  Gisburne sighed and looked about him as if for some alternative, but she knew he had already admitted defeat.

  “Now, quickly, before I scream.” She hurried towards the grapple.

  “Scream?”

  “For help,” she said, clambering without hesitation over the parapet. “Sir Jocelyn has assaulted me, remember? Robbed me. Perhaps even killed me. It’s time for the guards to do their work. So...” She cocked her head to one side, and nodded towards the distant ground, above which she now hung like a spider. “This is an invitation, Gisburne, and you receive precious few.”

  Gisburne’s booted feet swung over the battlement above her as she lowered herself down the great, blank expanse of stone into the dark of the advancing night. She thought she heard him mutter “God help me”—then she let rip with the loudest, most anguished scream that a wronged woman could muster.

  IX

  Ressons-sur-Matz, northern France

  21 February, 1194

  GISBURNE WINCED AS the big knight’s lance smashed against de Rosseley’s shield, sending shards of wood flying high in the air. The knights and retainers camped on the far side—now quite drunk—roared their approval, and fists were raised in triumph. Gruff oaths were bellowed out as de Rosseley turned his horse past their ranks and trotted back towards his attendants.

  The sweet scent of freshly broken timber wafted on the air, mingling with the smell of horse dung, human sweat, mud and ale. These last two had formed an unlikely union, thanks to a split keg whose contents had formed a big, yeasty puddle opposite—prompting several of the big knight’s entourage to begin a game whose sole object was to shove each other in.

  “What does that make it?” said Gisburne.

  “Even,” said the squire, not once taking his eye from the lists. It was the most he had uttered in the past half-hour.

  Each had now shattered one lance on the others’ shield—in theory, the highest-scoring hit, short of unhorsing your opponent outright—but on both occasions Gisburne had failed to note what the opposing lance had been doing. He vaguely recalled something about the points varying according to how far along the shaft the lance had been broken, or was that only when both lances were shattered on the same pass? He couldn’t remember. It seemed now that every tournament had its own arcane variation on the rules, usually made up that day by whoever was running the show, and not necessarily in the interests of either fairness or clarity.

  To be honest, his grasp of this scene had always been sketchy. It infuriated him. Despite having stood at the lists in attendance of Gilbert de Gaillon as a young squire, this world—in which people fought for pleasure, and according to arbitrary rules—felt utterly alien. Perhaps what really made him angry was his own failure to grasp it.

  De Rosseley was close now. Gisburne raised his head for a greeting, wondering if his old friend had spotted him standing there. But, as far as one could tell beneath the faceplate, de Rosseley remained aloof, his body language strangely still, as if concentration on the task at hand had shut out all else—as if hardly connected to his body at all. Gisburne knew that state, and envied him the ability to turn it on at will. Gaze fixed ahead, de Rosseley held out lance and shield to his attendant squires, even though to Gisburne they looked as good as new. Both were removed and replaced with such speed that their master’s hands barely had time to open and close before being filled again.

/>   His opponent—less patient than he—was already lined up for the final pass, and was roaring out some incomprehensible challenge. De Rosseley, however, would not be rushed. He walked his horse in a slow arc, affording the big knight no attention whatsoever. Gisburne could see how that infuriated him—even his horse seemed to stamp in frustration.

  The knight was enormous: a monster of a man on a monster of a horse. His destrier was Friesian, each black hoof as big as Gisburne’s face. The provenance of its rider, Gisburne could not guess. His armour was of decorated scales, in a Byzantine style. The blackened helm was Teutonic, with an ostentatious red plume upon the crown. The saddle had an Arab look to it. His shield—decorated with a red device that, to Gisburne, looked like a nun with a beak—was in a style he had never before seen: small and oddly shaped, and angled down the middle. The better to deflect a lance point, he guessed. And hanging from both the knight and his saddle were more weapons than Gisburne had ever seen on a single man: two fine swords, a variety of daggers, a short falchion, at least two maces, a flail and a long warhammer. These were just the ones he could see. Little wonder he needed a heavy horse for that lot.

  The contrast between the two combatants could not have been greater. Everything about de Rosseley was light and sleek, not least his horse—a Cremello stallion of Iberian stock, unusually slender for its type but well-muscled and swift and silent as a ghost.

  De Rosseley had barely signalled his readiness than the big knight was off—and at the first crash of its hooves, de Rosseley’s mount leapt forward.

  GISBURNE BIT HIS lip as they closed the distance. Worrying about de Rosseley’s long-term safety was and had always been futile, but right now he needed him alive, and uninjured.

  In the previous two passes, Gisburne had marvelled at how late, and how swiftly, de Rosseley lowered his lance. This time he was barely even aware of it happening. It struck dead centre of his opponent’s shield and with a great crack flew into three parts, two of which went spinning upwards, leaving puffs of dust in their wake. Gisburne winced at the impact, but de Rosseley rode on as if through dry grass.

  The big knight—whose own lance tip had barely clipped de Rosseley’s shield—reeled and swayed dangerously in his saddle. His horse pulled hard to the right, snapping him upright. Gisburne wondered if he’d been trained to do that; it was a good trick if he had. But it mattered little now; the knight had lost. As he turned full about, Gisburne saw that his shield had split completely in two down the centre, its flapping halves now connected only by their straps and the linen covering.

  Gisburne laughed, and clapped the squire on the shoulder. The young man gave a barely perceptible nod. Then, turning to look at the inscrutable young man, he thought he saw a fleeting frown.

  Looking back across the lists, he saw that the big knight had thrown down both lance and shield, and—still shouting furiously—was now drawing his sword. Gisburne guessed that wherever he came from, he wasn’t used to being bettered. It was only when the sword was raised in the air that he realised the knight meant to charge again.

  “He can’t do that...” muttered Gisburne, then turned to the squire. “Can he do that?”

  The squire said nothing.

  The big knight’s supporters roared. There was venom in it this time. They wanted blood.

  De Rosseley would simply leave the field. Of course he would. That would be the sensible thing to do. Or someone would intervene. He had won fair and square, and the unwarranted challenge obliged him not at all. He could leave now—honour, head, and limbs intact—and leave the blustering rutterkin listening to his own rant.

  But as Gisburne watched, de Rosseley threw down his own shield and what remained of his lance, and drew out a mace.

  “No, no, no...” said Gisburne. “What’s he doing?”

  The big knight lurched forward, sword drawn back. Gisburne could see he meant to pass along de Rosseley’s right side. From such a position, his blade—with all the force the big man could muster and the added momentum of his horse—could strike de Rosseley square across the neck. At best, his mail might stop the blade, and his head would not be taken off, but the blow would still kill him.

  As the crowd roared its approval, forwarded Rosseley advanced, mace held low by his right side, taking exactly the line that favoured his opponent’s attack.

  “This is madness,” said Gisburne. “His mace has half the reach of the sword. He cannot possibly...”

  Gisburne wanted to look away, but found he could not. The sound of the bloodthirsty crowd rose to a great animalistic snarl.

  In the heartbeat before they closed Gisburne had seen something odd. Keeping it low, so as to be barely noticeable, De Rosseley had passed the mace from his right hand to his left. Gisburne barely had time to ponder the seemingly absurd gesture before its significance was made abundantly clear. With the pair barely three yards from their encounter, de Rosseley pulled his horse hard across his opponent’s path. The big knight’s destrier, fearing collision, lurched violently. The knight faltered, thrown off balance. His blow never fell. De Rosseley passed along his opponent’s left—so close their stirrups clipped—and brought the mace up hard under the big knight’s chin.

  The black helm flew high in the air, plume trailing like the tail of a bird. The knight tipped back, swivelled, crashed down onto the mud and rolled over three times, limbs flailing, his many weapons strewn across the field.

  The squire turned, gave Gisburne the thinnest of smiles, then headed off to attend to his victorious master.

  “GISBURNE!” CRIED DE Rosseley cheerily, pulling the sweat-stained arming cap from his head and ruffling his matted hair. “What in God’s name are you doing here?” As he dismounted, the inscrutable squire took his horse; another darted forward with a page in tow and received de Rosseley’s helm, stuffed now with the arming cap.

  “Guy of Gisburne at tournament? It truly is the End of Days...” He strode forward, grinning broadly. Keeping pace with his master, the squire passed the headgear to the page, then did the same with the mace that was shoved under his nose. The page ran off with both and disappeared into the striped tent from which de Rosseley’s pennant flew. De Rosseley, meanwhile, unbuckled his belt and, without a glance, without breaking stride, held out his sword in its scabbard. This the squire kept for himself. Gisburne noted that once in possession of it, he strayed no more than three paces from his master, his arms folded about the sword as he cradled it against his left shoulder.

  De Rosseley laughed and slapped his arms around his old friend, then stepped back and took a long look at him. “God’s teeth, man, you look half-dead!”

  “I thought you entirely dead not moments ago,” said Gisburne.

  De Rosseley shrugged. “Looks can be deceptive.”

  “A principle that you seem to have worked to your advantage.” Gisburne nodded towards the lists where Sir Whatever-His-Name-Was—still out cold, or dead—was being attended by grey-faced squires.

  As he spoke, the page returned at a scurry, pewter jug in hand, and offered up a silver cup to his master. De Rosseley did not speak, did not even look, but simply stretched out his hand, closed his fingers about the cup and raised it to his lips in one unbroken motion. As Gisburne watched, once again entranced by the seamless operation of a knight’s entourage, he became suddenly aware of an identical cup hovering at his side, proffered by a second page. He took it with not half the elegance of his old friend.

  “Welcome to France,” De Rosseley said, “where they have the good sense to allow the Conflictus Gallicus.” He clanked his cup against Gisburne’s, and both drank. It was the finest wine Gisburne had tasted in months.

  “Fear not,” said Gisburne. “The tournament will return to England when Richard does.”

  “If he does,” sighed de Rosseley, and drank again.

  Gisburne was just about to follow this with some enigmatic comment when a raucous laugh from a party of knights nearby made de Rosseley turn, he regarded them with contempt
.

  “Look at these bastards,” he said, thrusting his drink in their direction. “Every time, they do this...”

  Gisburne looked, but all he could see was a group of well-to-do, unarmoured men enjoying some wine.

  “They sit out the preliminaries as if they’ve no intention of taking part in the mêlée. They avoid injuries, size up the fighters, look for weaknesses. They watch them wear themselves out in the joust and single combat. Then on the day of the melée, these trundle-tails suddenly declare their intent and pick off all who they know to be weak or injured.” He shook his head and snorted in disgust. “Vultures! It should be outlawed. In the joust they call lance-dodging ‘failure to present.’ You get thrown out for it. Ridiculed! But how is this any better?” He held out his cup. It was immediately refilled.

  “Well, you know my thoughts on the tournament...” said Gisburne.

  De Rosseley drank again—more irritably, this time—wiped his mouth and narrowed his eyes. “I’ll be honest, it’s making me uneasy seeing you here. Like bumping into a nun in a whorehouse.”

  “Do you speak from experience?”

  “Just a figure of speech, old boy. Well, come on, out with it... I know you didn’t set foot on a ship just to watch me joust. And you look like a man who’s ready to leave before you’ve even properly arrived.”

  Gisburne’s eyes flicked to the aloof squire and he lowered his voice. “I have come to ask if you would join me on a quest. A very important quest.”

  “What is it this time? The Ark of the Covenant?”

  “There is a wolf in the forest that must be put down,” said Gisburne. Then, realising he was talking in riddles, added, “An outlaw of my acquaintance.”

  “An outlaw?” said de Rosseley with a quizzical frown, “or the outlaw?

  “Yes. That one.”

  De Rosseley nodded slowly. “So, you’ve decided to finish business?”

  “Let’s just say it was decided for me.” Gisburne drew closer. “Listen Ross, I must be honest with you. This is not ritual combat; not a glorious contest. It is war, and our enemy is to be hunted down and put to death by any means necessary. I dare say there will be little honour in it, and I know that is not to your taste. But I need good fighters. Those I can rely on. It will be a hard fight, too. If we all come through unscathed, I may be forced to believe in miracles again...”