Hood

by Toby Venables

  Doubtless, when Galfrid had stopped acknowledging these signals, he’d made it worse. But tonight all he really wanted was to sit in this corner and enjoy a quiet drink. Well, ‘quiet’ was impossible—the clamour in the place was enough to stir the dead in the neighbouring graveyard—but Galfrid could shut that out easily enough. Just as long as he was left alone, to drink himself stupid and forget about fucking masons for five minutes.

  The only reason he came here at all was because it was one of the few inns near the cathedral where masons and their apprentices never drank. He didn’t know why. Probably there was some dark reason for it—some omission or slight on the part of the landlord that had caused the place to be forever shunned by the masons’ guild. They were a bloody odd bunch at the best of times; and these were not the best of times.

  Galfrid’s current quest for alcoholic oblivion was inspired by an ongoing dispute between a pair of masons working on the cathedral. Relations had never been cordial between Master Godric and Master Hubert, but when Master Hubert had reported that three stone blocks bearing his mark had been stolen from the cathedral precincts, things were brought to a head. Galfrid, as captain of the watch, had expressed doubt as to whether anyone could have carried such weighty things out of the precincts without a single guard being alerted. He wasn’t even sure why anyone would try. When he had further suggested—quite logically—that the blocks had never left the cathedral, and that therefore—also quite logically—they had been moved by someone on the inside, Hubert had pounced on the idea, and pointed the finger at Godric. The old man was trying to discredit him, he said. At Hubert’s insistence, Galfrid then had the joy of examining every side of every one of Master Godric’s stone blocks for signs that Godric had ground out Hubert’s carved mason’s mark (a pentagram) and replaced them with his own (a fish) whilst the opposing apprentices glared at each other across the masons’ yard.

  All of which had left Galfrid not a little depressed. Not because it was proving difficult to untangle. It had been blindingly obvious to Galfrid almost from the first moment that the culprit was Hubert himself, and that he had stolen his own blocks and secreted them somewhere—if indeed they had ever existed—with a view to disgracing Godric. Nor because it was proving impossible to produce hard evidence of this—although that was indeed a problem. Mainly, it was because he was struggling to give a rat’s arse about any of it.

  It had not begun that way.

  The reasons were complicated. Galfrid was not what you’d call a religious sort—never had been, and probably never would be—except when he found himself in a cathedral. Then, he felt his soul come alive. It was not exactly an orthodox faith; he had no idea if it had anything to do with the presence of God, and to be honest, he didn’t much care. All he did know was that when he stood among the silent columns and gazed up beyond those soaring arches, he felt at one with the world. At these times, like no other, it all seemed to make sense—for if men could achieve this, he thought, they could achieve anything.

  Then he had spent three months in the company of the men who were achieving it, and their petty-minded squabbles had wrung all the wonder out of him. In fact, it was fair to say that he had come to regard masons with the same contempt that he had previously reserved for the clergy. All things considered, perhaps his choice of employment hadn’t been the wisest. He’d been lucky to get it, but he had no doubt that his luck would eventually run out—if he didn’t go stark raving mad first. Maybe it was time to move on. But where? And to what?

  The serving girl—she was thirty-five if she was a day, but in here, perpetually, a ‘girl’—protested as one of the party opposite slapped her on the arse. They guffawed. She swatted at Galfrid’s drunk friend, who made a big show of ducking as if terrified. They hooted and whistled.

  Galfrid called her over. Partly because his stomach was gnawing at him and he thought food would give him—and it—something else to focus on. Partly to get her out of the paws of those who were driving him to distraction. But it seemed somehow to break an invisible barrier between him and the soldiers.

  Galfrid saw his drunk, dice-losing friend crane his neck as the serving girl approached. “Oi Gal!” he called, trying to make eye-contact with Galfrid. “Gal! Oi! Oi Gal! Gal!” Clearly he thought the nickname, repeated relentlessly, utterly hilarious, to the extent that he collapsed into periodic fits of laughter. “Oi Gal! Gal!”

  The serving girl rolled her eyes. “What can I get you?”

  “Bread and ham.”

  “There’s ham, but no bread,” she said.

  Galfrid shrugged and then nodded. He just wasn’t in the mood to converse further.

  “Go on, luv,” called his drunk neighbour. “Give ’im one from us! ’E could do with some cheering up! Eh, Gal! Go on—he’s got a nice big staff!” This time, one of them laughed so hard that a stream of snot flew from his nose.

  “Do pilgrims do girls?” chimed another.

  It was a reference, Galfrid understood, to the pilgrim staff he carried, and which was now leaning against the wall behind his right shoulder. The girl rolled her eyes again, shook her head and left.

  “Ooh, not impressed,” commented his neighbour, and shrank in faux fear as she swept past.

  Galfrid drew his eating knife and stabbed it into the table top with a thump. This drew an “Oooh!” from the party opposite. It hadn’t been meant as an aggressive gesture, but if they were determined to take it that way, then let them. Still he studiously avoided eye contact; if he engaged, the evening was over.

  Then, as he stared down into his mug of ale, he became aware of a figure drawing closer. The girl, bringing his ham, or so he assumed—until she sat herself opposite him at the table.

  There was a buzz of excitement from those nearby. “Hullo! Who’s your friend?”

  Galfrid stared in disbelief across the rough tabletop at Mélisande de Champagne. “Do you just put up with that, these days?” she said, cocking her thumb towards the rowdy crew.

  “What in God’s name...?” He could not resist a laugh.

  “Who’s yer friend, Gal?” called his nosy neighbour. Another one called out “Galfriend!” More fits of laughter. “I’m not really sure we can say who’s the ‘gal’ here...” said the ringleader, and gave Mélisande a good look up and down.

  Galfrid leaned to one side and did the same: rough boots, riding hose, a man’s cloak, leather brigandine. A variety of knives. It was a far cry from the delicate, demure vision he had first encountered in Paris.

  “I see you’re not hiding your light under a bushel these days.”

  “No point,” she said, her voice hard but her eyes suddenly sad. “Those days are gone.” Her eyes slid sideways to the eating knife stuck in the table top. “You really shouldn’t do that, you know. If you break the tip...”

  “Yes, yes...” he raised both hands in protest. “Christ’s boots, you’ve hardly been here long enough to warm the seat...”

  Meanwhile, Galfrid’s gambling friend was leaning dangerously towards them. He pointed at Mélisande. “So, what is it?” he slurred. “A man with the manner of a woman, or a woman who dresses like a man?”

  “Which are you?” she shot back. Another “Oooh!” from the assembled men. He slumped back down in his seat, red-faced and momentarily chastened.

  “So, what the Hell brings you here?” said Galfrid.

  “I’m happy to see you too,” she said with a pleasant smile. “I understand you’re working for the Bishop of Durham, these days.”

  Galfrid shrugged and took a drink.

  “God’s hooks, Galfrid. The Bishop?”

  “I like cathedrals.”

  “But Hugh de Puiset is a vicious opponent of John’s—and one of the most dangerous men in the land.”

  “Also one of the richest,” said Galfrid, deadpan. He slurped his ale.

  “Until just a few months ago, you had been one of Prince John’s most trusted agents—and now, somehow, you’re in the employ of the Bishop of Durha
m, who also happens to be one of King Richard’s Chief Justiciars. How does that happen?”

  Galfrid bobbed his head from side to side. “I may have glossed over some aspects of my previous experience.”

  She leaned forward, lowering her voice. “That experience is needed.”

  “Needed?” said Galfrid, mulling the choice of words. “Do you need it? Or does someone else?”

  “There is a task left undone. In Sherwood.”

  “Sherwood...” Galfrid’s eyes narrowed. “Did he send you?” He scanned the dim interior, until finally his eyes came to rest on a familiar figure deep in the shadows. “Christ...”

  “Just listen...”

  “Not interested,” said Galfrid.

  “Galfrid...”

  “It was low of him to send you to do his dirty work.”

  “It was my idea.” She drew in closer. “And it is by royal command.”

  “Really?”

  She raised an eyebrow.

  “Then why does the Prince not command me himself? He knows I would answer the call.”

  “Not Prince John.”

  “Not...?” Galfrid frowned. If it was not Gisburne’s former master, then...

  “No, not the King of France either, before you ask,” she said. “But a king, all the same... Closer to home. Or soon to be.”

  Galfrid could only stare at her. “No. No that’s not possible.”

  Mélisande simply nodded.

  “Gisburne, working for... him?” whispered Galfrid.

  “He’s full of surprises.”

  A scrape of furniture against the boards alerted them that their neighbour was out of his seat. Galfrid saw him edging towards them as his fellows giggled in the background, his cheeks flushed, a stupid grin on his face. But it was no longer Galfrid he seemed interested in.

  “So, what is this strange creature?” he said, his voice low and husky, and he poked a finger at Mélisande’s sleeve. “Definitely real,” he said, shooting a glance back at his gang, who tittered. Mélisande did not turn, but Galfrid saw her fists clench upon the tabletop. The interloper prodded at her again. “Excuse me, Mrs Man...” His fellows chuckled uncontrollably. “Mrs Man...”

  “If that finger, or any other part of you, touches me again,” snapped Mélisande, “I’ll break it off.” The grinning idiot recoiled and yet another “Oooh” issued from his cronies. But then, to Galfrid’s dismay, he began to creep towards her again.

  “Don’t...” muttered Galfrid, as the finger extended once more, and jabbed at her sleeve.

  In the blink of an eye Mélisande grabbed his hand, bent the finger back until it snapped, then slammed his face into the table. He slithered to the floor, blood streaming from his nose and mouth.

  The whole place fell silent. Galfrid, his trusty pilgrim staff gripped in his hands, was already on his feet, but so too were the six—no, seven—men-at-arms. They stood, staring at each other across three feet of ale-soaked boards. No one was laughing now. Galfrid’s eyes darted to the shadow in the far corner, but the familiar figure was gone.

  “I see you’re still using that old staff,” muttered Mélisande.

  “Only a knight is permitted to carry a sword within the city walls,” said Galfrid.

  “I fear I may have broken that convention,” said Mélisande, and drew back her cloak to reveal a Byzantine blade with a gilded hilt.

  “My lady, when you walk in the door, convention goes out of the window.”

  If the gesture was meant to warn off their opponents, however, it failed. One—the biggest—drew a long dagger. The rest filled their hands with weapons—knives, two maces, a halberd that had been resting against the wall.

  The big man grinned a gap-toothed grin. “Seven against one-and-a-half. Looks like the odds are in our favour tonight.”

  “Not any more,” said a voice.

  The big man turned, and the nervous crowd hastily parted. There stood Gisburne, sword in one hand, seax in the other.

  Not wishing to waste the opportunity, Galfrid swung his staff and clouted the big man while he wasn’t looking. The man-at-arms went flying, his great bulk hitting the floor with such force the whole place shook.

  The interior of the inn exploded. Mélisande rushed forward before any could respond, driving her shoulder into a guard’s chest and swinging his mace about so it broke the nose of another. As customers scrambled for the doors and windows, the man with the halberd charged at Gisburne. He forced the blade upwards with his crossed weapons, letting its own momentum drive it hard into the beam, then stepped forward and cracked its owner about the temple with the blunt back of the seax before turning his attention to the second man with the mace.

  Another two of them, knives drawn, had Galfrid backed into a corner, where he couldn’t swing his pilgrim staff effectively. He raised one hand to the top of the staff and twisted until it clicked, revealing a concealed sword blade, and their resolve faltered. As one of them stepped back, Mélisande’s foot thrust hard against the back of his knee and brought him crashing down. She wrested the knife from his hand as he sprawled, and drove it through his palm, pinning it to the boards.

  The other looked at Galfrid on one side and Mélisande on the other, the howls of his companion ringing in his ears, and knew he was outmanoeuvred. “Come on, then!” he cried, spit flying from his lips, his blade shaking in his hand. “Come on!” The knife whipped around, glinting in the dim lamplight as the pair circled him. “You’ll not take me, not without me taking one of you. Which one’s it gonna be, eh? You? Or you? Even then, you’ll not be safe! Not from the bishop! Oh, no! ’Cause after me, there’ll come others. Yes, after me...”

  A thrown mace bounced off his forehead, bringing the tirade to an abrupt halt. He folded into a heap at Galfrid and Mélisande’s feet as Gisburne stepped into the arena.

  “Let’s get out of here,” he said. All looked up as a distant horn sounded; someone had alerted the city guard. “Fast...”

  As they headed for the door, Galfrid hesitated. “Wait!” He ran back inside, pulled his eating knife from the tabletop, then—after a moment of thought—crouched over the groaning drunkard still lying among the ruins, nursing his broken finger and crushed nose. “Don’t do it again,” he said. Then, after rifling in the stunned man’s poke, he dashed for the door, flipping a silver penny into the serving girl’s hands as he passed. “Sorry for the mess.”

  They ran until they could hear the cries and the sound of the horn no longer, then leaned against a dank wall in a dim side street, panting and laughing. Galfrid felt the pounding in his head and chest—the grazes, the cuts, the bruises. For the first time in weeks, he felt truly alive. He caught Gisburne’s eye—then remembered himself. His laughter died away.

  Gisburne turned to face him. “Help me get Hood,” he said. “Fight with me one last time.”

  Galfrid stared hard at his former master. There was passion in the entreaty, but he would not do it for him—not just like that. Then he looked at Mélisande, saw the pleading in her eyes and felt himself nod in agreement. Mélisande threw her arms about him, hugging him in delight. Over her shoulder, he caught sight of Gisburne’s face, half in shadow.

  “Many miles have been travelled to reach here...” sighed Gisburne with a smile of satisfaction. “Now, we’re complete.”

  Galfrid held his gaze. He did not return the smile. “I will fight to the last, just as I ever did. But do not think this undoes what has been done.”

  XIV

  Clippestone Royal Palace, Sherwood Forest

  15 March, 1194

  ALDRIC WAS THE first to arrive at Clippestone.

  It was the afternoon of the fourteenth—one day before the company was due to gather—when the guard called Gisburne to the gatehouse battlement. Through the haze of driving rain, heavy drops drumming against the horse-leather of his hood, he saw the lone figure of Aldric trudging up the gritty path, wrapped like a pilgrim and with a huge, heavy-looking bag over his back. Gisburne ordered the gates
to be opened and his guest, pale and soaked to the skin, mud-caked to his knees, plodded in. He looked like he had been sleeping rough—and, thought Gisburne, was not very good at it.

  “You win, damn you,” whispered Mélisande in Gisburne’s ear. It had been she who’d suggested placing bets on who would be first to arrive. Gisburne had gone along with it; it helped to distract from the foreboding that had clouded his mind for the past few days. Those days here with Mélisande—away from the eyes of those who might judge them and temporarily free of responsibility—had been idyllic. But the very preciousness of the time had only served to trouble him further. He had fought the feeling, and pushed it as far down as it would go. But some things, he knew, would not stay buried.

  De Rosseley had been Mélisande’s choice—the clear favourite, she felt—and she had scoffed when Gisburne had nominated Aldric. But Gisburne understood Aldric’s situation. He had nowhere to go and few funds to buy a bed, and these days food was scarce even for those of moderate means. By Gisburne’s reckoning, if Aldric made it at all, it would be early, and he would not wait before knocking.

  Gisburne sat him by the fire, where he ate and drank eagerly and rapidly returned to life. Even when engrossed in his meal, however, he never let the bag leave his side, nor allowed anyone but he to touch it.

  Asif appeared later that night, also on foot. The rain had held off for an hour at most, but Asif somehow had managed to stay almost completely dry—and had also reached the main gate without the guard seeing or hearing him. Gisburne smiled to himself. It was little wonder the city fathers of Jerusalem—Christian and Muslim—had so valued his services.

  Gisburne suspected Asif had been travelling under cover of darkness for at least part of his journey; a wise precaution, in these troubled times. Although bereft of sleep and left leaner by the past ten days, he carried it better than Aldric. In extremis, thought Gisburne, the training always showed.