Hood

by Toby Venables

  Many carried bows. On their belts were edged and blunt weapons of all kinds, each according to taste. And there were helms of all descriptions—some worn, some carried.

  Gisburne cut straight to the meat of the matter. “Some of you know each other, some do not. But over the next few days, we will all get to know each other much better. Our lives may depend on it.” He happened to catch Galfrid’s eye as he said this, then looked swiftly away.

  “You have all brought arms and armour. Good. Aldric, Ross: I note you have no bows. You will need them. What you do not have, the armoury here can provide.”

  “I prefer the crossbow,” said Aldric.

  Gisburne smiled. “The last person to tell me that was Richard the Lionheart.”

  Aldric frowned at that. “I have my own,” he added, as if anticipating protest on Gisburne’s part. “I made it myself. And it’s a match for any bow.” He looked around, suddenly aware that all eyes were on him.

  Gisburne nodded. “If it’s what you know, then use it. Just as long as it’s up to the task.” He stepped forward, and looked Aldric up and down. The short-sleeved haubergeon—which showed signs of repair where Gisburne’s own crossbow bolt had struck it over a year before—was of excellent quality, and the sword at his side was keen and well-fashioned. But as for the rest... Gisburne put his hand on the top of Aldric’s helm and wobbled it from side to side.

  “Hey!”

  “The lining is shot,” said Gisburne, then poked Aldric in the chest with a finger. “And that gambeson is barely thicker than my grandfather’s shirt. You’re not a guard on a battlement now.”

  “It’s all I had,” said Aldric defensively.

  “To the armoury. Galfrid will help you find what you need. Galfrid?”

  The squire grunted his assent.

  Gisburne turned then to Mélisande. “Is this what you call ‘dressed for battle’?”

  “Not exactly,” she said—then she pulled off the cloak and flung it upon the wet grass. “But this is.”

  Asif gasped, but even Gisburne was taken aback. In the past, Mélisande’s fighting gear had been minimal and discreet—designed to blend in, to keep her hidden at night. Those considerations were now cast aside. She was clad in a hauberk and chausses of blackened mail with bronze detailing around its edge, over which was belted a surcoat of green, a gilded Byzantine sword at her waist.

  Many times Gisburne had seen her wear armour and ride and fight like a man. But none here had ever seen a woman dressed so entirely in the manner of a knight.

  “Is that strictly legal?” said de Rosseley, clearly conflicted on this point.

  “I think we are beyond such considerations, Sir John,” said Mélisande.

  Galfrid gave a gruff chuckle and pointed south. “The law ends five miles that way,” he said. “And if you’re heading into it, you’d best go prepared.”

  “Here is how it will be,” continued Gisburne. “Half the day, we train. The other half, we hunt.”

  “Hunt!” exclaimed de Rosseley, rubbing his hands in delight.

  “After today, we eat only what we hunt or forage for ourselves.”

  “There’s deer and boar aplenty in the forest,” said Aldric. “Wild rabbits, too. On my way here a stag came within ten yards of me, bold as you like.”

  “What of the Lenten fast?” said Tancred.

  “Do as your principles dictate,” said Gisburne. He gestured to the lake. “In the waters of the Great Pond, roach and pike abound—perfectly acceptable Lenten fare. There are bows, there are arrows, there is twine. And, at the end of the jetty, a boat. But know this: if God has chosen you for this task, then he also wants you strong for it.” He thought for a moment, then added: “More importantly, so do I.”

  De Rosseley slapped a hand on Asif’s huge shoulder. “Well, you have one advantage, my Saracen friend. Your conscience is not troubled by Lent. Tell me, does your religion permit you to eat boar, or does that count as pig?” Several among the company chuckled.

  Asif shrugged. “If it looks like a pig, and sounds like a pig, it probably is a pig.” And with that he lurched forward with a great grunt, causing de Rosseley to recoil. Asif led the laughter this time; de Rosseley reddened, unused to having the tables so roundly turned upon him.

  “Fasting be damned, I say,” said Galfrid. “The people of England have done fuck-all but fast since last Michaelmas—and it’s been an age since I tasted venison.”

  “But they are the King’s deer,” said de Rosseley. “It’s hanging or a flogging to take them.”

  “We have royal dispensation,” said Gisburne.

  Each looked at the other—some with bemusement, others with delight. “Consider it archery practice,” he said. “But keep in mind what our ultimate prey will be.” He turned and paced before them. “Why do we carry bows, Aldric Fitz Rolf?”

  Aldric shrugged. “Because Hood’s men do so.”

  “Exactly so. And if they see us, they will shoot us—so learn how to hide. They certainly will. They are animals of the woods, now. Not game, but wolves—for so they style themselves. And that means they bite. So accustom your eye, and if you see them, shoot first and deny them the pleasure of making you their prey. And if we should encounter them on horseback, I hardly need to remind you that your horse needs to be as ready for the fight as you are.”

  He turned to de Rosseley. “Ross, you are to be tutor for all matters of the horse and related combat.” De Rosseley bowed, happy to accept that mantle. “All except the longbow. On that, Asif shall be your schoolmaster.”

  Asif looked at de Rosseley, both equally bemused, then the Arab turned to Gisburne with a frown. “Are you su—?”

  “Completely. Ross, we both know you’re terrible with a bow. And Asif is the best there is. We can all learn from him.”

  “The Saracen way?” said de Rosseley, with a hint of mockery in his tone.

  “I can lower myself to shoot the European way, if need be,” said Asif, then gave a broad grin.

  De Rosseley looked the hulking Arab up and down. “But can you raise yourself to the level of one of our horses?”

  The laughter was at Asif’s expense this time, and Gisburne smiled. It felt good at last to be doing, rather than endlessly thinking, planning speculating. Gisburne knew he could lose his doubts in simple, day-to-day tasks—even if those tasks meant deadly danger. And part of him, he began to realise, craved that too.

  Even as he thought it, he looked at Mélisande, and something gripped him inside. He pressed on.

  “For hiding in plain sight or moving undetected, let Lady Mélisande be your guide. And when it comes to turning a fight to your advantage, without the advantage of size and strength, no one knows better.” Mélisande bowed in imitation of de Rosseley, who chuckled—partly out of disbelief, partly out of sheer delight.

  Gisburne began his pacing again. “We will all spar with each other. Starting today.”

  “Even him?” said Mélisande, and nodded towards the distant figure of the Norseman who looked on, cool and impassive. Such a constant presence had he become that Gisburne had forgotten him.

  “Never mind him,” said Gisburne. “As far as the rest of you go, I want everyone to spar with everyone. Everyone...” He eyed Galfrid. “We must all learn from each other. Get to know each other.”

  Galfrid’s gaze slid to Tancred, his expression resolutely grim. Gisburne had not singled out Tancred, although his skill with a sword surpassed anyone he had seen. There was only so far he could push. They would see it; they would learn. Even Galfrid.

  “Everyone is different. Embrace those differences. They are why you are here. Work to your strengths. Look for the weaknesses. Sometimes our differences can get us killed.” His gaze lingered for a moment on Asif. “But here, they may be what keep you alive.”

  XXI

  ON THE FIRST day, the lesson was archery.

  “No, Sir John,” said Asif, yanking de Rosseley’s arm about. “Grip it. Grip it! It is a bow, not a bottle o
f wine.”

  “Dammit!” said de Rosseley, fighting to get the bow into the position Asif indicated.

  “Think of it as a poisonous snake,” said Asif. “Hold it firm. Yes, better!” Then he slapped the knight’s forearm. “But angle it. Like this. Or the snake will bite.”

  De Rosseley began to draw.

  “Do not aim!” said Asif. “Just look... And do not...”

  But it was too late. The moment the string touched de Rosseley’s cheek, he had released it. The arrow whipped past the bowstave. De Rosseley gave an exclamation of pain—and the arrow sailed past the target’s top left corner and glanced off the top of the earthen butt to land who-knows-where.

  “No, no, no...” Asif stepped forward, shaking his head. “You’re rushing.”

  “Last time, you said I was too slow,” said an exasperated de Rosseley.

  “Too fast, and you do not focus on your target. Too slow, and you think too much. And you do not pluck the string, Sir John. You release it. You are trying to kill a man, not play a tune.”

  Mélisande and Aldric stifled their sniggers.

  “All right, all right,” sighed de Rosseley, glaring at both. “I told you I was no archer.”

  “And the string—it hit your wrist, yes?” said Asif. He was making the most of it.

  “Yes...” said de Rosseley, irritably.

  “A bow is like a lady, Sir John. Fail to show it the proper respect, and you are likely to get slapped.”

  Aldric laughed aloud at that one.

  De Rosseley fumed. “It’s all right for you, with your damned crossbow!”

  “But his damned crossbow is hitting its target, whilst you—you are now being killed.”

  “Aldric,” said de Rosseley. “Pass that here, would you? At least I might have a chance with it...”

  “No,” said Aldric, and clutched the crossbow to him. “No one must touch this...”

  “All right, all right...” De Rosseley, for whom failure was his most hated enemy, found this excruciating. “Tell me honestly,” he said. “How bad am I?”

  “Honestly, Sir John?” said Asif, “I could do better throwing a stone.”

  De Rosseley held his gaze for a moment, then stooped, picked up a stone the size of a small apple, opened the Arab’s palm, and slapped it in. He waved towards the target.

  There was a moment of expectant silence among the gathered company as Asif regarded the missile, and turned it about in his hand. Then he suddenly whipped his arm around, and the stone flew and thwacked against the dead centre of the target. There was an “Oooh!” from the audience. De Rosseley gave a reluctant smile and clapped his hands slowly.

  Asif turned back to the whole company. “There is nothing magical about a bow, nothing mysterious. It is a stick of wood and a string. What makes an arrow find its target is in here”—he tapped his forehead—“and in here.” He tapped his chest. As he spoke, he drew out a short knife from his belt and flung it towards the target. It struck the edge of the gold in its centre.

  “Many things may be turned to the same purpose,” he said. “Even things you would not expect.” And he drew from his bag the large, sharpened ring of flattened steel.

  “What the devil is that?” said de Rosseley.

  “I acquired it in Aqaba from an old man with a turban the size of a goose. He called it a chakkar. He had brought it from the East.”

  “I thought you were from the East?” said Aldric.

  Asif smiled. “You will find that even the East has an East.” And he snapped his hand like a whip, sending the disc ringing through the air. It embedded itself next to the knife.

  He turned back again. “How do I know a stone will land where it does? Or a blade? Or a lance point?” Here looked at de Rosseley. “I don’t know how. I just know. I look at where I want it to go, and there it goes. We all of us know this.”

  Asif walked towards the weapons rack, talking as he went. “So re-acquaint yourselves with the bow. Get to know it—its limits, its tolerances. How it may be used, and how, perhaps, it may be cheated.” He chose a lance from the rack and turned to them again. “But always remember what you already know.” He held out the lance to de Rosseley. “Try this.”

  With a smile, the knight hefted it, found the balance point, drew back, and hurled it. Its point drove straight through the straw target’s centre, tearing it clean off the butt as its weight pulled it to earth.

  Asif nodded approvingly. “Now, he is not killing you.” And with that, he spread his arms wide. “You see? We all know, from childhood. From throwing a ball, or a stick. We just have to allow ourselves to remember.”

  ON THE SECOND day, de Rosseley got his revenge on Asif. It came with the startling discovery that the Arab hated horses.

  “I never really rode in Jerusalem,” he protested, struggling to heave himself into the saddle, a lance gripped awkwardly in one hand. “There was rarely the need. And anyway, the saddles were different.”

  “But I have heard you speak of Aqaba, Tyre and Acre,” said de Rosseley. “How did you travel? Did you walk? Were you carried? Or did you travel in a wagon like a woman?”

  “I can ride perfectly well!” protested Asif. He made another attempt at hauling himself up, got half way, and gave up again. “It’s just getting on and off... And I am certain our horses were lower.”

  “Try this,” said de Rosseley, and signalled to a stable boy, who ran forward and put a stool by the horse’s flank. “It’s normally for young boys and old men, but, you know...”

  Asif teetered on the stool and put his foot back in the stirrup, pulling on the cantle and pommel so hard that the whole saddle began to skew—at which point the grey stallion decided that enough was enough, and walked off.

  Asif hopped three times on the stool as he watched his other foot, stuck in the stirrup, drift away from him, then overbalanced and fell backwards, arse first, into the mud.

  “A horse is like a lady,” said de Rosseley. “Fail to show it the proper respect and... Well, you get the idea.”

  The grey stallion walked around behind the prostrate Asif, and gave the Arab’s head a sharp nudge with his nose.

  “Ow!”

  “He’s checking to see if you’re still alive,” said de Rosseley. “He assumes the reason you’re on the ground is because you’re wounded. I’ve seen horses drag their masters from danger at times. Not sure this one is quite prepared to render that service yet...” Asif sat up. The stallion snorted in his face, then wandered off.

  De Rosseley rode around Asif a couple of times. “You’re lucky you didn’t impale yourself on that lance, too,” he said. “Normally you’d get in the saddle first, then have someone pass it to you. But I admire your ambition. Anyway... You seem to have dropped it...”

  Then he urged Talos forward, and spoke a barely audible command. Talos dropped his head, clamped his teeth about the centre of the lance shaft, and lifted it up. As de Rosseley leaned forward, he turned his head and the knight took it from him. “Work with a horse, and it you’ll find it can be far more to you than just transport.”

  And with a broad smile, he turned and left Asif sitting in the mud.

  XXII

  OVER SUBSEQUENT DAYS the company tested themselves, one against the other, each taking their turn as schoolmaster.

  Galfrid showed them how to use a bowstave as a weapon. Tancred demonstrated sword moves that even those experienced in the art had never before seen—while Galfrid looked on with detached cynicism. Aldric showed them how to improvise deadly weapons from the most unlikely of resources.

  De Rosseley became a reasonable archer, and Asif a fair horseman.

  And Aldric Fitz Rolf even began to overcome the obstacle that had dogged him these past two years, thanks to his sparring with Mélisande.

  “You think you cannot fight well because of your injured shoulder,” she said. “I can see it. But you just have to fight a little differently. And fighting differently is good; it is an advantage. Training develops refl
exes, but it also breeds habits, patterns. Introduce surprises, and your adversary’s own patterns may be his undoing. That is how Tancred wins. How Hood outwits his enemies.”

  He lunged at her with a knife. She sidestepped and grabbed his left arm, twisting it, and he froze, helpless.

  “Fear is your first enemy,” she said, her face close to his. “You fear this shoulder will fail you. You try to keep it from harm, hold it back, and I see that. So I target it.” She released him. He stood back, flexed his left arm and straightened his tunic. “Don’t give your enemy such a gift. You may spare your shoulder only to lose your life.”

  She stood ready for a fresh attack. Aldric crouched, dagger at the ready. “You know Gisburne also has an injured left shoulder?” she said.

  “Gisburne?” said Aldric. He swiped at her. She saw it coming and dodged back. “I see no sign of it.”

  “Precisely my point.”

  “How bad?”

  “He almost lost his arm at Hattin.”

  “Gods... He was there? I had no idea.” Aldric tried a feint, then brought the dagger swiftly up, but Mélisande did not fall for it.

  “He keeps it to himself. The injury, too.”

  “Does it trouble him much?”

  “Every day,” said Mélisande.

  Aldric brought his hands together, shook his shoulders, then lunged at her with his right arm. She caught it, pulled him forward and locked it in a tight hold. Only then did she realise his right hand was empty. The knife was inches from her throat, in his left hand.