The crown of his helm smashed into the Norseman’s teeth. He staggered backwards, the axe—now useless—still tight in his grasp. A warrior’s instinct: never let go your weapon. But Gisburne did not stop. He drove his opponent backwards with the flat of his shield, sending him stumbling in great awkward strides that could not hope to save him, till he overbalanced and fell, full force, against the rough wooden rail at the edge of the gallery platform. The rail gave way.
The Norseman sailed out into the void, eyes wide, still doggedly gripping the axe. Gisburne fell forward onto his shield, stopping just short of the brink, his head—heavy with the helm—hanging over the cavernous space below. He had a clear view of the pagan as his legs turned over his head and with a horrid thud he stopped hard, face down on the stone slabs. By some fluke, the axe flipped back up in the air and came down, blade first, in the back of the Norseman’s skull. It stood perfectly upright for a moment, then began to topple, turning the dead man’s head as it did so, until he stared with empty eyes at Tancred’s infernal device.
As Gisburne struggled to his feet, his helm twisted, obscuring his vision. The buckle had broken. He threw down his shield, pulled off the helm and turned on Tancred.
Then he saw it. Galfrid, panting, his nose bloody, flat on his back, Tancred’s foot pinning his right wrist, sword point at his throat. The bag of Greek Fire grenades lay on the floor, far out of reach.
“You cannot win,” hissed Tancred.
“Can’t you hear?” said Gisburne. “Your castle is overrun. It’s only a matter of time before...”
“I don’t talk of the battle,” said Tancred. “I will die here. But you cannot win. I see the future, Gisburne. You can never win. Can you not sense it?”
“What makes you think...”
“Because you care,” snapped Tancred. “Look at you, frozen to the spot. Only because you have things to lose. I... I have nothing. I am free.”
“Don’t listen,” said Galfrid. “Just take him.”
“If I move, he’ll kill you.”
“He’ll kill me if you don’t! It doesn’t matter any more... Take him and damn the future!”
Gisburne stood, unable to move, wishing to God he had a bow in his hand. Tancred’s sword point pressed harder against Galfrid’s gorge, and the Templar chuckled to himself, his horrid, clicking laugh muffled behind his mask. “The future is damned already. And so are you.”
Gisburne let his shoulders droop, and his sword arm fall. He saw the despair in Galfrid’s eyes—the disbelief at his master giving up, at him being in Tancred’s power, if only fleetingly. Yet all the while, Gisburne was thinking: There’s only one way to go...
Without warning he swung violently, hurling his helm at the Templar. If Tancred could indeed predict the future, he didn’t see this coming. Before he could react, the helm smashed into his faceplate, knocking him off his feet. Galfrid scrambled away, but Gisburne was already on the Templar. As he rose, his mask yawned open, revealing the ghastly, skeletal face beneath. Gisburne swung at the ghoul’s neck, both hands upon the sword grip.
An inch lower and it would have taken Tancred’s head clean off—instead, it struck metal. Tancred went down again, but this time rolled away and back up onto his feet. He raised his weapon, but Gisburne intercepted, his blade striking Tancred’s hand and sending the sword spinning off the gallery and clattering on the floor below.
He advanced on his foe, raining blows upon him, heedless of where they landed. There was little aim, and no finesse; it was pure rage. Tancred’s mail saved him from the blade’s edge—but beneath, every part of him was battered, his helm beaten out of shape. He reeled under the barrage, staggering backwards until he, too, was teetering on the brink, yards from where the Norseman had pitched to his death. Gisburne stopped, panting hard as the dazed Templar swayed there—then Galfrid’s foot sank into Tancred’s midriff, sending him plunging off the platform.
Gisburne stepped to the edge in time to see Tancred, arms and legs spread out like a starfish, crash flat into the hearth. The impact sent a plume of sparks up towards them, and he shielded his eyes, felt the burning flecks on his face. When he looked back, he saw a great circle of smoke and ash rolling up and away on the hot, billowing air.
The fire was extinguished. Tancred did not move.
Gisburne and Galfrid exchanged fleeting glances, then turned and scrambled back down the grey stone steps, as fast as their feet would allow.
Below, the Norsemen lay dead. The door hung off one hinge. The Hospitallers had turned to other tasks outside, on Gisburne’s orders, but everywhere the shouts and noise of clashing weapons had abated. A single harsh cry pierced the air, then was silenced.
Gisburne’s heart beat faster. Victory was theirs. Leaping the last four steps, he ran into the smouldering circle of smashed embers and gazed down at the smoking, cadaverous form, scarcely able to believe it was really over.
As they stood, the captain of the Hospitallers approached, his face cut and bleeding, closely followed by a fellow Hospitaller and a Templar dragging a Norseman between them. The blond giant was on his knees and tied up like a hog.
“They’re beaten,” said the captain. “We tried to take them alive, but none would yield. I fear he is the only one left.”
The Templar pointed to a wound on his face. “Gave me this whilst the three of us bound him—with his teeth, if you can believe that.” He gave the Norseman a kick in the ribs. “Filthy pagan!” The big warrior growled and hauled at his captors, the ropes biting his flesh, but to no avail.
“I can believe it,” said Gisburne. “But I’ll thank you not to kick him again.”
The Templar stared at him, utterly wrong-footed.
“The Lionheart beheaded nearly 3,000 Saracen prisoners who were under his protection at Acre,” said Gisburne. “And Saladin killed all the Templars and Hospitallers he captured after Hattin. I think we can do better, don’t you?”
The Templar dropped his head and said no more.
A gust of icy wind through the broken door sent the smoke curling up the gloomy interior, and it was then that the Norseman saw the ashen figure collapsed at Gisburne’s feet. The fight seemed to drain from him, then, the defiance extinguished.
Gisburne turned back to the captain. “Search everywhere,” he said. “Bring everything to me—look especially for anything written or drawn, be it on parchment, wood or stones, however insignificant it may seem.” He turned and looked at the weird device looming in the haze. “Have that loaded onto the ship, too.”
The Hospitallers looked at the incomprehensible thing, then at each other. The captain puffed out his cheeks at the prospect.
Gisburne pointed at the Norseman. “And keep this one alive.”
They hauled the Norseman to his feet, and the captain nodded towards Tancred. “And him?”
“He’s ours,” said Gisburne.
Gisburne and Galfrid stood in silence for some time after they’d gone, looking down at their vanquished foe. Gisburne felt the exhaustion wash over him, his wounds making themselves known. In a way, he was grateful for it; it was the one way he could tell this was real. Finally Galfrid knelt and started to search the Templar’s crushed body. From the pouch on his belt, now stained with Tancred’s blood, he dragged a small, grubby scrap of material. There were marks upon it.
“Is this it?” said Galfrid.
“That’s it,” said Gisburne.
“Then it does exist,” said Galfrid, struggling to make sense of its symbols. He passed it up to Gisburne. “It’s not quite what we’d hoped.”
Then Tancred groaned, and Galfrid recoiled, muttering a curse. The Templar’s limbs stirred. Both stepped back, involuntarily. For a moment, Gisburne—his sword still gripped in his hand—was paralysed with horror. This man should have been dead a dozen times over. His body had been hacked, burned and beaten, in places stripped to the bone. Yet still it would not die.
“Finish him!” said Galfrid.
Gisburne, startled
out of his grim reverie, looked at Galfrid, then back at the mad Templar, the glassy eyes—moving now—staring back up at him. He raised his sword—and hesitated.
“Do it!” bellowed Galfrid. But Gisburne could not move. Galfrid stepped forward, his own blade raised. Gisburne gripped his wrist and shoved him back.
“We’ll take him alive,” he said.
Galfrid stared at him, wide eyed, his face sweat-streaked and flushed from the heat of the fire. “You swore! You swore!”
“He knows,” said Gisburne.
“I don’t care what he knows,” cried Galfrid, tearing his arm free. This time, as Galfrid raised his sword, Gisburne raised his own. Galfrid gripped Gisburne’s fist, and the pair struggled. Hands and blades flailed—and the pommel of Gisburne’s sword struck Galfrid across the brow. Galfrid’s legs buckled under him. He fell back and for a moment sat, stunned, rubbing the bloody spot with an ashy palm.
The look Galfrid gave him then was one Gisburne would never forget. It felt like a stab in the gut. All his instincts told him what he’d done was right, but he was anguished by it.
“He’s been there. To Hood’s hideout,” he said, as gently as he could. Then he held out a hand. “Help me carry him to the boats.”
“Carry him yourself,” spat Galfrid, staggering unaided to his feet. “Do it all yourself. I’ll help you no more.” Then he turned his back and walked into the darkness.
XXV
Sherwood Forest
23 March, 1194
“I DON’T WISH to alarm you gentlemen,” said Mélisande, “but we have for some time been followed by a very big man on a very stocky pony.”
Gisburne’s eyes stayed fixed ahead. “Our friend the Norseman.”
“He’s been there for the past two hours,” said de Rosseley.
“Since dawn,” corrected Asif.
Aldric sat up in his saddle, turned and squinted into the far distance. The boy with the pack horse, his face pale and anxious, did the same. There, far behind them on the track, framed on either side by trees, was the distant but distinct shape of the Norseman.
“Don’t look back,” said de Rosseley, “you’ll just encourage him.” Both heads snapped forward again.
Aldric looked about him, throwing his hands up. “So, were you going to share this information at any point?”
“We had bets on when you’d notice,” said Mélisande. De Rosseley and Asif sniggered.
“I thought you told him he couldn’t come...” said Aldric.
“What I actually said was that he could not accompany us,” said Gisburne. “He’s taking us at our word.”
“I wonder at what I must have done to inspire such dedication,” said Tancred. His tone was one of genuine bemusement—but Gisburne caught Galfrid’s eye as the Templar spoke, and his look was as cold and hard as stone. “I do not believe he will act unless I call upon him.”
“Is that meant to make us feel better?” muttered Galfrid.
“This isn’t his fight,” said Aldric. “Why is he here?”
“To protect his master,” said Asif.
“Well, I hope he isn’t after a share of the fee.”
“Honour is his reward,” said Mélisande. “And a place at the table of his gods.”
“Should I command him to return?” asked Tancred. “I think if I were to give him a direct order...”
“Would he fight for us, if needed?” said de Rosseley. The question was directed at Tancred, but it was Gisburne who answered.
“With every fibre of his being, if so instructed,” he said. “I’ve seen it for myself.”
“Because you fought others like him yourself,” said Galfrid. “As did I. And we were lucky to come out of that one alive. As was he.” His eyes landed on Tancred.
Gisburne glared at his old squire. Until now, he had avoided speaking to Tancred of the events on Inis na Gloichenn. It was not a discussion he wished to have here, on the road.
“He is merely being loyal to his master,” said Mélisande.
Galfrid gave a humourless laugh. “Well, I wish him all the best with that one...” This time, Gisburne felt the squire’s eyes on him, but did not meet them. Galfrid gave a grunt, and looked away.
“This loyalty naturally extends to my friends and allies,” said Tancred. He turned and looked directly at Galfrid, his perpetually staring eyes holding the squire’s horrified gaze. “He will not harm you. You have my word. And he will fight for you.” It was bizarre to hear Tancred’s eerily metallic voice attempting reassurance. He turned away again. “We are united in our goal.”
“Then let him come,” said Gisburne.
Galfrid spoke no more, but simply fumed in dark silence. Gisburne knew what he was thinking, all the same. The Norseman’s loyalty was not in question. But with it came two circumstances in which he presented a threat. The first, if Tancred turned on them. Gisburne had wondered a thousand times what might happen if those lost memories started to return—but with all he had seen, he refused to believe it possible. Tancred, he was sure, was a changed man. A good man.
The second was if one of them turned on Tancred. On this front, he was less certain.
He yanked his gauntlet off with his teeth, then pulled out the map.
He read it again discreetly, the deceptively heavy gauntlet—its fingers sewn with metal plates—still hanging from his teeth.
It remained as enigmatic and impenetrable as ever. The stream; they needed to find the stream. He knew the general direction lay to the west of them. He had plotted the positions of Hood’s attacks, and, on the assumption that they rarely ventured beyond a day’s march, had charted an area within which he was certain Hood’s lair lay. But Galfrid was right. It was still hundreds of acres, some of it dense, choking forest.
He heard one of the riders pick up the pace behind him, shoved the map back into hiding and pulled his gauntlet back on.
Mélisande came up alongside.
“Is all well?” she said.
“All is well,” he replied, perhaps rather too cheerily.
“Sir Robert Fitzwalter...” she said at length.
Gisburne had been expecting her to raise the matter, some time or another. Could he really blame her for doing so?
“Why did you not tell me before?”
Gisburne shifted in his saddle. “I did not think it relevant,” he said. “The mission is the same.”
“Is it?”
Gisburne had no answer to give.
“He clearly believes Marian can be saved,” continued Mélisande.
“No parent wishes to give up on their child.”
“Is she alive?”
“As far as anyone knows.”
“But do you believe it? That she can be saved, I mean?”
Gisburne spoke in a monotone. “I believe her journey is the very opposite of Tancred’s. That she is now too far into darkness to find her way back to the light.”
“And if you are wrong? If she is saved? What then? Sir Robert’s gratitude will know no bounds. And her admiration...”
“I do not believe it will happen,” said Gisburne. “That it can happen.” But still her question troubled him in ways he had not anticipated.
Mélisande nodded slowly, and fell back behind.
The going had been good that day. The rain had held off; the sky was overcast but bright. The day had warmed up, without losing its refreshing crispness—perfect conditions for travel. Even the muddy track, dried by high winds in the early hours, was firm enough not to hinder them unduly. For the first two hours, progress had been swift. The air smelled like spring and the band was invigorated. Had they been certain of their destination, perhaps they would even have reached it by now. But road had shrunk to track, and track would soon become path. Then, there would be no path.
Already they were feeling their way—perhaps more so than Gisburne was willing to let on. Of the route up to this point, Gisburne was certain; of what lay ahead, far less so—and each new turn added further uncertainty.
In his mind he had an image of a great oak tree: the road upon which they had travelled that morning was the trunk. After a way, the tree had diverged into three or four boughs, each spreading into a dozen meandering branches, which in turn radiated into a hundred gnarled twigs—and from every one, a thousand buds and leaves sprouted.
One of these was their goal—Hood’s lair. But the closer they got to it, the less clear the path ahead.
They had awoken in the early hours to prepare and pack their horses. An icy wind whipped across the courtyard as Gisburne arrived to join the others. All were fully armoured, travelling cloaks pulled tight, straps and cords cracking in the wind.
Mélisande had immediately greeted him with a broad smile, and as easily as that, their skirmish of the night before—and the worry that had accompanied him to his bed—was instantly dismissed. He’d smiled back, glad of any crumb of good feeling. But of the gift from Llewellyn, there was no sign.
Each packed their own gear upon their horses, at Gisburne’s insistence. In this straightforward task, only de Rosseley seemed to struggle, swearing as he tried to fit everything back where it had been on his arrival; evidently he had not packed his own horse on that occasion. Gisburne wondered if he ever had. At the sight of Robert, the head groom’s boy, prepared for travel and loading up a pack horse, de Rosseley’s eyes lit up. Gisburne was quick to disabuse him of the notion that he could palm any of his gear off on the beast. De Rosseley watched glumly as feed and waterskins for the horses were loaded upon it.
“Are we taking the horses far?” he said with a frown.
“Not far,” said Gisburne. De Rosseley caught Asif’s eye, and the pair exchanged looks of bemusement.
“So, what’s in the box?” he asked. All had noted the cylindrical wooden case—at least a yard long and a hand’s-width across—that Gisburne was now securing behind Nyght’s saddle.
“Nothing you need to worry about,” said Gisburne.
“I wasn’t worried...” said de Rosseley. This time, he caught Mélisande’s gaze and rolled his eyes.
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