Hood

by Toby Venables

  It was evidently a great deal more to the captain, who stiffened again. “I am not at liberty to say.” But as he spoke the words, his eyes flicked upward to the main tower, and swiftly back again. “Please wait here...”

  “Thank you,” said Mélisande. “You have been most helpful.” She smiled her most courteous smile, and curtsied—a gesture that, under the circumstances, looked decidedly strange. Certainly it was the first time Galfrid had seen a curtsey performed in full armour.

  The captain bowed again—several inches lower, this time—and his eyes settled on Galfrid. The squire tensed, and tried to look as unlike himself as possible. The grey eyes stayed on him for a moment, narrowed slightly as their owner struggled to place a memory, then evidently dismissed the attempt—and he turned and strode away.

  Mélisande turned to face Galfrid.

  “The main tower,” she whispered.

  “I saw it too,” said Galfrid. “There is a chamber at the top of it, spacious and well-lit, with clear views in all directions. Well away from prying ears and eyes. If I were discussing matters relating to the defence of this castle, that is where I would do it.” He hardly needed to add that the chamber was probably the most secure location in the entire castle. The narrow stone steps up to its entrance were now guarded by three armed men—clearly cut from stouter cloth than Master Cuthbert—and in between the bolted door they were guarding and the upper chamber was the entire castle garrison. Galfrid looked across the courtyard and saw the captain now conversing sternly with two more armed guards, and occasionally gesturing back towards the two of them.

  “Whatever we do, we’d best do it soon,” he said. “The captain is discomfited at having strangers rattling around in his castle.” Galfrid knew him as the sort to put you in irons first and ask questions later. It was as well, from this point of view, that they had left their swords with the horses, but he’d still feel a lot better with one by his side.

  “So, the person we need to see is at the top of a guarded tower,” mused Mélisande, tapping her fingers against her chin. “And the only person who can grant us access... is at the top of that guarded tower. Tell me, what would Gisburne do if he were here?”

  “Just walk in, probably,” said Galfrid with a sigh. “And they would most likely let him. He has that air about him, like it or not.”

  “And if they didn’t let him?”

  Galfrid puffed out his cheeks and widened his eyes. In his experience, that situation usually ended in a fight. But even as was thinking about a suitable response, he noticed her eyes darting about, studying every window, parapet and stair as if committing each to memory—or matching them to one already in mind. It was as if she were already formulating a plan, and one that would end in a fight.

  “This is stupid,” he said, glancing nervously across at the captain, who was now deep in conversation with the man in the important hat. “Skulking about like criminals... If Murdac himself clapped eyes on us, he’d want to hear what we had to say.”

  “Then we must make sure that he does,” said Mélisande. Her eyes had now settled on a low, insignificant-looking doorway in a far corner of the courtyard, tucked in shadow where the round south tower met the wall. “And there is one other person here who can get us up there... Wait here.”

  “One oth—?” began Galfrid.

  But Mélisande was already heading towards the door.

  XXXIX

  THE WAIT SEEMED to last forever. Not comfortable being so exposed, Galfrid dodged out of sight behind a stack of barrels. There, a cellarer of his acquaintance had been toiling with a pair of exhausted-looking scullions, and Galfrid now struck up a conversation with him—whilst keeping half an eye on the courtyard.

  The cellarer—whose name was Bartholomew, and whose cheerfulness knew no bounds even when he was complaining—related, several times and in a variety of different ways, exactly how many barrels he had shifted that morning, and what each contained. He was especially keen to point out how some of these were, technically speaking, not his responsibility, since their contents were actually not food or drink at all and therefore, by rights, outside of the province of the cellarer, but that those in charge just thought a barrel was a barrel, when in fact, as should be obvious to all, a barrel wasn’t just a barrel—oh, no, not at all—for they could be very different from one another, each according to the purpose for which they were intended, and that if one knew barrels as intimately as he did, one could tell with some precision exactly what contents...

  Galfrid’s attention—half-engaged at best—slipped its anchor and drifted away, never to return. One thing was of interest to him, nonetheless: there was some truth to Cuthbert’s claim about a siege. Murdac was provisioning the castle. He sensed trouble.

  It was then that Galfrid saw Mélisande reappear from the doorway, bearing something very large, long and clearly heavy under one arm. She looked about, then, not seeing him, was off again like a hound on the scent, heading straight towards the foot of the great tower.

  “Good to see you, anyway!” said Galfrid, cutting Bartholomew off in mid-sentence, then clapped him on the shoulder and was off.

  To the casual observer, Mélisande was just another figure amongst many, carrying another burden as nondescript as Bartholomew’s barrels. As he caught her up, however, the thing beneath her arm—wrapped in sacking—began to take on a half-familiar shape. It clunked ominously as she shifted its weight under her arm. It looked like... But surely not?

  “I thought you’d gone to find a gown,” said Galfrid.

  “And I thought you’d abandoned me,” she replied. “Actually, the one gown available to me would not have enhanced my reputation.”

  He peered nervously at the ungainly package. “So, what’s in the...” He would have finished the sentence, had it not then dawned on him that she meant to walk right up to the tower’s three guards, and that a smile of greeting was already on her face.

  Of the three guards, the two standing either side of the stair bore polearms, while the third—clearly the more senior—wandered from side to side, fist on the pommel of his sword, making occasional glances up at the closed door. Waiting for his master to reappear, Galfrid guessed.

  It was he who Mélisande now addressed. “Why, captain!” she said.

  The guard—red-haired beneath his helm, with neatly trimmed beard in the style of the Lionheart—turned, and gave a bow.

  “Not captain, sir—I mean ma’am...” He negotiated the correction with admirable ease, and seemed remarkably unfazed by the figure now before him. Amazing what a pretty face could achieve, thought Galfrid. “I am merely guard to the Constable. How may I—?”

  “Please excuse my ignorance!” said Mélisande with a beaming smile, and dumped her burden at her feet. The guard frowned at the heavy clank, but Mélisande did not let the thought linger.

  “Tell me, have we met previously? Only your face... It seems...” She frowned, and twiddled her fingers.

  The guard actually blushed a little, struggling to recall an occasion that had never existed. “I don’t believe...”

  “Your name. What is it?”

  “It is Henry Rousel, my lady,” he said with a bow. “‘Rousel’ on account of this red hair of mine.”

  “Really?” she said, eyes wide, almost absurdly engrossed.

  Galfrid had no idea where this was going. Nor, he suspected, did the guard—but the man seemed not to care.

  “It must be a very great responsibility, guarding the Constable himself,” said Mélisande, her eyes full of wonder. “In a way, you are the most important man in the whole castle.”

  Henry Rousel smiled and blushed again. “Oh, I wouldn’t quite say that... But I did have the honour of forming a guard for King Richard, when he once visited here.”

  Mélisande was a picture of admiration. She took a step towards him. “Sir Radulph is such a dear friend,” she said. “I would dearly like to get a message to him, if you were able to convey it.”

  “I’m
afraid I cannot just now, my lady.”

  “Not for anything?” she said, crestfallen.

  Rousel’s face and voice were all apology. “Only the castle being under attack is sufficient cause, my lady.”

  The words, coupled with the mysterious object at Mélisande’s feet, made Galfrid suddenly uneasy.

  “But if you can wait an hour or so,” Rousel continued, gesturing towards the top of the tower, “he shall be down, and then perhaps—”

  “So, he is up there, then?” interrupted Mélisande, the warmth and wonder suddenly diminished.

  Rousel frowned as she pulled on a pair of heavy gauntlets, aware that things were not quite as he had thought.

  Galfrid had seen many extraordinary sights in his life, but what unfolded in the next few moments would rank with the best of them.

  Rousel spoke—Galfrid did not catch what it was, nor could be certain it was even comprehensible—but Mélisande was already crouched over her sacking bundle.

  She stood, holding one of the largest crossbows Galfrid had ever seen, cocked and ready to shoot, a bolt with a grapple already loaded upon it. And, in an instant, all was suddenly clear to him—where she had been, who the mysterious other person was. Llewellyn, of course. Who else? Somehow, she had sought him out in his workshop deep in the bowels of the castle—not an easy task, even for those who had been told the way. Then she had somehow convinced him to hand over one of his precious creations. If anything, this was an even more incredible achievement. There had been times when the crusty old tinkerer had been reluctant to hand them over even to Gisburne. Galfrid found himself chuckling like a child.

  Rousel, meanwhile, had recoiled at the sight of the great bow—but Mélisande, her eyes now fixed on the tower battlement, had by that time already taken three steps away from him. So bold and unhurried were her movements that neither he nor his comrades seemed quite able to take them in. Before any could make a positive move, she heaved the great bow up, took aim, and shot.

  There was a dull thunk. The bow jumped almost out of her hands, the bolt zipping from it. A thin rope whipped through the air behind it. The grapple fell with a chink of metal on stone and Mélisande pulled the rope tight. Then, just as the three guards were finally coming to their senses, she hauled herself up, booted feet against the tower’s stones, and started climbing towards the tower battlement.

  Galfrid—his own part in this done, if indeed it had ever existed—burst into loud, uncontrollable laughter. Yes, he thought, that’s about what Gisburne would have done...

  Rousel, his sword now drawn—though to what purpose, Galfrid could not guess—could only stare as the slender, silhouetted figure disappeared up the tower wall and clambered over it like a spider. Somewhere, people were shouting in alarm. Galfrid saw crossbowmen on adjacent battlements fumbling with their weapons and quarrels, but they were already too late.

  Rousel, apparently lost for words, turned back to Galfrid as if for some explanation. “Don’t look at me,” Galfrid said, almost incapable with laughter. “I’ve told her time and again to stop doing that.”

  XL

  SIR RADULPH MURDAC leaned upon the table and regarded the three men before him, expression grim. “William de Ferrers will be first to come hammering at the gate,” he said, stabbing his finger at the table top, “of that we can be certain. He scents blood.”

  “It is personal for him, brother,” said Philip of Worcester, Murdac’s brother. “I hear he is still calling himself Sheriff.”

  Murdac gave a dismissive laugh. “I don’t doubt it... Perhaps he would be Sheriff still, had he not turned against the man who granted him that position.” De Ferrers was no fool, but he was playing a dangerous game. It was John, not some spurious, scheming Council, that ruled this county. It was John who appointed its officers. “Well, he can call himself Sheriff all he likes,” said Murdac. “I have possession of this castle. De Ferrers can do his worst.”

  Roger de Montbegon nodded his head slowly. “Others will come,” he said. “The Earl of Chester, for one. He already counts himself half-royal, through his connections with Richard.”

  “De Blondeville is a scheming, swivelling bastard,” spat Philip, “and nothing would give me greater pleasure than to see him dash his pitiful brains out on these castle walls.” He laughed and punched the table in satisfaction, then glanced at Sir Fulcher de Grendon, who merely appeared uncomfortable.

  De Grendon was a petty knight who Philip had befriended and was obviously seeking to impress—probably, if Murdac knew his brother at all, having promised to aid his social advancement. Murdac resented de Grendon being here at all, especially when there were others of far greater moment who were not. But, on this occasion, he had chosen to indulge his brother rather than embarrass him. At least the nervous Sir Fulcher kept his mouth shut.

  Roger de Montbegon folded his arms. “There are many more looking to win favour with the King, now his return is imminent. To show their true colours.”

  “Or swiftly change them...” muttered Philip.

  Murdac raised his palm towards his brother. “The King is not here yet...” he said.

  “And when he is?” said de Montbegon.

  Murdac narrowed his eyes. He liked de Montbegon; trusted him, even. But he wondered, when push came to shove, where the baron’s loyalties would ultimately lie.

  As if reading Murdac’s thoughts, de Montbegon added, perhaps a little too earnestly: “You know you have my full support, no matter what.”

  As he said it, a metallic clatter rang out from somewhere close by. De Grendon flinched, and Murdac turned with a frown. It was unfamiliar; or half-familiar. Like a poker dropped in a hearth. Whether it had come from above or below, he could not tell. Some clumsy oaf in the garrison, Murdac supposed.

  De Montbegon, meanwhile—who had either not heard or chose to ignore it—was not yet done. He glanced at de Grendon and leaned in closer. “We do have a sensitive issue here, my lord. You are Constable of this castle and sworn to defend it—as I know full well you will—but in whose name?”

  Just then, shouts rose from the bustling courtyard below. Murdac momentarily wondered at them—but still de Montbegon pressed on. “The Council claims that when the King granted Nottinghamshire to John, he excepted Nottingham castle.”

  “What a nonsense!” blustered Philip. “How is one to administer the county without it?” As if in answer, a distant laugh rang out.

  De Montbegon sighed—his first outward sign of impatience—and cast a withering look at Philip. “Nevertheless,” he said slowly, as if addressing a child. “That is the issue we face, like it or not.”

  Murdac clenched his fists and leaned on his knuckles, glaring at de Montbegon. His brother was a hothead, but he was still his brother. The trouble was, De Montbegon was right. The issue regarding ownership of the castle was... hazy. But possession was nine tenths of the law. All of the law, if none could take it from him. He took a deep breath. “To fight the King is treason,” he said in measured tones. “And when—if—the King himself comes to our door and I hear the command from his own lips, then and only then will I bend.”

  There was further clamour from outside, and a thud. Irritated at the distraction, but wishing to give de Grendon a proper show, Murdac stood up straight and thrust out his chin in defiance. “As for the others... well, I say, let them come.”

  The moment the words left his mouth, there was a violent crash—this time mere yards from him. Murdac saw astonishment on his companions’ faces. De Grendon froze, but the other two had their swords drawn before Murdac could turn. As he did, he saw the door to the chamber flung open, and, framed within it, advancing slowly, fully armoured, one hand held aloft, a woman—her red-gold hair flying half-loose, her face flushed with exertion.

  “Sir Radulph,” she said, speaking rapidly. “My apologies for this rude interruption. Please be reassured that I am unarmed.”

  Murdac blinked. He felt his mouth work, but no sound came out. A disordered swarm of thoug
hts battered his brain, but just one—seemingly trivial—rose above the others. That was how much this—whatever it was—resembled the Count of Boulogne’s daughter.

  Worcester, de Montbegon and de Grendon, equally at a loss as to how to act, stood motionless and staring at the woman’s raised fist, upon which glinted a heavy gold ring.

  For a moment, no one spoke.

  “Well, I have your attention, at least,” she said at length.

  There was a clatter from the stair below and the intruder moved around so her back was away from the door. They turned with her. “But how did...?” said Murdac.

  “Never mind about that now,” she said. “I am come here with Squire Galfrid and have urgent news from Sir Guy of Gisburne.”

  Even as she said it, two guards from the garrison below—both armoured and helmeted, and with drawn blades—burst into the chamber.

  “Hold!” barked Murdac, and held up his hand. The guards skidded to a halt.

  “Thank you,” said the woman, as if she had just been handed a cup of wine at a feast. “I may not be armed, but I am armoured.” Her eyes flicked to the guards, still frozen mid-charge. “I probably wouldn’t survive your blows, but I dare say I’d wear you out.”

  “Gisburne, you say?” said Murdac. “Last I heard, he had withdrawn from political affairs.”

  “Perhaps this can persuade you otherwise?” she said, slowly turning her raised hand. Murdac’s eyes went to the gold ring, as she let it slide off and caught it between thumb and forefinger, then took a step forward. The guards tensed, but Murdac kept them in check. Her eyes flitting between each one of them, she edged forward until finally she was able to place the ring upon the table and raise her hand, fingers spread to show it was empty.

  Murdac snatched up the ring and made a show of examining it, but he had already recognised John’s seal.

  “Lower your weapons.” Every man hesitated, and Murdac sighed heavily. “I see Gisburne’s methods remain as unorthodox as ever. What is this news that is so urgent?”