“Hood is coming,” she said. “With an army. We believe he means to take the town in the name of King Richard.”
Murdac stared at her, then at de Montbegon and Worcester, and burst into laughter. “The outlaw? Coming to take this town? This castle?”
“Yes,” she said. His laugh died away under her severe gaze.
“How many men?”
“We estimate seven hundred.”
“How equipped?”
“Bows.”
“Just bows?”
“Mostly bows.”
“Siege weapons?”
“None.
“Mining gear, perhaps?”
“None that we know of. They are travelling light. On foot.”
“On foot? Not even horses?”
“No.”
Worcester sniggered.
“Then what possible threat is this outlaw rabble?” said Murdac. “Seven hundred common folk, armed with sticks? They’ll break against these walls?” There were chuckles from around the room, but not the woman. Her stern, defiant demeanour unnerved him. He had seen that only a few times in women—in Queen Eleanor, for one. He had also, now he thought of it, heard some wild story about the Count of Boulogne’s daughter and sometime associate of Sir Guy of Gisburne, Mélisande—a story which, at the time, he had dismissed as fantasy, but which he now suspected to be only a pale shadow of the truth. “Lady Mélisande… It is Lady Mélisande de Champagne, is it not?”
“In the flesh,” she said, giving an elegant curtsey.
“Much as I appreciate Sir Guy’s warning. I hardly think that—”
“Have you studied mathematics, Sir Radulph?”
Murdac, irritated by interruption and the irrelevance of her question, gave an exasperated laugh. “Mathematics? I know it, but I don’t see...”
“I studied it in the East, amongst other things. I can tell you this: once they have sunk their fire arrows into your outer defences and burned them to the ground, they will be in a position to rain down arrows upon the inner bailey, the keep and all the timber and thatch contained therein at a rate of four thousand, two hundred arrows every minute. Accustomed as we are to rain, Sir Radulph, that is a storm I doubt even this mighty edifice could simply shrug off.”
Murdac stared at her for several moments, contemplating these words. No one was laughing now. He turned from her. “I am grateful to you, my lady. I don’t doubt you have risked much to bring me this information, and I shall respond in kind. Both you and Squire Galfrid—who is well known to me—will have the protection and freedom of this castle...”
Worcester made to protest, but Murdac shut him down. “The protection and freedom,” he said, looking his brother hard in the eye. “And we shall consider your words. But know this: the castle has withstood far greater threats than the one you describe. It shall do so again—and perhaps soon. Now, go freely.” He waved his guards away. Then, looking her up and down, he added: “Perhaps now you are here you could also find some clothing that is... more suitable.”
Mélisande gave him a pleasant smile, and curtseyed once more. “I wish to stay alive, Sir Radulph,” she said. “And find this most suitable for that purpose.”
Then she plucked the ring from the table top and descended the tower steps, the two guards following close behind.
XLI
Sherwood Forest
24 March, 1194
THERE WERE THOUSANDS of men of every possible class—boys to fetch water and arrows, cooks, quartermasters and camp followers, miners in wagons, archers and men-at-arms, companies of mounted serjeants and noble knights. There were earls and bishops—Gisburne recognised some of the colours that whipped and fluttered in the wind—and far, far up ahead, many hundreds of men distant, one pennant in particular stood out, for so it was designed to do. Larger and taller than all the rest, it was red as fresh blood, and on it, in gold—not mere yellow, but actual glittering gold—were three lions. The banner of Richard the Lionheart, Duke of Normandy, Aquitaine and Gascony, Count of Poitiers, Maine, Nantes and Anjou, Overlord of Brittany, Lord of Cyprus and King of England—and the most feared warrior in all the western world.
Gisburne had marched under Richard’s banners once before. But that was far from here, and many years ago, in the days when Old King Henry was still very much alive. Never once did he dream he would do so again—least of all, that he would be marching upon Nottingham.
It was Gisburne’s quick thinking that had saved them. In the confusion of that sudden, unexpected encounter, two courses of action would have spelled disaster for them. If they showed—or appeared to show—resistance, or if they attempted to flee, they would be killed, as enemies or deserters.
So he had done neither. Without hesitation, he had turned and barked “Fall into line!” His comrades had immediately done so and—barring the odd muttered curse from the footsoldiers closest to them, whose heads had been under threat from Nyght’s flailing hooves—had been immediately accepted. They now walked two abreast, part of the King’s army.
Doubtless it was the sight of Tancred and de Rosseley—both clearly of the knightly class—that had sealed the illusion. But now, as they rode, Gisburne found himself thinking about Asif. He prayed to God, Allah and anyone else who might listen that the Arab had had the good sense to cover his face, but did not dare look back, for fear of attracting further attention. Gisburne could see several nationalities from where he sat—English, Welsh, some Flemish; Normans, of course—and did not doubt there were many more. Perhaps even the odd turcopole was a possibility. But an out-and-out Saracen knight? Such a thing was hardly commonplace in Richard the Lionheart’s army. Yet not one man here now seemed of a mind to pay them the slightest regard.
Gisburne glanced at de Rosseley, riding beside him, and the pair exchanged looks, conducting an entirely unspoken conversation.
What now? said de Rosseley’s slanted eyebrow and tilted head.
Your guess is as good as mine... said Gisburne’s imperceptible shrug.
There was nothing to be done. De Rosseley craned his neck and looked ahead. He was, Gisburne guessed, wondering whether they might simply leave the column as casually as they’d joined it; Gisburne had been thinking the same. Perhaps it could work, but he had seen how Richard dealt with deserters.
He could, of course, seek out Richard and make himself known. But, given the nature of their arrangement, he did not know whether Richard would acknowledge him openly—or at all. Even then, getting close enough to converse with the King himself seemed utterly impossible.
There was nothing to be done. And so they marched on.
The light was already beginning to fade. Tomorrow, they would reach Nottingham; then they would see. Then, the siege would begin. Perhaps Murdac would do the sensible thing and capitulate at the sight of the royal standard. But, much as he hoped for it, Gisburne knew Murdac better.
As he rode, heart strangely numb, he took stock of the situation. He had lost Hood’s army, and become stuck with Richard’s. He had split the company, stranding two of them on the wrong side of a siege. He stood to be publicly rejected by Richard for his past associations with John, and by John’s supporters for his current association with Richard.
In his mind, he saw Hood, somewhere out there, as he laughed and laughed and laughed.
XLII
HE CURSED GISBURNE’S name. His stupidity, his stubbornness, his infuriating ability to survive whatever was thrown at him.
It was far from the first time he’d cursed the man, and nor, as he watched Gisburne and company merge with the great swell of humanity heading north, would it be the last. There would be a last time, though. Soon, perhaps.
Gisburne’s movements after leaving Sherwood had been erratic—stopping, starting, splitting, joining, backtracking. Part of him was amused to see Gisburne so desperate, so clueless, so utterly at sea. Nothing amused him more than Gisburne’s suffering. It was, after all, what had brought him all this way. But the practical side of him was driven
to curses. All that to-ing and fro-ing had complicated matters, and tracking him without discovery had been difficult. Not that he did not relish the challenge. He enjoyed being tested; it allowed him to hone his skills, and would make the completion of his task that much more satisfying. But still, he was not thankful for it. He refused to be grateful to Gisburne for anything.
For some time he had watched them at the copse north of the town. This also amused him—watching these would-be hashashin taking up careful positions and waiting to murder their prey, while he had them in his sights. Like a hunter stalking a deer, he had squinted down his crossbow at them, observing their movements—which were minimal—and their patterns of behaviour. Nothing fascinated him more than watching people when they were thought they were alone. In it was a kind of truth.
Each was very different in their inactivity. The knight seemed the least comfortable; in fact, he was never completely still, perpetually stretching or flexing his shoulders as if stillness were abhorrent to him—or as if movement were all that kept him alive.
The Arab was quite the opposite, sitting motionless for so long in his black cloak that he melted into the shadows. Only twice did he move: once to carefully smooth the fletchings on his arrows, once to kneel and pray. He chuckled to himself at that; this ancient copse had seen its fair share of pagan practices in its time, he was certain, but surely never that one.
The enginer, partway up a tree and peering this way and that through some glinting sliver of glass, interested him greatly. At one point, it looked like the glass might even be turned in his direction, and he dropped his head in panic. The possibility that his concealment was not total and inviolable did not please him. But the moment soon passed and fascination took over once more. Did the glass really help him see further, or better? What a boon such a thing would be! Perhaps, later, he could take it off his body.
Only the one with the skull face truly never moved, to such an extent that finding any sign of life in him at all—anything that marked him as human, with real blood in his veins—became a challenge. As the hours passed, he grew ever more determined to catch the one twitch, one sniff or itch. But he never did. He might as well have been staring at a discarded puppet, waiting for it to sing and dance.
Then there was Gisburne. For a long time he was still, but gradually his agitation grew until, once it was clear he had been denied his target, he began to pace. It was this sight that pleased him most of all.
Each one he had had in his sights for minutes at a time—he could have shot them ten, twenty, a hundred times over. This was his favourite time. As his aim roved around different parts of them—sometimes settling on the head, sometimes the back, occasionally, for variety, an extremity—he imagined pulling the trigger. He pictured the bolt striking, saw them jerk or spin as they were hit, saw them fall, saw the blood flow. He imagined how they would react after the first death—who would run and who would stand still, how many he could bring down while still making a clean escape. He felt his heart pound at the thought.
Not with pleasure, exactly. That first moment, with the shot taken, the bolt committed and his presence announced—he liked the least. Then, all that mattered was that he get away—to disappear again. He was at his most content when disappeared. Perhaps one day he would not pull the trigger at all. Perhaps one day those odd fears that befell him—which thrust him back into the world with such force and which were nothing to do with killing and everything to do with being exposed—would conquer him. But not yet.
Still, he did not shoot. Frustrating as it was, this was not the time or place. It was not enough to kill one of them; the others had to know who had done it, and why.
Then they had been on the move again. He almost lost them when they had disappeared suddenly into the forest, but then had watched with a kind of fascinated horror as they had run headlong into the King’s army. For a moment, he really thought that was the end of it. The end of them, the end of his task. The thought both amused and infuriated him. He wanted this done with, certainly, but on his terms. He would not be robbed of that. It was what had motivated him from the start: revenge.
But as he watched them drift away, in the stream of men and horses and coloured banners, alive but untouchable, he knew he would have to wait all over again. He would withdraw, bide his time, keep an eye on his prey, and hope they would once more be drawn to the forest. And, of course, they would.
If the worst came to the worst, well, there was always the secondary plan. Even if his main goal was achieved, this other would remain to be completed. Just thinking of it made the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. It was little different from any one of his other missions; a shot from a crossbow, no more. Yet it had the potential to make him the most famous man in England. Perhaps the world.
XLIII
Nottingham Castle
25 March, 1194
“AT LONG BLOODY last!” said Edmund de Levertone, rubbing his gloved hands. “I thought you’d got lost on the stairs.”
Will Cobbe stepped out onto the tower battlement and yawned. “You do know you say that every time?”
“And one day it’ll be funny. Mark my words, it’ll get to you in the end.”
“I’m not that starved of conversation,” said Will. “Not yet, anyway.”
“You want to try a night up here,” said Edmund, puffing out his cheeks and rubbing his hands together again with a shudder. “Starved of everything, I am, and chilled to the marrow. That wind cuts through you.”
“Nothing to report, then?”
Edmund nudged his helm further up on his head and knitted his eyebrows in mock concentration. “A goshawk was mobbed by a bunch of crows over Fishpond Woods nary an hour ago.” He nodded towards the interior of the keep. “Then Bartholomew was mobbed by Mrs Bartholomew. Not a pretty sight. Other than that, a quiet night.”
“No pretty young ladies climbing the tower today, then?”
“More’s the pity!” They both chuckled, Edmund shaking his head in wonder. “What I wouldn’t give to have seen that!”
“You and me both, brother...”
“Hey,” said Edmund, nudging the other, and pointed to the corner of the battlement. “See that?” Will Cobbe could just make out a freshly chipped patch of stonework between the two end merlons. “That’s where her grapple bit.”
“She can grapple me any time. Most exciting thing to happen in years, and we bloody missed it. Who was it up here, anyway?”
“Lambert.”
“No!” Will chuckled. “Had to be him, didn’t it? Poor bastard!”
“Just stood there, apparently, eyes wide as platters, no idea what to do or even what he was looking at. Then she says to him: ‘Don’t mind me, my good man...’ and before he can blink, she’s headed straight down to the Constable’s chamber.”
“God’s teeth!” laughed Will. “Has anyone seen him since? It’ll be a wonder if he’s still marriageable after one of Murdac’s bollockings.”
“Just be glad it wasn’t you...” said Edmund with a laugh. He slapped Will on the shoulder and headed towards the stone stair. “Anyway, the day is young—who knows what it might bring? So, you dream on about your pretty intruders, my friend—I’ve got a pressing engagement with a bowl of hot potage. And not before time, neither. Looks like a storm’s brewing.”
Will held his hand above his eyes and squinted up at the sky. “Storm? You sure?”
“Sky’s clouding up to the south,” said Edmund, cocking his thumb.
Will turned, stepped up to the battlement and looked out over the River Leen towards the Trent. There, hanging in the air over the trees between the two rivers, was a dark haze. He looked first to one side of it, then the other.
“That’s not cloud,” he said with a frown. “Looks more like... smoke.”
Edmund stepped up by his side, and for a moment they stared in silence.
Not cloud. Not smoke. Dust; and beneath it now, advancing along the forest road—filling it, and shimmering with
the glint of metal—something far worse than rain.
“Holy Christ...” said Edmund.
They should have recognised the signs earlier, but they had not. A rider from the bridge outpost should have come and forewarned them, but they had not. But before either Will Cobbe or Edmund de Levertone could move, someone on the lower battlement blew three blasts upon a horn.
And then all Hell broke loose.
THE ALARM BROUGHT Murdac running, Galfrid and Mélisande close behind. “If this is your supposed ‘rebel army’...” muttered Murdac as he emerged from the stairway. But when he reached the battlement, his jaw dropped.
The great army was already crossing the Leen bridge. Soon, Murdac knew, they would wheel around and advance up the hill towards the castle’s eastern wall, overrunning the houses beyond the outer bailey. Accompanying them now, drifting in and out on the wind but growing stronger with every minute, was a clamour such as Murdac had never before heard: voices bellowed and chanted, drums battered and throbbed, and the sounds of trumpets rent the air. Even at a distance, Murdac could hardly believe themselves less assaulted by noise than the doomed inhabitants of Jericho.
Flying above the advancing forces were the colours of the Earl of Huntingdon, the Earl of Chester, and—just as Murdac had predicted—William de Ferrers, Earl of Derbyshire and rival for the title of Sheriff. But there were many more besides: the crosses of the archbishops of Canterbury and York; the banners of the bishops of Lincoln, Ely, Hereford, Exeter and Whithorn; the standards of Earls Warenne and Salisbury, of Roger Bigod and William Marshall; and there, flying more prominently than all others, were the flags of King Richard.
Murdac blanched.
“They’re not the rebels,” said Galfrid, turning to him. “We are.”
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