Both kneeling men stared at him, then at each other.
“Do you surrender?” said Richard.
Rousel opened his mouth, but nothing emerged.
Richard shifted in his chair, the anger rising. “Well, have you been granted the power to negotiate on Murdac’s behalf or not?”
Still nothing came.
“Is there anything you can do?” bellowed the King. He threw up his hands and stood suddenly, knocking the chair over. “Oh, this is pointless! Get those idiots out of my sight! Send them back where they came from.” He barged past, almost knocking de Grendon sprawling in the mud, and strode out into the driving rain. “Tell the crews to ready the throwing engines. And have them hurl something burning at the bastards still cowering in my castle. They’re Godless already; let’s show them what Hell is going to be like!”
A knight who Gisburne did not recognise stepped forward. “But sire, the...”
“Something burning!” shouted Richard.
Rousel and de Grendon, meanwhile, were hauled to their feet, and—slithering in the fresh mud—were shoved back towards their horses and abandoned.
“Bayard?” barked the King. A serjeant in the King’s own livery jumped to attention. “Tell your crossbowmen that if these two are still within range after a count of twenty they can use them for target practice.” The serjeant bowed as the King turned, stopped, then looked back and added: “And if they don’t know how to count to twenty, tell ’em they can start when they please...” And he stalked off.
With one last look at each other—the limp, drenched white rag still dangling from de Grendon’s fist—the pair hurriedly mounted their horses. But before they could ride out, Gisburne rushed forward and grabbed Rousel’s bridle. “You have seen the King with your own eyes,” he hissed. “That is your message. Take it back there and make sure it is told!”
Rousel nodded, then with a last nervous look across the ranks of Richard’s vast army, turned and rode away.
And as both men pounded away up the hill, Gisburne ran full tilt behind the lines to prepare Nyght for what was to come.
LII
GALFRID AND MÉLISANDE’S ruse had not remained secret for long. They stood now at sword and spear point, surrounded by the castle guard as Murdac, shaking with fury, strode before them.
“I see it was a grave error to have granted you the freedom of this castle,” he spat. Behind Murdac, de Montbegon stood grave and silent, watching with a critical eye. He was flanked by a now bemused Philip of Worcester and a body of men-at-arms, and beyond them a rag-tag gathering of those now under the castle’s protection.
“Have you all turned against us now, like your wretched master Gisburne?” Murdac turned, addressing the question not to the captives, but to all those now gathered. There was a murmur; several knew the name of Gisburne. It seemed to Galfrid that rather than stir them to a common cause, Murdac’s words were merely sowing further doubt.
The outcry at the great gate had already attracted a crowd. Some had clearly taken it to mean invasion, and had rushed to the defence of the gate armed with whatever they could find. Most, however, seemed to have come thinking surrender was imminent—and, thought Galfrid, did not appear saddened by this prospect. A few even carried bundles of belongings, which they now sought to conceal from the withering eye of their Constable.
“We did it to save the lives of everyone here,” protested Galfrid. The sword points wavered at his throat. “As even you will see, when your emissaries return to confirm the presence of the King!”
“My emissaries!” laughed Murdac. But the murmur had grown to a buzz. All here knew that if Richard stood at their gates, their cause was lost. Murdac raised his voice. “They’ll be hanged from the gibbet just like all the others!”
“Even the Lionheart respects the white flag of truce!” cried Mélisande.
“They will be hanged precisely because the Lionheart is not there,” roared Murdac. “And they”—he thrust a finger at the gate—“do not wish us to know it!”
“Riders approach!” called a watchman from above. The muttering broke into a din.
“Whose?” shouted de Montbegon. “Theirs?”
“They bear a white flag!”
“Load your crossbows,” ordered Murdac, his eye on Mélisande. De Montbegon frowned at that, and looked to Worcester, but the Constable’s brother remained mute.
“It is Serjeant Rousel,” called a second voice; Galfrid recognised Will Cobbe. “And Sir Fulcher de Grendon.”
Murdac glowered at the news, but Galfrid smiled back at him.
“It’s a trick,” said Murdac. “Ready your weapons.”
“Christ’s balls...” muttered de Montbegon, then stepped forward, addressing the guards directly. “Open the gate!”
Murdac turned on him. “I am Constable here!”
De Montbegon, fixing Murdac’s wild look with his own, took another step towards him. “You dare defy me?” he rumbled, and Murdac faltered. De Montbegon was by no means a hothead, but he was baron of great estates across Lancashire, Yorkshire, Lincolnshire and Nottinghamshire, and one of Prince John’s closest supporters. More significantly, the men wearing de Montbegon’s livery outnumbered Murdac’s by three to one.
“Your orders, my lord?” called the porter.
“Open the damned gate!” demanded de Montbegon. “They are our own men!”
The porter and guards looked to Murdac and back again. The Constable, finally realising that the mood had turned against him, simply bowed his head. The gatekeepers, who Galfrid knew held Rousel in high regard, chose to take this as confirmation; the great gate yawned open.
Rousel burst through and into the midst of the scattering crowd, with a panting de Grendon close behind, the gate already closing behind them.
“Tell them,” called Galfrid, before Rousel even had time to dismount.
Rousel looked to the knight at his side—his superior—but de Grendon merely looked about him in confusion and terror, rain coursing down his face.
“Tell them!”
Rousel could no longer contain himself. “It is the King. It is the King himself! I know him of old, and I tell you, I saw him with my own eyes. Sir Fulcher, too.”
De Grendon nodded. “T-true...” he stuttered, glancing nervously at Murdac and his mentor, Philip of Worcester.
The effect was instant. What had been mere willingness turned, in that moment, into action—and, like it or not, Sir Radulph Murdac, Constable of Nottingham Castle and Sheriff of Nottinghamshire and Derbyshire, had upon his hands complete and unconditional surrender.
People rushed about, clutching loved ones and belongings to them. Those guarding Galfrid and Mélisande—already reluctant—forgot this duty and abandoned them. The Constable himself stood alone, bereft of purpose, his authority now quite gone. The castle had stood fast, but Murdac’s defences were utterly destroyed.
“He’ll kill us if we give ourselves up,” he protested weakly, to any still listening.
“He’ll kill you if you don’t,” said Galfrid. “Surrender is at least a chance.”
“Fetch white flags!” ordered de Montbegon.
And even the garrison now jumped to his command.
LIII
GISBURNE, SITTING NERVOUSLY upon his horse, did not even wait for the gate to be fully opened: he snatched a royal standard from an astonished herald, and without shield or helm rode out, spurring Nyght all the way. He was dimly aware of cries behind him—whether in protest or surprise, he could not tell. But he did not stop for anything. In the aftermath of this surrender, he could not trust Richard—or rather, Richard’s overzealous men—to do what he was about to do.
As he neared, the wet banner flapping wildly, a crossbow bolt whirred past his head and sank into the earth behind. Still he pounded on, the besieged now spilling from the open gate ahead of him.
Then he saw them.
He threw off the stirrups, gripped the pommel of the saddle and swung off Nyght’s back before th
e stallion had even come close to a halt. Skidding in the mud as he landed, almost falling, he broke into a run.
Of those who had emerged from the castle, several had already thrown themselves upon their knees and were begging forgiveness of their King. Others merely walked forward with their heads bowed, as if resigned to their fate. Among them, Gisburne recognised de Montbegon—and there, looking utterly defeated, was Murdac. But Gisburne pushed past them all until he came face to face with Galfrid and Mélisande.
He beamed at them. Mélisande threw her arms about him, and Galfrid, for once, allowed himself an unrestrained smile. As Mélisande stood back, Gisburne peered past her—both of them—hunting for another figure.
“Llewellyn?” he said.
Galfrid shook his head. “Refuses to leave.”
Gisburne nodded, resignedly. There would be reprisals, of that he was sure. Perhaps that dungeon really was the safest place.
As if suddenly remembering his duty, he drew his sword and levelled its point at them both. “Would you be so kind as to make yourselves my prisoners?” he said.
“Happily,” said Mélisande with a smile. Galfrid said nothing, but his expression said it all: About bloody time.
LIV
Nottingham
28 March, 1194
“IS IT MUCH further?” said Gisburne. The rain had abated, but the distance they were having to travel to the promised knights was beginning to irritate him.
“Not much further,” said Bayard. There was no “my lord” or even “sire”; he apparently saw no need for such courtesies.
“Why so far outside the main camp?” said Mélisande.
This time, Bayard did not respond at all.
“Did you not hear, Serjeant?” said Gisburne. “Why so far from the main camp?”
“You’ll see,” said Bayard, steering his horse towards a grassy ridge.
The King had kept his word. Victory had evidently pleased him, for when he turned to Gisburne and his reassembled company, it had been with a broad smile. “You asked for fifty knights. I give you a hundred!”
And, thus bathed in the King’s benevolence, armoured and with shields on their backs, they had ridden out to meet their army, with Bayard as their guide, the cries of Richard’s less fortunate captives echoing behind them.
As Gisburne had ridden from Richard’s encampment, he’d felt a great weight lifting. The siege was over, his friends were safe. He was no longer in the company of Richard. It was not just that the man was dangerous and unpredictable, nor even his lack of humanity which made Gisburne feel physically sick. It was because the more Gisburne was in the King’s presence, the more he felt infected by those qualities. He saw it in those who were close to the King—who perhaps had once been good men, but were now so afflicted by the King’s contagion that they had forgotten themselves. He had seen the beginnings of that disease in himself. And, thanks to that, he now took pleasure in imagining Irontongue’s blade cleaving the King’s skull.
But what of this army the King had promised? The army that he would, within the hour, be commanding in battle? That there was to be a battle was now beyond question. Even as they had stood before Richard, a small company of men-at-arms had ridden in from patrol, and reported a great number of men advancing on foot from the north. If this was indeed Hood’s army, then they had travelled full circle about the town. Wasn’t that what wolves did, Aldric had said—circled their prey?
Gisburne had them describe what they’d seen in detail, and by the end was in no doubt. They were singing and marching twenty or more abreast along the road, they said. Numbers had been hard to judge—they had not wished to get too close—but were in excess of one thousand men. Perhaps thirteen hundred. And they had glimpsed at the heart of the army a single figure being carried aloft, seated upon a crudely constructed bier. He was garlanded with new spring flowers, a twisted crown of holly and ivy upon his head like a king of the forest. And upon his face, a bright, perpetual smile.
Thirteen hundred men... Still the number grew, and had this army but one victory under its belt, he had no doubt that number would double, and keep on doubling. But now, perhaps, they finally had the chance to take off the wolf’s head.
“Did you ever find out what that strange engine was?” said Galfrid, out of the blue.
Gisburne frowned, bewildered, thinking of the siege engines. Clearly the squire had been pursuing some long trail of thought.
“The one at Inis na Gloichenn,” he added. “The one you had brought back.”
Gisburne smiled and nodded. “No idea. Llewellyn studied it for weeks. I believe he still has it stowed somewhere—probably in the bowels of that very castle.”
“And he could not divine its purpose? Not at all?”
“It seemed to serve no practical function, except to move inscribed arcane symbols in various complex patterns. Astronomical, perhaps. His best guess was that it was meant to read the future.”
Galfrid raised his eyebrows. “He didn’t get it working, then?”
“Would we all be here now if he had?”
“Here,” said Bayard flatly. They drew their horses to a halt and Gisburne gazed down towards the dell. Within it, skirted by trees on its far side, was an orderly military camp—white tents, cooking fires, horses neatly secured along a makeshift rail, and in among them, various figures in white surcoats milling about. Above it all, a banner flew—a green cross upon a white ground. It suggested to Gisburne one of the holy orders of knights, but although it was familiar, he couldn’t place it.
Without another word, Serjeant Bayard turned his horse and rode away, and for the first time in an age, Gisburne’s company was both complete, and alone.
“Well, let’s see what we have to play with...” said de Rosseley, and urged his horse forward. The rest followed.
But Gisburne stalled, assaulted by an unbidden thought.
Mélisande turned. “What is it?” The others halted ahead of him.
It was as if the past few days’ events had finally sunk in. As he sat there, staring, contemplating the slaughter that was to come and of which he was the unwilling agent, a new realisation struck, piercing him through like a bodkin point.
Ahead of him, somewhere upon the road, was a smiling madman with no good in his heart, no care for human life and no aim beyond the headlong rush into conflict—one who would be stopped by no one’s death but his own. Behind him, much the same. The only real difference was the latter had a real crown on his head. He had a sudden and overwhelming urge to leave them to their mutual destruction; to ride off, right now, go far, far away and to simply let Hood’s army meet with Richard’s. To leave Richard to dirty his hands. He deserved nothing less.
There were several possible outcomes.
The possibility of Hood bowing to Richard and serving him faithfully, Gisburne dismissed out of hand. And all other possibilities, as far as Gisburne could see, were to the good.
There was a chance, however unlikely, that Hood would prevail. If Richard attacked as brutally as Gisburne knew he would, and some of his army rebelled, if the forces from Nottingham joined against him, or if an arrow or crossbow bolt—of which there would be thousands raining down—were to pierce that light armour he had favoured since his Crusade... Well, stranger things had happened. Richard would be swept away. Those few who still wished to remember him fondly could do as they pleased—but at least no more would suffer at his hand.
And what of Hood? Gisburne did not know for sure. All he knew, with absolute certainty, was that Hood would ultimately destroy himself. What precise form his end would take, Gisburne could not guess—but it would be both astonishing and savage, bringing chaos in its wake.
Far more likely, of course, was that Richard would win the day, crushing Hood and slaughtering his army to the last man. Then Hood would be dead, and the result much the same: one less murdering bastard in the world. But also—and it was this, perhaps, that appealed to Gisburne the most—in victory Richard would be revealed for
what he truly was. Perhaps the scales would fall from England’s eyes, and rebellion gain new impetus, with the martyred Hood—already a cult among England’s common folk—as its focus. In every one of Richard’s continental domains, they had risen against him at some time or another. Why not here? Gisburne imagined the fall of Richard—pictured him fighting and dying a brutal, bloody death on some nameless field at the hands of wrathful Englishmen, butchery meted out to him as it had been meted out to Harold upon Senlac Hill. Richard’s name as hated and disgraced as he had allowed the loyal and noble Gilbert de Gaillon to be hated and disgraced—and through him, Gisburne.
All they had to do was turn their backs on all of this.
But when he stood back from these fantasies—much as they pleased him—he saw beyond them an England plunged into chaos, a return to the grotesque anarchy that had taken Old King Henry his entire reign to put right. And who was there like him to save England now?
Richard would surely destroy himself, just like Hood. It would happen in some war in Aquitaine or Limousin, which Richard loved and which hated him, far from the England that loved him and which he hated.
But his legend remained. It was a lie, that legend, just as surely as Hood’s was. But was it not all the better for being so? And if it could do no more than hold the kingdom together, was that not preferable to blood and madness?
“Gisburne?” said Mélisande. “Are you all right?”
Gisburne looked up and saw de Rosseley studying him intently.
“Fine,” said Gisburne. “I’m fine.” And he urged Nyght on down the hill.
LV
THE TRUTH ABOUT their army dawned slowly. As they drew closer to the camp, Gisburne saw that several of the knights had their faces covered. Some wore their helms, all of which had faceplates of some kind. There was nothing so strange in that. But others, he noted, had veils about their faces, as Gisburne had seen among the desert nomads in Syria. Several were swathed in bandages, which also covered their hands.
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