“Well...” Hood said, turning back to face his opponent. With one foot still upon the log, he pointed to the big man’s staff. “Has Little John become a peasant now, that he fights with a stick?” Those behind him chuckled.
“I have no wish to kill you,” said Lyttel.
That elicited an “Oooh!” from those gathered. Hood narrowed his cold eyes and smiled. “Well, if it’s sport you want...”
Without a pause, he unhooked the string from his bow and, stepping up onto the log, wielded the bowstave like a quarterstaff. “How’s this?” he said. One of his men cheered him on.
He leapt forward, whipping the bowstave around—to be blocked by Lyttel.
“You are good, brother,” said Hood with a grin. “But of course you are! You would not be among the chosen otherwise.” Then he whirled the stave about, swiping at Lyttel with a flurry of blows. One, two, three: Lyttel’s staff met each one.
Hood swung at him again. Staff met staff in sharp, clattering rhythm. Hood was nimble—far more than Lyttel—but the bigger man was able to anticipate his moves. Hood feigned a low strike, and swept the bowstave around and high in the air.
Almost caught out by the move, Lyttel thrust his staff upwards. He blocked the blow just short of his skull—but as it struck, with a resounding crack of wood upon wood, his left arm gave, and he cried out.
Hood laughed and got in two good jabs with the pointed nock of his bow. Lyttell winced, his feet slithering upon the log as he stepped back.
“Can’t let you have it all your own way!” said Hood, twirling his bowstave around as if he were a jongleur. Then, as they squared up to each other for a second round, Hood saw a deepening dark stain upon Lyttel’s shoulder, black in the moonlight.
“There’s blood on you, brother,” he said, his eyes narrowing. “Not of my making. What are you hiding?”
His demeanour shifted. There now seemed an air of malice, and he went for Lyttel once more, blows hard and vicious. Hood swept the bowstave about, back and forth, raining down blows, and Lyttel parried frantically, wood cracking against wood—but he was not as fast as his adversary, and one in every three strokes found an elbow, or a shin, or struck a glancing blow to the big man’s brow.
He was forced back, his booted feet slipping, stumbling upon the wet, half-rotted wood—then the nock of Hood’s bow jabbed into his thigh, and with a cry of pain, he doubled over.
Hood paused, grinning at his handiwork, ready to shove the panting giant into the gushing brook—when Lyttel’s staff thrust forward into his stomach, then whirled about and cracked him across the temple. Hood’s knees almost buckled beneath him, he tottered and swayed—then another blow sent him flying off the bridge and into the icy water with a great splash.
For a moment Lyttel stood in triumph, Hood’s followers—now silent—looking on in bemusement. Then a crossbow bolt struck Lyttel full in the chest and sent him spinning.
HOOD ROSE FROM the dark water, shook his head like a dog and stood over John Lyttel, dripping wet, laughing. “I declare you the winner, John Lyttel!” he said. Then, with the point of his bow, he lifted the edge of the Lyttel’s hood, revealing the bloody stab wound. “But you did not keep your word, did you? Others have come this way, have they not?” He gazed up into the trees, in the direction from which the bolt had flown. “Our mutual friend would seem to think so.” Then he lifted his foot and placed it on the protruding quarrel.
Lyttel, still conscious—but barely—uttered a choking cry of agony. Hood withdrew the foot and stroked his wet beard. “Hmm,” he said, shaking his head with dissatisfaction. “Too noisy...” Then he placed the same foot on the flat of Lyttel’s chest, his smile now quite gone.
“You lied when you said you did not want to kill me,” he said, and he pressed Lyttel beneath the water until the bubbles ceased.
LXVII
THEY CAME LIKE animals: dark shapes, crouched over, loping out of the shadows, their feet moving without sound upon the beaten earth floor.
Just one walked upright, unbowed by caution, untouched by fear; his face was in shadow, but Gisburne knew the shape of him by heart.
He stopped and stood for a moment—the others creeping around him, bows readied—and seemed to be sniffing the air. As he turned, his eyes and teeth glinted in the torchlight.
For a moment Gisburne was sure he looked right at him. But he didn’t move, didn’t flinch. He was certain he could not be seen in these shadows. But as the gaze lingered, he felt a shiver pass through him, nonetheless. Then Hood kept turning, looking for signs of them. The outlaw knew they were here. Somehow, something had alerted him. Had it been Lyttel?
Gisburne’s stomach growled, reminding him that he had eaten nothing but dried scraps and stale bread for days. He looked about for the big soldier; even crouching, Lyttel would be taller than Hood, who was himself taller than most. But there was no sign, and Gisburne felt a creeping dread. Lyttel was not the sort of man to run; only one thing would have kept him away.
To his surprise, Gisburne found himself uttering a prayer—perhaps the second or third time he had done so in more than ten years. He did not think the words would help Lyttel—he had never really believed that—but he wanted to say them anyway. He liked to think that if it were he lying dead or dying out there, someone would do the same for him.
Hood and his men had not moved from the forest’s edge. Gisburne had an arrow already set, but still he did not dare move—not for fear of being seen, but of being heard. The place was eerily quiet, and only in the last few moments had he realised that the poor, half-dead wretches who’d haunted the edges of the village had disappeared. Even the half-dead, it seemed, feared death. Or perhaps, with Hood’s return, they anticipated something worse even than that.
The silence was broken by a sudden movement: padding feet, the swish of cloth. From the great hall, Marian—pale as a ghost—was running. She ran not so much to Hood, as into him, yet she was now so slight that the dark figure gave not one inch. She threw her arms about him like a windblown rag wrapping about a post.
“Rose!” said Hood, and Gisburne saw the glint of teeth. Hood was not afraid to be heard, he never was. Then he took her by the shoulders and pushed her away. “You are a pathetic creature, aren’t you?” he said. This was louder—meant for Gisburne to hear.
Gisburne gripped the bowstave tighter, and felt the resistance of the string against his fingers. He raised the arrow point, looking at the place on Hood’s chest where he meant his arrow to go; where Hood’s heart was meant to be.
There would be no honour in this, but he was past caring. This creature had to be put down.
Marian staggered as Hood gripped her upper arm, then he turned her roughly around. Holding her close again, he stepped forward, holding her against him. In his other hand Gisburne now saw the gleam of a knife.
The outlaw’s eyes hunted about the shadows—looking for what must be there.
“Guy?”
It was so casual. So natural. As if he were calling to his friend from another room. He moved forward, further into Gisburne’s sights, his men close behind.
“I know you’re there, Guy. Come on out, old friend.” He laughed this time, but there was irritation in it. Impatience. “I haven’t got all night.”
No, thought Gisburne, you haven’t... He adjusted his aim to those cold eyes, those gleaming teeth.
“You know there’s a crossbowman out there, Guy?” said Hood.
Gisburne hesitated, the arrow one-quarter drawn.
“You’ve encountered him before. In fact, he’s been watching you all this time. And if you shoot, he shoots.”
“Doesn’t matter,” said Gisburne. “You’ll still be dead.”
Hood whirled, his eyes fixing on the tree behind which Gisburne stood, and he broke into a wide grin. Gisburne looked him square in the eye, and drew his arrow back until the feather fletching touched the corner of his mouth.
“Oh, but he won’t shoot you,” added Hood, matter-of-factly.
Gisburne froze, the arrow fully drawn and ready to fly, its point aimed between Hood’s darkly glinting eyes. “No. One of your friends.”
Gisburne had not feared a crossbow bolt, but Hood’s words were like a barbed point in his guts.
“I’ll leave it to him which one,” continued Hood. “He goes his own way, anyway. Doesn’t need to pause to reload, either. Clever! But perhaps you’ve already worked that one out...”
“A lie,” said Gisburne. His right hand began to shake with the effort, the string—in spite of his leather glove—cutting into his fingers.
“Lie?” said Hood, sounding put out. “Me?” Then he raised his hand and a crossbow bolt smacked into a tree—but not Gisburne’s tree. It was the one behind which Mélisande now crouched.
Gisburne relaxed his arm slowly, releasing the tension from the bow, then stood.
“No!” hissed Mélisande, but there was no choice. Not one he wished to make, at least.
He stepped forward, into the clearing, the arrow still on his bow. Marian whimpered at the sight of him. The monk, Took, stepped forward, but Hood halted him with another gesture of the blade, and greeted Gisburne with one of his epic smiles.
“Glad you could make it. What do you think of the place?” Hood looked about impatiently. “Well, come on. All of you. I want all of you in the open...”
Before Gisburne could respond, Galfrid appeared at Hood’s right.
“Master Galfrid!” said Hood cheerily.
Galfrid scowled. “That’s Squire Galfrid...”
Mélisande emerged from the trees, expression proud. Hood bowed low. “Honoured, my lady!”
From the far left came Asif, then from the right, de Rosseley and Aldric. All had arrows ready on their bows.
At the sight of Asif, Hood frowned, squinted in disbelief, then threw his head back in a great laugh. “Well, well! This is turning into quite the reunion! You never disappoint me, Gisburne...” He bowed again. “Welcome to the Greenwood, Asif al-Din ibn Salah.”
Asif said nothing. Still chuckling, Hood turned his attention to the others. “Now you two, I do not know...” He pointed the knife at de Rosseley and Aldric. “But I am sure that...”
There was an intake of breath from those gathered about Hood. Two took a step back. Hood himself, eyes wide, was staring at the vision now before him: Tancred, emerging from the shadows like a wraith. Took crossed himself, and for almost the only time in his life, Gisburne saw confusion upon Hood’s face.
“Tancred de Mercheval?” said Hood incredulously. “Allied with Guy of Gisburne? How is this possible?”
“Tancred is changed.”
“Changed? I heard he was dead.”
“He is,” said Gisburne. “Asif, too. And I’ve died more times than I can count. But I’ve come back specially for you, Robert.”
“To drag me to Hell!” chuckled Hood. “Is that why you led an army of the dead against me on the north road? That was unexpected, Guy, I must say.”
“We are all dead in our various ways,” said Mélisande with a cold expression. Hood shot an irritable glance at her.
“Except me,” quipped de Rosseley. “I intend to live forever.”
“I’m with him,” said Aldric.
Hood looked de Rosseley in the eye, as if trying to see into his mind, and narrowed his eyes. “Well, you’ve come to the wrong place for that.”
Gisburne took a step forward, and Hood’s men tensed. Hood’s blade tightened against Marian’s throat and she whimpered again.
“Everybody dies, Robert,” said Gisburne through gritted teeth. “Even you. I know you don’t believe it, but we’ve come to convince you. To end this misery.” The wind gusted, making the torch flames flicker, and the stench of corpses wafted through the courtyard.
“Misery?” said Hood, and looked around in bafflement at his fellows. “I thought we were having a good time.” He looked suddenly hurt. “You could at least show a little gratitude.”
Gisburne snorted. “Gratitude?”
“Tell me. What were your life’s greatest moments, its defining points?”
Gisburne said nothing, but Hood—ever talkative Hood—seemed determined.
“Let me help you out,” he said, and counted off on his fingers, tapping the knife blade against them, inches from Marian’s throat. “You were knighted following capture by John—because of me. You destroyed Castel de Mercheval to bring the skull of the Baptist to England—for me. You made a dramatic capture of the kingdom’s most notorious outlaw at the Clippestone tournament. Me again. And Inis na Gloichenn—I gave you that, too.” He bowed his head towards Tancred. “All your greatest victories are because of me.”
“The defeat of the Red Hand at the Tower was also your doing,” said Gisburne. “Yet you missed it out. Why is that?” He spoke not to Hood, now, but to the dark trees. A fury briefly burned in Hood’s eyes, and was extinguished. “What does any of it matter now?” said Gisburne. “What if I just kill you right here?” He felt his fingers tense against the bowstring.
Hood’s broad grin returned. “Well, then, your everlasting infamy will also be down to me.”
“Alan O’Doyle!” called Gisburne, and looked into the trees, from where the crossbow shot had come. Hood’s smile fell. “I know it’s you. I know your work. The work you did for your brother. This man you protect... You know he used your brother’s death to get himself out of the Tower—that Niall died so Hood could live?”
There was no movement, no reply, but the seed of doubt might be enough. His eyes flicked around the shadows at the forest’s edge. O’Doyle had shot one bolt. Gisburne was certain he would not have reloaded whilst they were in his sights. That meant he had one bolt ready—one only—and now they knew where he was.
Gisburne’s company must know he meant to act; he had chosen them, trained them, for this moment. But Hood sensed it too: Gisburne saw his hand tense about the knife and bring it closer to Marian’s exposed throat.
A sudden movement from one of the huts made Hood turn. A groggy Much staggered from the doorway, and Hood smiled.
And Gisburne drew his bow, loosed and ran.
Arrows hissed all around as his company scattered. His own shot flew wild, hampered by the need to protect Marian; it hissed past Hood’s ear, and the outlaw almost dodged into its path.
A man’s voice cried out in pain—he did not see who. From the trees he heard the thunk of a crossbow. Someone fell—heard rather than seen—and Gisburne threw himself into the doorway of a low hovel. The cylinder on his back thumped hard against the half-open door and made his stomach lurch, but as he turned he glimpsed Mélisande disappear behind a great heap of logs. She was alive, but two bodies now lay slumped in the courtyard.
An arrow zipped by him. He recoiled as it struck the doorpost, splintering wood. A presence behind him made him turn; an old woman—thin and bony, her face sagging—stared at him out of the dark with a vacant expression.
Gisburne peered out and saw Hood backing into the great hall, dragging Marian as a shield. He saw the fallen men, too, and felt immediate relief.
If any of his own had been hit, it had evidently not stopped them finding cover. They had been outnumbered, but had had the advantage, surrounding Hood’s men in a wide, dispersed arc.
The outlaws, packed in a tight group, had got by far the worst of it. The two on the ground—one looked to be Will of Stutely—must have fallen immediately, and a third had taken an arrow in his thigh and was even now scrabbling desperately towards cover.
If O’Doyle’s bolt had hit home, there was as yet no sign of it.
A dark shape moved behind the nearest hut—the one from which Much had emerged—and he saw Asif dodge out of the shadows and loose an arrow.
Gisburne whistled, and Asif turned and grinned at him. As best he could, Gisburne tried to convey—with gestures—what he meant to do, hoping to God Asif understood. The Arab nodded and drew six arrows from his quiver. One, he placed upon the bow; the others, he gripped between the f
ingers of his draw hand in a manner that Gisburne had only seen among Saracen archers—and only among the elite.
He nodded, then Gisburne drew Irontongue and launched himself from the doorway.
It was barely forty yards from his hiding place to the great hall, but it felt like four hundred.
Arrows flew—he heard the whistle of their feathered fletchings, one passing so close he felt its breath on his face. But almost all of them were flying at the enemy, Asif shooting so rapidly that he had loosed all six in the time it had taken Gisburne to run six paces.
He heard a cry far to his right; one of Hood’s men. After that, for a moment—the moment Gisburne needed—no more arrows flew.
He hurtled into the hall’s darkened doorway, the wooden cylinder at his back jumping and rattling. One last arrow drove into the hall’s outer wall.
And for a moment he stood panting, sword in one hand, bow in the other, face to face with Hood, the hall’s great tree spreading up behind him like some tentacled creature emerging from the earth.
Gisburne’s arrival had caught him by surprise—he had the bow off his back, but no arrow in his hand and a stunned expression upon his face. Gisburne threw his bow down and went at him.
Hood barely had time to draw his own sword, parrying Gisburne’s swing inches from his face in a jarring collision. A spark shot through the dark air.
Hood pushed him away, smiling and baring his teeth like a wild animal, and swung back at him. Gisburne jumped backwards, cursing the burden on his back. Reaching behind him, he drew his seax and parried a second crushing blow, then brought his sword about in a sweeping horizontal cut at Hood’s exposed neck.
The outlaw saw it coming, dropped and rolled, throwing his sword away from him as he did so.
It was a crazy manoeuvre. No knight or man-at-arms would let go his key weapon—you’d have to cut it from his hand. But in this, as in everything, Hood was utterly unpredictable.
In an instant he had rolled to his feet and snatched up his sword again—but that instant was time enough for Gisburne cut the strap of the wooden cylinder.
Hood Page 35