Hood

by Toby Venables

  He let it fall. His heart was in his mouth as he heard it strike the ground. But he was not dead. Not yet.

  He attacked—but Hood, instead of defending, went at him again, grinning and grunting with every feverish swipe. He had not had a knight’s years of training and was not so skilled a swordsman as Gisburne, but the blows were hard to predict—wild and unrestrained, with all of Hood’s strength behind them. Gisburne retreated, parrying again and again, the relentless attack giving him no chance to counter. Then his heel stopped hard against something, and he stumbled. He felt himself fall.

  Time slowed. Hood’s distorted visage leered over him, eyes wide, spit flying from his mouth, sword passing a thumb’s width above Gisburne’s face.

  Gisburne reflected, distantly, that it had been a lucky escape; less lucky was the blow then connecting with Irontongue, with enough force to send it spinning from Gisburne’s hand.

  He landed hard, the wind knocked out of him. By the time he knew what was happening, the seax had been knocked from his other hand. For a moment, it almost seemed funny: a moment ago, he’d been sneering at Hood for dropping his sword, and now here was Gisburne, himself weaponless.

  Hood swung again—straight down, sword whistling through the air in a killing blow.

  Gisburne raised his right arm instinctively—and Hood’s blade stopped hard against it.

  Hood looked stunned. The blade had struck the steel vambrace on Gisburne’s forearm—one of Llewellyn’s gifts—and stuck between the teeth along its lower edge. In another moment, Hood could withdraw, and strike again; but Gisburne did not hesitate, and twisted his arm with all the force he could muster.

  Trapped, the sword blade unexpectedly snapped, the end ringing through the air and falling uselessly to the ground. Hood tottered back, staring at the broken hilt. Gisburne leapt to his feet and before his opponent could gather his wits, thrust the vambraced forearm at his face.

  The teeth scythed across Hood’s cheek. He roared, and staggered back towards the shadows, his face bloodied.

  Irontongue, was Gisburne’s next thought. But as he looked for the sword, something sharp rammed into his back, making him cry out. He turned and swatted the figure aside, his fist meeting little resistance, and saw it was Marian. She crumpled in a heap, Gisburne’s seax tumbling from her grip. It had not penetrated his mail—he doubted it had even drawn blood—but when he turned back, Hood was gone.

  He crouched over Marian, who was moaning feebly. She would be insensible for a little while, but she’d live.

  Then he saw what must have tripped him: Llewellyn’s cylindrical box. He glared at it. “Christ’s boots, I hope you’re worth this...” he muttered.

  Hearing the sound of clashing blades from the courtyard, he retrieved his weapons, propped the box in the shadows by the door, and rushed back outside.

  IN THE FIERCE fighting, arrows had been soon depleted, and bids to retrieve them had—inevitably—drawn the fight into the open.

  A thin-faced man with a brush-like beard had broken cover at exactly the same moment as Asif. For a second they stood rooted to the spot at either end of the open courtyard, eye to eye, each with an empty quiver. The bearded man’s eyes flicked to the floor, where an arrow lay just ten feet from him, then back to Asif. A second pair of eyes glinted behind him, and as Asif looked to them, the bearded man ran.

  Asif’s hand was already at his belt, and he swung with a grunt. Metal flashed and rang through the air in the dark forest glade. The disc bounced off the man and went spinning skyward as he lurched forward, and for an instant Asif was convinced he had inflicted no damage. But there came a choking cough, the man pitched forward onto his face, and red sprayed and frothed from him as he thrashed in the spreading pool.

  The second man had already darted from the shadows, going for the same arrow. Asif gripped the second chakkar and let it fly—but the man had seen his comrade’s fate and knew what was coming. Fast as a fox, he dropped and threw up his hand, apparently intent on hurling the weapon back at its owner. The disc sailed past and stuck in an ash tree at the forest’s edge; without a pause, the man leapt forward, reaching for the fallen arrow.

  It was only when attempting to grab the arrow shaft that the man realised what had happened. There were no fingers, just streams of blood pouring from the severed stumps which grubbed uselessly in the sticky, crimson mud about the arrow. He let out a howl of anguish as Asif drew his sword and ran at him.

  MÉLISANDE HAD EMERGED a moment after Asif, with only a dim sense that others about her were doing the same

  Her target was a man who had suddenly appeared from behind the great hall with a spear, and looked like he might give Asif trouble. Sword drawn, her bow in her left hand, she made a dash at him. He turned his spear on her, but she knocked its point out of her way and stepped on the point, and would have slashed him with the return stroke had he not had the presence of mind to drop the spear and run. He fled into a dark alley between huts, and she pursued him into the confined space—and almost crashed straight into him.

  He was not weaponless. She hadn’t noticed the mace at his belt, but his retreat had given him time to draw it, and he now stood, wild-eyed and defiant, feet planted wide apart, the crude, hammer-headed club raised and ready. There wasn’t the space to swing her sword in the narrow lane.

  “Well, well,” said a voice behind her. She glanced back and saw the leering face of Will the Scarlet, revealing black teeth as thin as a rat’s. “Here’s a pretty one...” He took a step forward, his long knife glinting. Ahead of her, the other raised his mace.

  Mélisande dropped her bow, wrapped her gauntleted hands about the blade of the sword and swung it like an axe. The upswing countered the mace; then she brought the sword’s crosspiece down into her attacker’s unprotected skull. He dropped like a felled ox, and she pulled the sword free and thrust the point of the blade behind her.

  The point bit, and Scarlet howled in pain. She turned and battered the hilt across his chin, then cracked it against his knuckles as he staggered back. The knife dropped point-first in the mud. She plucked it up and went to finish him off.

  But Scarlet was not as badly hurt as she might have hoped. Moaning like a tomcat in heat, he turned and ran—and this time, the retreat was no bluff.

  Mélisande thrust the knife through her belt, took up her bow and ran back into the courtyard. Scarlet was running unevenly across the open space, zig-zagging between others in conflict. Looking around, she saw an arrow stuck in a support post to her left, its iron tip still visible. She sheathed her sword, pulled the arrow free, placed it on her bow, and put it through Will Scarlet’s right leg.

  He screeched like an animal. The arrow stuck halfway through his leg, just below the knee, and became embedded in the mud as he fell. He writhed there, unable to stand or crawl, pinned to the earth like an insect.

  DE ROSSELEY SAW Hood’s man aim and draw at Mélisande as she ran after the spearman.

  Where and when he had got the arrow, de Rosseley had not seen, but he did not stop to think. He launched himself forward, his sword swinging through the air when he was still yards away. The bowman heard his heavy footfalls advancing and turned, his bow, at full draw, now on his attacker.

  By then it was too late. De Rosseley’s blade struck the bowstave and it exploded into splinters, sending the bowman flying flat in the mud. The arrow span up into the air; de Rosseley heard it clatter on the roof of a nearby hut as he advanced to finish the bowman off.

  He was raising his sword again when there was an impact, and pain shot through his side. For a moment, he thought an arrow had hit him—then realised that if that were the case, he probably wouldn’t be wondering anything. He turned and saw Much, swaying, pale-faced, dagger in his hand. De Rosseley just had time to register the anger and terror in his face before punching the pommel of his sword into the boy’s nose.

  He inspected the damage at his side. The dagger point had barely penetrated the mail, but had still managed to draw bl
ood. He cursed under his breath, turned again to the now almost recovered bowman. Then a second pain seared through his calf. He looked down to see Much, his nose streaming blood, sprawled upon the floor, feebly withdrawing the knife he had stuck in the back of de Rosseley’s lower leg all the way to the bone.

  De Rosseley kicked the boy senseless, and winced in pain.

  Then the bowman was up again, sword drawn, and going for de Rosseley as an easy kill.

  ALDRIC HAD ALREADY felled two of Hood’s men when Much left his mark upon de Rosseley. A third was stalking steadily towards him, seemingly oblivious to his spanned and loaded crossbow, when Aldric glanced again at de Rosseley and saw a sword raised and ready to strike the knight.

  He did not hesitate.

  The bolt struck the bowman just below the ear, emerging a full inch from the far side of his skull. De Rosseley started in shock and surprise, then turned to Aldric and gave him a smile and a nod of gratitude.

  But Aldric’s attention was now back on the man still coming for him, a crude spiked club in his hands.

  Why the man did not come faster, Aldric did not know. Perhaps he thought he was safe from his crossbow. Aldric had been frugal with his bolts and now had one left, but he had to span the bow first. And somehow—perhaps to avoid hand-to-hand combat, which he had feared ever since his injury in the Forêt de Boulogne—he found himself doing just that.

  His attacker was half-smiling, half-grimacing as he paced forward, watching Aldric crank the lever forward and back. In this man’s world, crossbows could not be spanned with any speed, but he had not reckoned upon the ingenuity of the man he now faced—for already Aldric was placing bolt upon bow.

  All at once the man charged. Aldric, panicked, fumbled the bolt and barely raised the bow as his attacker barged into him with his whole body.

  The loaded crossbow fell to the ground, and Aldric was shoved backwards, falling and rolling over. Aldric rolled and staggered to his feet, drawing his sword before the attacker could make his next move. Seeing Aldric’s crossbow still spanned and loaded by his feet, the man smiled, dropped the club, snatched up the bow, turned it on its maker and squeezed the trigger.

  The bolt did not fly. Instead, the man gave a strange, sharp cry and let the weapon drop, then looked at his bloodied hand in a mix of disbelief and fury. He grasped the spiked club and took a step—and without warning his eyes rolled, his mouth foamed and he fell to his knees, clutching at his throat.

  Somewhere from Aldric’s right, de Rosseley charged past in great limping strides, and with a roar—of anger, of pain, of bloody-minded defiance—struck with all his strength. The head jumped clean off, rolling and leaving a bloody trail.

  “Thank you,” said de Rosseley, panting, as the gushing, headless body slumped forward.

  “You’re welcome,” said Aldric. And then he thought about the other crossbowman somewhere out there.

  GALFRID STOOD BEFORE Took, sword gripped in both hands. The monk—lean and wiry, his thin mouth framed by a grizzled beard—fixed him with a hard stare, and he raised his blade.

  “Where’s your master, squire?” he said.

  “Killing yours, priest,” said Galfrid.

  Took gave a dismissive laugh. Galfrid imagined the man could be kindly to those he deemed worthy, but right now was about as genial as a bucket of cold piss emptied from an upper window.

  “My master is God,” he said, scornfully.

  Galfrid nodded slowly. “Well, perhaps it’s time you paid him a little visit,” he said, and swung hard.

  Took dodged then countered. Galfrid parried with the flat of his blade, knocking the monk’s sword away. The priest was clearly a canny fighter. Took eyed him for a moment, then struck at him again.

  The blows came hard and fast. Once, the monk’s sword tip caught the nasal on Galfrid’s helm, twisting it, and forcing the squire to step back.

  The monk had no armour. This should have given Galfrid the clear advantage, but Took showed no fear, and he was not rushing. But this was fact: if Took struck Galfrid, his mail would likely stop the blade’s edge, but if Galfrid struck Took, he would cut him deeply. And he was tiring of fighting at the monk’s pace.

  Galfrid drove at him with all the force he could muster, trying to force an error. The monk’s blade parried everything he could throw at him—then countered with a blow that slid down Galfrid’s blade, bounced off his crossguard and smacked against his neck. Galfrid reeled with the impact and the pain; but for his mail coif, he’d be dead. He turned, staggered—looked about to fall—then dropped the act and swung full circle, bringing his sword around in a great arc.

  Took leapt back—but not far enough. Galfrid’s sword point caught him across the forehead. He felt iron graze against bone, and the monk roared. Blood streamed down his face as he staggered back, half-blinding him. Galfrid stepped forward, raising his blade for the kill.

  What happened next was a blur. Something struck the blade hard, knocking it from his hand, and he was hit in the side of the head and sent flying. The landing knocked the breath out of him, and for a moment he lay helpless, his ears ringing, his helm askew. He felt no pain, but was uncertain whether he had escaped injury or was already dead.

  Sideways on, as if through a haze, he saw Tancred, fighting like a whirlwind. Even as Galfrid watched, he cut one man’s throat and gutted another. A third—unwilling to take him on—dropped back, found an arrow, and had it on his bow before he, too, was shot; by Asif, Galfrid thought.

  More than we expected... thought Galfrid in his strange, distracted state of mind. Then he saw muddy, booted feet moving close by him. Took’s.

  Move... thought Galfrid. Get up... But his body would not respond. As he awaited his death, Galfrid thought abstractly about what had just occurred. Took had not struck him. There was no one else nearby. A bowman, then? No, not that—a crossbowman...

  There was a logic to it. Hood’s archers would have aimed for his body—any regular archer would. But to have struck his sword like that and glance off his helm, it had to have been aimed at his face. There was nothing regular in that. It might simply have been a stray arrow, of course, but his money was on their crossbowman.

  He chuckled to himself, staring at Took’s feet as the monk drew up alongside him. Blood dripped on the ground. Took’s sword point swung low past his face, and he wondered vaguely, for reasons that were beyond him, what became of Master Hubert’s lost stone blocks back in Durham.

  Then pain surged through his right wrist, and his neck, and on through his whole body. His limbs twitched. The fear returned. He raised his head, and saw another pair of feet approaching.

  Tancred’s.

  TOOK TURNED AND saw Tancred de Mercheval screaming towards him.

  Tancred, whose startling views had inspired him to travel so far from the stagnant waters of Christian orthodoxy.

  Tancred, who he had enticed to this very place, and who had aided them in their action against Gisburne at the Tower.

  Tancred, who Hood had betrayed in spite of Took’s entreaties, and who perhaps now was to prove their undoing.

  And as he thought these things, he saw his own end rushing towards him. He thought of how the first blow would come. How he would parry. With what he would counter.

  But he did nothing.

  Tancred’s sword point pierced his stomach with all of the Templar’s weight and momentum behind it. There was no pain. Just an impact, and a horrifying pressure that seemed to have no end. A pop inside, then a rush to the head. A jarring, shuddering sensation—which some part of him knew was the blade sliding past bone. The heat of his own blood.

  And as he was run through, he gazed up at Tancred—literally staring into the face of death.

  He clutched the blade in both hands. Nothing moved. His legs were water. He looked down and saw the scarlet cascade. Then the pain rose so great in him he wanted only for it to end.

  And the world slid from him.

  TANCRED STOOD OVER Galfrid as Took fell, th
e squire looking back up at him in blurred incomprehension.

  Tancred had committed the ultimate sin of a knight; he had lost his sword. As Took had fallen, gripping the blade that spelled his doom, his collapsing weight had ripped the hilt from Tancred’s hand.

  He looked down at Galfrid, so vulnerable at his feet, and hissed in frustration. The sword was not easily recoverable from the curled body of the monk. He hunted around for another—and saw Galfrid’s.

  He snatched it up, gave Galfrid a last look, then swung the blade.

  It connected with the crossguard of an attacker’s sword—one of Hood’s men, who had seen Tancred without a weapon. His expression changed when he saw Tancred was armed again—and fell further as the Templar advanced, raining down blows. Parrying desperately, the man fell back, and Tancred advanced.

  Then a low cry made Tancred turn. A second man, a long knife in one hand and a rough, spiked mace in the other, was creeping up upon Galfrid, and the squire—still addled from the blow, but sensible enough to realise he was defenceless—was scrabbling backwards upon the ground, limbs flailing like an upturned beetle.

  And Tancred had taken the squire’s weapon.

  He turned back to his adversary, sword crashing hard against hilt. He gave the man no opportunity to attack, but he was defending himself like the Devil. He needed to end it—so he feigned a high blow, then sank his boot into the man’s unprotected groin.

  The bandit doubled and fell, and Tancred, shrieking like a wraith, whirled about and flew at the other, whose face twisted in utter terror. He blocked wildly with his mace and caught Tancred’s flying blade—but the force of the blow thrust the mace into his own forehead. He staggered back and let go the mace, but one of its spikes had pierced his face, and he tottered about with the club hanging from it, looking for all the world like some bizarre figure from a mummers’ play.