“And you believe him?” she said, incredulous.
Gisburne said nothing, but took up his bow, then went and crouched over the long wooden box.
“Galfrid—stop him,” she pleaded.
The squire turned from his post at the door, gave her a long look and said—for once, without a trace of irony—“He knows what he’s doing. You have to trust him.”
“But without your mailcoat...” she said, turning to him again.
“It’s going to get hot,” he said.
“At least wear this...” said de Rosseley, and he held out the tough, battered coat of horsehide. “I wouldn’t know you without it, and they might not either.”
“Keep it safe for me,” said Gisburne. Then he prised open the wooden cylinder.
Aldric peered over his shoulder at the contents: a dozen arrows, nothing more. But instead of iron arrowheads, they were tipped with strange earthenware bulbs, each sealed with wax and little bigger than a plum.
“Llewellyn’s parting gift,” he said, and loaded them carefully, one by one, into his quiver.
“Tell me,” he said to de Rosseley, “how Richard beat the impregnable stronghold at Taillebourg?”
De Rosseley frowned, and shrugged. “The Lionheart didn’t attack it at all. He systematically destroyed everything around it—every village, every field—until the horrified garrison was drawn out into open battle.”
“Destroy everything they hold dear...” said Gisburne. “That’s been Hood’s strategy. And now it’s mine.” He gazed at the bloody, featherless arrow that had killed Asif, lying on the ground. Stooping, he picked it up. Hood’s arrow. “You all want vengeance. Well, now you’ll see it done. I will draw him out, and when he comes I will drive this into his rotten heart.” He tucked the arrow into his belt. “Remember what you need to do,” he added. “And keep water near.”
Then he burst out of the door into the driving rain.
LXIX
THE SKY WAS already beginning to lighten as Gisburne emerged. But dawn was to come early that day.
The first arrow flew from Gisburne’s bow and struck the treetop armoury, exploding into blinding flame. As the wave of heat hit him he set another on his bow, drew and shot. The second burst of Greek Fire would make sure of it.
He did not know whether they had seen him, but they surely knew he was there now. Hood’s armoury—his arrows, his bows, his new revolution—were being consumed by flame in front of his eyes. That would hurt him. And there was something else that would hurt him even more.
Gisburne turned his attention to the tree beyond the hall—perched within its thick branches, a hut that was almost the mirror image of the armoury. The treasury.
He stalked closer, rain coursing down his face, then loosed another of Llewellyn’s arrows. And another.
The treasury roared into flame. The village glowed golden. From the hall, he heard Marian’s manic laughter as the fire spread.
Then the wolves came.
Gisburne stood at the end of the village, silhouetted against the pulpit stone, and let them come. Two. Three. Five. No more than five.
In the stark light, they looked lean and hungry. They wove through the village, arrows on their bows—and then they saw him.
“There!” One pointed.
But Gisburne’s bow was already drawn. “Welcome to Hell!” he shouted. Flames burst to the left of them as a hut was engulfed. They recoiled in shock and terror—but then flames blossomed on their right, the heat pushing them back once more.
He shot again. And again. One by one, the huts burst into flame until the terrified bowmen, cowering as if from dark magic, were surrounded on all sides by the crackle and roar of consuming fire, herded into a tight group.
Then arrows flew from the hall, and they cried out as they fell.
They ran. But Gisburne’s company was out of the hall now, cutting them down as they scattered. One turned on Gisburne, bow drawn—and Gisburne loosed the last of his fire arrows into the man’s chest. He shrieked as he turned to a column of flame, his wildly loosed arrow—aflame from tip to nock—roaring through the air over Gisburne’s head and shattering against the rock.
Gisburne moved forward, sending two regular arrows into the outlaws—one sinking into a man’s back as he ran at de Rosseley and killing him outright, the other felling a great haystack of a man who was still running with three arrows in him.
Then, suddenly, no one was running.
They stood, looking about them, lit by flame, sweat on their faces, the crackle and hiss of the fire mingling with the moans of the dying.
Only now was it dawning on Gisburne’s company that it might be over—that Hood’s men were finished.
But as they turned over the bodies, what Gisburne already knew slowly became apparent:
Hood was not among them.
“Where is he?” said Mélisande, scanning the shadows beyond the trees, made darker than ever by the surrounding flames
“He’ll come,” said Gisburne.
Aldric, gazing about him with a stunned expression, drew closer to Gisburne. “I have never seen anything burn with such ferocity,” he said.
“Courtesy of Llewellyn of Newport,” said Gisburne.
“Best Greek Fire west of Byzantium,” said Galfrid.
Aldric smiled, and forced cheer into his voice. “I should like to meet with him. Find out what’s in it.”
“Talk to him nicely and he’ll give you the recipe,” said Mélisande.
Aldric frowned, and sniffed the air. “That smell... Smells like...” Then he caught sight of the man Gisburne’s last fire arrow had burned—or what remained of him—and Gisburne thought he paled a little, and swayed.
“It’ll be over soon,” said Gisburne.
Aldric turned to him. “I’m sorry, I—”
He never finished the sentence. The words turned to a cry, and he spun about and fell, a crossbow bolt in his right shoulder.
Mélisande pointed towards the trees: “There!”
With a growl, the Norseman ran forward—but a second bolt slammed into his collarbone and sent him reeling.
Two shots. This was their chance... “Get him!” says Gisburne. “Alive if you can!”
Ross and Galfrid plunged into the trees. The Norseman—still somehow on his feet, driven by pure vengeance—went crashing after them.
They hauled Aldric to the edge of the trees by the hall and propped him against an oak. “It’s all right,” he insisted. “I’m all right.”
“It needs attention,” said Mélisande.
“I know what it needs,” said Aldric, then shuddered. “I’ve been here before, remember?” He gave Gisburne a weak smile. “Other shoulder this time. At least I’ll be equally crippled on both sides.”
Gisburne put his hand on Aldric’s arm and was about to speak when a horrifying shriek split the air. Gisburne and Mélisande stood and turned. They silently placed arrows on their bows—and Marian burst from the hall and ran headlong for the trees, half-screaming, half-laughing, her ragged shift soaked by the rain. Gisburne went to pursue her as she fled, but then something made him turn back—back to what she had fled, what had made her scream.
And there, in the doorway of the hall about the great central oak, a figure loomed.
“She’s quite mad, you know,” said Hood, stepping forward, his face lit by the fire, his eyes glinting like a devil’s. His bow was ready—one arrow upon it, one other in his bow hand.
Gisburne blinked away the rain and looked at Mélisande. It was a mistake, her being here. A terrible error. This was supposed to be between him and Hood.
“Go,” he whispered.
She stared at him. “What?”
“Go,” he said, louder. “Away from here. To safety. This is not your fight.”
“Now you tell me this is not my fight?” she said. “You’re dreaming, Gisburne. Here is where I stay.”
“You see?” said Hood. “Women. Impossible.” He sighed deeply and gazed after Marian. “Poor Rose.
She was quite charming once, too. But one tires of them, don’t you find?”
But Gisburne wasn’t listening. He was thinking how fast Hood was at drawing his bow. He was wondering if he could match it—and he was thinking about Mélisande, who should not have been here.
“I have often wondered whether it would be you who killed me,” said Hood, changing the subject. “Even as far back as Jerusalem.”
Gisburne stood for a moment, listening to the patter of the rain blending with the crackle of the flames. “Because I discovered you were a murderer?” he said.
The words bounced off without leaving a mark. “There just seemed something fitting about the possibility. Poetic, almost. Don’t you think so?”
“I think it sounds like the rambling of a madman.”
Hood’s face fell and his eyes hardened. Then it passed and his expression contorted into a child’s pouting parody of sorrow.
“Do you really think you can kill me?”
“You know I can.”
“True,” said Hood, snapping back to his normal self—whatever that was. “It’s one of the things I always liked about you. But then again...” He cast his eyes up, as if searching for words. “It’s not... whether a man can, but whether he will.”
The hairs stood up on Gisburne’s neck at his choice of words. Thynghowe, nearly two months earlier. The ill-fated, nocturnal gathering of barons. “You were there...”
“I’m always there,” said Hood with a smile. “I’m everywhere.”
Gisburne saw Hood’s fingers tighten against the string of his bow. He felt his own shoulders tense. Hood took a step sideways, and Gisburne matched him, stepping the opposite way.
“I was disappointed when you said no,” said Hood. “I was looking forward to it.”
“I know you were,” said Gisburne. “That’s why I said it.”
“Hmm... It’s like the way you persist in calling me ‘Robert,’ just because you know it irritates me. If I didn’t know better, I’d say these were not the actions of a good friend.”
“I? Your friend? I’ve come to kill you.”
“Just because you want to kill someone, doesn’t mean you don’t love them.”
“I heard the Lionheart utter the very same words not three days ago. You two really were made for each other.”
“Precisely my point! When I learned that it was he who had sent you, I was in raptures! Well... we’ll see who wins the game.”
“You think you can win against him?”
“Why not? I’ve nothing better to do with my time.”
“I heard about your little plan—with O’Doyle.”
Hood’s face fell a little. “Scarlet blabbed, did he? Well, he deserved what he got, then. Horrid little man.”
“It’s a suicide mission you’ve sent him on,” said Gisburne.
“They’re by far the most interesting, I find. Though there’s always the chance he might actually succeed. How interesting that would be!” He chuckled, then sighed again. “The hardest part was keeping him from killing you. He really doesn’t like you, you know. Another reason he had to go.”
Gisburne laughed a grim laugh. “Gods... Whatever will people do for entertainment when you are gone?”
Hood chuckled. “Oh, this is where the real entertainment begins.” He took a step forward. Gisburne and Mélisande tensed. “You think I care for the life in this body? No, no, no! When I die, that is when I am truly born.”
“I never knew you were so pious, Robert.”
“Heaven? God and the angels? Now those really are the ramblings of a madman. No, I mean to live forever—like your friend said, except that I really will, in the hearts and minds of men.”
“You will be forgotten as surely as the grave worms will pass you into the soil,” said Gisburne.
“You really think so... It’s happening already, Guy. Songs, stories, rituals, superstitions. These are the building blocks of immortality—stronger by far than the stones of those dreary cathedrals your squire loves so much. And do you know why that is?”
Gisburne felt no desire to answer.
“Because a stone is just a stone, and in time, people forget why they were put there. They become no more than a bland enigma. But a story, a song... People never forget why they are there, why they need them.” He grinned, and his eyes glinted. “You will be remembered too, you know. Oh, yes! Just... not so kindly.” He shrugged. “But it’s out of our hands, old boy. It no longer matters, now, what I am, or what I do. I am already their hero. And I will always be so, growing, changing, according to their needs. All it takes to live forever is to be freed from the tyranny of truth. Of fact. Of history. Throw off these chains, and what might we not become? No, it doesn’t end here, least of all if we kill each other. It begins.”
“Are you just going to talk all night?” said Mélisande.
Hood drew his bow so fast that Gisburne, who was looking right at him, did not even see it. All he saw was a flash of burning hatred in Hood’s eyes, his teeth bared like a wolf, and a bow from which the arrow had already flown. Mélisande uttered one brief, sharp cry, and he saw her flying backwards, her feet rising clear of the forest floor, the bow and the one arrow she had not had time to draw falling uselessly into the mud. She stopped hard against a tree, then sank to the wet ground with Hood’s arrow in her chest.
“She shouldn’t have interrupted,” sighed Hood.
Gisburne, his every sense overthrown by rage and horror, drew without thought. Some part of his rioting brain registered a second arrow upon Hood’s bow, as Gisburne, the string drawn back past his ear, loosed wildly, hearing his own roar as he did so.
It was a savage shot, all instinct.
But the arrow flew true.
Hood was already close to full draw when it hit. Gisburne’s arrow point struck the straining bowstave, glanced off and passed through Hood’s left shoulder, leaving a string of blood in its wake. Hood’s great warbow, bent almost to breaking point, exploded into a thousand shards of yew, its splintered parts spinning in every direction. But as it did so, his arrow also left the bow.
Gisburne heard a hiss, and a crack, and something struck his head with the force of a hammer. There was a searing pain; his knees buckled beneath him. Tasting blood, he put his left hand up to his face, realised that he could not see it, then felt the hot splash upon his palm. Then the hand met something solid—sharp—where it should not be, protruding from his left eye.
As the hand made contact, a white heat of pain tore through his head. He may have cried out—he wasn’t sure. Lights flashed and crackled. A continuous, high-pitched note played, so loud it blocked out all else. With a weird detachment, he realised he could no longer distinguish between the pain he felt and what he saw or heard. Vision blurring in his remaining eye, he looked back up, across the fire-lit clearing. A cloud of dust still hung in the air where Hood’s bow had been destroyed.
But there was no Hood.
Gisburne’s head swam. He blinked hard to clear his one good eye—and the other burned as if stuck with a hot poker. He fell forward then, the darkness drawing itself over him, his last conscious vision that of Mélisande slumped against the tree, eyes staring, face deathly pale, a single tendril of sweat-soaked hair upon her brow, and an arrow in her heart.
LXX
Sherwood Forest
29 March, 1194
THE FIRST THING he saw was a bloody handprint.
His eyes could barely focus, but it was there, in the flickering half-light, stamped upon rock. He blinked, frowned at it. Where he was, he couldn’t tell. But he knew he was shifting in and out of consciousness. The dream—the nightmare—had been a taste of Hell: it seemed a perpetual torment, something from which there would be no escape. In the dream, Mélisande had died. His heart still pounded at the memory of it—still half-believed in it. But now he knew that was not real, and this was.
Thank God.
Through the indistinct haze, he now saw that there were others like it—more
handprints, some no bigger than a child’s—all in faded colours. And around these, dancing in procession across the uneven surface of the rock, strange little stick figures: men, animals, other things he could only half-identify.
They swirled. The room—if room it was—began to spin.
And then he remembered. The Forêt de Boulogne. This was the Forêt de Boulogne. The cave in which Mélisande nursed him. He nearly died, because of Tancred. But... That couldn’t be right.
Tancred died, in a different forest. He saw it. And that cave... It was more than two years ago. He remembered everything, now—all that followed: the battle at Castel Mercheval, the skull of St John the Baptist, capturing Hood, his escape from the Tower, the Red Hand, and Mélisande...
Then he realised. That wasn’t the dream; this was.
His limbs flailed. He felt like a straw doll. Fighting to open his right eye, he found it stuck fast. It felt covered in tar. It tore open suddenly and he thought he saw flames licking. Blurred shadows moving.
He tried to lift his head, and all turned to black.
HE CRAWLED ON his belly, sticky, sweaty, blind. Half of him was hot, the other cold and wet. Leaves and mould, sticking to him. There was flame—he could hear the crackle, smell the smoke, feel the heat on his skin. But his eyes registered nothing. One was real, one not. But which?
The left side of his head felt like it was splitting. His hand went to it, unthinking; something sharp pierced his palm and pain and light exploded in his head. A single, incessant note scraped across the inside of his skull.
Fucking hurdy gurdy...
He crawled, with no idea where he was heading. The heat subsided, gave way to the cool and damp, and he staggered to his feet, hands held out before him, not knowing whether he was stumbling to safety or into a trap.
He saw Mélisande. Dead, an arrow in her. Not real. No, he did not want that to be real.
Shapes and colours began to swirl. Then suddenly the ground gave way. He fell. The shock of icy water.
And all went black once more.
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