His return, and their final reconciliation, had barely been in time. Robert’s mind had turned. There would be moments of clarity – then he would call out for his long-dead wife Ælfwyn to bring ale, or ask Guy where his little sister Adela had got to. Adela had died when Gisburne was seven years old, and she four. The pain of this confused collision of memories proved almost too much for Gisburne to bear. He had stood before the mightiest armies, had been battered by combat in a dozen lands, had lived through the Hell of the most damaging, scarring conflict of his age – which, even now, was spoken of only in hushed tones. Yet fighting his father’s phantoms to reach the rapidly dwindling places in the man’s mind where sanity had not yet been overthrown was the hardest battle he had ever fought.
There was more – far more – that Gisburne wished to have said. But during those grim weeks, it had been Marian who had been the shining light. Her sympathy – he did not dare use the word “love” – had been total, unconditional, given without judgement. She had always been pure of heart, thinking of others before herself – he used to make fun of her for it when she was a child, and he the older, more worldly-wise teenager – and of that she had given freely.
As a young boy, Gisburne had a special attachment to Marian. Everyone could see it. Perhaps it was because she had been the same age as Adela, and he felt some compulsion to keep this little, pretty creature safe from the world – to provide the protection he had been unable to extend to his sister. His father and Fitzwalter had long been friends, and when the younger Gisburne went to Normandy to train with de Gaillon, it followed that he would visit Marian’s family, who also spent their summers there. In time, both fathers came to regard them as a natural match – even though, Gisburne had to admit, Marian could have attracted someone of far higher status than he.
Then came the rift.
Fitzwalter had come to admire Richard. Gisburne’s father could not stomach the idea of Richard as a future king. Their conflicting loyalties divided them. Contact between Gisburne and Marian withered.
One day he met her and found she was a woman. But her youthful idealism had not faded. It had found a cause. She had grown to become a passionate champion of the wretched and the suffering – if anything, with more fire in her belly. Part of him still dismissed it as naivety. Yet there was a part of him, too, that admired her dogged refusal to accept injustice in the face of an unjust and chaotic world.
There had been a time in Poitou when they had quarrelled over exactly this. They had not seen each other for nearly five years. Gisburne was then serving as a serjeant in Henry’s army, during the old king’s last struggle against his son, Richard. Richard eventually emerged the victor, and Henry died, leaving his errant son the throne.
Perhaps driven to greater cynicism by this turn of events, he had told her she would always be let down by life if she had such high expectations of it – always disappointed. But what would the world be, she said, without people who earnestly believed things could be better?
The quarrel had been politely resolved, but left a bitter taste. He had been too high-handed, too familiar – trying to speak to her as if she were still the same silly girl and he the overconfident older boy. Now he thought back, it had been patronising and arrogant in a way that was not like him at all. But what had seemed so dismissive had, in fact, been desperation – desperation to recapture something he feared lost. Afterwards, he knew for certain that it was.
When they met again – his father dying, his fortunes at their lowest ebb – hope had been unexpectedly rekindled. She seemed, quite suddenly, to give more of herself to him than she ever had before. It was not until long after that he began to understand why. He was the underdog. The wretched. All this time he had craved her love – but all she really had to offer was compassion.
Immediately after, as he headed north to his dying father, she had departed for Normandy. Now, she was returning to England just as Gisburne, once again, was heading in the opposite direction.
“My lord Gisburne...”
Gisburne started at the sound. He had been slouched in his seat, chin on one hand, eating knife in the other, stabbing into the soggy slab of stale bread before him in a state of irritated detachment when the voice – familiar and close – snapped him back to the present.
Marian stood before him.
It was considered bad form to move from your place during a meal. What was the point of all that hierarchical seating, after all, if people just got up and wandered about? Nevertheless, the host could always dictate otherwise. And here was the catch. King Henry, who had abhorred laziness, could hardly sit still for more than a few minutes at a time. Even when he managed it for brief periods in court, he would be doing something else – reading, or repairing his saddle for the next day’s hunting, or both – much to the frustration of any bishop or baron who was attempting to converse with him on matters of state. At formal feasts, he would spend most of the time standing up, or pacing about, which provided his guests with the opportunity – perhaps even the obligation – to do the same. Amongst those who had loved Henry, the fashion had persisted. Clearly, this was a matter of great distaste to de Clere. Such liberties, even when taken by a king, were a crude throwback. It was all a bit... Saxon. But in a land where the living monarch was absent in both body and spirit, a dead one could still hold sway.
With her head slightly bowed, and her hands clasped before her, she appeared every inch the demure, modest lady. So different from the Marian he had known as a youth. And yet... Did the mere fact of her standing there, on the other side of this narrow table, not suggest a certain, familiar independence of spirit? He wondered at her words, too. “My lord”? She must be pulling his leg, surely – just as he used to pull her pigtails. He certainly wasn’t a lord, even less was he hers. Just considering the possibility made his heart thump, his brain teem and his face flush with heat.
“My lady Marian,” he managed to stammer. If she was mocking him, he would give as good as he got.
She stood for a moment, eyes on him.
Her dress was blue-grey, her veil and wimple white, topped with a simple circlet of silver. The look was plain – plain enough, almost, for a nun – but if anything it only threw the beauty that it framed into greater relief; the curve of her breasts and hips, the curling wisps of auburn hair escaping the veil about her face, the natural, unaffected grace with which she bore herself. She had always been beautiful – and in recent years had become beguiling – yet stood before him with a familiar, unselfconscious ease. Ever since he had known her, Marian had seemed to have a complete disregard for her own beauty, and a blissful lack of awareness of the effect it had on others. It was yet another reason Gisburne would lose his wits over her.
Her eyes widened and a mischievous smile flashed across her lips – the smile of the girl he had always known.
“Have you been avoiding me?”
“Not at all,” he protested. “It is unfortunate that... matters... have taken me away from you.” He winced at his own words. Away from you. That was too much.
But Marian did not wince. She cocked her head to one side, knotted her brow into a frown of sympathy, and, leaning forward, placed one slender hand on his. “My poor Guy...”
He stared in a kind of disbelief at the smooth, pale fingers wrapped about his own dark-skinned, rough hand, and resisted the urge to crush them to his lips. At the same moment, he seemed to become acutely aware of everything else in the hall: the eyes now upon him, some surreptitiously; the other guests – mostly women – who had taken Marian’s lead and escaped their immediate neighbours to enjoy more promising company, whether with humans or hounds; the piqued expressions of the de Cleres, who now exercised a blank refusal to even look in Gisburne’s direction, as if to do so would impart something like approval.
“I was so happy to hear of your knighthood. So proud!” She squeezed his hand tighter at this. Her voice became a whisper. “Not before time. It is shameful, the way you have been treated. But Go
d rewards the good.” With more presence of mind, Gisburne might have questioned her undying faith in God’s influence on earth, citing all the good men he had known who had gone unrewarded or died in a ditch whilst those less worthy survived and prospered. He might also have wondered whether she would feel as proud knowing it was Prince John who had dubbed him a knight. But, in that moment, he was utterly lost in the feeling of her breath against his cheek. She drew back suddenly, flashing another smile.
“So, tell me – are you bound for the Holy Land?” There was child-like wonder in her voice. But rather less concern than he would have liked. Another image tore at his insides: Marian, proudly waving him off, likely to a martyr’s death. If the situation were reversed, he knew he would clasp her to him and beg her to stay, even if it offended God himself.
“Not to the Holy Land,” he said. “But on a pilgrimage.” The words almost caught in his throat, but her eyes widened in delight at them. He felt wretched.
“Return soon,” she said. “We need more good men in England.” That’s all I am, thought Gisburne. A good man. He had striven his whole life to be exactly that – yet sometimes, it felt far from enough. How good was he, anyway? He couldn’t hope to satisfy her purity of expectation. His pilgrimage was a bitter lie. But there was also something much deeper, much more fundamental. In spite of the fact that he had fought the most bitter battle of his life against Saracens on the parched plains of the Holy Land, he knew he’d convert to Islam on the spot in exchange for her.
“I will do what duty and conscience demand,” he said, with a bow of his head – then, casting his eyes towards the de Cleres, added: “It does indeed seem a world turned upside down.”
Her eyes flashed with a sudden passion – passion that he knew was not for him. “I’m always saying it!” She straightened, let go of his hand, raised her voice so it could be heard. “You know, there is a man in the northern shires outlawed simply for making a stand against the iniquities of the corrupt officials there. A good man before God made a criminal, whilst those with dubious loyalties squeeze the ordinary people for ever greater taxes.”
A murmur ran around the room in response. Gisburne’s blood ran cold. Was every part of his life doomed to be infected by Hood?
Marian’s brow knitted into a frown again. “Such a man should not be outlawed. He should be applauded, for doing what duty and conscience demand, as you are so proud to do.” She turned, and cast what to Gisburne seemed a challenging look towards the de Clere’s. He had never felt more proud of her – nor more sick at his situation.
Several guests, taking her words as their cue, literally applauded in support. Voices rose above it.
“Someone needs to stand against John and his cronies,” muttered one.
“They scheme while the King is absent... taking advantage of his divine mission,” came another.
“It’s not just treason,” trilled a woman. “It’s blasphemy!”
Gisburne gazed about him at the eyes of his fellow guests, struggling to comprehend how his status had shifted. Because of his association with Marian. Because of his association with Hood.
“I do not believe John is a bad man,” said Marian, as the sound lulled. She did not believe anyone was bad – just desperate, or unfortunate, or misguided. “But if men like Hood can bring him to his senses, then I shall cheer them.”
This time, a cheer. Gisburne felt himself trapped in some kind of Hell. A Hell of truths he could not utter. That the taxes were not John’s. That Richard was a monster. He wanted to shake her, to make her realise. But he could not jump to John’s defence – not in this company. And there was something else he feared even more. Their fathers had fallen out over exactly this. He could not stand to lose her over it – what little he had of her.
“There are those of us who still stand for justice,” he said. It was the best he could muster. And it was at least true. But the assembled guests eagerly murmured their approval, and Marian – misconstruing its meaning entirely – continued her impassioned speech.
“Robin Hood is a symbol of the stout English heart,” she said, her voice now quavering with emotion. “Of all that is right and good in this land. The spirit of the Lionheart!”
All cheered and clapped. Even the de Cleres now made a reluctant show of approval. As Gisburne looked around in disbelief, he realised that they were also applauding him – that by some strange sorcery whose mechanics he could not fathom, he had become Hood’s proxy in this chamber. A fleeting incarnation of something deemed heroic. Marian, the wielder of this magic, beamed at him, eyes filled with pride for the man he knew he was not.
How could he tell her that everything Hood possessed – his title, his reputation, the loyalties of those around him – he had stolen? How could he begin to explain to one so untainted by cynicism, that this symbol of the stout heart of England had no heart himself – that the black space where it should have been was a chaotic void that threatened everything they both believed right and good? How could he hope to convince her of any of these things, when he was sent by England’s detested prince to steal the head of the baptist of Christ from the most respected holy order in Europe?
He gazed at Marian in the midst of momentary triumph and unending torment. He marvelled at her, at her beauty, her purity of spirit, her faith in him. And he felt sick. False. A lie. In this moment, he felt every bit as untrue and fabricated as Hood. Yet lies had won her over, and would continue to do so. The truth risked driving her away. Most miserable of all was the realisation that this thing so precious to him, which he had fought so long and hard to attain – and to which Hood attached no value – was already falling so easily into the outlaw’s hands.
The company had hushed. All eyes were upon him again. It suddenly struck Gisburne, with a kind of horror, that they expected some utterance from him. He looked from expectant face to expectant face. He clenched his teeth, and raised his goblet.
“To King Richard,” he said.
VIII
DEJECTED, TIRED, FUZZY-HEADED from an excess of bad wine, Gisburne sat upon the frozen, mildewy bed and stared at the gear strewn about the dingy interior. This was the first time he had seen it all together. He had kept it lean – he was used to that – but the baggage brought here ahead of his arrival, including the extra items Llewellyn had provided, would be a challenge for one horse to carry. He told himself it would look better when it was packed.
For a while he occupied his mind by visualising the process, much of it now so familiar that it was second nature. Some modifications would be necessary for this trip, of course. His sword he would stow wrapped and out of sight beneath his saddle, in the Saracen fashion. Likewise his shortsword, which was of the single-edged type the Saxons called a “seax”. The leather bag containing his mail hauberk could hang behind as it always did. In truth – embarrassed though he was to admit it, even to himself – it was not really a knight’s hauberk at all. The knight’s mail that Gisburne was entitled to wear covered the body from head to foot, but he had grown so used to the serjeant’s shorter haubergeon and the greater freedom it afforded that he had never managed to give it up. It was less weight to carry, at least.
There was the addition of the helm, of course – a present from John. A “great helm,” he had called it. The latest thing. It covered the entire head and looked like a bucket, but Gisburne had immediately seen its worth. That, too, would hang in a bag, away from prying eyes.
There were clothes, of course – his gambeson, spare garments, blankets. Bags of coin that he had distributed amongst his baggage so as not to be easily found, mostly sewn into a spare gambeson. Food and drink, and feed for the horse. A pilgrim’s staff. That was as much for effect as anything. Likewise the broad-brimmed hat, of the type he had seen so many pilgrims wear.
Then there was the box. Fashioned from thick, dark wood with steel clasps and lock, its lid perfectly square, its body slightly longer than it was wide, hinting at an interior large enough to contain a human head, it
was not so easy to disguise. But it was an essential part of his plan. As were the three earthenware bottles, bound together and carefully wrapped in sacking and straw.
He sighed deeply. He was impatient to get on, to get out of this place and over that churning stretch of water; for it to be just him again. Simple. Self-contained. His destiny back in his own hands. With his horse. And his sword. On his road. These things, he understood.
Somewhat against expectation, Gisburne had been lodged in a private chamber for the night. In theory, this was a high honour. What soon became clear, however, was that de Clere had achieved the mere appearance of granting Gisburne the finest hospitality the castle had to offer, whilst in fact keeping him as uncomfortable as possible.
It also meant he was kept far away from the rest of the Constable’s esteemed company. They would have to sleep wherever they could about the guest hall. The most exalted might be granted a private guest chamber, with a fire all its own (the pig-faced Fleming was the one who looked to have been lined up for this particular privilege).
Gisburne had never really understood the attraction of castles. The necessity, yes. Their defensive capability, certainly. He could perhaps even appreciate their value as symbols of status, much as he detested such display. But as places to actually live, he could hardly imagine anything worse. Perhaps in the summer – or in southern Spain, perhaps, or Palestine – such a places could ineed be pleasant. A boon, even, with their cool, airy interiors. But an English winter turned every one of them into damp, dark, freezing, inhumane dungeons – and every one of their inhabitants into prisoners. None but the most low and desperate would countenance living in a stinking, clammy cave. Yet the high-born of England clamoured to build such conditions for themselves, at huge expense.
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