“Hello, old man. Well, here we are again.” He gestured dramatically with a broad, white toothed grin. “How do you like my merry men?”
Gisburne looked about him. The sea of grim faces cheered and guffawed their sly, gap-toothed guffaws, shaking their swords and scythes. It was raucous. It was leering. But not what he’d call “merry”.
Hood circled about his victim as Gisburne had seen wolves do. Wolves, he thought, also looked like they were smiling.
“Nice horse,” he said, and patted Nyght upon the neck. Nyght shied away. Gisburne, too, winced at the contact, as if it was somehow infectious, corrupting. “And feisty! Better than that other old wreck you had.”
The one you killed, thought Gisburne bitterly.
“I keep that old wreck about me,” said Gisburne, and spread his arms wide to reveal his surcoat. Hood frowned, looked him up and down and finally made the connection.
“You used his hide!” he chortled with delight. His men joined the laughter. “Well, waste not, want not.”
“I did it,” said Gisburne, “as a reminder. Of him. Of my father. Of you.” The last was spoken with undisguised bitterness. There was a murmur of disapproval from the crowd.
“Well, I’m flattered,” said Hood with a great grin, and bowed low. And he looked like he meant it, too – as much as the man who called himself Hood, or Locksley, ever did. Typical of him, thought Gisburne. It doesn’t even cross his mind that he might have done wrong.
“What do you think of him, eh, Rose?” said Hood into his horse’s ear. She stamped and tossed her head. Rose... Gisburne shuddered at the memory.
“Rose?”
Hood stopped, and looked down at him, eyebrow raised.
“Just who is Rose, Robert?” said Gisburne earnestly, looking him right in the eye. For a moment, he saw something he had never seen in the man’s eye. Uncertainty. Quite clearly, the emotion did not sit well with him. He frowned, gave an unconvincing snort of a laugh, and then his eyes flashed with an anger so venomous that Gisburne thought he would be killed on the spot. But as fast as it came, it faded. Hood threw back his head and laughed once again. “Never mind that,” he said with a broad smile. “Who’s ‘Robert’?” He and his men guffawed as one. Hood turned about on his horse, as if bathing in their laughter.
“Now, Sir Guy – as I believe it now is – we have to rob you.”
“The gambeson?” said Gisburne grimly.
“You still have that?” marvelled Hood.
“Different gambeson. Different coins. Same trick.” He pulled it from his pack, and flung it to the ground. It landed heavily in the snow. One of Hood’s men dashed forward and dragged it away.
Hood smiled. “You always did like those old tricks.”
“Now, once again, you have taken everything I value.”
“And you shall go upon your way,” said Hood. “You have my word on that. But as one knight to another, I have to say I’m disappointed. That you give it up so easily, I mean.”
Gisburne felt his blood boil. As one knight to another... He fought to contain it. Stay calm. We’re nearly through this...
“It puts me in mind of some other old tricks. Conjuring tricks. You remember? The left hand distracting from what the right hand is doing?” Gisburne felt a creeping unease. Hood brought his horse up alongside Nyght. “You see, one might almost think that you offer it up in order to distract from something else.”
Then he grinned, leaned down and unhooked Gisburne’s great helm from his saddle.
Gisburne felt his heart leap into his mouth. He tried to mask his alarm – gave an unconvincing laugh. “But it’s just...”
“I know what it is,” interrupted Hood, coolly. “And who it is. And why it is here.” He pulled the black bundle from the helm and let the wrappings fall away. His men gasped as he held the gleaming skull aloft, turning a circle on his horse. Then he lowered it, contemplating it in his hand for a moment, its dead eyes staring into his. “We’ll take its gold. And its jewels. They’re a king’s ransom. As for the bones... Well...” He stared at it as if examining a horse’s teeth. “Never did much care for the name ‘John’.” His men guffawed again. “But perhaps we can find some monk who’ll have them.” And he tossed the skull one-handed to the fake old woman, who threw it to a young lad, who lobbed it to a man with a patch on one eye. And so it went, all hooting with raucous laughter as it was passed about.
He had lost. After all this – after all the battles and hardship, and now just a handful of miles from his journey’s end – he had failed in his quest, lost his prize. To a thief. No, not merely a thief. To Hood. He found himself mentally calculating the odds of wresting it back, but there was no chance. Perhaps he could get to Hood, maybe even kill him. But he would be dead a dozen times over before he got another yard.
“How did you know?” he stuttered, struggling to grasp what had just happened. Not even Galfrid had known where the skull was kept – and even if he had worked it out, he would never have betrayed him. He was sure of it. Then there was Mélisande. He hoped with all his heart she had not. But he feared the worst. Bit by bit, he felt his world crashing about him.
Hood walked his horse up close again, cocked his head on one side and smiled down at him. It was, thought Gisburne, the way a wanton boy looks at a puppy when deciding whether to pet it, or kill it.
“Don’t you see?” he said. “It was always meant for me.” Then, lowering his voice, he leaned in until he was close to Gisburne’s ear. “Payment. From the King of France. In support of my cause.” He patted Gisburne affectionately on the shoulder. “And you were the one who delivered it. For that, I thank you.”
Gisburne stared at him in disbelief – at the grinning, taunting face just inches from his, at the exposed flesh around his collar, its veins pulsing with undeserved life.
In one swift move he pulled his eating knife and whipped his arm back, ready to plunge the glinting blade into Hood’s neck.
Hands gripped him, held him fast; the knife fell into the snow. His arm was twisted. Another inch and it would break. Bows creaked all around him.
Hood straightened, held up a hand – a rare gesture of restraint. “No need,” he said, matter-of-factly.
They relinquished their grip.
Gisburne staggered, his head spinning. All the memories of past weeks were somehow shifting in his head, like the parts of a mechanism, a trap; moving into a shocking new alignment, forcing him to reassess everything that had happened. He did not want to believe it was true. But he knew Hood too well. He didn’t trifle with such games. He was not subtle.
And it had an incontrovertible logic – a horrid, sickening, terrible logic. It explained why the French made so little effort to stop him. Why Mélisande had not taken the prize when she’d had the chance. Why she had helped him. He thought of her, over and over. How much of what she had said and done was a lie?
He felt the white, freezing forest crushing in on him. Within moments, his success had become failure, and then something far worse than failure. He had done his enemy’s bidding. They had meant for the skull to go to England, and he had done exactly what they had wanted. Had fought and killed to ensure it would happen. And the best part – the real genius of the plan – was that King Philip’s hands were clean. He could deny everything – could truthfully claim that he never clapped eyes nor had his hands on the skull. It was simply a tragic loss. And he would not need to point fingers at those who had allowed it to happen – would perhaps even find political capital in defending the Templars to the hilt – but if anyone were to look for evidence of bungling, it would be the Templars who would come up wanting.
Yes, it was a plan of rare genius. And it was he, Guy of Gisburne, who had executed it.
“It was really quite a feat,” said Hood cheerily. “I seriously doubt there’s another who could have done it.” He grinned broadly, then, and pressed a hand against his chest. “Present company excepted, of course.” His men chortled gruffly.
“I’ve been a fool...” said Gisburne, shaking his head. Then he turned on Hood. “But you are a greater one. Do you begin to realise what you’re dealing with? Philip doesn’t care for your ‘cause’. He wishes only to bring ruin to England. To watch it burn. You honestly believe you can bend such a power to your own purpose?”
“Why not?” came the cheery reply. “I’m Robin Hood.” And with that, Hood laughed loudly, and spurred his horse. It reared, and leapt, and disappeared amongst the great trees on pounding hooves. A glittering shower of snow fell like a curtain from shuddering twigs and branches, Hood’s laughter echoing in the forest beyond.
When Gisburne finally turned around, Hood’s men had melted away as if they were never there.
LXVII
Nottingham Castle – January, 1192
GISBURNE STOOD IN silence before John.
The prince had been staring into the fire, his expression unreadable, for what seemed an eternity. Gisburne had said his piece, related the facts. That was a simple enough task, in principle. But even with all he had been through – all the hardships he had endured – this had been the hardest thing he had ever had to do. His very being seemed to rebel against it. He felt his throat tighten as he spoke, as if it physically recoiled from putting the calamity into words. It vividly recalled that time with de Gaillon. When the knight had discovered him doing wrong, and he had felt his whole life slipping from him. The feelings – those sick feelings, not of failure exactly, but of letting down the one person he most respected, of feeling unequal to their high expectations – had a horrible, unwelcome familiarity.
The chamber in which he now stood was the very one in which he had faced William de Wendenal a year before. The chamber he had entered as a pitiful wretch – a penniless criminal facing the noose – and had left a knight. Little had changed in that time – except for the addition of a small table, on which stood a wine jug and goblets, and a chessboard, part way through a game. In his numb, distracted state, Gisburne vaguely wondered who John’s adversary was.
The situation was now wholly reversed. This time, he should have entered in triumph. A hero. But instead, all was crashing about him in flames. How he would leave this place today, he could not guess.
Finally, John spoke. His words were steady, precise. “Tell me again what Hood said. About the skull. Word for word.”
Gisburne did so. Each word was like a tooth being drawn from his head.
John nodded slowly. When John finally turned back to him, Gisburne was shocked by the expression he wore.
He was smiling.
“Well, I think we should toast your achievement, don’t you?” he said. And, with a nonchalance that baffled Gisburne almost to the point of fury, he wandered over to the table and filled two silver goblets.
Gisburne stared at him, then at the goblet that the prince thrust into his hand. Was John mocking him? Was this his idea of a joke? If so...
“Oh, don’t look so miserable,” chided John, flapping a hand at him. “What was it you told me Gilbert de Gaillon said? About victory and defeat? I forget exactly how it went. But then, he said so many things...”
Gisburne remembered. The difference between victory and defeat. You’re more tired after a defeat – but both can kill you... De Gaillon had simply meant that sometimes they were not so easy to distinguish. That they were, in part, a state of mind. But losing the hard-won prize to Hood – that was no mere state of mind. That was real. An irrefutable catastrophe. A disastrous turn, just yards from the final goal.
“But I thought...”
“You thought you’d failed because you did not bring me the skull,” said John, and took a drink.
Gisburne could not see how it could be otherwise. But once again, John waved away his bewilderment.
“The skull... Well, it’s not really important.”
Gisburne gaped at him.
“I mean as a thing. An object,” added John. “Do you see?”
Gisburne did not. Not for one moment.
“I’ll not lie – its loss is a shame. I would like to have denied Hood that prize. And I do so like shiny things.” He spread his heavily ringed fingers before him, then dismissed them with a sigh of resignation. “But you have brought me something of far greater value. Evidence of a direct connection between King Philip and Hood.”
John paused to allow the point to sink in. Gisburne drank deep, blinking, still struggling to see through the fog.
“You see, I had begun to suspect that Philip was financing revolt in this land, but had no proof. Now, I do. Thanks to you.”
My God, thought Gisburne. He knew. He knew all along Hood meant to take it...
“Sometimes, Sir Guy, knowledge is more valuable than gold. And personally I’d rather rely on knowledge than faith.” He gave a sardonic smile. “I am, of course, aware that this puts me at odds with most of humanity. But certainly this is vital information to have in one’s arsenal. Especially now that I am in negotiations to form an alliance with Philip.”
Gisburne stopped, his goblet half way to his lips.
“Don’t look so shocked, Sir Guy,” protested John. “Victory, defeat, ally, enemy. In the real world, these things are so rarely clear cut. And, believe me, I have no illusions about Philip...” John toyed with the chess pieces as he spoke. “He is obsessed with reclaiming those territories in France that belong to the English crown. It has long been his hope that one day, England – embroiled in its own internal strife – would take its eye off Normandy, and Aquitaine, and all the others. Now we know he is not merely hoping, but working towards that end – by promoting chaos in the realm. He perhaps thinks me some kind of ally in this endeavour, since I hate my brother. But I will not see this nation fall.” He held the white king before him between thumb and forefinger. “Nevertheless, it pays to keep your enemies close...”
Gisburne suddenly recalled other words of de Gaillon’s. The ultimate enemy is not the one who stands opposite you on the field... It is the chaos that threatens to overrun us when our guard is down. Much as it troubled him – all this deception, all this ambiguity, all this dissembling – something now began to emerge, bright and clear, out of the murk. A guiding light. John was not like de Gaillon. But he had something in him that was indefatigable. And like de Gaillon, Gisburne now understood, he was not bound by rules – rules were inflexible, imposed from without, and therefore for the weak. He was bound – guided, rather – by principles. And who, in the whole of England, would have guessed that?
The words of Albertus also came to him now. It is said the skull has the power to bring down a tyrant. He did not believe in the magic powers of relics. He had marched behind the Holy Cross at Hattin and saw where that led. But perhaps, after all, the skull had laid bare the true tyrants – the agents of chaos. Perhaps it would also hasten their fall. And perhaps he, in his own small way, had helped.
“Do you play chess, Sir Guy?” John returned the white king to the board.
“A little,” said Gisburne. In truth, he hadn’t played for years – not since Hattin.
“It’s becoming very popular, I understand. Apparently, people see in it the confrontation between Saladin and Richard – the black king and the white. I see it rather differently. More broadly, if you like. The struggle between the dark and the light – between the forces of order and the forces of chaos. But then, in life, things are not so black and white. It is not so clear which is which. And sometimes they go in disguise.” What was this? Was John still trying to justify the deception over the Baptist’s skull?
“We are brought up to believe in evil as a pure and everpresent force, inspiring evildoers to evil deeds. That might work for a monk contemplating matters in a cell, but men like you and I know better. No one ever really believes themselves to be on the side of evil. But not everyone can be right. Of course, everyone thinks what they’re doing is for the best, but beware of people who say so. Who come clad in white, meaning to save you. That’s where the worst offences lie.” He turned
from the board suddenly.
“I have heard from Glastonbury Abbey some news of a rather startling discovery there,” said John. “The monks were digging in the grounds and unearthed an ancient skeleton of great proportions, buried with his weapons in a log coffin. By his side was a woman, still bearing flowing blonde hair. A lead cross buried with the pair confirmed their identity: King Arthur and his queen, Guinevere.” He gazed into his wine, thoughtfully. “As you may imagine, this has caused quite a stir.”
Gisburne was uncertain what to make of the news. “Do you want me to look into it?” he asked. John waved dismissively as he sipped at his goblet.
“Oh, it’s beneath a man of your talents,” he said. “What is most significant about this ‘discovery’ is that it comes just when the good monks of Glastonbury find their pilgrim traffic is flagging. I’m sure they would claim some kind of holy miracle – of a prayer being answered just when they had need. Others – those of a cynical frame of mind – might offer a more prosaic explanation.” He smiled to himself, then turned to face Gisburne. “But it’s not the truth or otherwise of the story that concerns me. Let people believe whatever tripe they like. They probably will, anyway, whether you let them or not. No, it’s what lies behind it...” His expression had once again become dark. “Don’t you see? It comes in answer to a need. To the ghastly emptiness at the heart of the realm. How it reflects England’s hunger for a king?”
John turned away once again, continuing in strange, rather distant tones. “Richard will not return. That is my belief. My... hope.” Gisburne felt his mucles tense. These words were treason, even when spoken by a prince. “Even if he did...” He shrugged, his words trailing off. “If the people knew the truth about my brother, they would not want him back. But he remains the distant answer to their problems, and they will brook no alternative. Indeed, they turn him to a saint in his absence...” He laughed, mirthlessly. “A saint!” He fell silent for a moment. “Meanwhile, England is without a king – a realm ready to slide into chaos. And Hood – his supposed champion – is hastening its plunge into the abyss.” He turned and fixed Gisburne with an intense stare. “I honestly believe that only you and I fully understand this.”
Guy of Gisburne- The Omnibus Page 38