Guy of Gisburne- The Omnibus

by Toby Venables

  There was a moment of silence. Then a yelp. A heavy thud that shook the ground beneath de Mortville’s feet. Then silence again. De Mortville stood, only dimly aware that he was holding his breath, listening for the sounds of the dog – of movement, of dragging. Nothing in the eerie quiet but the lonely, distant cry of a crane.

  Then, out of the murk, arcing through the air, something came spinning. For a confused moment, his sense of perspective baffled by the fog, he thought it was the stick. But it was big, and left a scarlet trail in its wake.

  It thudded heavily on the wet earth at de Mortville’s feet. The lifeless form had had its head smashed so completely it was no longer even recognisable as a dog.

  De Mortville felt icy beads of sweat trickle from under his arms. He staggered backwards, in a state of shock. His hand went to his belt – an old impulse – but no sword was there. He never wore a sword around his own home.

  Then came the other sound. A rhythmic pounding, like a heartbeat. He felt it shudder in the ground beneath him, as if throbbing in the earth itself. Heavy footfalls. And with them, something bright and sharp – the tuneless clang of metal.

  De Mortville turned and ran for the gate as fast as he knew how, the sound thumping closer behind him. He yelled to the guards in the gatehouse; aware, even as he did, that his words were barely making sense. Heads appeared on the battlement. Two silhouetted figures appeared in the open doorway.

  “Close the gate!” called de Mortville as his plunging feet crunched along the stone bridge. Two faces – one the captain of his guard – stared in startled paralysis. “Close it!”

  They began to do so even before he reached the gatehouse. He flung himself through the narrowing gap and put his shoulder to the wood until the doors crashed shut and the bar was dropped into place. De Mortville and his captain stood in the dark space beneath the gatehouse and stared at each other in mute incomprehension.

  Then a great impact shook the doors.

  It was as if they had been hit by a charging bull. In a moment of confusion, de Mortville wondered if it could be exactly that. But it was no bull that had slaughtered his dog – and no bull that clanked like metal.

  Again it struck. The entire gatehouse shuddered. Dust and grit rained down from above. The guards began to back away. The captain thrust a sword into de Mortville’s hand. He was grateful for that. Its solid weight focused his mind.

  “What is it?” he called up to the rampart. “Can you see it?” He tried to keep the fear out of his voice. But no reply came. He glanced at his captain again – then a third crash almost shook the doors off their black iron hinges.

  De Mortville hurried into the courtyard and looked up to the rampart.

  “Someone with eyes, tell me,” he shouted, his voice charged with anger this time. “What the hell is it?”

  The guard looked back down at him, his face pale. “It... It’s...” he said, shaking his head, as if struggling to make sense of what he had seen.

  Before either could speak further, there was a great whoosh. The fog about the gatehouse flickered yellow. Through the cracks in the gate, against the darkening Fen, de Mortville saw the bright glow of flames.

  “Fire!” yelled the guard upon the battlement. Men ran across the courtyard, fetching pails, scaling the steps two at a time to hurl water down upon the burning gate.

  There were chutes either side of the gatehouse to allow the gates to be doused with water from the inside if attacked. They had never been used. Until today, de Mortville had no expectation that they ever would. He heard the hiss and splatter of the water, saw it seeping in under the gates. But no matter how much his men flung down, the flames would not die. De Mortville felt his chest tighten. The whole gatehouse was a framework of wood and plaster. If the flames were allowed to spread, it would be utterly destroyed.

  They would have to open the gates.

  A dozen armed men had now mustered, and stood before the gate in tight formation, forming a shield between it and their master. They were prepared to make a stand. But against what?

  “Lookout?” called de Mortville. “Tell me what you see.”

  The guard on the battlement disappeared, then appeared again. “Nothing,” he said, bemused. “It’s gone.”

  De Mortville wasted no time. “Open them. Quickly.”

  The porter and gatehouse guards flung the heavy bar upon the ground and heaved the doors inwards. The space beneath the gatehouse filled with thick smoke. Servants of all kinds – every one of them now carrying some vessel – dashed forward in ones and twos and hurled it over the already blackened wood of the castle doors, then beat a hasty retreat, coughing and spluttering as they went. De Mortville and his men stood firm, squinting into the blank fog framed by the gateway, weapons drawn and raised, ready to face whatever might try to follow.

  The flames were stubborn. They seemed alive – as if with evil intent. They leapt where one would not expect. Sometimes they burned blue. On several occasions, de Mortville could swear, he saw some portion of the wood completely extinguished, only for the flames to break out upon it yet again. But pail after pail, pot after pot of water was hurled at it until finally, the task was achieved. They stood, surrounded by smoke, the entrance – now a great pool – trodden to black mud. A few smiled as they panted and coughed, hands upon their knees. One man laughed with relief, believing the emergency past.

  Then a great, dark shape charged out of the mist.

  It was a beast that de Mortville saw thundering across the bridge towards him. Seven feet tall, as wide as two men at the shoulder. Its body glinted with blue-black scales, parts of it splashed with red. Its head bore outlandish, reptilian spikes and fins, its wide mouth grinning with rows of white teeth, its eyes dead black pits.

  It was on the knot of servants about the gate before they knew what had happened. They were smashed aside like straw dolls. Bones cracked. Teeth shattered. Air wheezed out of crushed ribs as gore splattered against wood and plaster. A lucky few fled, scrambling and splashing through the mud, their eyes wild.

  There had been no time to close the still-smoking gates.

  DE MORTVILLE AND his men had fallen back into the courtyard to form a defensive line. Once past the gatehouse, the men on the ramparts, too, would have clear shots. As it pounded towards him, he heard the thunk of crossbows. Two, three, four. One bolt glanced off its target and flew high over the battlement. Another shattered to splinters against the beast. But the beast kept coming.

  The men braced themselves. They would give the bastard a fight, if that was what he wanted.

  But there was no fight. Before any could land a blow, a plume of flame leapt from the beast’s left hand. Men were set afire. There were screams. The smell of burning flesh. De Mortville sensed hysteria spreading behind him. He saw his captain’s skull crushed and another man knocked clear off his feet, his bloodied jaw hanging. From the beast’s right hand, de Mortville now realised, swung a hammer the size of a small anvil.

  Nothing would stop it. In the split second before it was on him, De Mortville turned and fled, stumbling, the clanking giant crashing towards him, closing on him. A crossbow bolt zipped past his head. In some distant part of his mind he was aware that his right foot was burning. The flames roared rhythmically as he ran. Then the leg crumpled and he landed hard, his sword spinning from his hand, the wind knocked out of his lungs. He lay, half numb, dimly aware that those who should protect him were now fleeing in terror.

  The pounding footfalls had stopped. De Mortville turned, and stared up at the thing towering over him. The contorted, reptilian face cocked to one side, and seemed to regard him for a moment. Then, with the matter-of-factness of a farrier about to strike a nail, it slowly raised its huge, iron hammer. De Mortville lifted an arm across his face – a futile gesture.

  Then black oblivion fell.

  XV

  Walmesforde

  17 May, 1193

  THEY HAD JUST entered Walmesford when the news came from Clairmont. Galf
rid’s bright mood had descended into a sulk, precipitated by the rattling of a loose shoe upon Mare’s hoof and another of Gisburne’s unexplained diversions off the road. Galfrid had pointedly not mentioned it this time – but as they had come to a halt and dismounted by the inn, John, still testy, had creased his brow and quizzed Gisburne directly about his “private little moments.” Gisburne said simply that he had need to keep a check on something. John, dissatisfied with the vagueness of “something,” had been about to challenge him further when his words were cut off by a shrill cry in a cracked voice.

  “Murder!”

  That they were outside the alehouse when the young squire galloped in was pure chance – another few minutes, and they might have been gone. But the instant Gisburne saw him, he sensed – whether the squire knew it or not – that the message was meant for them.

  The rider was unkempt, his clothes half awry, no hat upon his head. His horse had been pushed so hard it was close to collapse, and even when permitted to stop continued to skip about in state of nervous agitation beyond exhaustion. The squire – young and evidently well-to-do, but apparently near out of his mind with unbearable emotion – slithered from his saddle, his knees buckling as his feet met solid earth. His face was red and swollen, his eyes wide and raw. Gisburne had seen that look before – in battle, or soon after. Those who wore it were destined not to last.

  All those gathered there – a rag-tag of travellers – looked up. The natural assumption was that he had been accosted upon his journey – robbed, perhaps injured. A stranger – a dusty wagoner in a wide hat, about to set out in the very direction from which the young squire had come – stepped forward to offer help. Another, old and bearded – a local man, Gisburne thought – took a cup of ale to the lad. He drank half of it down, his hands shaking; the other half cascaded down his front. Paying it no heed, the squire dropped the cup into the dirt, covered his face with quivering fingers and gave such a cry of anguish that Gisburne felt the hairs on his neck bristle.

  Then, in fragmentary phrases, he jabbered of some outlandish horror at Clairmont Castle, and Gisburne knew for certain that the Red Hand had not been idle.

  “GOD IN HEAVEN,” said John. He paled at the boy’s words. “Clairmont... That’s Hugh de Mortville. He was with me in Ire –”

  “Was with you in old days, yes,” interrupted Gisburne. His eyes flicked around, checking for any who might have been listening. But all were absorbed by the new arrival. John flushed, and bit his tongue.

  “Three makes it no longer a coincidence,” muttered Galfrid.

  Gisburne pushed forward, Galfrid and John close behind. Men stood back to let them pass, some looking on resentfully. The squire gazed up at the approaching figure with eyes that were suddenly filled with longing – desperate for someone, anyone, to take control of his world, and to make sense of it again.

  Gisburne took the squire by the shoulder. “When?” he demanded.

  “Last night,” panted the boy.

  “Were you sent?” said Gisburne. The boy sobbed, and looked as if trying to focus his eyes on some invisible thing – as if the memory were so vivid he could not see past it to the world in front of him. He was losing the lad.

  “Sent, boy...” Gisburne shook him hard. The waggoner grunted in disapproval. Gisburne ignored him. “Were you sent?”

  The boy started, and looked him in the eye. “No... No... I... I... I mean...”

  “You ran away...” said Galfrid in disgust. “What use are vows to serve your lord and to never turn your back on an enemy when – ?”

  Gisburne raised a hand to silence him. “You saw it? The thing that attacked him?”

  “Yes,” whined the boy.

  “But what did you see? Tell me exactly.”

  “A beast... It was horrible. Horrible!”

  “What was? What was horrible?”

  The boy looked suddenly distraught. “The dog... Oh, God, the dog...”

  Galfrid and John exchanged looks of puzzled astonishment.

  “Dog? Your master, boy – what of your master?”

  But with that, the boy broke down, his face buried in his hands. Gisburne stood back; the squire would be of no more use.

  To his surprise, the Prince stepped forward to take his place, a leather flask in his hands. Gisburne caught his arm. John stopped, and looked him in the eye. “Last night I dreamt I met death upon the road. A dead man, but walking. It was just like this.”

  “Are you surprised, with all that’s going on?” said Gisburne dismissively. “It’s not some premonition. It’s a night in the woods. Those ghost stories. That cursed gallows tree.”

  “Maybe,” said John. Then he knelt, and offered the boy wine from his flask.

  Gisburne stood back and left him to it. He regretted his choice of word; he did not believe in curses. Not in ghosts or prophecies. Not any more. But every once in a while he sensed that the child who had believed was still there. There was, he knew, only one way to beat these wild notions into submission. “Clairmont,” he said, turning to Galfrid. “Do you know it?”

  “Of it,” said Galfrid.

  “I’ve been there,” said John, without looking up.

  “Is it easy to find?”

  “If you know the way. It’s out in the marshes, but find the right road and it takes you to the door.”

  “How far?”

  John shrugged. “Half a day, at a push.”

  Gisburne withdrew and moved away from the huddle, deep in thought. John, meanwhile, attempted to calm their unexpected guest. The boy drank eagerly. He would never know that he had been comforted by the heir to the English throne.

  “WE ARE GOING there?” whispered Galfrid, as they stood apart from the knot of men.

  “Yes,” said Gisburne. “Immediately. I must see it.”

  “I would’ve thought you’d seen enough.”

  “Not nearly enough. Not until it makes sense. Monreale, Galfrid...”

  “But taking John towards his enemy – where we know him to have been...”

  “He had the chance to kill him before and did not do it.”

  “But we both know how this game is meant to end,” said Galfrid, his tone grave. “Judgement Day. What if he decides that is to be today, and we deliver his prey right into his hands?”

  “Then it is our job to stop him.”

  “Stop him how?”

  Gisburne did not have an answer. A party of two dozen elite warriors had failed to stop him. He had smashed his way into two castles, and breached the defences of another without detection. “I must see it,” he insisted. “No matter what. But I have an idea. A place he might be safe.”

  Galfrid hesitated, as if he had wanted to say more but decided against it. He nodded.

  Gisburne turned. “We’re leaving,” he announced to John.

  “But Mare’s shoe...” said John with a frown.

  “Will have to wait,” said Gisburne. Then he turned to Galfrid. “All right?”

  Galfrid shrugged. “If it flies off, it’ll be your head it cracks, not mine.”

  Gisburne crouched to the level of the squire and lifted his chin with his finger. “Boy – what you saw last night... Would you willingly submit yourself to it again?”

  The boy shook his head.

  “But do you yet have faith in God, and believe the world a good and just place?”

  A tear coursed down the boy’s cheek. “Yes...”

  Gisburne stood. “Then hang up your sword and join the clergy,” he said, and strode to his horse.

  “So where is it?” said Galfrid, ushering John before him. “This safe place?”

  “You’ll see,” said Gisburne.

  XVI

  Burgh St Peter

  17 May, 1193

  GALFRID GAZED UP into the vast, soaring nave in a state of awe, his crumpled hat clutched in both hands. He had always loved such places – loved them since the age of ten, when his uncle had taken him into the great cathedral church at Ely. But over the yea
rs, he had also experienced a growing need for them. They had become places of healing.

  He had witnessed many things in his life. Terrible things. The worst that men and women could do to each other. He did not doubt he would witness many more – some before this month was out. Yet when he looked upon such marvels as this, he had faith. Faith in his fellow men. Because if they could achieve this, he reasoned, they could achieve anything – and not all the cruelty and hatred in the world could wipe that out. Had Gisburne been watching the humbled figure there in the abbey church, he might well have declared it the only time he had seen him actually looking like a servant.

  THEY HAD MADE Burgh St Peter by mid morning. Mare’s shoe had held – how, Galfrid had no idea, but wasn’t about to question it – and the road was straight and the going firm. The land had also begun to take on uniquely East Anglian qualities – flatter than a still ocean, empty as a summer sky, but with a quality of bleak melancholy that made it seem somehow... unfinished. Abandoned. Devoid not only of shape, but of purpose. It was a quality that stirred deep unease in most who subjected themselves to it – if one could believe in God here, it seemed to them, then one was indeed a true believer. But to Galfrid, it was like heading home.

  The small town was dominated by the great abbey, and the abbey by its church. This was one of the wealthiest monasteries in all England, and over the past seven decades had dedicated itself to converting that wealth into stone. Beyond the thick surrounding walls and stout gatehouse – visible as they approached the abbey precincts – the roof and steeple had pushed ever higher into the endless fenland sky for the greater glory of God.