Guy of Gisburne- The Omnibus

by Toby Venables

  Elizabeth felt her face flush hot, and her heart thump in her breast like a bird thrashing to escape its cage. Then, as swiftly as the vision came, it went. The girl’s face screwed up like the pink, bristled snout of a pig, and she snorted and wailed once more. “Oh, thank you! Thank you, Mother Elizabeth! God’s grace be upon you—now and for ever!”

  Prioress Elizabeth shuddered and turned back to Briga. The older woman, ever sensitive to the needs of others, was frowning at her quizzically. “Do what you must,” the Prioress snapped. Her throat felt tight, her mouth dry, and she turned and fled along the dark passage without waiting for the candle to light her way.

  SISTER MARY WATCHED as the Prioress departed, the nervous young novitiate flying in pursuit. As the door slammed shut, she turned back to regard the strange, alien creature upon her breast, its lips glistening with her milk.

  “You understand, girl, what is to happen?” said Briga, hovering over her. Mary nodded.

  “We need some mark or token. Something he may carry with him.”

  “Why?”

  “Why...?” Briga laughed. “So you may know him, of course.”

  “But I am a sister of the priory.”

  “And so I hope you shall remain,” said Briga, smoothing Mary’s matted hair. “But I could not live with myself if I let this child out into the world without some means of establishing his provenance, his true blood. It doesn’t mean you have to seek him out again; just that you can. It puts the choice in your hands—and yours alone. Choices, and the ability to make them, are blessings from God; like this poor babe, they must be nurtured and cherished.”

  Why not? thought Mary. Connect the progeny to the sin, and the sin to the sinner. To the man. There could be value in that...

  She opened her palm to reveal a small disc of dark metal, her flesh marked red from where she had gripped it. Briga frowned as Mary held the greenish-brown thing out to her. She took it, turned it over and over. Somewhat larger than a penny and deeply tarnished, it had a crude symmetrical pattern hammered into one side. Towards the edge, a hole had been drilled, where it could be worn on a thong—and now, she supposed, would be again.

  “What is it?” said Briga.

  “I don’t know. I found it in the forest.” That was a lie. It was what the man had tossed at her afterwards. He had promised silver or gold, but by the time she had scrabbled after it and discovered no more than a worthless piece of copper, he had gone. He thought he had cheated her, no doubt, but he knew nothing of her real intentions. Though clearly of little worth to him, it also carried his lordship’s emblem. A foolish oversight on his part.

  And so she had kept it, perhaps to use against him; if it stayed with the bastard child perhaps she still could. She had taken him inside her because she sought his power, the power of a lord. The means of harvesting it revolted her—but that was the nature of sacrifice. It had to matter. And the strength was in her now.

  For a while it seemed that the wild act had only delivered disaster—disaster in the shape of the child who was never meant to be, who came out of nothing, whose existence was to bring only chaos. But now, with that problem solved, she sensed a new pattern emerging, other possibilities unfolding. It seemed, perhaps, that the desired outcome may yet be achieved, albeit by an unexpected route. Such were the mysteries of the universe. It would take time, but she had found a strong ally within these walls—forged a bond with the strongest possible fighter for her cause.

  She watched as Briga, ever practical, cut a length of thong from the cross about her neck, and with it tied the copper token about the child’s ankle before scooping him up into her arms. “I shall tell his new parents to keep it upon him always,” she said. “Remember it, Mary of Hoppewood.”

  There was no doubt in her mind that she would do that. Mary nodded, and squeezed a tear from her puffy eyes.

  Briga rose, clutching the bundle. “I must get him away. You cannot care for him here. Tomorrow you will feel like the Devil himself has turned you inside out, but by the next day you will be feeling strong again. And all this will be as a dream.” A look of great sadness fell on the elder nun. “You are sure this is what you want, child? I have fought your cause, but the Prioress would not stop you going with him.”

  Of course she wouldn’t, she’d be glad to see the back of her. But that wasn’t how this was to unfold. Mary gave a sob, made her lower lip tremble, bit it, and nodded. Briga bowed her head, and left without further word.

  Mary fell back on the pallet and sighed heavily. In truth, she was grateful to Briga for taking the squalling brat. It saved her drowning it.

  I

  FAMINE

  I

  Thynghow, Sherwood

  6 February, 1194

  SIR RICHARD DE Percy turned his horse about, his eyes scanning the mounted men surrounding him in the dark of the icy glade. “Then we are all in agreement?” Some cried a hearty “Aye!” Others merely gave a curt nod. It did not matter. The question itself was superfluous—simply by turning up here they had shown accord—but de Percy wanted to have them declare it, all the same. And if some had come merely out of curiosity, or to see him fail, what of it? They had come.

  He stopped at the top of the large, low mound and drew himself up in his saddle. “This is a historic place of gathering,” he said. “Used by men since centuries past. Now it is witness to a new union, no less historic. All the lords of the North, together, for the first time. We have had our differences, God knows”—there were a few chuckles at that—“but tonight those are put aside. We stand united against the common enemy.”

  He held out a gloved hand, and at the signal a squire darted forward and pressed into it a leather flask. De Percy raised it high in the freezing air, his breath misting about him in a moonlit halo. “I drink to you, my lords—to unity, to God and to our certain success...” There came a gruff chorus of approval. The wine hit his throat like ice; a stray drop coursed down his chin and made him shudder. He heard the clap of one leather-clad hand against the back of another: his liegeman Thomas of Ferham, right on cue.

  As others took up the applause, de Percy tipped the flask and gave a splash of wine back to the cold earth upon which they stood. An old superstition. It meant nothing to him, but much to some of those here. They would see good fortune in it.

  The sound of gauntleted hands clapping against palms, thighs, and saddle pommels now filled the glade like rain. De Percy turned about again, surveying the sea of faces suspended in the glowing fog that rose from the horses. Even the naysayers, now, were with him. Grudgingly or not, he did not care; it was not their love he was after.

  A rain began to spit down, but in spite of the numbing cold, he felt a smile of satisfaction spread across his face. He, Richard de Percy, still only twenty-four years old, had done this—had done what others thought impossible, and by sheer force of will. It had taken weeks of persuasion, a lifetime of talk, but he had shown them, friends and rivals alike, that he was now a force to be reckoned with. Every one of them, not so long ago, had believed the house of de Percy spent. Since the death of his father, all eyes had been on his brother Henry, the Fourth Baron—but Henry was weak in mind and body, and more often in France than England these days, patronising some shrine or other. He would not find what he needed there, and it did not help his standing, absenting himself whilst crops failed and tenants starved. Strong leadership was needed now, and Richard would supply it. Soon his brother’s health would fail entirely. When it did, he would be ready. Even if it did not, he meant to show that he alone knew what was best for the house of de Percy. What was best for England.

  All that remained tonight was for him to introduce the agent of his plan. Then, his standing would be assured. At the thought of it—at the unwelcome, niggling doubt that it raised—he lifted himself up in his saddle again and gazed towards the north. The position he commanded upon the top of the ancient mound—carefully calculated to place him head-and-shoulders higher than even the nearest of the surro
unding barons—gave him a clear view beyond to the impenetrable black of the forest. Nothing stirred.

  “When is he coming, this man of yours?” called a voice.

  “He’ll be here,” said de Percy.

  “May we not at least know who it is?” said another. “I like to know what my gold is paying for.”

  De Percy recognised the gruff, cynical tones of Roger de Montgard and grinned. “Believe me, Sir Roger, you will not be disappointed.”

  They were politician’s answers—speaking without saying anything. But they were delivered with such conviction he knew none could possibly doubt him. This was something he had learned from his father in the ten short years he had known him; another of the many lessons his brother had never quite grasped. People do not need answers. They need only to believe you have them—that you will do what is needed on their behalf. They say faith will move mountains, his father had once said, shaking his head. It will not. But it will move men. And if enough men will follow you, you may do anything. Anything at all. Richard had always taken that as a sign that he, and not his brother, would one day lead the family. And was it not he who had brought them to this hill?

  Even with the agreement of the Northern lords, however, this night had not been without its challenges. In order to preserve the secrecy of the gathering, each had been required to set out at a different time—even on different days. All were heading to a variety of destinations for perfectly plausible reasons, their journeys nonetheless carefully timed to converge on this place, at this time. Many had muttered at the wisdom of it, gathering in the forest past the witching hour, in a place said to be haunted by shucks and draugs—never mind outlaws whose arrow-points thirsted for noble blood. Then there were the unresolved disputes, the unsettled scores, the predatory opportunities—all the more keenly felt during the hardships of recent months. Since arriving, many had looked askance at old rivals, for the moment less concerned about ghosts and outlaws than a neighbour’s dagger in the back.

  But none of that mattered now. Provided this damned, never-ending rain finally lifted and—God forbid—his final guest didn’t fail him. Already a muttering was filling the awkward silence of the glade, the barons’ thoughts drifting to their beds. It was, de Percy judged, time to remind them of their purpose.

  “My lords!” he called out. All eyes turned back to him. “Hood has become a problem for us all. There’s not a man here has not suffered some loss because of him. It was not always so. In the past, some of us profited from his presence—standing by whilst the outlaw humiliated the Prince and his lackeys...” He let his eyes rest on those few in the gathered party who remained loyal to John. They would go with the prevailing wind when there was nothing left to cling to. Their mere presence here said as much.

  “I have even heard of those who thieved their own revenues and blamed it on Hood so they might keep it for themselves and deny the Prince his due.” There was laughter at that—some, de Percy knew, more out of nervousness than amusement. He wanted them to know he knew their secrets. Urging his horse forward, he wheeled before his guests, meeting the eyes of each. “Now, with the King’s return imminent, our Prince is fled to France, and the game has changed. Hood’s influence has grown. It is no longer a question of the damage he inflicts, the coin he thieves. He mocks us.” There was a mutter of agreement. “He undermines our authority daily, sets himself up as a king in the forest. The common folk flock to his cause. They hunger, and not just for food. How long before he moves to wrest our own lands from us?” As his voice grew in volume the mutter became a rumble.

  “Our King returns, but he is not here yet. His justiciars listen not to our entreaties. The Prince—a protector to some—has left these shores. Now our crops fail, and famine stalks the land. Discontent spreads like a sickness. And it is a long, long way to London...” He turned his horse and brought it to an abrupt halt. “These are difficult times. It falls to us to take action—to end Hood’s rule before he exploits the weakness of the land—aye, and of us too, to his own ends. For this task I have no doubt that the King, when he comes, will show his gratitude. For let us be under no illusion—it is no longer a question of mere robbery or humble poaching. It is a question of treason!”

  Some cheered. Their horses stamped. Such was the din that de Percy barely heard the whistle from the trees. He looked past the assembled throng to the branches of the forked oak, and saw the watchman perched there uncover his lantern three times. De Percy raised his hand.

  “My lords! He approaches!”

  II

  ALL FELL SILENT. One by one, they drew their horses back from the path.

  De Percy peered into the gloom. At first he could see only the barest movement in the low, swirling mist—the shimmer of moonlight on black. Bit by bit, it resolved into the shape of a man upon a horse—a stallion, as black as its night-clad rider. The figure itself was faceless, hooded and cloaked in rough black leather. It seemed otherworldly, even demonic. Some shrank back as it passed. De Percy recalled a passage in the Apocalypse of John—the one regarding the Four Horsemen. Was it Famine who came on a black horse, or Death?

  For others gathered there, the strange garb was all-too familiar. As de Percy’s champion neared, passing between the parted ranks of nobles, the muttering returned, here and there breaking out into grunts of protest, even cries of outrage.

  This, de Percy knew, would be his most difficult moment. There was hardly a man here who had not at some time wished Sir Guy of Gisburne dead, who considered him as much an outcast as they did Hood.

  Gisburne stopped his horse at the top of the gentle slope and drew back his hood. All fell into a sudden, expectant silence. It was the first time de Percy had seen him up close; he was rough and unshaven, his gear and clothing a mish-mash of unmatched parts—more like a Flemish mercenary than a knight. More like an outlaw. The rough-clad warrior peered about with narrowed eyes.

  “Whose stupid idea was this?” he said.

  A chorus of protests erupted. De Percy could barely make out the words, but the anger behind them was plain enough, and some of it was now clearly directed at him. Smiling pleasantly, he rode forward and called out against the din. “Welcome, Sir Guy. Welcome indeed...”

  “This is your proposed solution, de Percy?” growled Roger de Montgard.

  “Gisburne is Prince John’s scullion!” called William de Mowbray.

  “No more than a common pay-sword!” shouted another. Many grunted in sympathy.

  “He is also Hood’s sworn enemy,” shouted de Percy with sudden force. The crowd quietened. What else did they need but a pay-sword? What else had they expected for their gold? But de Percy knew this was not what offended them. It was that this mercenary was also a knight. One of them. If he could only appeal to their pragmatism... “Just one man has proved himself the outlaw’s equal, and he stands before you now.”

  Gisburne rode four steps closer to his host and stopped. The noisy dissent ebbed into silence; all were agog to hear what Gisburne would say next.

  He regarded de Percy for an age, his expression unreadable. “I was surprised to see you extending the hand of friendship, Sir Richard, considering it was from your family that Prince John wrested the land on which I now reside.”

  De Percy smiled as if completely at ease. “But you came, nonetheless...” he said. Then, seeing Gisburne was not going to respond further, he shrugged. “It was a small piece of land. Hardly a loss to our estates.”

  “Indeed. Trace its ownership further back and you will see it belonged to my father before King Richard took it and sold it to yours.”

  De Percy laughed. “Follow that line of reasoning, and there’d not be a man here with more than a barn in Normandy. Some not even that.” There were chuckles at this. De Percy let his smile drop. “Rest assured I have no designs on your land. What every man here now owns, and can pledge to you in return for your service—that is the point.” He gestured. “Look about you. What do you see?”

  “Every nob
le in the North together, in Sherwood, in the open? I see a target.”

  De Percy leaned towards him. “You see us united.”

  Gisburne snorted. “Because your crops fail, your people starve and your revenues dwindle. It’s amazing how hardship focuses the mind.”

  “What difference does it make where the spark came from?” shot back de Percy. “What matters is the fire. These are men who in the past have regarded each other only as enemies, now standing together. Does this not convince you of our purpose?”

  He saw something in Gisburne’s otherwise implacable demeanour shift and pressed on.

  “Kings, princes... They are of little import in these times. Together, we lords gathered here hold sway over the whole of the North of England.”

  “All but Sherwood,” said Gisburne.

  De Percy smiled wryly. “And so you begin to divine our purpose... Well, perhaps that is not so hard. It is he who is not present, who rules over Sherwood with his rabble, who we would now see ourselves rid of.”

  Gisburne sighed, his breath rising in a plume of fog. “Two things, Sir Richard,” he said. “First, if you think Hood is not here—that he does not know exactly what takes place in his own domain, and is not now poised in the shadows, watching this comedy unfold—then you are a fool.”