It fell slowly, as if through water. Gisburne watched as it bounced on the ivy-covered bough, spun around several times, and stuck, point down, in an exposed root directly below him.
His mind raced. The knife would be seen; they might as well have raised a flag.
He peered into the distance as far as the trees would allow, then back down at the knife. The host was not yet upon them. If he could just reach it...
As he began to make his move, he again caught Galfrid’s eye. The squire shook his head sharply, as the noise of many trampling feet rose up around them like the rush of an incoming wave. Gisburne, unmoving, stared back down at the knife, its blade glinting in the feeble light—and saw as the forest floor was blotted out by a dark swarm of men.
XXXIII
HE SAW NO faces—most were hooded for travel—but could see there were young and old and everything in between. Some carried spears, and a few had swords, but there wasn’t a one who did not have a bow across his back and a quiver stuffed with arrows; some clearly carried more in plain canvas bags, which rattled as they ran. Many of the bows were thick about the middle, and the shoulders of the archers were thick, too. From the look of them, they had spent the past two seasons doing little more than preparing for war.
He hardly dared to take his eyes off the knife standing proud of the tree root, every moment expecting a cry of discovery. But they were everywhere, filling every space, every gap—a great trampling horde stretching as far as the eye could see, the rhythmless rumble of their footfalls so relentless that he felt it was crushing him.
Gisburne’s fingernails dug into the green bark as he watched a dozen, a score, a hundred oblivious feet brush past the slender blade. He and his company were horribly exposed—perched only yards above the horde, with the trees barely in leaf. One of the outlaws had only to look up... Not until he began to feel dizzy did Gisburne realise he was holding his breath.
The buzzing swarm passed as suddenly as it had come, the racket gradually merging with the sighing of the wind in the trees. Not until the birdsong had returned did anyone move.
Gisburne swung down first, and plucked the cherished blade from the tree root. One by one, the others dropped to the forest floor.
“We’re too late,” said Gisburne. “They’ve heard the King is back. They’re on the march.” He cursed and kicked the tree that had harboured him.
“That was more than five hundred...” said Aldric.
“It’s hard to be sure,” said de Rosseley, “but I’d say no fewer than seven.”
“And they are equipped for war,” said Asif.
“Damn!” cursed Gisburne, his boot slamming the tree again. “If we had only set out a day earlier. One day!”
“Well, it proves one thing,” said Mélisande. She looked at Galfrid. “Tancred was right.”
The squire looked away, not wishing to acknowledge it.
“But what now?” she continued.
Gisburne looked first in the direction the army had taken, then where they had come from. “This way lies a clearly trod path to their village,” said Gisburne. Then he turned in the opposite direction. “And this way, the road to Nottingham...”
“Their camp is undefended,” said de Rosseley. “We can follow the trail and destroy it. Their homes, their stores...”
Asif nodded. “That is the tactic the Lionheart would use.”
“It doesn’t help Nottingham much,” said Galfrid.
“The camp means nothing now,” said Gisburne. “To us or to them. Our mission is to kill Hood. We must follow him.”
Mélisande took a step towards him. “You are certain he is with his army?”
“He is with them. Right at their head. You can count on it.”
“And you believe Nottingham is his goal?” said de Rosseley.
“Hood knows the King will come there. I believe he means to wrest it from the grasp of those loyal to John before Richard arrives.”
“And make a prize of it to him?”
“More than that. To show he can do it.”
“And then?” said Mélisande.
Gisburne looked grave. “If he can take the most powerful castle in the north and bloody the nose of the hated Prince, how many more of the free folk of England will flock to his banner? A thousand common archers can wreak havoc—rain fire arrows down upon a city until it is reduced to ash. Imagine what he might do with ten times that number. Much as he idolises Richard, Hood has neither friends nor enemies; only worshippers or competitors. And he will not stop the game—not now, not even for a king.”
He clenched his teeth, burning with frustration that their adversary had passed so close. “No time to waste,” he said. “We at least have a clear trail to follow. Stay together. But keep a safe distance from our quarry.”
“And when we find them?” said Galfrid.
Gisburne’s every plan was in ruins. But there was only one way this could end. “If I can get a clear shot, one arrow will finish it. Then we can all go home.”
Aldric stared in the direction the army had taken. “Our horses are somewhere back there,” he said. “And the groom’s boy. What if they are discovered?”
“Let us pray they are not,” said Gisburne.
XXXIV
THEY FOLLOWED THE trail southeast. For an hour or more, they saw and heard nothing—just the trampled forest floor, sticks crushed to splinters, earth and leaves churned to mud. Amongst the thousand overlapping, layered tracks—somewhere—was the mark of Hood himself—and of the monk Took, Will the Scarlet and all the others. It struck Gisburne then, more than ever, that Hood’s time of hiding had come to an end. They were marching out of the shadows and into the light.
Finds tantalised them: a leather gauntlet trodden into the mud, the detached goose-feather fletching of an arrow caught in a briar. Once, a green hat with a feather in it, lying unblemished on the ground. Whether their owners missed them was impossible to judge, but there was no stopping now. No going back.
The army must have been moving fast, but Gisburne was wary of running into the back of them. In the event, he needn’t have worried; after a while they began to hear, waxing and waning upon the gusting wind, the sound of many hundreds of voices raised in song. It was a cheery, earthy ballad that throbbed and swayed with the rhythm of their feet. A song of praise, not to God, nor their sovereign King, but to the King of the Greenwood. Their beloved Robin.
They trudged on, listening to the raucous sound as it came and went on the breeze, resisting as best they could, the urge to fall into its rhythm. Round and round it went, seemingly without end. Gisburne was growing to detest it when, just as the forest was thinning, he felt Galfrid tug at his sleeve. The squire pointed to their left—and Gisburne, hearing the clear sound of running water, understood.
The stream. The horses. He even thought he saw the moss-covered rocks through the trees. They were near. He signalled to the others, and they cut away from the trail.
The clearing where they had left the horses was only minutes away. Gisburne’s heart pounded hard as they approached. They had heard no blast upon the horn, but a cut throat or an arrow in the back could come without warning.
As they drew closer to the clearing, swords at the ready, they saw their horses, standing calmly, still tied up just as they had left them.
And, in a bloody crumpled heap, collapsed over the smouldering fire and wreathed in smoke, a body.
“No,” said Gisburne. “Please no...” and he ran forward. But as he did so, beyond the smoke, another figure emerged from the trees, a long blade clutched in both hands.
The boy Robert.
He was breathing hard, his face pale and his eyes wide. He stopped at the sight of them, and lowered his sword.
Gisburne grabbed Robert by the shoulders. “You’re alive! Thank God...”
The others gathered around. The boy glanced across at the dead man, then stifled what might have been a sob.
Gisburne turned the body in the fire. His clothing was rough and patched.
Upon his belt, a quiver full of arrows smouldered and smoked, and by his side lay a bowstave of yew—thick as a woman’s wrist, at the grip. He turned him over with the point of his boot. The beard and hair were quite gone, the flesh of his face sizzling. Not even his own wife would recognise him now.
“They passed close by,” said Robert. “So close I could hear them—singing, their feet trampling. I drew Squire Galfrid’s sword—the one hidden in the pilgrim staff—then hid and stayed quiet, prayed the horses would do the same, and that they would not see the smoke of the fire. I thought they had not...”
“Their minds are on other things now,” said Gisburne.
“Then I came out of my hiding place and saw a man. Strayed from the pack, he must have. He was sort of turning about, looking at the horses, looking for whoever owned them. He had his back to me. I don’t know why he didn’t call out right away. I think he was afraid. But I had Squire Galfrid’s sword. And I knew he would shout, in time. So... I charged.” He shuddered. “It went straight through. I felt the blade grate against bone. Then he staggered forward. Slid off the sword. Fell on the fire.” His face creased into an expression of horror and disgust. “That smell...” He looked away, and steeled himself. “I thought to sound the horn, but did not dare for fear they’d hear.”
He took a deep breath, and swallowed. “The horses are all well, Sire, and I saddled them up ready soon as I heard them coming. Just in case.”
“I am more than happy to see my horse safe and sound, Robert of Clippestone,” said Gisburne with a smile. “But no less am I glad to see you. Take your horse now and ride back to the palace. Have them double the guard, on my orders.” Robert nodded, and bowed and began to back away. “And do no work for two days. I insist upon it. When this is over I’ll talk to your father about your future. It’ll be grooming horses if you want it. Perhaps something more, if you don’t.”
Robert smiled and turned—then, remembering himself, turned back and held out the sword to Galfrid upon both palms.
The squire let his face crack into the slightest of smiles. “You keep it, lad,” he said. “You’ve earned it.”
Gisburne turned to the others. “Someone must ride ahead to Nottingham, to warn them of what is coming.”
“I’ll go,” said Mélisande.
Gisburne hesitated.
“My horse is the fastest here,” she added.
He nodded. “Circle around until you reach the road, then go for your life. Ride hard and you’ll be there within the hour. Ask for Sir Radulph Murdac, Constable and now High Sheriff. He’s an officious bastard, but he’ll listen. Galfrid—you go with her.” Galfrid, past the point of putting up arguments, merely nodded.
“Do you not trust me?” said Mélisande. “Or do you think they’ll not trust the word of a woman?”
“Galfrid knows the roads. And these are troubled times—merely getting past the gate will be hard enough. Galfrid is at least known there.”
“Is that a good thing?” muttered the squire.
Gisburne pulled open the purse on his belt and rummaged inside. “And here—take this...” He handed her a heavy gold ring.
Mélisande gazed at it and smiled broadly. “Why, Gisburne,” she said, with faux delight. “What does this mean?”
Gisburne heard de Rosseley snigger behind him. “It means you have the seal of Prince John in your possession—just in case they need any persuading.”
She slipped it over a gloved index finger.
“Go!” said Gisburne. Galfrid and Mélisande mounted their horses, and with a last fleeting glance, she reared her horse and the pair of them leapt into a gallop.
“And us?” said de Rosseley.
“I’m tired of being at Hood’s tail,” said Gisburne, slinging his shield across his back. “Being one step behind, breathing his wind. Now, we have horses and they are on foot. We follow no more. Soon they will reach the Nottingham road. Once we’re certain they’re on it, we’ll ride around and get in front of them. Get a look at them head on. Hood himself is at the head of that army; take the wolf’s head, and the rest will die.”
“Just like that?” said de Rosseley.
“Can you think of a better way?”
“And him?” said Asif, pointing at the dead man.
“Let him burn,” said Gisburne. He grabbed Nyght’s reins and tossed them up over the horse’s ears. “No time to waste. Mount up. We ride immediately.” Gripping the reins and a handful of mane in one hand and the pommel of his saddle in the other, he swung himself up onto the horse’s back. “But, Sir Tancred...” he called, bringing Nyght about.
Tancred’s skull face swivelled to him.
“Helmet on, I think. We will soon meet the road. No point in frightening the locals.”
And with their shields and bows on their backs they thundered off after their prey.
XXXV
HE WATCHED THEM mount up and ride off, cursing under his breath. Removing the bolt from his crossbow, he slid it back into the quiver, slung the bow and began to clamber down.
The past few minutes had been entertaining to watch, at least. He had missed the boy skewering his intruder, which was a shame, but Gisburne’s reaction more than made up for it. There was the joy of discovery—the boy was alive!—and the touching moment when he hailed the boy as hero. Then the debate about their next move. They were too far distant to hear, of course, but he could imagine every word. He even caught himself muttering their dialogue under his breath in silly voices: gruff, masculine Gisburne; the common, yokel squire; the breathy, squeaky woman. He got so engrossed in the game that, like an idiot, he missed his one chance.
The woman had left the scene far sooner than expected. It was good she was there, of course—for some time, he hadn’t been at all sure that she was. Then the obvious truth about the oddly slim, shapely knight in the green surcoat had struck him.
His position was good. He had judged well. He had a clear line of sight, and had correctly anticipated where they would stand. The body on the fire had helped him there, of course.
What he had not anticipated was how quickly they would move on. There he had been, nocked and loaded, with the woman clearly in his sights. Then the Saracen had blocked her. He judged that from this distance—assuming both stood still at that moment, and that he aimed high enough to clear the Saracen’s scale armour—that he could shoot straight through the Arab’s neck and still hit her head. But it was a risk. He’d decided instead to wait—but in the next moment, she was on the move, on her horse and away. Then Gisburne and the others had ridden away too, and at such a pace that it would take him some time to catch up again. And so, yet again, he would have to un-nock the crossbow, pack up and move off. He was used to it. For every successful shot actually taken, there would be at least two dozen lost opportunities.
It meant, he supposed, that he still had the element of surprise. And he was in no hurry. That was what he kept telling himself. He had waited this long, after all—he was not about to let impatience ruin everything. Still, he was only human. It frustrated him.
He thought about alternative targets. There was the boy, who had gone north with the pack horse. Back to Clippestone, no doubt. He would be easy enough to pick off—but to what end? Likely as not, Gisburne would never hear about it—once this was over, he would be dead as earth.
He gave it due consideration, nonetheless. The plan was not set in stone, after all. It couldn’t be. But it would take him out of his way. He would have to leave off stalking his main prey, and that he was not prepared to do. He had to be focused, cool-headed. Keep the overall objective in mind and not be distracted by more petty matters. He had seen that mistake made a hundred times over. No, he would just have to bide his time, and let the opportunities come—as he knew they would.
He swung down from the bough, gently released the string of the crossbow, and packed bow and bolts neatly upon his waiting horse. Then he heaved himself up into the saddle and rode towards the south.
XXXVI
Nottingham
24 March, 1194
“LOWER THE GATE, in the name of Guy of Gisburne!” called Galfrid across the moat.
The pasty face of the guard atop the rough stone tower—barely more than twenty feet above their heads—peered down at him, then at the cloaked and hooded rider by his side, then back again.
“You are not Sir Guy of Gisburne, sire,” said the guard, his voice thin and nasal—a match for his face.
“He’s too short, for starters,” said another, somewhere out of sight. Galfrid pictured a porker of a man. He then pictured his own boot making repeated and forceful contact with his oversized rump.
“I didn’t say I was Guy of Gisburne,” said Galfrid. “I said to open the gate in the name of Guy of Gisburne. I am his squire, and bring important news to your Constable, Sir Radulph Murdac.”
“He looks a bit old for a squire,” said the disembodied voice. Galfrid clenched his fists tight about his reins.
“I thought you were known here,” whispered Mélisande. “Do you get this often?”
“All the bloody time,” sighed Galfrid gloomily. It had been nearly three months since he’d had occasion to come to Nottingham, but even when a regular visitor he had rarely entered unchallenged. Perhaps it was something about his face. There were a few he knew among the castle guard, it was true—but they were mostly within the keep, and out here, on the cold, draughty outer defences, was where they sent the ‘barbican fodder’: the new, the young, the idiots.
The simple round tower served as gatehouse for the castle’s outer bailey, a deep ditch and simple wooden stockade that circled all but the south and west of the great rock upon which the castle stood, where the sheer cliffs formed their own defence.
It was before the sharply sloping bank of this ditch that Galfrid and Mélisande now stood, a green, stinking channel of dead water—growing more pungent by the minute, in the sun’s warmth—between them and the raised drawbridge.
Guy of Gisburne- The Omnibus Page 112