But this... this was like striking at a dandelion with an axe.
That they were not an army, not used to battle, was immediately apparent. With nowhere to run, experienced men would have held their ground—you could possibly dodge a lance if you knew how, but only if you could see it coming. These men ran blindly in every direction. They went straight under the hooves of the knights’ destriers, or were speared in the side or the back, or felled by the attackers’ swords. Barely any had armour; not more than one in ten any kind of helmet.
In the mayhem, a few of the knights’ horses stumbled, throwing or crushing their riders, but for the most part they trampled the enemy like grass.
Every one of them seemed to evade Gisburne’s lance point. Partly it was the sheer chaos, but also his own reluctance; the few terrified men who did cross his path he simply could not bring himself to spear.
And then it was over, and he was on the far side of them. He wheeled about, a line of knights turning with him like a great scythe blade.
The second pass was different. Looking around for his fellows and seeing none, he spied a big, stocky man who had also spotted him, and who was not running. David of Doncaster, one of Hood’s most dedicated men. Gisburne urged Nyght on, and levelled his lance.
Doncaster stood firm, sword in hand, a great roar in his throat. He meant to sidestep the point, Gisburne supposed, and slash at either Gisburne or his horse as they passed, using their own momentum against them.
And then it happened.
A lance point—wavering at the end of ten feet of ash—is not easily moved with accuracy when couched, and if you know its limits and are quick enough, you can dodge it. Clearly, Doncaster thought he’d done so. So, for that matter, did Gisburne. But in the closing moment he felt something slam into Nyght’s left flank. One of Hood’s men had apparently run headlong into his horse’s side; whether he survived, Gisburne was never to know.
The stallion stayed true to his course, but for a instant the impact nudged him to the right. It can only have been inches, but in that moment, Doncaster’s fate was sealed.
Gisburne felt his lance jolt and twist down, and as it met solid resistance it sheared, the mid-section spinning in the air. A moment later, all was far behind him.
Gisburne heard rather than saw the effect upon his target.
The point had hit Doncaster in the open mouth, bringing his great roar—and his life—to an abrupt, shuddering end. When Gisburne risked a look back, he saw the big man—surely dead but still somehow staggering—the tip of the broken lance stuck through the back of his head, the bunched up banner of the King rammed in his mouth. He tipped backwards, the protruding lance caught the ground, and as he fell it twisted his head with an audible crack.
Gisburne threw away the splintered length of ash and drew Irontongue.
Hood’s men’s bows had been unstrung, and nearly all of them still were—because nocking the string meant standing still, and that almost none of them were prepared to do. But a few had.
As Gisburne wheeled around for a third pass, he saw a half-dozen or so crouched in a tight formation, now loosing swift volleys of arrows—not random, but concentrating on specific targets. Three knights were felled as Gisburne watched; a fourth stayed in his saddle, his shield like a pin cushion—but they shifted their attention to his horse. It fell, the knight rolled clear—apparently unharmed by the fall—but then three of Hood’s men were on him, stabbing and kicking.
One gripped the stricken knight’s helm and tore free. That should have been the end of him—Gisburne was still a good thirty yards away—but the moment the helm was off, the three men recoiled in horror. One scrabbled backwards, straight under the hooves of a riderless horse, and the other two hesitated, still horrified, until the leper knight staggered back to his feet, drew his sword and thrust it straight through the taller man’s chest. The last of the assailants turned to run, but metal flashed in the air and the man dropped like a stone, Asif’s chakkar embedded in his face.
A cry of “Lepers!” went up among the scattering horde—and even those who were not already terrified gave it up as a lost cause. All looked to their own preservation now—and that was their undoing. The Knights of St Lazarus cut them down as they ran, exacting revenge for their fallen comrades.
Gisburne, meanwhile, turned his attention back to the group of archers, who were now starting to disperse. At their head, Gisburne saw, was Gilbert White Hand—second only to Hood as an archer, and without doubt the one who had been directing the volleys with such deadly effect. Gisburne caught up with the first of them, clouting him about the head with Irontongue’s blade. The man fell with a cry like a stabbed pig, and White Hand turned.
The others were too intent on fleeing to put arrow to string, but not White Hand. He reached for an arrow shaft, and as he did so Gisburne leaped from his horse and snatched up the fallen man’s bow. He was crucial seconds behind the enemy archer, but then Tancred—his helmet gone, his skull face grinning like something out of Hell—rode from nowhere, sword whirling. White Hand, looking up in horror, wavered for an instant—and in that moment Gisburne’s arrow sank into his chest from barely ten yards.
They were the last to stand their ground. The battle was over, at least for now. But there were faces Gisburne had not yet seen. He turned this way and that, scanning a field littered with outlaw dead, and then he saw them.
At the very edge of the trees, heading north-west at a run, was a small, tight-knit group: the monk Took, Scarlet, Arthur a Bland, Will of Stuteley and a half-dozen others—and with them, a head higher than the rest, was Hood. As Gisburne watched, he turned and looked right at him. As if unmoved by the slaughter of his men, he smiled and gave a cheerful wave.
Then he turned, and the group plunged back into the forest, back towards their village.
LIX
ONE BY ONE, the company gathered—all alive, and miraculously uninjured.
“A good outcome,” said Gisburne to Galfrid as they stood apart from the group.
Galfrid seemed unconvinced. “Could’ve been better,” he said.
“We’ll get Hood,” said Gisburne. “We’ll follow him and we’ll get him.”
“I didn’t mean that,” said Galfrid, and looked towards the Templar. “I was hoping Tancred would die.”
Hugolin had lost a dozen men to Hood’s arrows, but the Knights of St Lazarus had not been idle. For every one of their men who had fallen, a score of Hood’s now lay dead—and many more injured. Bodies littered the field in every direction, and from every direction came the cries of the wounded and dying.
Gisburne was sickened at the sight of it, and angry that Hood had driven him to this. But he could not hesitate now. If anything, it only made him the more determined. The army was broken, dispersed; but Hood had mustered them once, and could do so again.
“Hugolin?” he called, patting Nyght on the head. “I have one last favour to ask.”
“Name it,” said the knight.
“May we leave our horses with you?” Nyght gave Gisburne a long and searching look, and he was forced to look away.
“I’ll care for them as if they were my own,” he said. Then he took a step towards Gisburne and took his hand in both his own. “Thank you,” he said, and Gisburne frowned. “Thank you for this...” He released him, and turned away.
Gisburne looked towards the place where Hood had disappeared, then turned back to Nyght and whispered an apology.
“WHAT NOW?” SAID Mélisande.
“Now, we hunt,” said Gisburne, “for wolf. Take only what you need, and leave the rest with the horses. We travel light.”
He threw down his helm and shield and nocked the string on his own bow. As he did so, he winced, and put a hand to his shoulder.
“All right?” said Aldric.
“I’m fine. That hasty dismount...” Gisburne flexed his shoulder, then slung the bow across his back by its strap and lifted the wooden cylinder. The action made him wince again.
“Let me help,” said Aldric. “My crossbow is easier to carry than your bow, and my quarrels smaller. Let me take it.”
Gisburne nodded, and handed it to him.
“Just don’t drop it,” he said.
Aldric hefted it over his shoulder. It was not as heavy as he had expected, but was considerably heavier at one end than the other. There was no tell-tale rattle from inside, but when he settled it in place, he could have sworn he heard the sound of liquid.
A hand patted him on the arm. He looked around and saw Galfrid draw up beside him.
“You are indeed honoured,” said Galfrid, and Aldric looked askance at him. “That’s not a joke,” said Galfrid. “It means he trusts you.”
“So... What’s in it?”
Galfrid chuckled. “Perhaps you should have found that out before you took it. I don’t know. Honestly, I’d tell you if I did. But seriously... if he says don’t drop it, don’t drop it.”
“Why?”
“I was once charged with a similar task,” said Galfrid.
“And did you drop it?”
“No,” says Galfrid. “Someone stole it. Then they dropped it.”
“What happened to them?”
“Hard to say,” said Galfrid. “There wasn’t enough of them left to really tell.” Then he patted Aldric on the shoulder again, and walked off.
IV
DEATH
LX
Sherwood Forest
28 March, 1194
“WELL?” SAID GISBURNE.
Galfrid, crouched, flicked at the leaf mould with his dagger point and sniffed. “Nothing.”
For hours they had tracked their prey, back into the heart of Sherwood—back towards the hidden village. The outlaws moved fast, but they were on their scent. They had encountered two other members of Hood’s army along the way: one had been dead from his wounds, collapsed over a log. The other glimpsed them and fled into the undergrowth like a deer. He had been left to his own devices.
Gisburne was surprised that they had not stumbled into more of the scattered men, but it told him something useful: if they were not coming this way, they can have been in no great hurry to return to Hood’s service. It was as if the battle upon the north road had awoken them from a dream.
He cared little about the stragglers. All he was concerned with was the close grouping of prints heading north.
In the last few yards—in a tiny clearing in which a large oak had at some point fallen and been cleared away—the clearly marked trail had inexplicably vanished.
“They cannot simply disappear,” said Gisburne.
Galfrid stood. “A dozen’s a lot harder to track than five hundred,” he said. “And this lot treads lightly. I believe they could disappear if they really set their minds to it.”
De Rosseley frowned. “Did they only now discover that we were following them?”
“That,” said Galfrid, “or they meant for us to follow this far.”
“And then what?” muttered Gisburne, eyeing the surrounding trees warily. They were close; perhaps a little too close. He recalled Hood’s jaunty wave from the edge of the forest. “We are exposed. We need to move, one way or the other.”
“There is a path of sorts up ahead,” said Mélisande. “Old. Winding away through the trees.”
“It’s supposed to be the village to which no roads lead,” protested de Rosseley.
Aldric nodded in agreement. “And last time there was a path like that, Sir Tancred said it led to traps...”
“There will be traps,” said Gisburne. “That much I can guarantee.” Then he looked towards the silent Templar. “Tancred?”
Tancred shook his head. “I do not know this place.”
He turned back to Galfrid. “Could they have taken the path?”
Galfrid sighed. “I can’t say they didn’t. But they were not far ahead of us. If we can just—”
Gisburne’s raised hand silenced him. Across the clearing, at the edge of the trees, Asif stood, his back to them, utterly motionless. Listening.
Gisburne crept over to him.
“Someone watches us,” whispered the Arab.
“Our friend the Norseman?” said Gisburne. “Could he have found us again?”
Before Asif could reply, there was the thwack of an arrow striking a tree inches from them. Birds flew up, twittering madly. Gisburne and Asif ran. Another arrow—closer this time—drove into the earth at their heels.
There was no time to argue. Either they took the path or died here. Asif at his shoulder, Gisburne plunged ahead into the forest, the others breaking into a run behind him. As they fled, two more arrows, in quick succession, struck the trees as they passed, sending splinters flying.
Gisburne was not certain how long they ran, but two things made him stop. One was the likelihood that, for now, they were out of range; the trees were more spread out here—it would be harder for their attacker to get close without being seen. The other was the fear of traps ahead.
They stood for a moment, catching their breath, bows at the ready. Aldric, panting heavily, slipped the cylinder off his shoulder and let it thump on the ground. He winced at the impact.
“He had us,” said de Rosseley. “Had us cold. Why in God’s name did the bowman not just kill us?”
Galfrid grunted. “I’ve no complaints on that score.”
“Not bowman,” said Aldric. “Crossbowman.” All looked at him. “I heard the trigger. Believe me, I know that sound.”
“But there were two in quick succession,” said Gisburne. “Far faster than a crossbowman could reload.”
“Then there must be two men,” said Mélisande.
“One,” Aldric said. “The sound... One bow. I am certain of it.” He caught de Rosseley’s sceptical look. “It’s like a musical instrument. You get an ear for it.”
Asif nodded. “I have heard of a device like this,” he said. “A double crossbow, capable of firing two bolts without reloading.”
“But such devices are rare as dragon eggs,” said Aldric. “To make one and maintain it properly would require skilled hands. An enginer’s hands.”
“It hardly sounds like Hood,” said Mélisande.
“No,” said Gisburne. “It does not.” But he had an idea what it did sound like.
“If he’s such a bloody expert,” continued de Rosseley, “then I am moved to repeat my question: why did this bowman”—he caught Aldric’s eye—“crossbowman not manage to hit any of us? Even I could have done that.”
But Gisburne understood. “He wasn’t trying to kill us,” he said. “He was herding us, making sure we took this path. The path the others clearly did not.”
“May we guess why they did not take it?” said Aldric.
“Because they wished to stay alive,” said Gisburne.
“Traps?”
“Traps. Conceived, if I am not mistaken, by the same mind as the extraordinary crossbow.”
“So, we are to continue, then,” said Mélisande with a frown, “into the traps?”
“We have two advantages,” said Gisburne. “For one, the traps protect Hood’s village, which means the village lies beyond. For the other, we know the traps are there.”
The various members of the party exchanged glances. Mélisande merely raised her eyebrows. “What happened to doing the precise opposite of what your enemy wants?”
“A change of plan,” said Gisburne. “They’ve come to expect that of me. They think that right now I will be resisting their attempts to divert us, and instead striking out after our prey in the hope of finding their trail again. We might do that, and we might even succeed. But there was another thing de Gaillon used to say—something, he once claimed, that took priority over every other rule: whatever your enemy does not expect, do that.”
He looked around, and one by one they nodded in agreement.
“So, we move on,” he said.
It no longer mattered to him that they were walking into danger. When were they ever not? They were whe
re he wanted them to be. Where Hood wanted them. Back in the game.
LXI
THE TREES AHEAD were gnarled and old, and closed about them as they advanced. They were strangled with ivy, in places itself as thick as a tree. To some of the ancient, warped trunks great shelves of dank fungus clung. The path seemed to take them back into some lost time—a time before man, from whose unknowable depths the ever watchful faces of the trees stared back at them. Gisburne was in no doubt they were back in Hood’s realm.
All were vigilant. Progress was slow—the path now difficult to see in the undulating, root-tangled floor. They had fallen into complete silence, encouraged somehow by the strange deadness of the air about them.
Quite suddenly, the tree cover broke and gave way to a tiny glade—a small patch of hazy sky above, a fairy ring of toadstools in the mossy floor below.
As Gisburne stepped into it, a crow flapped wildly out of a nearby tree. Every one of them jumped at the burst of noise. “Well,” said de Rosseley, the bird’s harsh cry ringing out across the forest. “We might as well have sounded a fanfare.”
Galfrid’s gaze followed the black shape. “If only we could see through his eyes,” he sighed. “Perhaps we’d see where they are.”
“Maybe we can,” said Mélisande, swinging into the low boughs of a huge oak, then up, away into the swaying top branches.
A moment later, she dropped down again. “There’s a thin column of smoke to the northwest.”
“What colour?” asked Gisburne.
“Black.”
Guy of Gisburne- The Omnibus Page 122