Hunter of Sherwood: The Red Hand

by Toby Venables

  “A thoroughly bad idea, I expect,” continued John with a weary sigh. “Most people seem to think all my ideas are thoroughly bad – even if they’re precisely what Walter de Coutances was saying two weeks before, when they all thought them marvellous.”

  Gisburne smiled at that. He was glad to see that the Prince’s wry humour remained undiminished. In practical terms, John’s position now was not so very different from when Gisburne left – he had the same privileges, the same properties – even the same influence, for the most part. Nevertheless, the months in between had clearly taken their toll.

  “You seem to relish means of summoning me that put me in mortal danger,” said Gisburne as his master stepped down the two steps into the main floor of the chamber.

  A flicker of a smile played about John’s lips. “It looks to me,” he said, scanning the bloody and beaten guards on either side, “as if it was not so much you who was in mortal danger...”

  He extended his hand – heavy, as always, with as many rings of gold as his fingers would allow. Gisburne took it, bowed his head, and went to drop to one knee. John held fast, preventing him, and gave a shake of his head to indicate that such affectations were not necessary. Only Gisburne was afforded this privilege. Only Gisburne was encouraged – and had the nerve – to speak plainly to him. This, Gisburne did not doubt, was yet another source of resentment for his envious rivals. Secretly, John detested the rituals and etiquette associated with his station – a trait inherited from his father. Mostly it was because he detested those who habitually acted them out. John made the barons and officials go through those rituals anyway. It was a subtle form of revenge.

  “My sincere apologies, Sir Guy,” said John. He released Gisburne’s hand. “I needed you both brought here with all possible speed.” He caught sight of a nasty cut on Galfrid’s forehead where it had made sudden, violent impact with the captain’s front teeth, and grimaced. “For God’s sake, Murdac, get these two men a drink,” he said with sudden asperity. “They’re going to need it.” Murdac turned to the cluttered table at the far side of the fireplace and filled two cups of wine from a bronze jug.

  “What is this about?” said Gisburne, taking the cup that was offered him. “And where is Sir William?”

  At that, John’s smile vanished. The colour drained from his face. He seemed suddenly hunched, as if some physical burden had been placed upon his shoulders. The Prince that Gisburne knew was carefree – at least that was how he chose to present himself. His opponents, blind to the Prince’s subtle irony, interpreted this breezy nonchalance as lack of concern for the realm and its people. But none could accuse him of arrogant detachment today.

  “Drink,” said John. Gisburne and Galfrid did so.

  John glanced at Murdac. Reading his intention, Murdac, turned to the guards. “Leave us.”

  They trooped out without hesitation, barely attempting to hide their relief at being freed from that chamber. John waited until the door clanked shut and their heavy footsteps could no longer be heard, then turned back to Gisburne. “Sir William de Wendenal is dead,” he said.

  Gisburne stared at Galfrid in disbelief.

  “The Sheriff? Dead?”

  “Murdered,” said Murdac, his voice flat and emotionless. “On the north road. Yesterday evening. Not five miles from here.”

  “The Constable is being somewhat restrained in his description,” said John. “Having been pulled from his horse, the Sheriff was dragged into the forest, hung from a tree and gutted in the manner of a deer whilst still alive.”

  Gisburne’s mind reeled. Wendenal could be a difficult man, but Gisburne had grown to respect him. That he was gone was shocking enough, but the manner of his passing... “Hood’s men?” he ventured.

  “Have you known them aspire to anything more than poaching and petty theft of late?” John shook his head. “It’s not their style. They’re bandits. And he was carrying nothing of value. Nothing to warrant such a risk. The only thing Sir William stood to lose was his life.”

  “But we always said something like this might come...” protested Gisburne. “Vengeance for the blow that was inflicted upon them.”

  “That was months past,” snapped John with sudden intensity. “And nothing came.” John, seeming to regret the burst of temper – temper for which his family were famed – fought to calm himself. “Trust me. They are a spent force. Directionless. Diminished by the harsh winter. I have good information to this effect – or did, until that source was lost. No. This is something else.”

  Good information. Gisburne supposed he was a fool to think he was John’s only agent. From the start, then, the intention would seem to have been murder – and Wendenal was not merely killed, he was defiled. So, it was personal. Revenge. Hatred. Or a message. And there was risk. But John was right. The only man in Hood’s gang capable of perpetrating such an act – who would likely find risk an incentive rather than a deterrent – was Hood himself, and if there was one man who Gisburne knew could not possibly be responsible, it was he.

  “How big a risk was this attack?” said Gisburne. Wendenal, formidable though he may have been, was not fool enough to travel the north road alone after dark. “Who was with him?”

  Murdac looked to John, and shifted nervously before speaking. “The Sheriff was accompanied by twenty-two men. His personal guard. A dozen knights – the rest, serjeants-at-arms.”

  Gisburne and Galfrid gaped at each other. Twenty-two knights and serjeants... Elite warriors. Such a force could turn a battle. Gisburne’s neck grew hot. Such audacity did not sound like a random attack – more like an opening move. “Christ’s bones,” he said. “What is this? Are we at war?”

  “It’s quite possible,” said John. “Though with what, I am not yet certain.”

  “There were witnesses?” said Gisburne. “Survivors?”

  “Twenty-two of them,” said John. “Several were injured, but only incidentally. Sir William was the target.”

  “Then they can describe the men who...”

  “Not men,” interrupted John. He looked almost embarrassed as he said it. “There was... only one.”

  “One?” Gisburne stared at him, not fully comprehending. “One man did this?”

  John hesitated, as if unsure how to answer. He looked to Murdac, appealing for assistance. “We are not yet sure it was a man,” said Murdac. “The eyewitness reports are... Confused.”

  Gisburne looked from John to Murdac and back, appealing for something – anything – to make sense of this. John turned his back to them and stared at the window. “Some said it was a giant. Others that it had the head of a beast. But all are agreed on one thing: that it breathed fire. Their horses recoiled from the flames when the monster charged. Only because of this was it able to take Wendenal unchallenged. There is no doubting their claim. Several were badly burned – men and horses. And there are other reasons for taking their account seriously – reasons I shall get to presently.”

  Gisburne could feel his temples throb, his heart thump. “But surely there were crossbowmen...” he began.

  “And they got off several bolts at close range before it disappeared into the trees,” said John. “It was entirely unaffected. No cry. No blood. Nothing.”

  The four men stood in grim silence. Finally, John turned to face Gisburne again. “It is my wish now that you expend all possible energy in tracking down this... killer. Whoever or whatever it may be.”

  “I will need to talk to the men of Wendenal’s guard,” said Gisburne.

  “Do anything you see fit,” said John. “Whatever you need, I will support it – every power, every resource that I possess is at your disposal. There is no one better equipped for the task – although chasing monsters may seem a peculiar diversion for a man such as you.”

  “On the contrary,” said Gisburne, “I seem to spend most of my service engaged in exactly that enterprise.”

  “I mentioned other reasons,” said John. “Reasons why this must be tackled with urgenc
y. Five days ago, one of my most dedicated supporters, Sir Walter Bardulf, was attacked and killed at his home near Pendleton. His body was... also most foully mistreated. The people there are saying that what slew him was a dragon. Fiery breath, a monstrous head. Scales of red and black that were impervious to arrow and bolt. These claims, I must emphasise, come from those who actually saw it.”

  “A dragon?” Gisburne was aghast. “Surely you can’t believe that?”

  John held his gaze, saying nothing. Behind the intense, intelligent eyes was something Gisburne had never before seen there. Fear.

  “There is more,” said John. He took the empty cups from Gisburne and Galfrid and placed them back on the table, amongst an assortment of objects – the wine jug, a water bowl, a wooden board upon which were the crumbled remains of a loaf, some scattered writing materials. Then he picked up what appeared to be a rough, warped square of parchment and held it out to Gisburne. “When I was awoken in the early hours of the morning by the return of Wendenal’s guard, I found this placed in my bedchamber.”

  Gisburne took the parchment. The yellowed, dehydrated skin was uneven and hard, translucent in places, but with scraps of dark flesh still attached upon its rougher surface, and a few dark hairs upon the other – more like something dried before a fire than properly prepared parchment. There was a stink to it that made Gisburne queasy. The wine burned in his stomach. Upon the smoother side was a handprint in what looked like blood, and beneath, in crudely formed letters, a single phrase:

  DIES IRAE VENIT

  “Hardly a monk’s script,” said John, “but clear enough.”

  “‘Judgement day is coming,’” said Gisburne.

  “To answer your earlier question,” said John, “I have never personally encountered a dragon, but I have never heard that the fire-drakes of old were known to write notes.” He thought for a moment, then added: “If they did, I somehow imagine it might be in Welsh or Irish, rather than Latin.”

  Gisburne placed his spread palm over the print. It dwarfed his own hand. “You are certain these matters are connected?” he said.

  “The skin was cut from the back of Sir Walter Bardulf, possibly whilst he was still living.”

  Gisburne shuddered at the information. His instinct was to rid himself of the gruesome artefact as soon as possible, but none looked in any hurry to take it from him. “Could someone within the castle have placed this?”

  “We have good reason to believe it came from outside,” said Murdac.

  “No one saw anything,” added John. “But one of the guards was absent from the battlements when due to be relieved by the next watch, and he failed to report for duty today. He was later found in the midden beyond the wall. His skull had been crushed so completely, they say, his face hung about his chest like a burst wineskin.” John waited a moment for the information to sink in. “The savagery of the attack is entirely consistent with the deaths of Wendenal and Bardulf.”

  Gisburne shook his head in disbelief. “But if the returning guard woke you... How did he get here so fast?”

  John gave a wan smile and shrugged. “Flew?”

  “He could have killed you,” said Gisburne. “Cut your throat as you slept.”

  “Easily,” said John.

  “But instead he chose to warn you. To inspire dread.”

  “He. Or she. Or it.”

  Gisburne turned the grisly parchment over in his hands. “But to what end?”

  “That is what I wish you to find out,” said John, then added, with a casual shrug: “and, ideally, prevent it actually happening.”

  The Prince gestured to Murdac, who was closest to the cluttered table. “There was also this...” he said. Murdac took up something and handed it to Gisburne – a small, bloody scrap of pale cloth with smudged black markings. “It was nailed to Wendenal’s skull,” said John. Gisburne showed the scrap to Galfrid – now almost inured to the bizarre turns the case was taking.

  “Oilcloth,” said Galfrid.

  “What of these letters?” said Gisburne.

  Galfrid frowned. In a similar, crude hand to the parchment was written: liv. “‘Live’? Is that some sort of joke?”

  Gisburne shook his head, unable to form any conclusion. “You say it was nailed...?”

  Murdac looked appalled. “The captain who recovered the body apparently had some difficulty removing it,” he said. “Tools were required. But it had to be done. For the sake of Sir William’s dignity.”

  Gisburne could not see how anything could imbue such a circumstance with dignity, least of all that. But he duly noted the key facts.

  The knight he had served as squire, Gilbert de Gaillon, had always taught him to pay attention to details. He had directed him particularly to those others overlooked – or those others hoped would be overlooked. “Know your enemy,” he would say. “The clothes he wears, the food he eats, his habits, his fears, his vices. If there is something he craves, deny it him. If there is something he detests, put it in his path. If there is any weakness – no matter how small – exploit it. But, most of all, know why he fights. What he believes in. How he thinks. To know your enemy, you must become your enemy. Only this way can you anticipate him. In this quest, no detail is too trivial.” The advice had stood Gisburne in good stead. But always before there had been something more substantial upon which to hang such details – motives, known history, patterns of behaviour.

  “If there’s anything else, I need to know it,” said Gisburne. “Leave nothing out.”

  “Sir William’s right hand was severed,” said John. “Sir Walter’s, too. They were not found.” He glanced at the dried skin with its palm print of blood. “Hands would appear to be a running theme.”

  Murdac had picked up the jug as if to pour himself a drink, but then slammed it down before having done so. “Taken!” he said, shaking his head.

  “Trophies?” said Gisburne.

  Murdac ignored him and turned to the Prince. “I told you, my lord – this is more than murder. It’s the stuff of sorcery. You know my view. We should seek the involvement of the church. God knows I’m no credulous peasant, but I’ve seen this before – and if a curse has been placed... ”

  John silenced the Constable with a single raised finger. “It is for Sir Guy to determine who is to be involved.” His manner indicated that there was to be no further debate. Murdac looked suitably chastened.

  “I, too, have seen body parts taken for such purposes,” said Gisburne. “But it doesn’t take a sorcerer or a demon...” He stopped mid-sentence, his eyes fixed upon the bloody handprint. A memory came to him suddenly, vividly – the dying utterance of an unknown knight in the sewers of Jerusalem. He stared into empty space, trying to understand the connection his mind had already made.

  “A red hand is coming...” he muttered. Galfrid flinched at the words. Gisburne held up the parchment with its ghastly imprint. “What does that mean – ‘a red hand’?”

  John cocked his head. “I remember a child’s game call ‘red hands,’” he said. “I was not allowed to play it. Demeaning to my station.” Gisburne remembered it, too – but could recall nothing more than the fact that it involved a lot of vigorous hand slapping. He shook his head.

  “Rubente dextera...” said Galfrid. All turned to him. “Horace,” he said. “One of the odes. It’s usually interpreted as fiery rather than red, but anyway...” He looked up into the far corner of the room, as if some aid to memory were secreted there, and recited: “Iam satis terris niuis atque dirae grandinis misit Pater et rubente dextera sacras iaculatus arces...” He translated: “‘The Father has sent enough dread hail and snow to earth already, striking sacred hills with fiery hand...’”

  “The hand of God...” said Gisburne.

  “Of judgement,” added Galfrid. Both were now entertaining ideas of apocalypse – although how these could relate to John and his predicament, neither could tell.

  “I’ve heard the Irish also use a symbol of a red hand,” said Murdac with a s
hrug. “Wendenal spoke of it once.”

  John nodded. “Sir William was one of those who accompanied me when I toured Ireland as its Lord,” he explained.

  A sudden possibility occurred to Gisburne. “And Walter Bardulf?”

  John nodded again, more avidly this time, struck by the same realisation. “Yes... Yes, him too. But that was – what? Eight years ago? Do you think there could be something in that?”

  “I don’t know,” said Gisburne. “It may be nothing, but...” His words faded. He and Galfrid looked at each other again, and Gisburne saw that his squire’s thoughts ran along the same lines. “Tell me,” he began, turning to the Prince, “Were there any Irish there who might have reason to wish you harm – who you may have crossed or slighted in some way?”

  John sighed heavily. “Almost all of them,” he said. He went over to the table, and dipped his fingers in the water bowl. “Before you say any more, this will not – must not – bring either my duties or my daily life to a halt. That may be precisely what they want. I will not grant them the satisfaction.” Gisburne nodded. John flicked his fingers dry before the fire. “I am due to leave for London before Whitsun. There are matters to be dealt with there – and an important event that I must attend at the Tower.” He looked sideways at Gisburne. “An execution, actually.”

  So preoccupied was Gisburne with thoughts of murder that the significance of these words dawned only gradually.

  “Yes,” said John, “that execution... I didn’t think you would have forgotten.”

  But Gisburne had forgotten. It had seemed so far away for so long. “Upon the feast day of St John,” he said. “The twenty-fourth day of June.”

  “Well, you should know,” chuckled John, “since you yourself set the date.”

  “Continue to make plans for that journey,” said Gisburne. “All will proceed as expected. But with one alteration.”

  “Provided I approve,” said John. “What is it?”