Locksley shrugged. “I can hit a barn. As long as it doesn’t move about too much.” There was a guffaw at that.
“Also that your fellow bowmen here would follow you anywhere,” said Gisburne. “That they regard you as their leader, even though you have no rank over them.”
For an instant Locksley’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, as if he suspected some kind of trap. Then, as suddenly as it came, the expression disappeared, to be replaced by Locksley’s broad, irresistible smile.
“They’re a fine company,” he said, “even if we do have to endure the presence of a few Welshmen!” He slapped the back of a fellow who was propped up by the edge of the nearest table. The man – red-faced, and the worse for drink – turned and raised his cup in tribute, almost sliding off his perch as he did so. Locksley grabbed one of the longbows – as tall as he was – and, leaning on it, raised his voice so all could hear. “We’re all keen to show these Byzantines what six feet of English yew can do! Isn’t that right, lads?” He banged the bowstave against the floorboards, raising dust. There was a drunken cheer of affirmation. Someone called out “Pleased to meet yew!” and another responded: “They won’t be!”
Locksley gave a hearty chortle that rose above the clamour. Then he drank his cup dry in one, thumped it down on the table and planted his fists firmly on his hips. On anyone else, the gesture would have looked absurd. Somehow this man Locksley carried it off.
“So, now I know who you are,” he said, looking Gisburne up and down, “but what are you? Yeoman? Serjeant? Knight? Or simply in disguise?”
Gisburne met Locksley’s intense gaze. The company hushed a little. “Your captain,” he said.
The hush became total. Locksley stared at him for a moment, then he threw his head back with a great, ringing laugh. The inn once again exploded in joyous uproar as he grabbed Gisburne’s hand with both his own, and shook it with all the vigour of a man wringing the neck of a goose.
XX
London
19 May, 1193
“I SAID, WHO goes there?” The thin-faced guard peered down from the battlement of the Tower gatehouse. He appeared far too young to be charged with such a responsibility – even his helmet looked too big for him.
“I heard you the first time,” said Gisburne, his patience wearing thin. “And I’ve told you already – it’s Prince John of England! The King’s bloody brother. Now open the bloody gates.”
The guard’s head wobbled uncertainly on its thin neck. He looked at the hooded figure to Gisburne’s side and back again, then suddenly withdrew.
“God save us...” sighed Gisburne. Behind them, Nyght stamped his hoof on the stone flags of the bridge in sympathy.
The great wooden doors of the Tower gatehouse to which the stone bridge led – spanning an incomplete and waterless moat – were rarely closed between dawn and nightfall. So many came and went in the day-to-day running of the place that, for the most part, it was not practical to close it. There were times, however, when an armed guard at an open gate was not deemed sufficient, or prudent. Times of threat, for example, or when royal persons were in residence.
Today, the gates were closed because Prince John was lately arrived with his entourage. What none guarding the Tower knew was that the supposed royal person they had within their walls was no prince – was not even a noble – and was not named John. Though he wore John’s clothes, travelled in John’s carriage, and was surrounded by John’s servants, his name was Edric, a weaver from Pocklington. But for the sake of the Prince’s safety, that had been kept from them, and they quite naturally reasoned that the newcomer at the gates could only be an impostor. The irony was not lost on Gisburne.
“I have spoken with the Lieutenant of the Tower...” called a voice. Gisburne looked up. There again was the wobbling head of the young guard.
“Good,” said Gisburne.“We’re getting somewhere...”
“He says you are not Prince John.”
Gisburne glowered skyward. “I never said I was Prince John,” he snapped. “This is Prince John!” He gestured to his companion.
“Tell ’im we already got one!” came the gruff voice of a second, unseen guard, followed by a gale of laughter.
“We’ve already got one!” called the younger, his face as straight as a poker.
“This is preposterous,” muttered John. His hand went to his sword hilt. Gisburne saw in his eye the look of a man about to draw his sword and batter the gates. This was unlikely to make much impression on six-inch-thick English oak, but such logic never troubled the legendary Angevin temper. Gisburne calmed him with a gesture of restraint, and called again to the guard.
“Do you know what the Prince looks like, boy?”
The guard nodded. His helmet wobbled.
“And have you seen him inside those walls? Has anyone?”
The guard hesitated, confusion writ upon his face. Clearly, he could not confirm it – although what was going on in the boy’s vacillating head, if anything, was hard to judge.
John, who could stand no more, whipped the hood from his head and bellowed up at the boy. “Dammit, if you claim to know his face, then look upon this. I am John, your Prince – brother to the King and heir to the English throne.”
The guard’s eyes widened in panic. “I... I shall speak with the Lieutenant.” He withdrew suddenly. There was chatter, and shouting. Another head appeared and disappeared before Gisburne even had time to focus on it.
Gisburne was aware that they must have looked a sorry pair, dusty and dishevelled from the road. The Prince hardly looked the part. But he was exhausted, the day was dragging on, and all he now wished for was to deliver John safe and sound and rejoin Galfrid, who by now would have secured them food and lodgings.
The guard’s head appeared again above them. His expression was strained – Gisburne wondered how he came to his current station, and whether he would last the course. The boy swallowed hard, then spoke. “The Lieutenant says the Prince’s entourage is within, and that none may –”
“The entourage may be within,” seethed John, “but it is also without. It has no Prince, for I am clearly here!” He was visibly shaking.
“God’s teeth...” sighed Gisburne, and rubbed his brow. “Have the Prince’s closest men come out here,” he called. It wasn’t the boy’s fault – but this absurd puppet show had gone on long enough. “His manservant or his groom – or Llewellyn of Newport. They will confirm it.”
Gisburne was suddenly aware that John had drawn his sword, and now thrust it up at the battlement – a singularly unwise act before the gates of the Tower. But trying to relieve the Prince of the weapon in his current state of mind was, perhaps, equally unwise.
“The last time I stood before the gates in this manner,” bellowed John, “it was the rat Longchamp, Constable of the Tower, cowering within – and you know what happened to him!”
Gisburne doubted the boy did, but the general point was made.
“Tell you what, boy,” Gisburne said, ideas and patience almost spent. “You get the Lieutenant to send for the Prince. Have Prince John come out here in person and clap his eyes on us. If you are right and we are impostors, then we will gladly be condemned to death for high treason and God knows what else. Here. Tonight. We would welcome it. And you would be a hero. But if you are wrong, and you fail to open these gates...” He hesitated.
“I need to speak with...”
“To Hell with that!” snapped Gisburne. “You send your bloody Lieutenant out here so we may speak with him and not his parrot!
Prince John, red-faced with fury, shook his sword aloft. “And be quick about it, boy,” he spat, “or by God I’ll climb up there and shove this right up...”
There was a clunk, and another. The great gates of the Tower of London creaked and clanked, and slowly began to open.
XXI
THEY HAD REACHED Clerkenwell by mid-afternoon, and soon after passed between the wide, open space of Smoothfield – beyond which the River
Fleet flowed towards the Thames – and the Priory of St Bartholomew Augustinian. As they passed, Galfrid had craned his head towards its church, and commented wistfully upon its impressive interior – one of the finest in all London, he said – but neither Gisburne nor John were of a mind to stop for sightseeing. Their end was at last in sight.
Ahead, just visible beneath a haze of smoke and dust, lay Aldersgate – one of the seven ancient gates that provided access within the city walls. It was cracked and crumbling and appeared sorely neglected – the walls were built by the Romans, so Galfrid said – but any notion that this was a city in decline was dispelled the moment they passed through.
For miles, as they had drawn closer to the capital – passing fields, pastures, and pleasant, level meadows on the way – they had seen the roads grow busy with traffic of all kinds. There were dusty pilgrims, armoured knights, monks on asses, overladen ox-carts, farmers driving livestock, slogging footsoldiers, rich merchants in carriages, bootless peasants: the Great North Road made no social distinctions. All were steadily funnelled into the great city – distilled and compressed by its streets until each jostled one against the another, closer than any would allow under any other circumstance. It seemed a kind of madness – an impossible trick, folding ever more people into this finite space – space into which far more seemed to flow than ever seemed to leave. Common sense said it must surely reach its limit – a point of crisis, which elsewhere would lead to disaster or panic. Yet this inexorable compression of bodies – each with their own purpose, utterly incompatible with the others – somehow proceeded without incident.
Gisburne believed he understood why. Upon entering the strange, foreign land that was the commune, the streets ceased to be mere conduits or thoroughfares. They were stages, moot halls, pulpits, workshops, eateries, trysting places, animal pens, markets and sports fields – places used not only, nor even mainly, for traversing the city, but for every other thing that life entailed. In winter, the people withdrew to their firesides, but in spring and summer, all life was lived in the streets. In this, one could say it was not so different from any town or village in the land. But so much life was to be found here – on such a vast scale, and in such unimagined variety, from the dandiest earl to the lowest leprotic beggar – that newcomers could do little other than stare in wonder, or horror, or disgust, and forget their own predicaments entirely.
So it was, under such conditions, the trio passed southward down St Martin’s Lane, past Stinking Lane – a domain of butchery, which lived up to its name – to the place where the road opened into the broad thoroughfare of Westchepe.
Here, where traffic should have eased, all movement slowed. For here it was that a great proportion of newcomers to the city, perhaps thinking that they were growing used to its wonders after a few hundred yards, stopped and stared, open-mouthed, while horses, carts, nuns, mercenaries and geese attempted to flow around them.
To the west, the Shambles stretched away to Newgate – which, according to the unique logic of London, was older than Aldersgate. East, the road pressed on into the heart of the great city, beyond which lay the Tower. Rising immediately to their left, like a gnarled finger pointing to heaven, was the stone tower of St Martin Le Grand.
It was from here that London’s curfew bell was rung. In former times, this had signalled the hour of the evening when all were expected to quit the streets, or face a stiff penalty – one of the ways the Conqueror had sought to control the Saxon populace. His son Henry had overturned the restriction, and for the past century, the bell of St Martin’s had announced nothing more than the closing of the city gates for the night. Now, London went about its nocturnal business – which was brisk – entirely unimpeded.
It was the sight that lay immediately opposite as they emerged into Westchepe, however, that inspired awe. The great cathedral of St Paul’s – the largest building in London – dominated the view, and overthrew the senses. For over one hundred years it had been under construction, and its stonework was permanently sheathed in a teetering spiderweb of scaffolding, but somehow this only served to emphasise the greatness of its massed stone, and of its ambition.
“Keep moving, Galfrid,” said Gisburne. He had seen the squire begin to drift at the sight of the great church. “Plenty of time for that in coming weeks...”
As if in riposte, Galfrid announced that he was taking them away from the main thoroughfares and through certain backstreets that he knew, because it was “quicker”.
The earth upon the main streets, exposed to sun and wind, was dry and firm, but on these narrow, winding ways, where the sun rarely penetrated and the air moved not at all, there was a permanent slurry of muck and mud. It stank of dung and decay and stale urine, and sucked noisily at the horses’ hooves as if reluctant to let them go. Several times, Gisburne only narrowly avoided dashing his brains out upon the rotting, overhanging buildings, which seemed to be gradually falling in upon them. Dark eyes – strangers to daylight – blinked at their passing from lightless windows. But this way, Galfrid said, would lead them straight to Candlewick Street, and Eastchepe, and – finally – the Tower. Gisburne knew all of this only because Galfrid insisted on giving a running commentary. He seemed determined to display his knowledge of the capital – and, by default, reveal his master’s ignorance.
“What do you know about London?” asked Galfrid as they rode out of the thickening crowds past Candlewick Street.
“That it is ruled by no Baron or Earl, but by a thing called a mayor. That he is drawn from the merchant classes, and the city enjoys a degree of independence unknown elsewhere. That it lies upon the great river Thames, which brings traders from every nation under heaven. That its bishopric is seated in the great church of St Paul’s. That there is a great sale of fine horses held beyond the gates every Friday, that it is noisy, and that it stinks to high heaven.”
Galfrid nodded. “Well, I know where to find good food, good drink, and decent lodgings,” he said.
Gisburne shrugged, happy to admit defeat. “You have me there.”
“Everything is here if you know where to look,” said the squire. “Gold from Arabia. From Sabaea, spice and incense. From the Scythians, well-tempered arms of steel. Oil from the rich groves of palm that spring from the fat lands of Babylon. Fine gems from the Nile. From China, crimson silks. French wines – and sable, vair and miniver from the far lands of the Rus.”
Gisburne smiled at the unexpected catalogue. “I never had you down as a poet, Galfrid.”
“But one has to be... circumspect... when it comes to ale and vittels. There is good reason why all the meat here is chopped beyond recognition, spiced within an inch of its life and smothered with a strong sauce,” said Galfrid. “Take my advice. If you want meat, and can’t be sure of its provenance, ask for pork. It’s the one thing that has a decent chance of being fresh.”
“Pork?” Gisburne frowned. “Why pork?”
As if in direct response to his question, a dark, mud-caked creature as big as a barrel darted out from a narrow side street and almost under Nyght’s hooves. He danced sideways in alarm, but held his nerve. The pig, meanwhile, gave a piercing squeal, changed direction, and sped off into the shadowy alley opposite, pursued in absurdly comical fashion by a hefty man with outstretched arms, his hose half way down his buttocks. A trio of filthy children dressed in rags ran in his wake, laughing at the tops of their lungs.
“Welcome to London,” chortled John.
Gisburne had explicitly requested the Prince remain silent and hooded until they reached the Tower. The hood was already half-pulled back, with John complaining he could not be expected to ride through crowded streets if he could not see what was to either side of him. Gisburne soon realised that his precautions were not only impossible to enforce, but mostly pointless.
“No one notices anyone or anything in London,” Galfrid had said as they had approached the city gates. “Unless its a victim ready to be fleeced.”
“Then I shall not l
ook like a victim,” John had replied, cheerfully. It was as good a strategy as any. He looked calm and confident – clearly relieved to have reached the city. Gisburne’s feelings, however, were all the other way. What remained uppermost in his mind was the fact that, whether he looked like one or not, John was the target of a vicious murderer, who even now might be somewhere close by, in these crowds.
Only slowly, by degrees, had Gisburne realised London was the perfect place for the Red Hand to disappear. Part of him had thought it would make his task easier, that the Red Hand would somehow stand out all the more, and that the multitude of witnesses to his potential deeds would surely deter or limit him. Now that he was back in this hectic realm, he understood that this was an illusion. Here, one could hide in plain sight – disappear into the tens of thousands of indifferent, jostling bodies – no matter how outlandish one appeared. Because London had seen it all, and done it all, and cared nothing for what happened in its midst.
“So, you didn’t know about the pigs, then...” said Galfrid, deadpan.
Gisburne had known about the pigs – at least, he thought he had. What he had not appreciated was how ubiquitous they were. On the main thoroughfares, on a good day, one could avoid swine entirely. Away from them – and increasingly, the deeper one got into the labyrinth – they seemed to inhabit every yard, and run loose in every alley. They were the perfect city dweller, eating all the rubbish humankind discarded – everything other creatures would not, and more besides. Where they could, they’d even eat the rats. The only problem was preventing them from progressing to bigger fare – cats, dogs, children. In some parts, Galfrid claimed, the hogs had turned completely wild, and there was a bounty for each one killed. Gisburne couldn’t help wondering whether the residents of London hadn’t simply replaced the customary vermin of the city with a whole new race of rats – half as big as a big man and generating ten times as much reeking shit. But at least, he supposed, these rats could be made into decent sausages.
Hunter of Sherwood: The Red Hand Page 18