There was much Gisburne did not know about London. In truth, he had rarely spent longer than a day and a night here, and even then he had remained largely insulated from it. He knew a handful of destinations – the wharves, a few inns, and, of course, the Tower – and the roads that linked them; main thoroughfares, for the most part. He rarely ventured further than his prescribed task required, and returned home as soon as he was able. Perhaps he simply had not encountered its pleasures – but he had never felt greatly moved to seek them out.
He did not like London. He respected it, saw much to admire in it, was even awed by it. But he did not like it. It was a harsh, foreign world, in which the simplest matters became impossible – unless you were a native of the place. He did not like its filth – guts from butchers’ shops, excrement of humans and animals, rotting vegetation and all manner of stinking rubbish – which frequently heaped up in the roads with nowhere to go, making everywhere a midden. He did not like the air and the miasmatic sickness that came with it, all of which the inhabitants shrugged off as if illness, parasites and a short life were simply things to be endured – if they noticed them at all.
Least of all did he like the people. Not that in themselves they were bad. Far from it. They were robust, pragmatic, and resourceful – an admirable breed, always ready to regale you with their own unique brand of joke or bawdy song, of which they seemed to have an infinite fund. In business transactions – which they thrust upon every passer by, stranger or not, at any opportunity – they were shrewd and unashamedly relentless. But even this he did not mind. There was also a noisy cheer about them, and while some affected a kind of eye-rolling world-weariness, Gisburne knew this was a pose. Even amongst the lowest of the low in this city, there was a kind of boundless optimism. They would try anything, and see opportunities everywhere, always seeking, always moving.
Ultimately, he came to realise, this was the only way to survive the city. Those who did not – who lacked the strength or the will to do so – were ground to dust by London’s merciless mill. They were winnowed chaff, trampled into the dirt by the city’s restless feet. It was an environment which, to use an expression of Gilbert de Gaillon’s, took no prisoners. The survivors formed a species entirely their own, uniquely fitted for life in this vast, labyrinthine nest.
These creatures were called Londoners.
No, it was not the character of the people that oppressed him. It was their sheer number – the endless, unceasing swell of humanity that flowed along every thoroughfare and alley, pressing at the limits of the cramped courses. The unrelenting, ant-like activity baffled the senses, sapped the will and left one bewildered and exhausted. There was no time for rest, no respite from the faces and voices.
One yearned to hear the simple sound of a bird or a brook – but the only birds that ventured into the interior were harsh-throated crows, and the only running water the waste tipped from windows. There was the lapping tide of the Thames, of course, but to the stranger even this was something alien – overwhelming in scale, and ripe with sewage and the stink of the tanneries. The Seine was a mere ditch in comparison.
Even if such sounds existed here, they would be engulfed. In the streets, the noise of humanity never ceased. None here complained about the relentless din. Most seemed not to notice at all, and merely raised their own voices so as to be heard over it. Gisburne began to believe that some Londoners actually enjoyed it. None would simply converse if they could exclaim loudly, and none would content themselves with exclaiming loudly if they were free to bellow at the top of their lungs – which, of course, they always were. And few exercised their freedoms with greater vigour than the Londoners of the commune.
For the callow visitor from the countryside, these bawled, bloodcurdling conversations seemed like terrifying altercations – to them, entire streets were nothing less than rivers of seething anger, threatening at any moment to burst into savage, unchecked violence. More often than not, visitors left this chaotic nest shaken to the core, and vowing never to return.
Even with his own experience of the city – and no one would call the seasoned knight ‘callow’ – Gisburne was not immune to its effects. On several occasions, when traversing its thoroughfares, he had felt his hand go to the hilt of his sword at the sound of voices apparently raised in violent outrage – only to witness the supposed combatants breaking into uproarious laughter and slapping each other heartily upon the shoulders.
The city was not without its advantages. Here, one could buy anything, if – as Galfrid had made clear – one knew where to look. There was no pleasure that could not be had for a price. Bawdy houses were everywhere, catering to every taste and pocket, and only outnumbered by the vast array of inns – though the two were not always distinguishable.
It was not only the sheer quantity of inns that made the head spin, but their outlandish appearance. Elsewhere, a stout, gaily decorated stake in the ground announced the presence of an alehouse. In London, as in all matters, things were done differently. Here, the streets were so cramped – many not wide enough for a wagon, some barely even a horse – that alestakes had taken to the air, and now projected out above the doorways, each striving to be more distinct and colourful than their neighbours. From some hung brightly painted boards with garish images of dragons and horses. Others had carved effigies: Gisburne saw hedgehogs, bare-breasted mermaids, two-headed birds and the heads of Saracens. The inns had come to be known by the symbols they bore – the Red Dragon, the White Hart, the Golden Lion – and thus was solved the problem of specifying in which of the twenty inns along Eastchepe one desired to meet.
“The Green Man,” Galfrid had said as they reached the far end of that road, and nodded up at the effigy over the door. They were now where Eastchepe met Tower Street, the square turrets of the Tower itself clearly visible ahead. Gisburne looked up at the grotesquely grinning figure over the door, and winced.
“If we must,” he said.
“Well, at least you won’t forget it,” Galfrid said, then turned back the way they had come in search of lodgings. “See you back here!”
Gisburne had heard John chuckling to himself then, and followed the Prince’s gaze back up to the effigy over the inn’s lopsided door. Above the cracked and greying wood of the lintel, freshly carved and painted green, was a circular mass of interlocking foliage, and at its heart, a jolly but maniacal face. The woodcarver’s ambition had been greater than his skill, but his intentions were clear.
Grinning down at them from the inn front – the eyes wild and staring, the smile oddly reminiscent of a voracious predator – had been the cowled visage of Robin Hood.
XXII
GISBURNE SAW JOHN’S face fall as the doors of the Tower gatehouse yawned open.
Framed in the great stone arch were perhaps a dozen men. First came four armed guards bearing spears, and at their centre, a perpetually smiling, bearded man of middle age and generous girth – clearly a person of significance. He chuckled to himself as he approached, hands spread wide in the manner of a genial host welcoming a guest. His appearance was affable enough – his greying hair and beard were full and curly, and somewhat untamed – a look, Gisburne judged, that he had affected for rather too long, as if clinging to his youth. Once, it may have seemed romantic and unconventional, but now, despite his fine clothes and ostentatious Byzantine sword, it merely made him look unkempt and unwashed – like a tramp dressed up as a noble.
Behind him came two grooms, and beyond them, four mounted knights and one magnificent chestnut stallion. It was this beast – or rather the man leading him – that had so caught the Prince’s attention.
At first, Gisburne could not place him – but he looked again at John’s pained expression, and the fog cleared.
Walter de Coutances, Archbishop of Rouen, Constable of the Tower and justiciar of England in all but name. He had succeeded the detested Longchamp as Richard’s right hand in the kingdom, but the two could hardly have been more different. Longchamp had not ev
en had the common sense to hide his weaknesses – the greed, the vanity, the cowardice. De Coutances, ambitious though he undoubtedly was, had none of these flaws. He was shrewd, pragmatic, hardworking and fearless. Even now, Gisburne could see that John feared him. It was de Coutances who had invested Richard Duke of Normandy, who had served as vice chancellor and who stood at the King’s side when his great army had journeyed upon its crusade. It was also de Coutances who Richard had dispatched back to England when he had heard of the feud between Longchamp and his brother – a feud behind which, the Lionheart had suspected, lay designs upon his throne.
It had been barely two months since John and de Coutances had last seen each other. Then, John had taken the biggest gamble of his life, and had lost. Believing his brother Richard would now never return from the Holy Land, he had announced him dead, struck an alliance with Philip of France and raised an army in England to secure the throne. De Coutances, however, ever loyal to the rightful king, stood firm against him, besieging Windsor Castle and scattering John’s rebels. The Prince had been forced to flee to France, his tail between his legs. The defeat, and the subsequent humiliation – compounded by the widespread belief that he had acted purely out of greed – were still raw.
The big, shaggy-bearded man was first to reach them. “My lord, my lord – welcome,” he said with a smile, and bowed low. “I am Sir William Fitz Thomas, Lieutenant of the Tower.”
“Ah,” said John. “The fabled Lieutenant.”
Fitz Thomas spread his hands wide again, this time in a gesture of apology. “Had we only known your plans...” John, however, was already not listening. De Coutances, who was leading his horse forward, had all his attention.
“My Lord Archbishop,” said John. He forced a smile, and inclined his head – enough to show respect without in any way implying subordination. “What a pleasant surprise.”
De Coutances nodded in acknowledgement. “I take it, then, that the Prince John who claims to be ill and remains mysteriously confined to his carriage is no prince at all?”
“No prince,” confirmed John. “And not ill.”
“Well, it will be a relief to all to know we do not have dysentery in our midst,” said de Coutances.
“I hear it’s all the rage in the Holy Land,” said John. De Coutances did not laugh. Fitz Thomas snorted uncertainly, and looked from one to the other.
“I had not expected to see you, Walter,” said John, “but it is good that you are here. Perhaps now sanity can be restored.” And he smiled his most gracious of smiles.
De Coutances did not respond in kind. “Had you not found it necessary to employ such an elaborate deception,” he said, “sanity would perhaps not have departed.”
Gisburne saw John’s muscles tense, heard his knuckles crack.
“The deception was necessary, my lord,” said Gisburne. “And entirely my idea.”
De Coutances’ eyes narrowed. “Gisburne, is it not?” Gisburne lowered his head in acknowledgement. De Coutances nodded. “These are... turbulent times.” He shot a glance at John. “It might have been better had you shared this information. But all is now resolved.”
“And no harm done,” added Fitz Thomas.
“Indeed,” said John.
“Well, I’ll not keep you. I depart forthwith to join Queen Eleanor in the north – to assist in her efforts to secure the freedom of the King. In my absence, Sir William Fitz Thomas, Lieutenant of the Tower, has full authority over all matters within these walls.”
John’s fingers once again clenched into fists.
“Under your guidance, of course,” added the Archbishop, as if it pained him to admit it.
The fingers relaxed.
With that, De Coutances gripped the pommel of the saddle, put his foot in the stirrup and hauled himself upon his mount. The other four riders formed around him.
“Oh – one thing,” called De Coutances from his horse. “Your guard of Norman cavalry...”
“Yes?” said John, as sweetly as he could manage.
“Clearly such a force could not be permitted within the walls of the Tower.”
John tried to hide his disappointment. “Well, never mind,” he said. “They won’t have gone far. I’ve not paid them yet.” And at that he smiled.
“I paid them,” said de Coutances, and John’s expression soured. “In the absence of a capable Prince, I drew the money myself from the crown and this morning saw them onto a ship bound for Normandy. I’m sure you understand we cannot have such formidable fighting men at a loose end in the capital.”
“Well...” said John, his expression pinched, his jaw clenched. “Thank you.”
“The money should be reimbursed as soon as you are able. The usual rates of interest apply until that time.” And he turned and walked his horse across the bridge, his guard around him.
“You came at just the right moment,” said Fitz Thomas, cheerily. “Another minute, and the Archbishop would have been gone!”
“How terrible that would have been,” said John with a thin smile. He turned to the receding figure of de Coutances. “Do please pass on my regards to my dear mother.”
“I will,” called de Coutances brusquely. He gave a brief nod, and was gone.
“Well, your retinue awaits, my lord,” said Fitz Thomas with a cheery smile, gesturing inside. “Your chamber is prepared, and I have brought good wine.”
“And I suppose I really should relieve my understudy, who has endured the discomfort of being Prince John quite long enough...”
“My deepest apologies again for the misunderstanding earlier,” said Fitz Thomas, shaking his head. He chuckled. “I will admit you threw us into quite some confusion.” The Lieutenant struck Gisburne as rather too keen to be liked, but his bumbling geniality seemed to work on the Prince.
“Quite understandable,” said John, his fury now completely forgotten. “On the whole, it is better to be cautious. As the Archbishop said: turbulent times.”
“Indeed! Indeed!” laughed Fitz Thomas.
“I hope the defences have improved in other areas,” said Gisburne.
Fitz Thomas’ laugh faltered. For a moment, as he looked at Gisburne, the mask of affability seemed to slip, and there was something in his expression akin to indignation. Then the smile returned. “You are familiar with our defences?” he said.
“Sir Guy gave them a thorough testing,” said John. “Back when Puintellus was Constable.”
“Really!” exclaimed Fitz Thomas. His voice was full of wonder, but his eyes, this time, showed a flicker of resentment. “Would that I had been there to see it. Will you be joining us, Sir Guy?”
“I fear not, Sir William,” said Gisburne. “I am required elsewhere...”
“Coward...” whispered John.
“Well, I must not keep you from your duties...”
Gisburne bowed his head. He had no desire to draw this meeting out either.
“Come, Sir William,” said John, glancing briefly back at Gisburne. “I shall tell you all about it...” And, leaving his horse to the groom, the Prince ushered Fitz Thomas between the guards and on through the great archway.
Gisburne turned from the Tower, heaved his aching bones into Nyght’s saddle, and rode alone to his rendezvous with Galfrid, the Tower’s great doors booming shut behind him.
XXIII
GISBURNE WAS FIRST to arrive back at the Green Man. For what seemed an age he sat nursing a mug of ale in the sweaty interior, fighting to keep his eyes open as the hectic life of the inn heaved and jostled and about him. Ripe-smelling bodies barged into him as he sat. Noise butted his ears. The musicians – whose tunes were raw and rhythmic, but fashionably exotic – played loud to be heard above the febrile crowd, and the patrons spoke louder still to be heard above the music. As evening drew on, it began to merge into a meaningless jumble, rattling in Gisburne’s head like pebbles in a butter churn.
When Galfrid finally appeared, weaving through the raucous customers, he, too, looked ragged.
“Yes,” said Galfrid. “Eventually.”
“Good,” said Gisburne. He drained his cup and stood. “Let’s go.”
Galfrid looked crestfallen. “Really? Aren’t we staying for just one?” Only then did Gisburne realise Galfrid had been about to sit. The squire now looked around the place, throbbing with life, as if his one desire was to lose himself in it for a while. Why, Gisburne couldn’t imagine, but he was certainly in no mood to humour him.
He wasn’t sure the place had ever held much of an appeal, given that it had welcomed him with the grinning mask of Hood, and what little interest it subsequently possessed had rapidly worn thin. With little to do – struggling for something to focus on in the manic blur – his ears had sought out other people’s conversations, and in the last half hour he had forced himself to endure the idiotic bile of three men on a neighbouring bench who had, at great length and in great detail, decried the entire Arab race in the most foul terms imaginable. Had he more energy, he might have felt compelled to go over and point out to them that the spices they enjoyed on their meat, the dried fruits they ate from their bowls, the backgammon they played upon the table and the music they stamped at and cheered on with such drunken enthusiasm were all the products of those “filthy Arabs”. But what he really wanted to do was just nail their tongues to the table.
Clearly, it was time to leave.
“Let’s just get there,” he said, and took up a cloth bundle from the table and thrust it into Galfrid’s arms. “I saved you some bread and cheese. And a pickle.” Galfrid took one more longing look around the low-lit interior before being hustled out into the street by his master. Gisburne was glad to be drawing this long day to a close. All he wanted now was to sleep.
Outside, it had grown surprisingly dark, the streets of London in a strange lull; the day’s activities and trades largely gone or winding down, those of the evening starting to take over. Above them, as they untied the horses, the face of Hood – now lit by a burning flambeau in anticipation of the night’s custom – looked positively demonic.
Hunter of Sherwood: The Red Hand Page 19