Hunter of Sherwood: The Red Hand

by Toby Venables

  “What of this Milford Roll? This list?” asked Gisburne. “Where may I find it?”

  “There is a copy in Nottingham,” said John. “I will send for it. Today. It can be with us within the week.”

  Gisburne nodded his approval.

  “I had wondered if perhaps you’d seen it before,” said John.

  “Me?” Gisburne looked at him, puzzled. “Why?”

  “Because it was your father who drew it up, of course.”

  Gisburne stared at him in mute astonishment.

  “You did know he was with us in Ireland...?” added John, and watched as Gisburne’s astonishment turned to shock. “Ah. You didn’t know...”

  “He went to Ireland when I was a boy. Or so I believe. Something for King Henry. I wasn’t meant to know.”

  John nodded. “This was considerably later. When you were in the wilderness...” When he was a mercenary, John meant, but he had the good grace not to say it. “Don’t let it trouble you. It means nothing that you didn’t know it.”

  Inconsequential though it seemed, and despite the Prince’s reassurance, it did trouble Gisburne. It troubled him that there was something that his father had kept from him. And it troubled him that it was connected, however tangentially, with the Red Hand. It seemed that everywhere around him were connections to that shady figure. Yet, for all that he touched upon things that were so familiar in Gisburne’s life, the man itself – at the very heart of it all – remained no more distinct or substantial than a ghost.

  These thoughts brought Gisburne back to his key reason for visiting John – something, he sensed, the Prince would not relish.

  “There is one other thing I need,” he said.

  John spread his hands wide. “Name it.”

  Gisburne turned away from his master. “I need to see him,” he said.

  “Him?”

  “The prisoner.”

  “Oh,” said John, nodding slowly. “Him. He has a name, you know.”

  Gisburne did not respond. If he had a name, a real name, it was surely long forgotten. “I need” – he corrected himself – “request permission to see the prisoner. Today.”

  “Today?” said John. “Is it really that urgent?”

  “Perhaps. I don’t know.”

  “You won’t try to kill him, will you?”

  Gisburne turned to the Prince with a quizzical look. “Why would I do that?”

  “You tried it before.”

  “That was different.”

  John nodded in acknowledgement. “It was different. But we can’t have it happen here. I’m not like my brother. I believe in at least a pretence of due process.”

  “And you shall have it...”

  “Without law,” said John, “we are nothing.”

  “You shall have it,” snapped Gisburne. He instantly regretted his irritation, but John remained unruffled.

  “Well,” he said. “May I at least know why you request this?”

  Gisburne took a deep breath and released it slowly. “The Red Hand’s actions are in some way connected to the day of the execution. I believe that is when he means to strike against you.”

  “He?” said John. “It is a man after all, then...?” He waved it away as a bad joke. “You are sure of this?”

  “As sure as I can be.”

  “They are connected?” John stood, and paced, the full import of the possibility now weighing upon him. “How? And why?”

  “I don’t know. But we perhaps have the means to find out. In a cell in this very castle.”

  John was silent for a moment. “I seem to recall you questioned him for over a month and discovered nothing,” he said. “What makes you think it’ll be any different now?”

  “Because now I know things he doesn’t. You know how he hates anyone knowing more than he. Perhaps it will draw him out.”

  John nodded slowly. “Perhaps.”

  “Are you afraid he won’t talk?”

  “No,” said John. “I’m afraid he will.”

  Gisburne stared at his prince, his brow creased into a frown. What in God’s name did he mean by that?

  John sighed deeply. “He talks the birds down from the trees. Convinces men black is white. Turns brother against brother and son against father...” The Prince thought about those last words for a moment. “Hmm. Bad example...” He gave a sheepish smile, and a shrug. “But you know as well as I do that his words infect like a plague. They spread chaos and doubt; they destroy more surely than fire or tempest. They tear at the very fundamentals that hold this frail universe together.”

  “Do you seriously believe I am susceptible to his poison?” said Gisburne.

  “Do you seriously believe you are not?”

  “I’ve endured it for long enough,” said Gisburne. “There’s nothing he can tell me that I haven’t heard a thousand times.”

  “Except what you most seek – what he has yet to divulge,” said John. And it seemed then that a troubled look came over him. Hastily, he looked away.

  “Please,” said Gisburne. “I ask little of you. This is my one request.”

  At length, John nodded. “You do ask little,” he said. “And you give much.” He frowned, seeming deep in thought, as if his mind were reaching far back into some dark recess. Finally, he looked up. “You may see him.”

  “Now? Today?”

  “Now, and whenever you have need – until St John’s Day.” He smiled. “After that, his usefulness will be... limited.”

  “Thank you, my lord,” said Gisburne, bowing. “Thank you...”

  “Before you get too overwhelmed by my generosity,” John said, with a wry smile, “remember that it is my life that stands to be saved if you succeed. It’s in my interest to accede to your wishes.”

  “Your safety is my one object,” said Gisburne, and bowed his head again.

  John smiled again. “You don’t have to lie, Sir Guy. You were never so simple a man as to have just one object.” His smile faded, and gave way, it seemed to Gisburne, to the same introspective look he had seen moments before.

  “But with that safety in mind,” said Gisburne, hesitantly, “I would ask...” His voice faded out.

  “Yes?”

  “I would ask that you do not leave the Tower. If there are goods you wish to buy or people you wish to see, have them come to you.”

  John affected a wry smile. “So, for the coming month I am to be a prisoner within these walls, too?” he said. “Well, isn’t that a turn up! The outlaw and the Prince who caught him, locked in the self-same dungeon.”

  “In here, we have full command of our surroundings,” said Gisburne. “But out there...” He gestured towards the great maze of streets that lay beyond the stone walls.

  “Yes, yes, I know,” said John. “Control the battlefield...” He nodded. “And I will comply with your request. To the letter.”

  The Prince averted his eyes, then turned away altogether, and did not look back.

  “Go now. Speak with him. But whatever he says – whatever revelation spills from those lips – try to keep that one object of yours in mind. Not for my sake, but for your own.”

  XXV

  THERE WERE NO dungeons at the Tower. No cells for prisoners, no chambers of torture. It had not been built as a prison, but as a military stronghold and a palace (in the Norman mind, the two were not only compatible, but identical) – both instrument and symbol of the Conqueror’s power over the conquered.

  With the exception of one night in November, 1191 – about which the people would never be permitted to know – it had lived up to its reputation as the most secure fortress in the land. But it followed that if it was effective at keeping people out, it could be equally effective at keeping them in. And so, every once in a while, it had found itself pressed into service as a gaol. This honour was reserved for only a very select breed of prisoner – those either of noble birth, or considered so dangerous that no other prison could be trusted to hold them. Frequently both.

 
Often, these were men who threatened the very stability of the realm – those so significant that they could not simply be got rid of without questions being asked. The natural instinct of any ordinary man would be to put himself as far from such a threat as possible. The solution of a wise monarch, however, was to keep it close, contained, under watch and under guard.

  And so it was that, at times, the King and the King’s bitterest enemy would reside under the same roof.

  The guards – respectful, but efficient – insisted on taking Gisburne’s sword and knife from him before he entered. “You too?” he said, John’s words still ringing in his ears: You won’t try to kill him, will you? The first guard looked back at him with a blank expression.

  “You think you need to protect him from me?” clarified Gisburne.

  “No sire,” replied the guard. “This is to protect you.”

  “There is a line drawn upon the ground,” said the second guard. “Do not cross it. That is the limit of his chains.”

  “Do not give him anything, or take anything he offers,” added the first. “The door will be locked behind you. Rap on it three times and we will come.”

  “We’ll know it is you, sire,” explained the second. “He cannot get within ten feet of that door.”

  Gisburne nodded. Then they turned the iron key, and shot back the bolts.

  THE CELL WAS in one of the newest parts of the castle complex – the stout octagonal tower that overlooked the Thames, at the south-western corner of the new curtain wall built under Longchamp’s short-lived custodianship.

  Gisburne had noted on past occasions that there was a window in each of the tower’s sides, including those overlooking the river. Evidently, most of them had been blocked up, for inside the elegantly vaulted chamber, all was dark but for a small pool of light cast on the stone floor by a single remaining opening – barely more than an arrow slit. Across the floor, a slash of dirty white chalk marked the chains’ reach.

  As Gisburne’s eyes adjusted to the gloom, he began to make out spidery markings upon the walls – dozens, hundreds of lines etched into the surface of the stone. There were crude figures – some on horseback, some bearing swords – bizarre plants and animals, arcane symbols, numbers and letters both familiar and obscure, spirals and straight lines and stars colliding and intersecting and bisecting each other.

  Sat against one such wall on the far side of the pool of light, arms on his knees, his head bowed, was a large, ragged figure. A familiar figure. As the door closed and locked behind Gisburne, the man looked up. He sat forward, looming out of the shadows. A broad grin, revealing even white teeth, spread across his face.

  “Hello, Guy,” said Hood.

  Gisburne stared up at the tiny window, then turned once about the room. “Do you know why I am here, Robert?”

  Hood looked about the interior. “Well, I should imagine to visit me. Unless there are other attractions in here that have escaped my notice.”

  Gisburne gave an involuntary snort of a laugh. A response formed in his head. He suppressed it.

  “I’d have tidied up if I’d known,” said Hood. “What do you think of the place?” He gestured to his weird gallery of carvings.

  “Nothing a little whitewash wouldn’t fix,” said Gisburne. Hood sniggered. No, said a voice in Gisburne’s head. It was de Gaillon’s. Hold back. Do not engage on his terms...

  He took a deep breath. “And do you know why you’re here?”

  Hood smiled and screwed up his eyes. “That’s a strange question, Guy.”

  “But can you answer it, Robert?”

  Hood laughed. “Why do you keep calling me that?”

  “Have you forgotten about Sicily? Byzantium? The Holy Land? Or are you just pretending they didn’t happen?”

  Hood laughed with gusto and slapped his leg in delight, as if all those memories had flooded back to him in that moment. “D’you remember that Reynald de Châtillon? What a character he was! Did you know Saladin – the Sultan himself – cut off poor Reynald’s head with his own sword? Imagine! What a way to go...”

  “You were happy to be called Robert then.”

  Hood sighed. “Yes, but do I look like a Robert? I mean, really?”

  “You’re avoiding my question,” said Gisburne. Since the name irked Hood, he continued using it. “Why are you here, Robert?”

  Hood gave another laugh – of exasperation this time. “You caught me, Guy. Fair and square. It’s just what we do, isn’t it?”

  “No. It isn’t just what we ‘do.’”

  “Well, it’s what I do, old man. What else is there?”

  “Order,” said Gisburne. “Truth. Compassion. Law.”

  Hood guffawed, as if Gisburne had told him an outrageous joke. Gisburne waited for the laughter to die before speaking again.

  “You are here, Robert, because you violated those things. Broke the law. Killed innocent people. Left chaos in your wake.” He suddenly felt like he was his own father, delivering one of those moralising speeches he’d so hated as a child.

  “Are you always this serious?” Hood said. “It must be exhausting.”

  It was. But at least it was sane.

  “Do you know what happens on the twenty-fourth day of June?” said Gisburne. “On St John’s Day?”

  Hood shrugged, picked up a chunk of stale bread from the stone floor and gnawed at it. “It’s the day they mean to kill me.”

  “Execute you, Robert. For your crimes. Theft, abduction, assault, murder, treason... It’s a long list.”

  “Don’t forget poaching the king’s deer,” Hood added, cheerfully. There was no remorse. Not even defiance – not in the normal sense. Gisburne doubted Hood even knew what a crime was, beyond some arbitrary rule in the great game.

  “Well, let’s talk about something else then,” said Gisburne. “A friend of yours.” For the first time, a look of hesitancy flickered across Hood’s features. His hand went to the nondescript, blackened copper disc that hung around his neck – that had been there as long as Gisburne had known him. It was Hood’s ‘tell’ – a mark of uncertainty. It came rarely, but Gisburne had known Hood long enough to have identified it. When Hood had first been thrown in a cell at Nottingham prior to his transfer to the Tower, the guards had wanted to take it off him. Gisburne instructed them otherwise. It was far more use to him where it was.

  With a curious feeling of satisfaction that struck him as almost perverse, he turned, so Hood could no longer see his face. “The one known as the Red Hand...”

  “Never heard of him. Did you say he was supposed to be a friend?”

  “Sorry, I forgot. You don’t have friends...”

  “Nonsense!” Hood laughed. “You’re my friend.”

  Gisburne ignored the claim. “Perhaps this one is better described as an associate. A fellow criminal. I can’t believe that a man in your position wouldn’t know about him.” He looked back at the prisoner.

  Hood stroked his chin and made a great show of looking quizzical. “Hmmm. Red Hand... Red Hand... No, don’t think I’ve had the pleasure.”

  “Well, he knows you,” said Gisburne. Again, the flicker of doubt flashed across Hood’s face. The fingers toyed with the crude talisman. Gisburne turned away.

  “Strange name,” said Hood, chewing noisily on the bread. “Will you catch him red-handed?” He chuckled at his own joke.

  “I mean to,” said Gisburne. The sound of chewing ceased.

  “Ah! I see!” said Hood. “You think I know this Red Hand, and so you want me to help capture him...” Gisburne turned back to see Hood grinning and rubbing his hands together with glee. The gesture reminded him of a fly.

  “I had thought that,” said Gisburne. “But...”

  “But..?”

  “Now that I’m here, I just don’t think you can.”

  “Don’t think I can..?” This time, the laugh that accompanied his reply was devoid of humour.

  “It’s clear you don’t know anything that can help me,” said
Gisburne. “Nothing of any use. It was a foolish notion.” He turned to the door. “I’ll leave you to your scratchings.”

  Gisburne heard the chains tighten behind him. “So you’re just going to wait for another knight to have his head stove in, are you?” blurted Hood. “Another number?”

  Gisburne stopped dead, his hand still raised to rap upon the door. He turned on Hood. “What do you mean? Another number?”

  “Another victim!” laughed Hood.

  “No!” said Gisburne. He crossed the line and grabbed Hood by the throat. “You said another number... What did you mean by that?”

  Hood looked into Gisburne’s eyes without blinking, a slow smile spreading across his face. “You’re right, Guy,” he said, spreading his hands apart. “As always. I know nothing. See nothing. These walls are my world.”

  Gisburne pushed Hood away. Hood staggered against the wall, and chuckled to himself.

  “Sorry, old man,” he said. “I suppose you’ll just have to wait, after all.” He puffed out his cheeks and shook his head. “It certainly will be a shame seeing more good men die needlessly.”

  Gisburne wanted to knock him down – to dash his brains out against the stone. It was just as John had predicted. But he would not – could not. “Can it be prevented?” he said. He did not look Hood in the eye as he spoke. It felt like an admission of defeat to be asking it outright – a wild swipe with a blunt weapon. First blood to Hood.

  “Anything can be prevented,” he said.

  “Not anything,” snapped Gisburne. “Not death.”

  “Well,” said Hood. “Postponed, then.” He smiled. “A sense of your strategy would help me make a properly informed judgement. What’s going on in that mind of yours?”

  Gisburne said nothing. This was not how it was meant to go. And the very last person he wanted in his mind was Hood.

  “You do have some idea who he means to strike, I suppose?” Hood continued.

  “Yes,” said Gisburne. Even as he said it, he knew he was giving up too much.

  Hood nodded. “And I suppose you mean to warn them?” said Hood, wearily. At that, Gisburne averted his eyes. Hood laughed. “My God! You don’t, do you? You really don’t...” And he chuckled with delight.