“Christ’s boots...” muttered Galfrid.
“It’s my mosaic,” said Gisburne, awkwardly, stick of charcoal in hand. “My Monreale. What do you think?”
Galfrid stared, open mouthed. “She was right,” said Galfrid. “You have gone mad.”
“If I have,” said Gisburne, irritably, “then the Widow is to blame...” He gave a brief, dismissive laugh – almost, Galfrid thought, in a kind of embarrassment, as if suddenly aware that he had revealed too much of himself. “I had to do something. To form some kind of picture.”
“A picture of what, though?” said Galfrid. He could discern no coherence in this crazed disorder.
Gisburne screwed up his eyes. “Something will come. It has to. A pattern of some sort.” Galfrid recalled his master saying that Gilbert de Gaillon had been a great one for visualising battle plans. If you can’t see your victory clearly in here, he would say, tapping his head, then you’ll never take the right steps to achieving it.
There had been no fresh information with which to work, and there would be no sight of the Milford Roll for another couple of days at least. They had been waiting – and, although neither wished to say it, that meant another death. But now, Galfrid began to wonder about the unknown names upon the wall – other members of John’s retinue in Ireland, he supposed, who, presumably, were also still alive. If that was the case, could not steps have been taken with regard to them?
“Dammit!” said Gisburne, and he hurled the stick of charcoal across the room.It struck the open shutter and broke apart, half of it flying out of the window. From the marks on the shutters and elsewhere, it appeared that a good amount of the stuff may have gone a similar way. Not that its loss mattered much – Hamon had brought enough of the stuff to last years. It had apparently come from an armourer’s at the northern end of Coleman Street, though how he had secured it, Gisburne and Galfrid had not asked.
It was as Galfrid stood there, contemplating the frenzied mural with its mystery names, that a new altercation erupted on the street below. “God, what now?” said Gisburne, and moved to the window. Two voices were raised in violent dispute, and getting more heated by the minute: one, a boy’s, making insistent entreaties, the other, ever shriller and more outraged, Widow Fleet’s.
“That damned woman really does mean to send me mad,” said Gisburne, and leaned out of the window to see what was happening below. A second later, he was back. “It’s Hamon,” he said, his expression concerned. “Were you expecting him?”
“No,” said Galfrid. “Not unless...”
Both suddenly made a move for the door.
As Galfrid opened it, Gisburne peered down towards the front door. Widow Fleet was wrestling with the boy, who was insistently – desperately – trying to gain entry, ducking the Widow’s swipes.
“Widow Fleet!” yelled Gisburne. “Let the boy in.”
“In?” She looked horrified. “This thieving scapegrace?”
“I telled ’er it’s urgent!” shouted Hamon.
“Immediately,” insisted Gisburne. “He has a message for me.”
She harumphed and turned back to the boy. “The gentlemen is letting you in this once,” she said. “But you keep your pilfering fingers to yourself!”
“Not this once, Widow Fleet,” corrected Gisburne, descending the stairs, with Galfrid close behind, “but always. He’s in our employ. And there may be others like him in coming days. I tell you this so you may gird your loins accordingly.”
Hamon gave the Widow a smirk of victory and slithered past. She flung up her arms in exasperation and bustled off, hands over her face. Hamon was red-faced; he had clearly been running for all he was worth.
“Well?” said Gisburne, squatting down to Hamon’s level, his eyes ablaze. He hardly dared to articulate the question they had been waiting a week to ask. “Have you seen him?”
Hamon, still panting, shook his head. “I ain’t seen ’im. But someone ’as. I ’eared sumfink. Sumfink like you said about. A terrible attack, last night, wiv flames and a man all done up like a scaly beast.”
Gisburne and Galfrid looked at each other. “Where?” said Gisburne
“A castle. Other side of the river. King Stormont, it’s called. Belongs to a knight – John de Wassailly or sumfink.”
Gisburne’s face turned ashen. “John de Rosseley?” he ventured. Galfrid recognised the name as one of those above the dancing men on the wall.
“That’s the one,” said Hamon.
“Christ...” said Gisburne. He stood upright. “Not Ross...”
“You know him?” said Galfrid.
“The finest knight I ever knew,” said Gisburne. There was torment in his eyes. “Christ Almighty... What have I done?”
“What have you done?” said Galfrid in bemusement. “You didn’t do anything.”
Gisburne gave a sharp, anguished laugh. “Exactly! I just let it happen. Sitting here on my stupid arse...” He kicked the stair in fury. It sent such a shudder through the house that Widow Fleet’s startled head reappeared from her rooms – just in time to catch a powdering of the plaster dust that rained down.
“What in heaven..?”
“Not now, Widow Fleet!” bellowed Gisburne. She immediately withdrew. “Hood taunted me, you know – told me right to my face it’d be a shame to see more good men killed. And still I couldn’t stop it. Too busy playing it like some game...”
“But he’s not killed, sire,” said Hamon. “That’s just the fing! He’s alive!”
Gisburne stared at him in astonishment. “You’re certain?”
“That’s what they said. Alive and well!”
“Who said?” asked Galfrid. “How did you come by this?”
“There’s a tavern where a load of Frenchies hang out – knights and toffs and wossnames. Dimplemats.”
“Diplomats?”
“That’s the one. I know’s a lad works the kitchens. Speaks Frenchy. Has to. ’E was there when someone came with the news. There was a French lady at the castle, see. Someone important. It’s ’er they was most worried about. But ’e – Sir John – ’e fought the demon off...”
Gisburne looked heavenward. “God bless you, Ross, you old bastard!” He smiled and clapped Hamon on both his shoulders. “You too, Hamon!”
“I ain’t no bastard, sir!” said Hamon with a frown.
“No, of course not,” said Gisburne. “Apologies to your mother and your father. Here...” – and he pressed another penny into his palm – “You stay here. Don’t move. There will be more to come if you help us further.”
“Aye, sir,” said Hamon. Gisburne, in a state of high excitement, turned and vaulted up the stairs two at a time.
“THIS IS GOOD news,” said Galfrid as Gisburne stuffed his scattered gear into a saddlebag. “At least, I think it is...”
“It’s the breakthrough we needed,” said Gisburne. “We were dreading the next attack, even though we knew we were dependent upon it. But this time – thank God – he missed his mark. No one died.”
“It was indeed fortunate,” Galfrid said with a nod.
Gisburne looked suddenly shamefaced. “Ross always was blessed with more than his share of luck,” he said. “But I’ll not trust to it again.”
Galfrid shrugged. “Sometimes, it’s all there is.”
His master nodded, and gave a tight-lipped smiled. “He’s not invincible, Galfrid...” he said, with a renewed fire in his eyes. “Here, take this.” He thrust a bag of coins into Galfrid’s chest. “Tell Hamon he can earn himself all the pennies we have – his friends too. He knows what we’re looking for – tell him to get as many others on the lookout as he can. They will be our eyes and ears across the city. No one notices these urchins – they’ll be able to go everywhere. Hear everything. Tell Hamon he is to be in charge. That we are making him their captain.”
“And you?”
“I’m leaving for King Stormont,” said Gisburne. “To meet with the one who faced the Red Hand and survived.”
/> XXVIII
King Stormont Castle
24 May, 1193
KING STORMONT CASTLE was a miracle of modern design. Describing a perfect circle, its crenellated stone walls sat like a crown atop a neat, conical mound on the hill overlooking the hamlet of Brimthorpe. While not as lofty as the castles of old, the mound’s sides were steep – their length exaggerated by the deep dry ditch surrounding them.
The circle was broken in only two places. As Gisburne had approached from the north-west along the Kent road, the low evening sun turning the stone to a blaze of gold, a simple, square tower had projected from the curved body of the castle on the western side, like a rectangular jewel set upon a golden ring. This, he guessed, was the chapel.
On the far side of the circular battlement, almost directly opposite, was the gatehouse. Of similar dimensions to the chapel, it opened onto a bridge across the ditch, which led into the bailey. Gisburne entered from a gate in the south-east. Armed guards at the entrance studied him as he passed.
Inside the bailey, surrounded by neat stone walls, was a community that easily rivalled Brimthorpe in size. There were stables, a bakery, kitchens, a brewhouse and a smithy – each of which he identified as much by their smell as their appearance. They all appeared newly built and well maintained. There was also a great hall of adequate proportions, and neat, orderly housing for the workers of the castle’s household from the steward down, many of whom now scurried about, fetching and carrying pots and platters – the wreckage of the evening’s formal meal in the castle overlooking them. Among the castle’s beetling servants – dressed plainly, but all well-presented and scrupulously clean, and all with a clear sense of purpose – Gisburne noted a few in a contrasting, more opulent dress, and apparently less familiar with their surroundings. These were, without doubt, the retainers of de Rosseley’s current guest.
As he walked towards the great crowned hill, the space suddenly opened out to reveal something quite at odds with its modest surroundings: a training ground the likes of which Gisburne had rarely seen outside the great castles of Normandy. There were pells and quintains, butts for archery, a field for the joust, jumps, tracks and obstacles to challenge both horses and men, even a pair of wooden towers upon which to test siege and defence tactics – and all set in space sufficient to allow for the hosting of an entire tournament.
Tournaments had long been banned on English soil – one of King Henry’s measures to re-establish public order after the horrors of Stephen’s reign. Although the pitched battle of the mêlée was undoubtedly valuable preparation for knights who had not yet seen battle – and an equally valuable income for many who had – Henry had never been afraid to go against wider opinion. In France and beyond, the Conflictus Gallicus had never waned – and expectation was high that if Richard ever returned to these shores, so too would the tournament. It was bloody, it was brutal, and the people loved it.
Gisburne had never participated in one, and now had little desire to; when his knighthood had suddenly been denied him, he had been forced into a different life, with harsher battles. But before that, as a lance-carrying squire, he had supported de Gaillon at the lists on more occasions than he could count. The last time he had met de Rosseley – over seven years ago in France, when he was en route to Sicily, and de Rosseley was heading the opposite way, to England – his old friend had been as infatuated with the tourney as ever. Judging by the ground before him, nothing had changed.
The castle now rose before him, asserting without dominating. Its lines were simple, but beautiful. In size it was generous without being overbearing, its dimensions balanced and pleasing to the eye. Its defensive capability was, nonetheless, formidable – all the more so for not having been overcomplicated. Unlike so many castles in Gisburne’s experience – square, dank, draughty dungeons of places, for the most part – it also looked like somewhere one might actually wish to live, and in comfort.
Its crisp stonework was also entirely new. Had Gisburne come this way just five years ago, so a local blacksmith had said, he would have seen nothing here but a dilapidated square keep, a wooden palisade and the bare beginnings of a stone gatehouse. No expense had been spared in bringing it to its current state – though Gisburne had seen far more costly piles which lacked such clarity of vision, and whose meandering building works had plodded along over decades.
All together, the castle created a vivid impression of its young lord.
At the gatehouse, Gisburne dismounted and presented himself to the guards. Their captain was courteous but wary, requesting details of his business. Behind him, members of his guard – fully armoured, some with weapons drawn – kept their eyes on him at all times. Given the outrage of the previous night, he could hardly blame them. This time, he was content to wait whilst his name and mission were conveyed to their master. Within moments, de Rosseley’s steward appeared, to escort Gisburne to his master. “Sir John has already retired to his chamber,” he said, his angular face giving nothing away, “but I am to take you there directly.”
Gisburne nodded and followed behind as a groom led Nyght away to food and water.
Within, the castle opened into a great circular courtyard, now cast into deep shadow by the failing light. What normally would have been a wide open space – room enough to train a horse – was today taken up by two wagons of considerable quality and sophistication. The larger of them – emerald green, picked out in gold – was of such luxury it made Prince John’s look like an ox cart. They also had an exotic air about them – curtains and carvings looked, to Gisburne, to be Arab in style, while other touches were distinctly Byzantine. Clearly, de Rosseley’s guest was someone of note.
About these, a number of servants moved with seasoned efficiency, securing things for the night, preparing for the morning. One – better dressed than the others, in a finely tailored green tunic, with fastidiously coiffured black hair – bowed low to Gisburne as he passed. His face – or manner – seemed familiar, but Gisburne couldn’t place him. Moments later, he was gone.
“Tell me,” said Gisburne, as they neared a door on the courtyard’s far side, “is Sir John well?” Only now, moments away from the meeting, was he suddenly struck by the need to be prepared for what he would find. He knew only what Hamon had been able to tell him – that de Rosseley was alive, but no more. But was he crippled? Insensible? Either could be possible.
“He is well,” said the steward. It was as bland and generic a statement as one could possibly have. They entered the doorway and began to ascend the stone stair.
“I was thinking of the attack made upon him...” pressed Gisburne. “I hope he suffered no ill effects.”
The steward nodded. “My lord came through unscathed,” he said.
Gisburne breathed a sigh of relief. It seemed a remarkable achievement. Almost inexplicable. One moment, the Red Hand is an unstoppable force. The next, he’s seen off without landing a blow. What made this attack so different?
The stair led to a curving corridor. The steward stopped at the first door, pushed it open, and stood aside with a bow.
AT THE FAR end of the dimly lit chamber, dressed in a nightshirt and shrouded in deep shadow cast by the curtains of his bed, lounged John de Rosseley.
“God’s hooks! Guy!” he exclaimed hoarsely, and rose unsteadily to his feet. Gisburne smiled – de Rosseley always had enjoyed his wine.
“Still a blasphemer, eh, Ross?” he said striding towards him.
“Ha!” De Rosseley waved a dismissive hand. “D’you really think I’d have lasted this long if my ways offended the Almighty?”
As Gisburne neared, de Rosseley stepped forward into the light – and Gisburne was shocked at the sight of him.
Guy of Gisburne had no views on God’s will, but he meant what he had said to Galfrid. John de Rosseley had been blessed with good fortune all his life – so much so that in battle other men felt their chances of survival increased simply by standing alongside him. He also emanated a boundless optimism t
hat inspired others, in ways Gisburne had never quite managed. Few in his experience had. While there were many knights who were as indefatigable as de Rosseley – and many more who had his irrepressible humour – those who also had the skills to back up the swagger, and to survive, were few indeed. It was a combination Gisburne had seen in only one other man: Robert of Locksley, now known by the name of Robin Hood. They shared many similarities, now Gisburne came to think of it. Irresistible charm, awesome skills, a seemingly inexhaustible energy – not just of body, but of mind. But, for all his bravado, de Rosseley had one quality that nature had seen fit to deny Hood. A sense of honour.
The battered figure that stood before Gisburne now, however, hardly had the look of a lucky man. Nor did it in any way bear out the steward’s claim. Barely an inch of his visible flesh was its right colour. His left eye was black and swollen like a rotten apple. His bottom lip was split and crusty, every knuckle barked and ragged. There was a wide gash on his forehead, onto which some greenish-brown, foul-smelling sludge had been smeared. Below the scraped chin, the exposed part of his neck and shoulder showed an emerging bruise of vibrant blues, purples, browns and yellows, hinting at worse beyond. Gisburne was appalled at the severity of them. Never had he seen bruises yellow so fast. De Rosseley’s left shoulder was strapped up, and the way his right arm was folded about his side, which he tried to protect from movement, made it clear to Gisburne that some of the bones were broken. He had favoured his left knee as he stood, in a way that betrayed damage to his right. Gisburne supposed he was, at least, lucky to be alive.
De Rosseley, indifferent to his injuries, clapped his arms around Gisburne then stood back to look at him.
Hunter of Sherwood: The Red Hand Page 23