“I have only what is here,” said Llewellyn irritably. “Take it or leave it.”
Gisburne moderated his tone. “I’ll take whatever you can give,” he said. “Oil, pitch, Greek fire. Anything. We must start somewhere.”
Llewellyn nodded, and calmed himself; for a moment, Gisburne thought the old man was going to apologise. Something seemed to occur to him then. He turned towards his impossibly cluttered shelves. “I had been trying to develop a vessel that would burst of its own accord, after a precise interval of time – even in mid-air.” He shook his head. “One day, maybe... But there was something I had been experimenting with in that regard. No use to me at the moment – too approximate – though I hope to unlock the secret of their composition.”
He delved into a large, lidded, jar and pulled out a fistful of what Gisburne first thought were small candles, a little bigger than a finger, and dull grey in colour. When Llewellyn turned back into the light, Gisburne saw that they appeared to be composed of some papery material, such as wasps used to make their nests, each one twisted into a point at the top.
“I don’t know how you might employ them,” said Llewellyn, offering one to Gisburne. “A distraction, perhaps. A little surprise.” He chuckled. “They will at least be something he does not expect.”
Gisburne took it from him. “What are they?”
Llewellyn wandered to the bench and picked up a small earthenware bottle. “They were wrapped with a consignment of silk from the Far East. It came with a Radhanite trader – one of the last of that breed. In the land they were made, so he said, they are regarded as a child’s toy.”
Gisburne turned the tube over in his fingers, still baffled. Did it make a noise? Did one break it open? Or blow down it?
Llewellyn placed the bottle upon the anvil in the furthest corner of the room, used a candle to light the twisted tip of one of the grey tubes, then dropped it inside the bottle. He turned back to Gisburne. “You may wish to cover your...”
Before he could finish the sentence, the bottle exploded with a deafening thundercrack. Gisburne ducked involuntarily, shards of pottery whizzing past his head, bouncing off jars, ironwork, barrels, and the walls themselves – their strange music mingling with the ringing in his shocked ears.
“That was always the problem,” coughed Llewellyn, wafting away the choking, acrid smoke that now filled the room. “Timing.”
As Gisburne straightened, he found his hands and knees shaking from the shock. “I’ll take them,” he said.
Llewellyn stuffed them unceremoniously in Gisburne’s bag, as if glad to be shot of them.
Then he cleared his throat, and averted his eyes from Gisburne’s as if somehow embarrassed at what he was about to say. “I regret there is one other obstacle,” he said. “A more considerable one. As if you do not already have enough...”
Gisburne could not imagine what it could be that he had not already considered. Llewellyn planted himself on a barrel and placed his hands on his knees again, all the while staring at the floor.
“You speak of preparations within the Tower,” he said. “Of traps, and armed men. But these walls are not Prince John’s. There was a time he could act as its master – was its master, to all intents and purposes – but no longer. His guard is dismissed. The Tower’s garrison does not answer to his command – and their own commander is not of a mind to co-operate.”
“Fitz Thomas...” muttered Gisburne.
Llewellyn nodded. “The balance has shifted,” he said. “Oh, it’s all done with a smile, of course, as if he is everyone’s friend and doing us all favour. And what is so galling is that they all believe it. He has the full trust of de Coutances – and therefore the King. His men worship him. He even has a succession of adoring young ladies visit him here – nobility, every one – who, I can assure you, do not experience the difficulty in gaining access you do.”
Gisburne raised his eyebrows. “Adoring young ladies...?”
“It’s nothing like that. At least, not in deed. They feel safe in his company. So they fawn and flirt as he regales them with his wit in that eccentric, fatherly way he affects, all the while pretending he is not picturing them naked and debauched. God, give me good honest whoring any day.” He huffed in disgust. “But make no mistake – he means only to feather his own nest – rubbing up against the high and mighty, worming his way into their affections and boosting his own sense of self-importance by manipulating those more important than he wherever he can do so without redress. Without tarnishing his image. Just yesterday he booted half of John’s retinue out of the Tower precincts. Didn’t even ask. Just did it. They’re out there now, I suppose, camped on some scrap of ground. God knows where. When challenged, he smiled and said, in that reasonable way he has, that there was little point duplicating services that already existed within the Tower. ‘An unnecessary strain upon resources and bad for security,’ he said.”
Gisburne gaped at Llewellyn in astonishment. “Surely John did not just stand by?”
Llewellyn snorted. “He did not! He raged like you cannot imagine. But I saw Fitz Thomas’s face as he did so – when, for a moment, the mask slipped. He enjoyed it. And he knew John could do nothing. There was no one left to do his bidding – he had made sure of it. Except for me, a few pointless hangers-on and a handful of personal servants, you and Galfrid are all he has – all he can rely on. Within these walls, he is no better off than a prisoner. Than Hood. And outside them...”
“Outside them lurks the greatest threat he has yet faced,” said Gisburne. The Tower was a trap all right – but it was beginning to feel like it was John who was caught in it. “So, we can rely only on ourselves... Well that’s nothing new. But enough of thinking ‘beyond weapons.’ Just tell me something I can carry in my hands to stop this killer.”
Llewellyn sighed heavily. “As you know, plate armour is something with which I have been experimenting. The trick is making the sheets of steel of sufficient size and strength. They must be light enough for a man to carry, yet thick enough to provide adequate defence; soft enough to shape, but hard enough to resist blows and projectiles. Too soft and it can bend or be pierced, too hard and it will split and crack. But none of these issues affect this man. He has covered himself with flat plates, taking such weight upon himself as an ordinary man would not countenance.”
“Something must be capable of penetrating them,” said Gisburne.
“We already know they have deflected crossbow bolts at close range.”
“Might something more powerful be constructed? An arbalest?”
“Again, if I had more time...”
“Is there not something here, like that which you gave me for Jerusalem?”
“Which you left there...” grumbled Llewellyn. “Believe me, if I had such a weapon here I would tell you, and the crossbows in the Tower’s armoury are no different from those we know to have failed. And before you waste time looking, you’ll not find anything to meet your needs out there, either. The crossbow is frowned upon by the Pope, and meant only for heretics and infidels. Barons may bend the rules, but you’ll not find a banned siege weapon knocking about London’s streets.”
“There must be something...”
“Just one thing, perhaps,” said Llewellyn. Gisburne frowned. “Six feet of English yew.”
“A longbow?” Gisburne felt his muscles shrink from the idea.
“Little can match it for power,” said Llewellyn. “A heavy warbow might have a chance. Straight on, at close range, if the target is not moving...” He turned and rummaged in a small wooden box, then counted out two dozen steel spikes. “These are hardened bodkin points for arrows,” he said. “If anything can penetrate that armour, it will be these.”
“But you cannot say for sure...”
“No one can say that without seeing the armour.”
“By which time, it’s too late...”
Llewellyn exhaled sharply in exasperation. “Stop making excuses! You accept defeat before you’ve
even begun! It’s not just about the armour. You know as well as I what de Gaillon would say: every fortress has its weak point – an overlooked or unguarded spot. The Red Hand has proved that himself time and again.”
“You mean an eye-slit in his helm?” said Gisburne. “A gap between the plates?” It seemed a forlorn hope. Not something he wished to stake his life on.
“I heard you were once pretty good with a bow,” said Llewellyn.
“A bow’s not a knight’s weapon,” snapped Gisburne. “And no man alive could guide his arrow point to such a target. It would be like...”
“Like trying to hit a silver penny?” ventured Llewellyn.
Gisburne scowled at him.
“I knew of one who could do it,” said Llewellyn. “I saw it done.”
Gisburne gave a humourless laugh. “Yes, but that man is now in a cell in this very fortress.”
“No, no,” said Llewellyn, waving his hand dismissively. “Not Hood.”
“There’s another? Another as good as him?”
“Perhaps better. I saw him. Right here in London. Though whether he’s even still alive...”
Gisburne leaned forward. “Tell me everything.”
XXXVI
DICKON BEND-THE-BOW WAS perhaps the greatest archer who ever lived.
It was not known from where he had come, only that he had one day emerged from the Forest of Dean and joined with a troupe of travelling jongleurs and gleemen making their steady way to the capital. That they had accepted him so readily said much for the potential they saw. Before the caravan had reached Oxford, his fame was already growing; by London, he was one of the most talked about men in England.
That Gisburne had never heard of him Llewellyn considered of little surprise. At the time – ten years ago – Gisburne had been a world away, running from disgrace and fighting for any master who would pay. And by the time he had returned home, Dickon was all but forgotten.
Yet, for one hot summer in London, as word of Dickon spread across the city like a fire, people had flocked to Smoothfield to see the tricks of archery he performed. He could shoot a songbird from the sky. Hit swinging targets blindfolded, simply by listening. And, from fifty yards or more, he would shoot a silver penny from between the thumb and forefinger of anyone brave enough to stand before his bow. Even as the astonished onlookers applauded the seemingly impossible feat, all wondered about the day he would surely come undone. Perhaps it was partly this that kept them coming back. No one, they said, could keep on tempting fortune so. No matter how skilled he was, one who dwelt perpetually on the edge of disaster as he did must eventually falter and tumble over that precipice. All – in various states of anticipation and apprehension – awaited the day his arrow would strike and maim one of his bold volunteers, and his career and reputation would be finished.
But it never did. His undoing, when it came, took a very different, and even more unexpected form.
“So, where do I find him?” Gisburne had asked. In part, it had been a joke – something to mock and defuse his sense of frustration. But only in part. Somewhere in him, that frustration was grasping for new possibilities, new strategies, new weapons, no matter how remote or impossible they seemed.
Llewellyn had laughed. “No one knows. Probably he’s dead...”
“Probably?”
“Let’s just say you’ll have to look elsewhere for your answer,” said Llewellyn. “It was stupid of me to mention it.”
“Tell me anyway.”
Then Llewellyn had related the end of Dickon’s story, as much as it was known.
One night, so it was recorded, when that glorious summer season was at its peak, a fire had broken out in the entertainers’ encampment upon Smoothfield. It had not spread far – most of the wagons were spared or barely scorched – but these were also the early hours, and it had been some time before the sound and smell had alerted the sleeping troupe. By the time they knew what was happening, one wagon – the heart of the blaze – was utterly destroyed. Dickon’s wagon. Within its collapsed, blackened frame next morning was found a single charred body. No one knew how or why the conflagration had started. The wagon was near no campfire, and there were many who swore Dickon’s lamp had been extinguished for the night before theirs.
“Some, who did not wish to believe him dead, said it was another trick,” said Llewellyn. “That he’d had enough of that life and had spirited himself away – though why he should wish to do so at the height of his fame, they were less able to explain. Others said that he had been murdered by an envious rival – and there were indeed those who claimed he’d had a hooded visitor that night. But perhaps, after all, it was just a stupid accident. Such things happen in real life. But everyone had their theory.
“What was yours?” asked Gisburne.
Llewellyn had snorted. “Mine? Mine’s worth no more than anyone else’s. None of that really matters. I only know he was not seen or heard of ever again.”
Llewellyn was right. None of it mattered. Not now. But somehow, Gisburne found he could not let it go. Perhaps it was the very incompleteness of the story that drew him. Thoughts of it were still battering his teeming brain when he again stood before the door of Hood’s cell, and the bolts were shot back.
“IT MUST BE very dull for you in here,” said Gisburne.
Hood shuffled where he sat, and gave a little shrug. “It has its moments,” he said.
“When they bring the bread? When they take out your piss pot? I’m sure you can hardly contain yourself.”
Hood smiled. “Well, I have your visits to look forward to, don’t I?” He regarded him quizzically. “So, what is it to be today?”
“I would like to make your life – what’s left of it, anyway – more interesting.”
“Songs?” said Hood, sitting forward. “Magic tricks, perhaps? I am all agog.”
“Nothing so trivial. A new game.”
Hood rose to his feet, dusted off his hands, his chains rattling, and cocked his head to one side. “This wouldn’t be to do with that Red Hand again, would it?” he said.
Gisburne was silent for a moment. He knew that what he wanted would come at a price. So, he would give Hood something. That much, and no more. “There have been more killings,” he said. “Right here, in the heart of London.”
Hood puffed out his cheeks in an exaggerated expression of surprise. Gisburne tried to fathom whether the surprise was real, but could not. “Well, whatever he’s about, it certainly seems like he means some business,” said Hood.
Gisburne nodded. “They say he is unstoppable. His notoriety is already outstripping yours. If things continue this way, the Red Hand will be all they talk about.”
He saw Hood’s expression darken. “Don’t try to play me, Guy,” he said. “You won’t win.”
“Won’t win? Look around, Robert. You’ve lost already. You, too, thought yourself unstoppable. I stopped you nonetheless. But there is a way to get back in the game.”
“A deal?” Hood’s eyes sparkled.
“A challenge. To prove your worth.”
“Ah, I see. You want me to do your job for you. To stop the unstoppable Red Hand.” He chuckled – without humour, this time. “Well, you stopped me on your own, so you can stop him, can’t you?”
“I know you know things. Perhaps enough to bring him down.”
“From within these walls? That’s not much of a game, Guy.”
“But imagine if it was known you had achieved that?” Hood sat motionless for a moment, and Gisburne drew closer. “Your reputation would be greater than ever. And John would look kindly upon such an act. Who knows? Perhaps there would be no need for an execution after all...” It was a dangerous promise – and one he did not know he could keep.
Hood stared at him for what seemed an age, as if trying to ascertain that Gisburne really meant what he’d said. He began to chuckle again, louder and deeper, until it was a gale of laughter. Gisburne stood and watched in silence. Somehow, such unrestrained merriment
seemed obscene in this wretched place. But it was the laugh of a man who felt he had already won. Finally, it subsided, its last echoes dying away as Hood brought himself back under some semblance of control.
“Oh, Guy, Guy, Guy... I’ve been in prison for six months. How could I possibly know anything?” It was true. The guards swore no word had been uttered within Hood’s earshot, and Gisburne believed them. They were good men. “Good that de Rosseley survived, though,” he added casually.
At the mention of the name, Gisburne exploded with anger, swiping Hood across the face. Hood staggered and fell, his chains jangling about him.
“How could you know that?” demanded Gisburne. “How?”
But Hood simply laughed even more, wiping the blood from his mouth. He rolled over and leaned against the wall. “Are you going to kill me, Guy?” he chortled. “I often used to wonder if you would.”
“You’re going to die anyway.”
“Speak for yourself!” quipped Hood, and spat blood upon the stone.
Gisburne moved away from Hood, and slumped against the far wall, sliding down onto his haunches. For a while they sat in silence, near mirror images of each other.
“I know you know you know who the Red Hand is,” said Gisburne. “I also know that were I to beat you to the very threshold of Hell, you would not reveal it. Not unless you wanted to. Instead, let me appeal to you. You have one chance to do some good before you die. To make a mark upon the world outside these miserable walls – to do something memorable.” He leaned forward. “I will see that people hear of it.”
With one finger, Hood flicked at the dry fragments of bread that lay scattered on the stone beside him. “You know, every day the boy brings the bread and potage. And every day they fish around in the soup and pull the bread to bits before he brings it in.” Gisburne sighed. He should have known he would not get a straight answer.
“Why do they bother with that?” continued Hood. He tutted as if horribly inconvenienced, picked up the largest chunk of bread, briefly regarded it in his hand, then broke it in half. For a moment Gisburne had a surreal vision of Hood as Christ at the Last Supper.
Hunter of Sherwood: The Red Hand Page 30