“It’s to check someone hasn’t hidden a knife in it,” he said.
“It’s unhealthy,” said Hood. “Poking about with their dirty blades and filthy fingers... Yeuch!”
Gisburne stared up at the thin slit of light. “Do you know how you are going to die, Robert?” He sensed, rather than saw, Hood’s shrug.
“Beheaded, perhaps. Upon Tower Hill. Then my head stuck on a spike on London Bridge. The new one. For all to see.”
When Gisburne turned back to look at him, Hood was smiling. His eyes were distant, unfocused. Staring somewhere beyond the walls, to a place that was no place – a circumstance yet to be realised, a time yet to come. At a vision of his own death.
“That’s how I see it, anyway,” said Hood. “How about you?”
Gisburne marvelled at such unrestrained self-confidence, such magically unburdened ego. It knew no fear, no limits. It trampled everything before it, even in death.
“Beheading is for nobles,” said Gisburne. “Not common criminals.”
“Do common criminals get locked in the Tower?” said Hood. There was a note of challenge in his voice – one for which Gisburne had no response.
“You are to be hanged,” he said. “Not on Tower Hill. Not in public at all, but here, in the Tower precincts. A first, I believe. You should feel honoured by that, at least. Then your body is to be burned, and the ash scattered. No grave, no marker. And for once in your life, there will be no audience to witness the event. No one to weep or wail, no one to appeal or play to, no one to write the ballads or tell the tales when you’re gone. No one outside these walls will even know it has happened. One day, years from now, some decrepit drunk slumped outside an inn will say: ‘That thief Robin Hood... I once knew a song about that man. Whatever became of him?’ And no one will know, nor remember the tune, nor even recognise the name.”
Hood sat in silence, staring at the ground, his fingers unconsciously turning the featureless charm about his neck. Gisburne had expected the usual irrepressible chuckle to rise from him, but nothing came. Not for an age. Finally, his hand dropped, and he lifted his head and looked hard at his tormentor.
“You’ve got it all wrong, Guy,” he said. “Reality doesn’t drive legend forward. It just gets in the way. Look at our bold Lionhearted king... The less England sees of him, the greater his legend becomes. Should he return, and sit upon his throne and live to a ripe old age growing fat and embittered and discussing taxes and drainage and roads, then the people will see him for what he is. A man. But should he never come back... Well then, his reputation will be unassailable.” His face split in an intense smile. “So, you see, Guy – you haven’t made people forget me. You’ve made me immortal.”
Gisburne had stood, unflinching, before some of the most dangerous, most brutal men this world had put upon a battlefield. But there was something in Hood’s look that was truly terrifying. Something he could not fight, could not grapple with.
“Well, at least I’ll not have to think of you any more,” he said. And he turned to go.
“Have you thought how you will stop him?” said Hood.
Gisburne turned. “Him?”
“The Red Hand. When you meet him. I’m sure you’ve been thinking about it.”
Gisburne felt an uncanny chill. He stared at him, trying to anticipate the moves he had in his head, but he was unreadable. “I don’t need your help, Robert,” he said with a sigh. He was suddenly tired – tired of this struggle, these games. “Not unless you’re going to tell me who he is.”
“I think it’s probably better you find that out for yourself.”
“Goodbye, Robert...”
“But I’m willing to bet I could bring him down. Armour or not.”
Gisburne stopped, but said nothing. He refused to be drawn in this time.
“Oh, you’re good with a bow, I know,” said Hood. “You should have applied yourself to it.”
“I’m a knight,” said Gisburne, wearily. “Knights don’t shoot arrows.”
“No. They just die by them.”
Gisburne hesitated again. “Is the Red Hand a knight?” he said.
Hood chuckled. “Nice try! But how would I know? And why would I care? My arrow pierces a knight’s heart as easily as a peasant’s.”
“Not any more.”
“Come on, Guy, will you take my bet or not?”
Gisburne simply stared at him. The man really believed there was a chance, even now. In a way, Gisburne admired it. Envied it, even. There was a time when he’d have pitied it, too, but that well had run dry.
He laughed to himself. “Why do you think for one minute that I would let you take up a bow again?”
“Because I’m the best there ever was. You know that. You’ve seen it.”
“I’ve seen nothing.”
“You know my shot would have hit its mark that day at Clippestone,” said Hood.
“But it didn’t,” said Gisburne.
“But it would have. You know it, in your heart, don’t you?” It seemed to Gisburne that there was a note of pleading in his voice; that Hood was not simply stating a fact – his own version of a fact, at least – but actually seeking approval. “You do believe that I would have won? That I deserved to win?”
If approval was what he sought, then that would be the very thing Gisburne would deny him. He turned to Hood. “You did not win,” he said. “And you’ll not hold a bow again, Robert. Not ever. Think on that a while. You have twenty-nine days to do so.”
Hood did not look away. His eyes blazed with a cold fire. “You think you can stop him, Guy? This Red Hand? I would like to see how that turns out, I really would.”
Gisburne felt anger boil up in him. “I know another who can,” he spat. “Better than you. And respected, too, all over London – not some damned criminal.” He didn’t know why he said it. It just tumbled out of him. There was no point to the response. No strategy. Everything of worth had already been said; he was simply kicking out – wanting to make Hood feel something: anger, pain. “If I needed a bowman,” he continued, “one I could depend on, it’s him I’d call for. Not you. I don’t need you.”
“Another?” said Hood, staring. Gisburne’s childish outburst had hit home. Hood’s black eyes were filled with a monstrous outrage. “Who?”
Gisburne felt a crude sense of satisfaction. “What’s the matter?” he said. “Can’t believe there was ever anyone better than you?”
“Who?” said Hood.
“Dickon,” spat Gisburne. “His name is Dickon. Perhaps you’ve heard of him?”
At this, Gisburne half expected Hood to do what he always did: to roar with laughter. For him to clap his hands and throw back his head and hurl at his tormentor the fact that the Dickon of whom he spoke – of whom no one had heard for ten years – was long dead.
What passed across Hood’s face upon hearing that name, however, was the very last thing Gisburne had expected to see there – something that, in all these years, he had never before seen upon those features.
It was a look of terror.
IV
DICKON
XXXVII
Clippestone Royal Palace, Sherwood Forest
24 December, 1192
GUY OF GISBURNE stared out across the hazy, hectic field and dared to contemplate victory.
Exhausted from lack of sleep and chilled to the bone, one side of his face burning in the heat from the brazier on the royal stand, he blinked against the freezing wind and the drifting, greasy smoke of the cooking fires, knowing that somewhere within the seething multitude – into the jaws of his painstakingly prepared trap – walked Hood.
He pulled at the mail coif about his head, the metal made hot as a cooking pot by the brazier’s flames and looked out from his vantage point on the berfrois. Below him,five trumpeters – their hands clamped over the mouthpieces to prevent the metal freezing to their lips – waited to sound the fanfare. Royal pennants whipped above in the gusting breeze. Shouts and chatter and jaunty Yul
etide music wafted all about. His brain felt cooked, his limbs frozen, but he no longer cared. At last, on this bright December day, he dared to believe what for so long he had chosen to deny. Today would see the greatest triumph of his career. He would write the ending of Hood’s story.
“Well, what a merry ballad this will make,” said a quiet voice behind him, and he turned. Prince John was in his richest robes of blue velvet trimmed with white fur, a gold-hilted dagger at his belt, his many rings worn over black gloved hands. “Men shall sing of you and of this day, Guy of Gisburne,” he said, beaming. “Mark my words.”
Gisburne felt a hand upon his back as John ascended the two steps to his raised dais, and seated himself upon its gilded throne with a sigh of satisfaction. A special place had been made upon the berfrois so the brazier could be positioned immediately before him without impeding his view – or setting fire to the stand. Now he sat toasting his extended fingers in comfort, while on the tiered benches to either side the invited barons, noble ladies and high-ranking clergy sat on steadily numbing buttocks, their extremities turning to ice – another of John’s minor acts of revenge upon them.
“Join me, Sir Guy,” called John, and gestured to the seat next to him. The heads of several gathered nobles turned. The bishop scowled. This was revenge too – publicly favouring so lowly a knight as Gisburne over these high-born buffoons. Gisburne hesitated. Until now, he had been in the shadows, working for the Prince behind the scenes, in secret. John read his thoughts. He leaned forward. “Time to give credit where it is due,” he said.
Gisburne, feeling a fraud in the ceremonial knight’s mail that had never once been worn for combat – even though he had been in combat more often than any man here – climbed the wooden steps under the steady gaze of the most powerful men in the kingdom, and took his place at the Prince’s right hand.
ARCHERS HAD COME from all over Nottinghamshire, Derbyshire and the northern counties to compete for the prize. Perhaps further afield even than that. Undoubtedly, however, it was the chance to see the palace itself that had so swelled the numbers.
Clippestone was a royal residence of unrivalled size and splendour; its stables alone had stalls for over two hundred horses. Yet in the three whole months Richard had spent in England since his coronation – mostly under sufferance – he had never once set eyes on it. Gisburne wondered whether he even knew of its existence, tucked away here. Perhaps it was just as well; he doubtless would have sold it.
John, meanwhile, was not one to look a gift horse in the mouth – especially when it could facilitate endless hours of hunting. Today, it would play host to the greatest hunt of all – the culmination of a quest that had absorbed them for the past year: the capture of the man who Gisburne had once called Robert of Locksley, known to the world as Robin Hood. For this great purpose, Clippestone’s location in the heart of Sherwood Forest could hardly have been more fitting.
“We should have some fine sport today!” announced the Prince, and raised a steaming goblet of mulled wine. Several barons and worthies seated nearby smiled and nodded at his words – a little too eagerly, Gisburne felt. But only he knew what John really meant.
“Let’s just hope the bastard turns up,” muttered John into his cup.
But of course he would. That was the beauty of Gisburne’s plan. Anyone else would have seen it for the trap it was, and and steered a wide berth. But not Hood. He would see it was a trap and come anyway. And others of his band of merry men would come with him, blindly putting their lives at risk for their leader. Their presence served no purpose; Hood stood a far better chance of evading capture alone. But he required an audience. Someone to tell the tale, write the ballad.
Gisburne stared out across the teeming crowd once again, his eyes straining to pick out a face – that face. Gilbert de Gaillon would have slapped him down for such impatience. You’re letting your enemy take control, he would have said. Granting him power over you. Do not allow it. You control the battlefield. Now stand back. Let him commit. Try to force it, and your prey will flee.
He looked away from the throng, and surveyed the faces in the stand instead. “The bishop doesn’t look too happy,” he muttered.
“The bishop never looks happy,” John snorted. “Who will rid us of these troublesome priests...” Gisburne looked at John in alarm. John raised his eyebrows. “It was a joke.” After the murder of Thomas Becket, however, the joke did not amuse. “Oh, come along, Sir Guy,” said John, dismissively. “Enjoy yourself. I command you...”
“I think enjoyment is the problem,” said Gisburne. “I sense the bishop disapproves of such activity on the Eve of Christmas.”
John shrugged. “Well, of course he does. He wants everyone to be as miserable as him. But wasn’t it God put joy in our hearts? Christ knows it wasn’t the bishop...”
“I fancy it’s not our hearts he’s thinking of, but our stomachs. It’s supposed to be a day for fasting.”
John clutched at his chest with faux mortification. “Are you accusing me of fostering irreligious behaviour, Sir Guy? Look around. Do you see any prohibited food being consumed? You do not. We are observing the holy writ – to the letter. It doesn’t mean we have to mope about like condemned men.”
“What of the geese you have roasting on spits between the Two Oaks?” Gisburne nodded towards the trails of smoke. “There looked to be at least fifty of them.”
“Seventy,” said John with a smile of satisfaction. “But you will find they are barnacle geese. A creature of the sea – and according to the church’s own rules, regarded as a fish. Therefore, entirely acceptable fare for a fast day.”
Gisburne nodded slowly, almost allowing himself a smile at John’s ingenuity. John caught the bishop’s eye, and gave him a broad smile, and a regal nod. The bishop dutifully nodded back – with as much reticence as he could muster. Amongst this joyful throng, his red face stood out like an angry boil.
“Yes, that’s right...” muttered John, still smiling at the pontiff. “Don’t, whatever you do, miss an opportunity to spread your resentment and your misery.” He tore his look away. “He has his secret supply of veal and sausage tucked away somewhere, you can be sure of it...” He sighed deeply. “Well, we have a fine gathering, and a fine day. And it is my birthday. A day of celebration – with more to celebrate come nightfall. The others can keep their gold and their riding cloaks – you will be giving me the best birthday present of the lot.” He turned back to Gisburne and clapped him on the shoulder again – more in the manner of a friend than a prince. “So enjoy yourself. I insist!”
Gisburne took a breath of the icy air, laden with the aroma of roasting meat, and lifted his eyes away from the crowd, to the tops of the tallest trees at the edge of the forest. Dotted about their topmost branches, as if waiting for something, was the largest gathering of crows he had ever seen.
THAT SAME MORNING, just after dawn, Gisburne had ridden out on Nyght. At that hour the royal palace itself – which never truly slept – was already coming alive. In two hours’ time, the great open space in which the competition would take place – known as the ‘tournament field,’ although no tournament had ever taken place there – would begin to buzz with stewards and servants, cooks and pages. In four, the entire field would be swarming with every kind of curiosity seeker from the peasantry up, all eager to take whatever free handouts John had to offer and, Gisburne did not doubt, revel in the sight of a common archer taking a valuable prize off the Prince.
There was no real need for Gisburne’s tour. All preparations for the day’s bold plan had been gone over time and again, and he had barely shut his eyes the previous night for thinking about the day that was to follow. This moment, with only Nyght for company – this quiet, idyllic moment – was to be one of respite. Of prayer, almost. The calm before the storm.
Gisburne had arisen as soon as there was light in the sky. He left Galfrid snoring and crept out alone through the freezing, foggy air to the vast stable block. With the earthy, sweet
smell of the stable filling his nostrils, he combed Nyght’s sleek black coat until it shone, pausing to crush the few stubborn beads of caked mud still stuck in the long hairs of his tail. He ran his hand down the back of each leg, checking for any lumps or tender spots, then lifted the hooves to his knee and scraped the mud and muck from around the shoes. On went the blanket, its creases smoothed, ready for the saddle. It was only a few weeks old, still with the smell of fresh leather. It had been made for him by a half-blind saddlemaker in Beestone whose work was revered by those in the know. What most also knew, but had the courtesy not to acknowledge, was that it was actually his daughter who now did the lion’s share of the work.
It took some time to seat it right, but he did not rush. He relished the work; over the years, fighting as a rootless mercenary, he had grown accustomed to doing things for himself. In truth, terrible though those years had been, he missed this part – the steady ritual, the pleasure of losing oneself in simple tasks. So often these days they had to prepare in haste. But this morning, he would take things at his own pace, and do them in his own way. Nyght tolerated it with the patience of Job – a quality he reserved exclusively for Gisburne and Galfrid.
Finally, he led him out. On the stable door a spider’s web sparkled like a fine jewel of glass. In the yard, the ruts had tiny puddles of thin, opaque ice, under which the water seemed somehow to have disappeared. They cracked like empty eggshells under Gisburne’s booted feet.
Then man and horse headed out to greet the dawn.
When he had looked out from his small, icy window, his first impression had been that snow had fallen during the night. In fact, it was merely a hard frost – but the transformation, if anything, was more complete. Crystals of ice clung to every surface, turning every tree, leaf and blade of grass to a white ghost. The timbers of the berfrois – not yet adorned with pennants and coverings – shimmered like the frozen bones of some Leviathan. In the air, meanwhile, hung a low, thick mist which the sun struggled to penetrate.
Hunter of Sherwood: The Red Hand Page 31