The legend of Hereward the Wakeful was well known. But how many, he wondered, knew of the truth behind it? Who here had read the contemporary account contained in the Gesta Herewardi, as he had? The Hereward described within that document was often at odds with the heroic figure of legend. It told how Hereward the Wakeful had joined with an army of Danes, and with them turned Viking, sacking the abbey of Burgh St Peter. Some said he had taken those treasures to protect them from the new Norman overlords. But, somehow, those treasures never did return to the abbey. Nor did they go to the aid of the poor, any more than Hood’s plundered loot had. Where they were spirited, no one knew for sure. To Danemark, perhaps.
It was an insider – a monk – who had finally brought about that troublesome rebel’s defeat, revealing a safe path through the Fens to the pursuing Norman army. That was the part the new Hereward – Hereward of Sherwood – liked the most. It was the part from which he drew strength – the part which he judged Sherwood’s outlaws to have forgotten, and its lesson with it. Well, they would remember it soon enough.
Deleted Scene #5
Ailin’s Crossbow
As the book draws to a close, we encounter the terrifying Niall Ua Dubhghail’s brother Ailin, who joins Hood’s growing company. In this passage, cut from Chapter LXII, Hood questions Ailin on the inspiration for his oud-slash-crossbow.
THE IRISHMAN STARED at him, unblinking. For what seemed an age there was no sound but the wind in the tress and the crackle of the fire. “It’s the last thing I want,” he muttered, then swung the bow about and shot its bolt into the trunk of the lookout tree. Micel felt the mob lurch around him.
“Hold!” bellowed Hood. All froze on the spot.
“I meant only to show my worth. Now you see what kind of minstrel I am. What kind of music I bring. I can be of use to you, or not; do with me as you will.”
“I would have done anyway,” said Hood, and smiled. He made him wait, then – a little longer than the Irishman had made him wait before finally shooting. “I like you, Irishman,” he said at length. “I think you may be worth a great deal to us.” Micel felt the tension in the surrounding mob begin to unwind. The Irishman, it seemed, had passed the test. “And as for this...” Hood gestured towards the instrument, and shook his head in wonderment. “This is one of your ‘improvements’?”
“I got the idea from a drunken Arab,” said the Irishman. “A man I believed might lead me to my prey.”
“The Saracens’ holy book forbids them intoxicating liquor,” said Took with a scowl, as if doubting the the Irishman’s story. He had evidently not been amused by the display.
The Irishman nodded, and fixed Took with a hard gaze. “Exactly so. And with every draught he looked heavenward and gave an apology – just like a Christian monk during the act of fornication.” All within earshot chuckled, with the exception of Took. “You and I know that a thing being forbidden doesn’t mean it isn’t done. Not among them. Not among us. And especially not here, in this forest. That’s why I’m here.”
Hood’s eyes had narrowed during the Irishman’s speech, but at the end, a broad grin broke out across his face. He laughed.
“Tell us more, master minstrel,” he said “You intrigue me.”
“I had learned the Arab was a friend of the one I sought,” the Irishman began. “He had been with him in Jerusalem, during the last days of Saladin. The Arab would not divulge why – not for love nor money. But he let slip that his friend – this man, this Christian – had entered the city disguised as a troubadour, and had brought with him a deadly weapon hidden inside an instrument.”
Took, Lyttel and Hood exchanged looks. Took seemed as if he would speak, but Hood silenced him with a finger to his lips.
“So you emulated him,” said Hood, with a nod. “To know your enemy you must become your enemy...” He seemed to Micel to be quoting someone.
The Irishman nodded in return. “Partly that,” he said. “Though to be honest with you, if I see a good idea anywhere I’ll take it for my own, whether my enemy’s or not.”
Hood grinned with delight. “A man after my own heart.” Then his eyes narrowed again. “Now, this prey of yours. Tell us about him...”
Deleted Scene #6
Will the Scarlet
Also from Chapter LXII, this short cut has Micel meditating on the contemptible Will the Scarlet’s history and character.
HE WAS CALLED Will the Scarlet – but none said it to his face, or none but Robin. It did not do to upset William Gamewell. Those who did were liable to wake up with their throats cut. Even in this select company – which had attracted many of the vilest villains in the land – he was regarded with caution, and near universal hatred. Some was the result of pure envy – Robin favoured this lank-haired wretch above all others – but there was no shortage of reasons for hating William Gamewell.
Many here strove to give the impression that they would stop at nothing, but Gamewell did not have to make pretence. He was born such a man. Micel had seen him cut off a man’s ear without a hint of provocation, just to see what reaction it got – and not an enemy’s, either, but one who thought him a friend. Afterwards, Gamewell had laughed it off, treating the whole thing as a joke, and his victim – perhaps fearful of what more might have happened, and might yet happen – was somehow persuaded to join him in his merrymaking. There was nothing Gamewell would not do, and it was this, Micel believed, that had made him a favourite of Hood’s within days of his arrival. Gamewell had responded by affording Hood – and Hood alone – unswerving loyalty and total respect.
There was one other mystery. Gamewell was not, by any standards, handsome – a mangy fox or rat from a ditch was more prepossessing. Neither was he charming – he had not a single kind thought in his head, and didn’t care who knew it. And yet, more women fell at Gamewell’s feet than ever seemed to be won over by a gentleman. That, Micel could never understand. Only Marian had remained free of his attentions. She belonged to Robin. But Micel had seen Gamewell cast a lustful eye over her when he thought none were looking.
Deleted Scene #7
Old Hurts
It can be dangerous to linger too long after the big climax; as a rule, anything you failed to say, or didn’t need to say, before the story comes to a head, probably doesn’t bear saying afterward. In this short passage, from the final Chapter LXIII, a philosophical Gisburne is thinking of his departed father, and remembers two incidents from his youth.
HE LOOKED UP at the place in the Tall Tree where the wasps’ nest had once hung, a lifetime ago. It did not seem so tall now. That whole time felt like a dream. But the evidence was right there before him. His arrow – the one which, as a headstrong boy, he had used to shoot the nest down – was still embedded in its trunk where it had struck, though now twisted about with ivy.
He shuddered at the memory of that day – running headlong from the furious, buzzing horde as they had exploded from the wrecked nest, intent on his destruction, on the destruction of anything they could find. His chestnut pony – fenced in the paddock, and unable to flee – had proved a convenient scapegoat for their wrath. Driven mad by their stings, it had skewered itself upon a paling and died the same day. Gisburne had escaped with barely a sting, but the sick horror upon discovering the poor beast had left a more lasting mark upon him.
He had not always been so lucky. Over yonder, back near the muck-heap, he had burned his foot in a bonfire when he had tried to shove a faggot into it with his toe. Right here, in the paddock, he had fallen from his father’s great warhorse – the very mount his father had expressly warned him against riding – and had gashed his chin upon the old stone trough. That had scared him. It was the first time he could remember becoming fully aware of his mortality – not only of the fragility of his own body, but that there were things from which his father could not protect him, and which could not be mended. It was only by luck that the fall had not killed him. Limousin, Forêt de Boulogne, Hattin had all left their marks. Hattin especially.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Toby Venables is a novelist, screenwriter and journalist who also lectures in Cambridge, England. He inhabits various time periods and occasionally writes about zombies. A descendant of the Counts of Blois and Champagne, he numbers the slayer of the Moston dragon among his ancestors, but despite being given a longbow at the age of twelve has so far managed not to kill anyone. In 2001 he won the Keats-Shelley Memorial Prize, and squandered the proceeds. The Red Hand is his third novel.
England, 1191. Richard Lionheart has left the realm bankrupt and leaderless in his quest for glory. Only Prince John seems willing to fight back the tide of chaos threatening England – embodied by the traitorous ‘Hood.’
But John has a secret weapon: Guy of Gisburne, outcast, mercenary, and now knight. His first mission: to intercept the jewel-encrusted skull of John the Baptist, sent by the Templars to Philip, King of France.
Gisburne’s quest takes him, his world-weary squire Galfrid in tow, from the Tower of London to the hectic crusader port of Marseilles – and into increasingly bloody encounters with ‘The White Devil’: the fanatical Templar de Mercheval.
Relentlessly pursued back to England, and aided by the beautiful and secretive Mélisande, Gisburne battles his way with sword, lance and bow to a bitter confrontation at the Castel de Mercheval. But beyond it – if he survives – lies an even more unpredictable adversary.
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THE SHIP OF THE DEAD
Northern Europe, 976 AD. Bjólf and the viking crew of the ship Hrafn flee up an unknown river after a bitter battle, only to find themselves in a bleak land of pestilence. The dead don’t lie down, but become draugr – the undead – returning to feed on the flesh of their kin. Terrible stories are told of a dark castle in a hidden fjord, and of black ships that come raiding with invincible draugr berserkers. And no sooner has Bjólf resolved to leave, than the black ships appear...
Now stranded, his men cursed by the contagion of walking death, Bjólf has one choice: fight his way through a forest teeming with zombies, invade the castle and find the secret of the horrific condition – or submit to an eternity of shambling, soulless undeath!
“Toby Venables wields his pen all sword-like and delivers quirky flashes of fearless text.”
BBC.co.uk
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Title
Indicia
The Red Hand
Contents
Dedication
Part I: The Coming Apocalypse
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Part II: The Great North Road
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Part III: London
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
Chapter XXI
Chapter XXII
Chapter XXIII
Chapter XXIV
Chapter XXV
Chapter XXVI
Chapter XXVII
Chapter XXVIII
Chapter XXIX
Chapter XXX
Chapter XXXI
Chapter XXXII
Chapter XXXIII
Chapter XXXIV
Chapter XXXV
Chapter XXXVI
Part IV: Dickon
Chapter XXXVII
Chapter XXXVIII
Chapter XXXIX
Chapter XL
Chapter XLI
Chapter XLII
Chapter XLIII
Chapter XLIV
Chapter XLV
Chapter XLVI
Chapter XLVII
Chapter XLVIII
Chapter XLIX
Chapter L
Chapter LI
Part V: Judgement
Chapter LII
Chapter LIII
Chapter LIV
Chapter LV
Chapter LVI
Chapter LVII
Chapter LVIII
Chapter LIX
Chapter LX
Chapter LXI
Chapter LXII
Deleted Scenes
Deleted Scene #1
Deleted Scene #2
Deleted Scene #3
Deleted Scene #4
Deleted Scene #5
Deleted Scene #6
Deleted Scene #7
About the Author
'Knight of Shadows' by Toby Venables
'Viking Dead' by Toby Venables
Hunter of Sherwood: The Red Hand Page 51