It was not that feeling itself was anathema. De Gaillon had always taught him it was right and necessary for a knight – for without it, one risked forgetting that one was human, and why one was fighting at all. That was a road to a greater madness – a madness with which England was already too greatly afflicted. No – such feeling was a weakness only because it threatened to overthrow reason and cloud judgement. It could be used to defeat him. Even when he was in a situation that posed no threat, it went against the grain to give away such secrets.
Only Gisburne knew the true depth of his attachment, and that was how it had to stay. For damned up behind it was all the boiling, venomous fury at the man responsible. And that Gisburne certainly had no desire to release. It was a burning, all-consuming rage which not even Tancred, for all his deranged cruelty, could hope to inspire. It was reserved for one who was the very antithesis of the grim Templar – one who left chaos in his wake, and laughed at it. Who laughed at everything. At pain, at loss, at grief. All these things were a game to him – all the world his gaming board, and all its people his pieces.
This was what had tormented Gisburne for the past two years. The great threat. All Gisburne’s rage – all his madness – already had a physical form. It was out there, in the world. And its name was Hood.
“Well, then...” Gisburne’s voice was distant, rasping. He had no idea what he was going to say.
John had rescued him. “This part of the story will soon be concluded,” he had said, seeming to have read Gisburne’s thoughts, “and you will have to think of him no more.” He did not need to say the name. “Then it will be a rather different world. A better world. And we shall see what comes of it.” Then he had put a hand on Gisburne’s shoulder, and no more had been said.
WHEN GISBURNE AND Galfrid had arrived at the subterranean dungeon in which Llewellyn of Newport worked his various miracles, they found him packing. Or unpacking; it was not quite clear which. The workshop – mayhem at the best of times, at least to the untrained eye – was piled high with barrels and chests and containers of all kinds, many of them part-filled with straw which had spilled over the floor, giving it the bizarre impression of a stable. Some chests were apparently in the process of being filled with the various multicoloured bottles, unidentifiable instruments and undreamt-of devices that were the tools of Llewellyn’s trade. But as the grey-bearded enginer bustled about – seemingly oblivious to the intrusion of his two visitors – it seemed others were also being emptied according to no discernible pattern. That there was a pattern, however, Gisburne had little doubt. The containers were marked with symbols that he recognised as Llewellyn’s personal classification system – and which meant nothing to anyone but him.
“If you need anything, you’re out of luck,” said Llewellyn without once looking up. “Everything is in chaos.” He stopped and threw up his hands. “We’re on the move again.”
“Are we allowed to know where?” said Gisburne.
“You are not.”
“Doesn’t matter. I already know it’s the Tower.”
Llewellyn shrugged. “There are worse places to be.”
“Like down in the sewer,” chimed in Galfrid, fidgeting with a pair of exceptionally long pincers.
“Might as well be a sewer,” grumbled Llewellyn. “Damp, stinking hole of a place... And it’s the fifth time this year I’ve had to pack up and move. Fifth! And it’s only May.” He snatched the pincers from Galfrid and stuffed them in a long, flat chest. “I’m getting too old for this.”
“Travel broadens the mind,” said Gisburne.
“My mind’s broad enough,” said Llewellyn. “In fact, if I could narrow it, I would. Wait till you’re my age. You’ll understand.”
“That I should live so long...” smiled Gisburne.
“Given the life you lead, you probably won’t.”
Gisburne raised his eyebrows and cast a glance at Galfrid. “Well, it’s nice to see you, anyway...”
“Speaking of the life you lead,” said Llewellyn, “did the items I supplied function as required?”
“Admirably,” said Gisburne. “The vambraces saved my life. In fact, those rows of teeth upon the underside...”
“Never mind those,” said Llewellyn, irritably. He’d been sceptical about the teeth from the very start – Gisburne’s idea, of course. “What of the crossbow? Did the bolts fly true?”
“Yes...”
“And the reel ran smooth? And the cord – strong enough?” Llewellyn looked like a small boy seeking approval for his efforts. Gisburne took both of Llewellyn’s hands in his, and shook them gently.
“You want to know the truth?” he said. “That crossbow of yours saved not only us – it saved Jerusalem.”
“No details!” protested Llewellyn, breaking away. “Never tell me of your mission. I don’t need to know.” He calmed, and nodded to himself. “But that is good. Yes, very good. So, where is it?”
Gisburne stared back at him for a moment, then his eyes slid sideways to Galfrid.
“You did bring it back?” said Llewellyn, his eyes narrowing.
“I have the hurdy gurdy...” began Gisburne
“The crossbow, man!” said Llewellyn. “The steel-sprung crossbow!” Llewellyn threw up his hands. “For the love of Christ! I don’t just pull these contraptions out of my arse... Do you have any idea of the work that went into tempering that steel spring? How many failed attempts there were? That was one of a kind!”
“Believe me, if I could have brought it back...”
“What pains me most,” said Llewellyn, “is that it may now be in the hands of our enemies. Did you think of that?”
Galfrid leaned forward with a conciliatory gesture. “Where it ended up, I think we can safely say, no one else would venture.” And he gave a sweet, consoling smile the like of which Gisburne had never seen before.
“Well, that’s something...” His manner softened. “Saved Jerusalem, you say?” He grunted, and allowed himself a small, satisfied laugh. “So are there things you need? If so, you’ll be in for a wait.”
“There will be,” said Gisburne. “But as to what they are, even I am not yet sure...” He looked around at the jumble of stacked caskets and chests. “I understand John’s entourage is leaving for London in ten days’ time,” he said.
“I could not possibly confirm or deny that,” said Llewellyn, resuming his activities. From the bench he picked up what appeared to be a simple scroll of parchment – except, Gisburne saw, that it had a vicious, eight-inch blade projecting from one end. Llewellyn gave the scroll a firm twist about its centre. There was a click as the blade retreated inside it – then he stowed it safely away in one of his boxes.
“You don’t need to,” said Gisburne. “But if it’s ten days away, why are you packing now?”
“Because I haven’t even unpacked from the previous time, that’s why! Now do you have any sensible questions?”
Gisburne was in no way certain Llewellyn’s answer made sense, but decided to move on. “Actually, yes... What do you know about dragons?”
Llewellyn stopped dead and stared at him. “That’s a sensible question?”
Gisburne shrugged. “I have a new mission. And I am –”
Llewellyn held up a palm. “Don’t tell me! I don’t want to know.” He began his packing again. “Real dragons or dragons in stories and ballads?”
Gisburne stared in astonishment. Every time he stepped into Llewellyn’s domain, there were extraordinary surprises. “You have knowledge of real dragons...?”
Llewellyn brushed some stray wisps of straw off his sleeve. “My granny had a scrap of skin that she said was from a dragon. Once belonged to St Patrick, apparently.”
“And you believe it was genuine?”
“She bought it from a monk,” said Llewellyn. “So, no.” He stopped again and stared at Gisburne – a long, searching look. “This is off the beaten track, even for you. Are you asking me all this in my capacity as an enginer, as a student of
nature or as a Welshman?”
Gisburne recalled the description of the attack on Wendenal, of the ineffectiveness of the crossbows, the breathing of fire. He had seen many strange sights in his life – some of which he would rather forget – but nothing to persuade him to believe in dragons. And yet... “Perhaps all three,” he said.
Llewellyn frowned deeply, turning over in his hands what appeared to be a human thigh bone with steel hooks screwed into it. “You’re not asking me how to kill a dragon, are you?” Gisburne exhaled – unsure, for the moment, exactly what he was asking.
Llewellyn gestured with the bone, and shrugged. “Well, I have no data. So I couldn’t tell you how to kill one anyway.”
“Suppose it is not real,” said Gisburne. “Suppose someone were merely using the image of a dragon. Why might they choose that particular image above all others?”
Llewellyn frowned. “You mean for a flag or something like that?”
“Something like that,” said Gisburne.
Llewellyn gave smile and a shrug. “Because they’re Welsh?”
“Or Irish..?”
“Irish?” He looked puzzled at the suggestion. “Well, they say the Welsh are just Irish who couldn’t swim.” Llewellyn chuckled at his own joke. Then he looked at Gisburne again, and narrowed his eyes. “We’re not talking about a flag, are we?”
“Suppose it is more than that. Something designed to inspire terror or dread?”
“You mean, something that people believe is real?”
Gisburne nodded.
Llewellyn sighed, and perched on a barrel. “This... image, as you call it, means different things to different people. In England, a dragon is a pest. Evil. Something to be destroyed by a brave knight. It is troubling to the established order. But among the Britons and Gaels, well... They have more of a fondness for the scaly beast. In the old tales, the dragon is a noble and benevolent creature. Uther Pendragon, father of the great king Arthur, had one upon his crest – was himself named after it. In Wales, Uther’s red dragon has come to represent an entire people.” He stopped himself, and waved his hand. “Make of all this what you will... I will say this with certainty: a symbol – and belief in it – is far more potent, and far harder to kill, than any creature of flesh and blood. Take the lion. A fearsome beast. It might kill a dozen men. But put it on a banner that men will follow, and put that banner in the hands of the Lionheart...” He shrugged. “Then, it will conquer nations.”
Gisburne leaned forward. “So, you are suggesting that one who would employ the image of a dragon in such a way is most likely a Celt?”
Llewellyn bristled at Gisburne’s words. “No, I am not,” he snapped. “That, I think, is what you have been suggesting... So, the Welsh have a fondness for dragons... So what? We don’t own them. It might just as easily be a Saracen. Or a madman. Or one obsessed by the Apocalypse. Or just someone who likes dragons.” He stood, rifled amongst the heaped objects on the bench and threw a hammer into a box of tools. It landed with a crash. “And who is this ‘Celt’ you speak of? What has he to do with me, or I to do with a distant Irishman or Breton? About as much as you do with a Norseman or Burgundian, I should imagine. Tell me, have you heard of the Topographia Hibernica?” Llewellyn did not wait for Gisburne’s answer, though the name meant nothing to him. “It is an account of Prince John’s expedition to Ireland in 1185. It portrays the Irish as ignorant, hairy savages – and adulterous, incestuous and ugly to boot. Its writer was Gerald de Barri, also known as Giraldus Cambrensis. A Welshman. There’s your Celtic solidarity!” He exhaled in exasperation. “I thought Gilbert de Gaillon had taught you better...” The words pierced Gisburne like a blade, and he felt himself redden. “You will not catch your killer with wild guesses and assumptions,” grumbled Llewellyn, and he leaned forward and rapped his knuckle on Gisburne’s forehead. “The Lord gave you this. Use it!”
So, Llewellyn had known all along. Gisburne wondered if habits were now so ingrained that the old man pretended to understand less than he actually did as a matter of course. He was right – as always. Gisburne was grasping at straws with this lunacy about dragons. But it was practically all he had.
He thought again of the question he had addressed to Prince John. Are we at war? The possibility had then seemed startling. But Gisburne was used to war, even in its murkiest forms. Even when it was senseless, he could make some kind of sense of it – could at least build a picture of his enemy, and from that a strategy.
But now? He felt lost. He did not know what to think, or how to act. Every line of thinking seemed to raise a new question to which there was no answer. This enemy was nameless, faceless – existing in an impenetrable fog. It struck out of nowhere and disappeared almost without trace, its nature obscure, its motives uncertain. John was right – this was something new, and it would require new methods. New ways of thinking.
Gisburne reached into his bag. “Can you tell us anything about this?” He handed the scrap of oilcloth to Llewellyn.
The old man turned it over, held it up to the light, sniffed it, rubbed it with his thumb and shrugged. “The staining is blood,” he said. “But you probably knew that. And it’s been nailed to something. I won’t ask what.” He thought for a moment. “Do you still have the nail?”
Gisburne glanced at Galfrid, frowned, and shook his head.
“Pity,” said Llewellyn.
“What of the fabric?”
“Oilcoth,” Llewellyn said. “Too commonplace to make much more of it,” then he tossed it back onto the table top. “The black markings are charcoal, though.”
Gisburne nodded, then, after a moment’s hesitation, drew out the square of human parchment. “What about this?”
Llewellyn reached out to take it, his eyes gleaming with curiosity – but this time his hand stopped halfway. He withdrew it slowly. “You keep that one,” he said.
“You know what it is?” said Gisburne.
“What? Yes. Who? No.” He raised a palm again. “And please don’t tell me – I don’t want to know.”
“What of these letters?” asked Gisburne. They were the only marks that had any direct connection to the personality of the killer – though it seemed a vain hope that they could yield anything of worth.
Llewellyn turned his attention back to the parchment in Gisburne’s hand. He frowned, looked closer, reached for a magnifying lens, then examined it again. So engrossed was he that for a moment his earlier revulsion was entirely forgotten. “The shapes of these letters... Crudely formed though they are, certain characteristics are distinct.” He looked up. “Only a monk from an Irish monastery, or one taught by them, would form his letters this way.” He thought for a moment. “Or someone trying to deceive you into thinking that.”
Gisburne smiled at this small victory. “Thank you,” he said, and clapped Llewellyn on the shoulder. Dust and the smell of sulphur rose from the folds of old man’s robes.
“That was helpful?” said Llewellyn, bemused.
“More than you know,” said Gisburne.
VIII
Pendleton
5 May, 1193
THE SQUAT, ROTTING keep of Sir Walter Bardulf’s castle poked up from the slumped, misshapen mound like a broken beehive atop a dungheap.
Sir Walter had evidently not prospered. The castle – if such it could be called – appeared to have hardly changed since the time of the Conqueror, except for the inexorable century of dilapidation. The damp, mossy wood of the mouldering stockade that surrounded the bailey was everywhere crumbling to black shreds, and in at least two places that Gisburne could see had collapsed completely. The castle motte rising above the bailey was lumpy and wrinkled from decades of unchecked subsidence, and the keep that sat hunched upon it – an ancient wooden tower, with sections of wattle and daub – listed alarmingly to the south, its timbers rotting, its plaster cracked and discoloured by age, and in places missing altogether.
“Christ’s boots,” muttered Galfrid as they approached. “It wouldn’t
take much to breach these defences.”
Gisburne doubted the stockade would even keep a dog out.
THE DAY ITSELF had been dismal. The bright, dry weather of the previous week had turned to flat grey, and as they had approached Pendleton a fine, almost invisible rain had begun to fall – not hard enough to drive them to shelter, yet not light enough to have spared them a soaking. It blew about them in the gusting wind like a clammy mist. The road had been endlessly winding, with numerous muddy side tracks that led nowhere – now, not even the rain seemed to know where it was supposed to be going.
As they had plodded along – Gisburne upon his black stallion Nyght, Galfrid upon a new chestnut mare that he had seen fit to name ‘Mare’ – Galfrid had mused upon their new enemy. “So, to sum up... We don’t know his purpose. We don’t know who he is. We don’t even know what he is.” He sighed in exasperation. “All we have are paltry scraps. Bits of cloth and smears of blood. And what good are they? They’re keys without doors.”
Gisburne shared Galfrid’s frustration. If this was indeed war, it was unlike any he had ever known. When he had stood before the army of Salah al-Din at Hattin, or those rebelling against Richard in Angoulême, or the Byzantines defending their homeland, their motivation had been clear. It had been clear in his mind before he had even left on campaign. But this?
Gilbert de Gaillon had always taught Gisburne that killing was incidental to war. A means, not an end. In the case of the Red Hand, they knew much about the means, but almost nothing about the end. There was no clear motive, no pattern by which he could predict his actions. Not yet. But de Gaillon had also taught him to hold his nerve. To let the other make the mistakes. This was what Gisburne knew he must do. And something else, too – something that he had learned from his last visit to Llewellyn.
Guy of Gisburne- The Omnibus Page 47
