Gisburne drew it out, and held it aloft in triumph. “This is what I sought...” he said.
“A nail?” said the bemused Steward.
“A horseshoe nail,” replied Gisburne. He looked the steward in the eye. “Thank you,” he said. Sincere as his expression was, Gisburne’s tone carried a finality whose significance the steward did not at first grasp. “You may leave us now,” added Gisburne. The steward shuffled, bowed, and edged away.
The moment the steward was out if earshot, Gisburne turned back to his squire, his eyes burning with a new fire. “A man who wields a hammer. Who uses charcoal and fire. And this...” He held the nail up between thumb and forefinger.
Suddenly, Galfrid understood. “A blacksmith...”
“A blacksmith who has made himself armour. Who has the skill to fashion a helm into the head of a beast. And this oilcloth...” Gisburne held it out again. “Weathered.”
“A tent? Cover for a wagon? A sail, maybe?”
“Whichever way you look at it, a traveller. We know he’s been on the move these past weeks. And that his appearance, when he strikes, is startling. Terrifying. Yet he moves unseen. Day to day, his appearance is nothing out of the ordinary.” Gisburne’s words were rapid, tumbling out of him.
“He would need the means to carry this armour. And to live and make his fire. He has help, maybe?”
“No,” Gisburne shook his head vigorously. “He works alone.” He held up his hands. “I know, I know – I speak from pure instinct now. But I’d stake my life on it, Galfrid. This armour of his... He builds a fortress around himself. I’ve seen other such men. They are solitary, trusting no other.”
Galfrid puffed out his cheeks. “Then he must have a horse as extraordinary as himself. How could any carry such weight?”
“What if it is not a horse?” said Gisburne.
“What else could it be?” said Galfrid.
“No horse was ever seen. He was always on foot.”
Galfrid spread his hands apart in exasperation. “But how else could he have got to John’s chambers in Nottingham so soon after the slaying in the woods? He got there ahead of Wendenal’s guard, even though they were riding full tilt. What other way is there? Wings? Sorcery?”
“Misdirection...” said Gisburne. “Not sorcery. A trick.”
“A trick..?”
“What if we’re looking at this the wrong way around? What if the parchment had been there all along – if he had placed it there before the attack? These are not random actions. He plans ahead. With meticulous precision.”
Galfrid rubbed his chin. “Then... His transport would not need to be fast at all.” He thought at once of the tracks that de Mortville’s men had found – and dismissed – that same morning. “A wagon...”
Gisburne nodded. “A wagon capable of carrying such a man, and his armour, and his tools.”
Galfrid stared out across the flat marshy plain, the previous day’s fog now completely burned away by the sun. He laughed to himself. “An itinerant blacksmith...”
“Whitesmith, too, perhaps,” said Gisburne. “Not a sorceror. Not a dragon. A common tinker.”
“A distinctive one, though, if he is indeed a giant.”
“Hard to hide on foot, but not so much when hunched upon a wagon. He’s invisible, Galfrid. The very antithesis of his monstrous disguise. A thing so ordinary, so banal, it is completely overlooked, even when it’s in plain sight.”
“My God,” said Galfrid. “We might have seen him on the road. At some wayside inn. We would never have known.”
“We have to hope he was as oblivious to us,” said Gisburne. “That he still believes John to be travelling with his entourage. Nothing suggests otherwise.”
“At least we know what we’re looking for.”
“And if we can tackle him in that guise, while he is divested of his metal skin, we know we can capture or kill him.”
“But if we don’t?” asked Galfrid. “If chance doesn’t put him in our path before he comes looking for John? Before he disappears into the swell of London?”
At that, Gisburne said nothing. His head was held low, his brow furrowed deeply. It was a moment before Galfrid realised his master’s attention was focused on the scrap of oilcloth. “These numbers must tell us something...” he muttered.
“Or they’re the ramblings of a madman,” said Galfrid. “Fifty-four, fifty-nine, thirty-nine...”
“No, the other way” said Gisburne, distractedly.
“What?”
“The order you said is the order we encountered them, not the order in which order they occurred. Thirty-nine was on Whitsunday, and fifty-four – Wendenal – upon Mayday. But Walter Bardulf was the first, five days before that.”
“Fine,” said Galfrid. “Fifty-nine, fifty-four, thirty-nine... But what does that tell us? We know who – after a fashion, at least. But when are we going to know why?” He threw up his hands again. But when he looked at Gisburne again, his master’s expression had suddenly changed. He was staring into the middle distance, his furrowed brow flattening as his eyes grew wider.
“Galfrid,” he said. “When is Whitsunday?”
Galfrid looked back at him, perplexed. “Are you mad? It was yesterday. I know your grasp of time is poor, but even you can’t have forgotten that day...”
“But how do we decide when it is?”
Galfrid shrugged, baffled by the line of questioning. “It’s fifty days after Easter.”
“And Lent? How long is that?”
“Forty days, from Ash Wednesday to Holy Saturday. But...”
“And Christmastide?”
“Twelve days.”
“Exactly.” Gisburne’s eyes blazed. “We count the days,” he said. “Do you see? He’s counting...” It was as if, in Galfrid’s mind, pieces that had previously been obscure were suddenly shifted into their proper relationship. Thirty-nine had occurred fifteen days after fifty-four, and fifty-four five days after fifty-nine. They were days. Numbers of days. And they were going backwards. Counting down. But to what?
Gisburne’s face, momentarily one of triumph, suddenly fell. “What day is this?”
“Monday. The day after Whitsunday.”
“No, the date...”
“The seventeenth day of May.”
Gisburne stood motionless, his hands frozen mid gesture. “By Christ...” his face paled. The fingers of his right hand tightened into a fist about the nail. “It can’t be.”
Galfrid’s mind was racing – calculating. “What? Can’t be what...?”
Gisburne turned and looked past him, all sense of triumph gone. “We must gather John tomorrow and get him to London with all possible speed. No more delays. No more pretence. And I must speak with Llewellyn.”
“Counting to what?” said Galfrid.
But Gisburne, lost in thought, would say no more.
XVIII
The Great North Road
18 May, 1193
THEY STOPPED ONLY once more before London. Three miles from the Templar town of Baldac Mare’s shoe had finally given out, and after an hour seeking out the one blacksmith still working during the Whitsun holiday, they had finally fallen into an inn for the night – despite Gisburne’s reservations about the place. He did not relish the company of Templars.
For the past few days Gisburne had been possessed by a growing sense of dread. It was not just the attack at Clairmont – although that had snapped him out of any possible complacency. Even before this, he now realised, he had felt things closing in around them. Now he knew their luck, such as it was, was running out – that it had been running out from the moment they had set foot upon the road, like the sands in Llewellyn’s cherished hourglass.
Before Baldac, a peculiar event had occurred that had impressed this fact upon him.
They had been approaching a village in the southernmost reaches of Huntingdonshire when Gisburne had left the company and diverted briefly from the road – once again without explanation to the Prince
or his squire. This time, however, Galfrid had spied the intricate mark – painted in white on a tree – as he did so.
“So, who is it?” Galfrid had said upon Gisburne’s return.
“Who’s what?”
“Who is it leaving the messages?”
Gisburne sighed. His squire was no fool. “Llewellyn,” he said, with a sigh.
Galfrid nodded, his eyes still fixed ahead. The Prince chuckled with delight. “So, Llewellyn leaves a message, marks the way to the spot with his astrological symbols. You pick it up, and thus are aware if there has been any incident with the wagon train up ahead. Correct?”
“Exactly that,” said Gisburne.
“Ingenious!” John laughed again. “And has there been any? Incident, I mean?”
“None,” said Gisburne. “But after Clairmont...” He did not complete the sentence. Gisburne had not told John everything about Clairmont. Most, but not all. Not about the numbers, nor the date to which he believed they led. He would tell him, but not now. Not while they were still on the road – still vulnerable. His instinct was to keep things contained, and controlled.
It was plain that the Red Hand was moving south. Heading for London, Gisburne was certain. If so, for reasons best known to himself, he had stayed his hand – against John, at least. Or the one he thought to be John. The outrage at Clairmont had just been a reminder – something to tease and spur them on their way. Gisburne did not doubt that by now the train, too, would have heard the news and picked up their pace. He thought again of John’s unfortunate decoy, cowering in his carriage, and hoped the man – whoever he may be – was well paid.
“Why didn’t you just tell me?” said Galfrid, gloomily.
“You didn’t need to know,” said Gisburne.
“Don’t you trust me?”
“Of course I do,” said Gisburne. “I didn’t wish to burden you with it.” In truth, Galfrid’s question stung him – but he wasn’t sure if he was feeling slighted, or just plain guilty. He could hear the sullenness in his own voice, and that irritated him, too. “Well, you know now, anyway.”
Galfrid sighed and nodded.
It had seemed John might take up the cudgel then – but a sound, coming and going on the wind from the village ahead, prevented him. A moment later, all thoughts of argument were forced from their heads.
THE WHOLE VILLAGE – which Gisburne later learned was named Evretoun – seemed in a state of celebration. The sound of their joyous singing – men, women and children all together – rose and fell on the air long before its source came into sight. When it did, Gisburne saw a great throng of people gathered upon the village green – the whole community, it seemed – their throats filled with song as they prepared for some kind of revelry. At the centre of the green the maypole stood, still adorned with wilted spring flowers – but a little distance from it, something new was being constructed. And it was this that was the focus of the activity. Some women gathered bundles of sticks, which they ferried towards it. Others sat in a circle about a pot and prepared food. The menfolk, meanwhile, were busying themselves at the site of the new structure, chopping, sawing and hammering, children and dogs capering about as they did. And all sang at the top of their lungs, each saw stroke, hammerblow or swing of an axe in time with their jaunty song.
“Can you believe this?” said Gisburne.
“Not entirely,” said Galfrid.
“Such joy!” said John surveying the sunny idyll, his eyes glittering with delight. “Now, this is what England is all about...” As the tune went round for the third time, they found themselves finally able to make out the words:
Robin’s in the green-a
Fa la-la la-la laa!
His bow is ever keen-a
Fa la-la la-la laa!
His merry men are seen-a
Fa la-la la-la laa!
Dancing in the green-a
Fa la-la la-la laa!
Gisburne felt his limbs tense involuntarily. Nyght skipped in response. John looked to him, holding up a reassuring hand. “It’s just a song,” he said. “Nothing more. Just a song...”
Gisburne knew it was true. In all likelihood they would just as happily be singing about gathering blooms in May, or a shepherd and his sheep. Doubtless many knew little or nothing about the man they called Robin Hood. Yet Gisburne could not remain as sanguine as the Prince. The plain fact remained, this was the song they had chosen to express their contentment today – the song that brought them together, and made young and old feel as one. Yes, just a song; but it was never just a song. Behind it lay something far deeper, and more troubling.
THEY CONTINUED TO ride slowly by, a handful of the villagers looking up and cheering or waving as they did so. John could not resist waving back, his smile beaming, his head rocking in time with their music. As they rode on, Gisburne suddenly noted a single point of discord amidst all the merriment. Beneath a tree, sat apart from the rest, three women were sewing, their expressions an odd mix of shock and grief, as if they had recently suffered some great mortification. One had a bruise upon her cheek, and swollen left eye. Over them stood a man with his arms folded and an expression like thunder.
Gisburne felt Nyght quicken slightly. Ahead and opposite the green was an inn, and outside it a broad trough of water. All took the opportunity to dismount and stretch their muscles as their horses drank.
“What do you suppose this is all about, anyway?” mused John, gazing across at the structure – which thus far consisted of little more that a rough-hewn post some twenty yards beyond the maypole. “A wedding, perhaps, or...”
At that moment, a young man came hurrying out of the inn clutching a bucket before him, its contents – apparently ale – slopping about and splattering the dusty road as he did so.
“You there!” called John. The man looked about, as if momentarily convinced John must be addressing someone else. “What is it you celebrate here today?”
He gave a broad, gap-toothed smile. “We caught ourselves a villain! Red-handed.” He said. “A scarlet one!”
Gisburne’s heart missed a beat at the words. A scarlet villain. Red-handed. Surely that would be too good to be true.
“What manner of man is he?” he said.
“See for yourselves,” said the man, indicating ahead, where the road curved away, out of sight. “’E’s in the stocks round by the crossroads, awaiting justice.” He turned as if to go, then stopped and turned back again with hatred in his eyes. “Just make sure and kick some dirt in his face or whip ’is feet as you pass.”
“Awaiting justice?” said John. “But the stocks are a punishment in themselves...”
The man laughed. “Well, we wasn’t about to let that one wander about free.” His expression grew suddenly serious, and he drew himself up. “There was those was for hangin’ him there and then. But we says no – it’s got to be done proper. So our protector, Lady Isabel de Clare, Countess of Pembroke, God bless ’er” – he crossed himself – “is sending her man to mete out justice to ’im. And that is a meat we shall all savour, and no mistake!” He chuckled at his own joke.
De Clare. Gisburne knew that name well. His father had mentioned it often in his youth. It had been in relation to Lady Isabel’s father, Richard de Clare, known to all as ‘Strongbow,’ who had been a thorn in King Henry’s side when Gisburne was a lad of no more than nine or ten. Richard de Clare, so Gisburne had since learned, was Earl of Striguil and Earl of Pembroke – though Henry had stripped him of the latter title. He had ventured to Ireland with great ambitions, and little to hold him back. There he had married Aoife, daughter of Dermot MacMurrough, the deposed King of Leinster. MacMurrough’s fee was help in restoring his crown – but before long, de Clare had set his sights on making himself king of that place. His army was formidable, bolstered by a contingent of Welsh longbowmen against whom, it seemed, nothing could stand.
Henry, whose grip on Ireland was tenuous at best, watched matters develop across the Irish Sea with increasing disquiet. The
re were negotiations with de Clare. For a time Gisburne’s own father must also have been caught up in it, for he spoke of it often. Finally, his patience gone, Henry had invaded Ireland – but by then, Gisburne’s father had stopped speaking of the matter altogether.
Henry’s ultimate solution had been to keep his enemy close. De Clare’s daughter Isabel became a legal ward of Henry II, who kept a close watch over her inheritance. She was one of the wealthiest heiresses in the kingdom, owning land in Wales and Ireland and numerous castles on the inlet of Milford Haven, including Pembroke Castle. She had also inherited the titles of Pembroke and Striguil.
Gisburne’s father occasionally joked that Isabel would make a fine match for his son. But that was a vain hope. Never one to allow his possessions to lay idle, Henry’s heir, Richard the Lionheart, had married off the seventeen-year-old Isabel to William Marshal within a month of his coronation, elevating the landless knight to the nobility and making him one of the richest men in England. William was twenty-six years her senior. Widely considered the epitome of the knightly virtues, the man who would become known simply as ‘the Marshal’ was also the most humourless, insufferable, self-righteous bore Gisburne had ever had the misfortune to meet. It was said he was the only man ever to unhorse the Lionheart, whilst campaigning for Henry against his rebellious son. He had spared Richard’s life, but killed his horse to prove the point. This act secured William an even greater reputation – and the respect of the man he knew would soon be King. On the whole, Gisburne would rather have seen the horse spared – better yet, that King Stephen had carried out his threat to launch the boy William from a trebuchet during the siege of Newbury Castle.
“Of what does this man stand accused?” asked John.
Guy of Gisburne- The Omnibus Page 55
