Hamon, still panting, shook his head. “I ain’t seen ’im. But someone ’as. I ’eared sumfink. Sumfink like you said about. A terrible attack, last night, wiv flames and a man all done up like a scaly beast.”
Gisburne and Galfrid looked at each other. “Where?” said Gisburne
“A castle. Other side of the river. King Stormont, it’s called. Belongs to a knight – John de Wassailly or sumfink.”
Gisburne’s face turned ashen. “John de Rosseley?” he ventured. Galfrid recognised the name as one of those above the dancing men on the wall.
“That’s the one,” said Hamon.
“Christ...” said Gisburne. He stood upright. “Not Ross...”
“You know him?” said Galfrid.
“The finest knight I ever knew,” said Gisburne. There was torment in his eyes. “Christ Almighty... What have I done?”
“What have you done?” said Galfrid in bemusement. “You didn’t do anything.”
Gisburne gave a sharp, anguished laugh. “Exactly! I just let it happen. Sitting here on my stupid arse...” He kicked the stair in fury. It sent such a shudder through the house that Widow Fleet’s startled head reappeared from her rooms – just in time to catch a powdering of the plaster dust that rained down.
“What in heaven..?”
“Not now, Widow Fleet!” bellowed Gisburne. She immediately withdrew. “Hood taunted me, you know – told me right to my face it’d be a shame to see more good men killed. And still I couldn’t stop it. Too busy playing it like some game...”
“But he’s not killed, sire,” said Hamon. “That’s just the fing! He’s alive!”
Gisburne stared at him in astonishment. “You’re certain?”
“That’s what they said. Alive and well!”
“Who said?” asked Galfrid. “How did you come by this?”
“There’s a tavern where a load of Frenchies hang out – knights and toffs and wossnames. Dimplemats.”
“Diplomats?”
“That’s the one. I know’s a lad works the kitchens. Speaks Frenchy. Has to. ’E was there when someone came with the news. There was a French lady at the castle, see. Someone important. It’s ’er they was most worried about. But ’e – Sir John – ’e fought the demon off...”
Gisburne looked heavenward. “God bless you, Ross, you old bastard!” He smiled and clapped Hamon on both his shoulders. “You too, Hamon!”
“I ain’t no bastard, sir!” said Hamon with a frown.
“No, of course not,” said Gisburne. “Apologies to your mother and your father. Here...” – and he pressed another penny into his palm – “You stay here. Don’t move. There will be more to come if you help us further.”
“Aye, sir,” said Hamon. Gisburne, in a state of high excitement, turned and vaulted up the stairs two at a time.
“THIS IS GOOD news,” said Galfrid as Gisburne stuffed his scattered gear into a saddlebag. “At least, I think it is...”
“It’s the breakthrough we needed,” said Gisburne. “We were dreading the next attack, even though we knew we were dependent upon it. But this time – thank God – he missed his mark. No one died.”
“It was indeed fortunate,” Galfrid said with a nod.
Gisburne looked suddenly shamefaced. “Ross always was blessed with more than his share of luck,” he said. “But I’ll not trust to it again.”
Galfrid shrugged. “Sometimes, it’s all there is.”
His master nodded, and gave a tight-lipped smiled. “He’s not invincible, Galfrid...” he said, with a renewed fire in his eyes. “Here, take this.” He thrust a bag of coins into Galfrid’s chest. “Tell Hamon he can earn himself all the pennies we have – his friends too. He knows what we’re looking for – tell him to get as many others on the lookout as he can. They will be our eyes and ears across the city. No one notices these urchins – they’ll be able to go everywhere. Hear everything. Tell Hamon he is to be in charge. That we are making him their captain.”
“And you?”
“I’m leaving for King Stormont,” said Gisburne. “To meet with the one who faced the Red Hand and survived.”
XXVIII
King Stormont Castle
24 May, 1193
KING STORMONT CASTLE was a miracle of modern design. Describing a perfect circle, its crenellated stone walls sat like a crown atop a neat, conical mound on the hill overlooking the hamlet of Brimthorpe. While not as lofty as the castles of old, the mound’s sides were steep – their length exaggerated by the deep dry ditch surrounding them.
The circle was broken in only two places. As Gisburne had approached from the north-west along the Kent road, the low evening sun turning the stone to a blaze of gold, a simple, square tower had projected from the curved body of the castle on the western side, like a rectangular jewel set upon a golden ring. This, he guessed, was the chapel.
On the far side of the circular battlement, almost directly opposite, was the gatehouse. Of similar dimensions to the chapel, it opened onto a bridge across the ditch, which led into the bailey. Gisburne entered from a gate in the south-east. Armed guards at the entrance studied him as he passed.
Inside the bailey, surrounded by neat stone walls, was a community that easily rivalled Brimthorpe in size. There were stables, a bakery, kitchens, a brewhouse and a smithy – each of which he identified as much by their smell as their appearance. They all appeared newly built and well maintained. There was also a great hall of adequate proportions, and neat, orderly housing for the workers of the castle’s household from the steward down, many of whom now scurried about, fetching and carrying pots and platters – the wreckage of the evening’s formal meal in the castle overlooking them. Among the castle’s beetling servants – dressed plainly, but all well-presented and scrupulously clean, and all with a clear sense of purpose – Gisburne noted a few in a contrasting, more opulent dress, and apparently less familiar with their surroundings. These were, without doubt, the retainers of de Rosseley’s current guest.
As he walked towards the great crowned hill, the space suddenly opened out to reveal something quite at odds with its modest surroundings: a training ground the likes of which Gisburne had rarely seen outside the great castles of Normandy. There were pells and quintains, butts for archery, a field for the joust, jumps, tracks and obstacles to challenge both horses and men, even a pair of wooden towers upon which to test siege and defence tactics – and all set in space sufficient to allow for the hosting of an entire tournament.
Tournaments had long been banned on English soil – one of King Henry’s measures to re-establish public order after the horrors of Stephen’s reign. Although the pitched battle of the mêlée was undoubtedly valuable preparation for knights who had not yet seen battle – and an equally valuable income for many who had – Henry had never been afraid to go against wider opinion. In France and beyond, the Conflictus Gallicus had never waned – and expectation was high that if Richard ever returned to these shores, so too would the tournament. It was bloody, it was brutal, and the people loved it.
Gisburne had never participated in one, and now had little desire to; when his knighthood had suddenly been denied him, he had been forced into a different life, with harsher battles. But before that, as a lance-carrying squire, he had supported de Gaillon at the lists on more occasions than he could count. The last time he had met de Rosseley – over seven years ago in France, when he was en route to Sicily, and de Rosseley was heading the opposite way, to England – his old friend had been as infatuated with the tourney as ever. Judging by the ground before him, nothing had changed.
The castle now rose before him, asserting without dominating. Its lines were simple, but beautiful. In size it was generous without being overbearing, its dimensions balanced and pleasing to the eye. Its defensive capability was, nonetheless, formidable – all the more so for not having been overcomplicated. Unlike so many castles in Gisburne’s experience – square, dank, draughty dungeons of places, for the most part – it also looked like somewhere
one might actually wish to live, and in comfort.
Its crisp stonework was also entirely new. Had Gisburne come this way just five years ago, so a local blacksmith had said, he would have seen nothing here but a dilapidated square keep, a wooden palisade and the bare beginnings of a stone gatehouse. No expense had been spared in bringing it to its current state – though Gisburne had seen far more costly piles which lacked such clarity of vision, and whose meandering building works had plodded along over decades.
All together, the castle created a vivid impression of its young lord.
At the gatehouse, Gisburne dismounted and presented himself to the guards. Their captain was courteous but wary, requesting details of his business. Behind him, members of his guard – fully armoured, some with weapons drawn – kept their eyes on him at all times. Given the outrage of the previous night, he could hardly blame them. This time, he was content to wait whilst his name and mission were conveyed to their master. Within moments, de Rosseley’s steward appeared, to escort Gisburne to his master. “Sir John has already retired to his chamber,” he said, his angular face giving nothing away, “but I am to take you there directly.”
Gisburne nodded and followed behind as a groom led Nyght away to food and water.
Within, the castle opened into a great circular courtyard, now cast into deep shadow by the failing light. What normally would have been a wide open space – room enough to train a horse – was today taken up by two wagons of considerable quality and sophistication. The larger of them – emerald green, picked out in gold – was of such luxury it made Prince John’s look like an ox cart. They also had an exotic air about them – curtains and carvings looked, to Gisburne, to be Arab in style, while other touches were distinctly Byzantine. Clearly, de Rosseley’s guest was someone of note.
About these, a number of servants moved with seasoned efficiency, securing things for the night, preparing for the morning. One – better dressed than the others, in a finely tailored green tunic, with fastidiously coiffured black hair – bowed low to Gisburne as he passed. His face – or manner – seemed familiar, but Gisburne couldn’t place him. Moments later, he was gone.
“Tell me,” said Gisburne, as they neared a door on the courtyard’s far side, “is Sir John well?” Only now, moments away from the meeting, was he suddenly struck by the need to be prepared for what he would find. He knew only what Hamon had been able to tell him – that de Rosseley was alive, but no more. But was he crippled? Insensible? Either could be possible.
“He is well,” said the steward. It was as bland and generic a statement as one could possibly have. They entered the doorway and began to ascend the stone stair.
“I was thinking of the attack made upon him...” pressed Gisburne. “I hope he suffered no ill effects.”
The steward nodded. “My lord came through unscathed,” he said.
Gisburne breathed a sigh of relief. It seemed a remarkable achievement. Almost inexplicable. One moment, the Red Hand is an unstoppable force. The next, he’s seen off without landing a blow. What made this attack so different?
The stair led to a curving corridor. The steward stopped at the first door, pushed it open, and stood aside with a bow.
AT THE FAR end of the dimly lit chamber, dressed in a nightshirt and shrouded in deep shadow cast by the curtains of his bed, lounged John de Rosseley.
“God’s hooks! Guy!” he exclaimed hoarsely, and rose unsteadily to his feet. Gisburne smiled – de Rosseley always had enjoyed his wine.
“Still a blasphemer, eh, Ross?” he said striding towards him.
“Ha!” De Rosseley waved a dismissive hand. “D’you really think I’d have lasted this long if my ways offended the Almighty?”
As Gisburne neared, de Rosseley stepped forward into the light – and Gisburne was shocked at the sight of him.
Guy of Gisburne had no views on God’s will, but he meant what he had said to Galfrid. John de Rosseley had been blessed with good fortune all his life – so much so that in battle other men felt their chances of survival increased simply by standing alongside him. He also emanated a boundless optimism that inspired others, in ways Gisburne had never quite managed. Few in his experience had. While there were many knights who were as indefatigable as de Rosseley – and many more who had his irrepressible humour – those who also had the skills to back up the swagger, and to survive, were few indeed. It was a combination Gisburne had seen in only one other man: Robert of Locksley, now known by the name of Robin Hood. They shared many similarities, now Gisburne came to think of it. Irresistible charm, awesome skills, a seemingly inexhaustible energy – not just of body, but of mind. But, for all his bravado, de Rosseley had one quality that nature had seen fit to deny Hood. A sense of honour.
The battered figure that stood before Gisburne now, however, hardly had the look of a lucky man. Nor did it in any way bear out the steward’s claim. Barely an inch of his visible flesh was its right colour. His left eye was black and swollen like a rotten apple. His bottom lip was split and crusty, every knuckle barked and ragged. There was a wide gash on his forehead, onto which some greenish-brown, foul-smelling sludge had been smeared. Below the scraped chin, the exposed part of his neck and shoulder showed an emerging bruise of vibrant blues, purples, browns and yellows, hinting at worse beyond. Gisburne was appalled at the severity of them. Never had he seen bruises yellow so fast. De Rosseley’s left shoulder was strapped up, and the way his right arm was folded about his side, which he tried to protect from movement, made it clear to Gisburne that some of the bones were broken. He had favoured his left knee as he stood, in a way that betrayed damage to his right. Gisburne supposed he was, at least, lucky to be alive.
De Rosseley, indifferent to his injuries, clapped his arms around Gisburne then stood back to look at him.
“How long has it been? Six years?”
“Nearly eight,” said Gisburne. “Though if I’d known you had this fine place I might have come sooner.” But he was aware that his own smile had quite fallen away. He looked back to the door where the steward still lingered, and shot him a reproachful glance.
De Rosseley followed his gaze. “Food and drink for our guest,” he called. The steward bowed and withdrew. “Sit down, Guy, for God’s sake. I’m not royalty.”
Gisburne pulled up a wooden chair. De Rosseley eased himself back down onto the bed, now less able to hide his agony. “Christ, Ross,” said Gisburne, “what the Hell happened here? That damned steward of yours said you came through last night unscathed...”
“What?” De Rosseley frowned. He looked back at his unexpected guest with genuine bemusement, as if the mention of “last night” meant nothing at all – as if Gisburne were speaking in a completely foreign language. After what seemed an age, the fog lifted. “Oh, this...” He gestured vaguely to his injuries. “No, no – I got these last week.”
Gisburne stared at him, dumbfounded. “Last week...?”
“A tournament,” said de Rosseley. He took up a goblet from beside the bed and supped a generous draught. “Cressy or Croissey, or some such place. I forget. I do so many.”
“Jesus...” said Gisburne. “You volunteered for that beating? Is is worth it? You look half dead.”
He eyed Gisburne up and down again. “Says the man dressed like a scarecrow. What in God’s name is that monstrous coat anyway?” He leaned forward to see it closer, then coughed, and winced in pain, and lowered himself to the bed once more. “These are the wounds of victory, not defeat. That always makes the pain bearable. And yes, Guy. It is worth it. As you see...” He spread his hands, indicating the stone walls that surrounded them. “Not a bad haul this outing. Captured and ransomed four knights. Won their horses and armour. Two Frenchies, one Austrian, one Byzantine.”
Gisburne raised his eyebrows at the last.
“I know,” said de Rosseley. “Random. Spectacular horse, though.”
“Carry on like this,” said Gisburne, “and you’ll have to build bigger stables.” If you l
ive long enough, he thought.
De Rosseley snorted dismissively. “You don’t think I’d actually pay to have that horseflesh shipped over here? God, no! Sold them back to their former owners on the spot. Once the knights had been sold back to their owners, that is. Brought back a tidy sum in silver.” It was becoming clear to Gisburne how his host had acquired the funds for such a magnificent pile. De Rosseley sniggered. “Should’ve seen their faces. They could’ve killed me.”
“I’m sure that’s exactly what they have in mind,” said Gisburne. “Watch yourself, Ross. You’re not as young as you used to be.”
“You’re hardly a lad yourself, my friend.” De Rosseley smiled, then took another swig and narrowed his eyes. “Prince John’s man now, eh?”
Gisburne nodded.
De Rosseley began to laugh, and clutched at his side as he did so. “Guy of Gisburne, a lackey for Lackland! Well, I doff my cap to you, sir. How is the old bugger, anyway?” Gisburne could not suppress a smile at the word old. John was all of twenty-six. “Does he still favour silk undergarments and garnish his extremities with gold like a Byzantine whore?”
“As to the latter,” said Gisburne, “I could not possibly comment. As to the former, perhaps you would like me to put the question to him when I return to London?”
“Do!” It was issued almost as a challenge. “I’ve heard he stays in bed all day long and has a bath at least once a week.”
Gisburne rolled his eyes. “Stories, Ross – just stories. You know how people are.”
De Rosseley sighed. “He never was going to be the popular one of that brood, poor bastard.” He forced himself to sit up, and nudged Gisburne on the knee. “From what I’ve heard, though, you’ve been doing great things...”
“You heard that?” said Gisburne. He was not used to people having heard things about him. It made him uneasy.
“The capture of Hood. Everyone heard about that. Good job, old man! And there’s plenty more besides...” Gisburne decided to move the conversation on before de Rosseley had a chance to elaborate.
Guy of Gisburne- The Omnibus Page 63
