Galfrid, who had taken the bow back purely in reflex, stared at him in amazement, then pushed it towards his master once again.
“You have need of a powerful weapon,” he said.
But Gisburne did not take it. “And it is appreciated. But it’s not enough.” With firm hand, he again pushed it away.
“It’s the best England has. Your best chance.”
“I don’t trust to chance,” snapped Gisburne.
The bow came back again. “Then what do you trust to? Even the slimmest chance is better than none. You taught me that. And don’t give me all that a bow is not a knight’s weapon shit!”
Galfrid had anticipated exactly what Gisburne had been about to say. Now, thrown back at him like this, the words seemed idiotic, arrogant. Not like his own words at all. “I have not shot a bow since Boulogne,” he said, avoiding Galfrid’s gaze. “That skill is gone.”
“Bollocks. It never leaves you,” urged Galfrid. “And we both know how this is going to go. You will come up against this man again. But you cannot let him get too near.”
“Don’t you think I know that?” snapped Gisburne. “I’m the one who’s seen him up close, remember.”
“The bow is your best chance.” He thrust it hard against Gisburne’s chest. This time, Gisburne took it, flung it upon the ground and turned back to his horse.
In a burst of anger Galfrid snatched it up, and lunged towards his master. “What is it with you? Are you really so pig-headedly proud? Do you want to be killed? Or is there some other fear brewing in there? The fear that using the bow somehow makes you more like Hood?” He roared the last, with such heat that he startled a cloud of crows from the nearby treetops.
Gisburne stood silent, motionless, listening to the mocking laughter of the black birds as they wheeled overhead. The words had hit home. Until now, Gisburne had known only that he felt a deep reluctance to rely on the bow. He had not interrogated that feeling. Perhaps he had not wanted to. But, as he so often did, Galfrid had pinned it.
The squire took a step towards his master, his expression suddenly changed. “I just don’t want you to die.”
Gisburne turned, grabbed the bow with one hand and a blunt with the other, then turned and in one swift movement loosed an arrow into the air. There was an explosion of black feathers and a crow fell spinning to the earth.
“Satisfied?” he said, and stalked off back to his horse.
GALFRID STOOD LONG after the sound of Nyght’s hooves had faded, staring at the crumpled black bird, its feathers fluttering in the gusting wind. Its breast glistened with wet blood. The arrow itself had bounced off. He would retrieve it later.
His attention wandered to the forest’s edge. Gisburne, always self-contained, had of late become an enigma. A Gordian knot of tangled problems. Clearly, the past weeks, and those to come, weighed heavy upon him. But something else was gnawing at his soul. Galfrid did not know quite what – but he had his suspicions. Dickon. Dickon the distraction. Dickon the irrelevance. For good or ill, Galfrid sensed that until Gisburne solved the unsolvable enigma of Dickon Bend-the-Bow, he would never be himself. And if he was not himself, how could he hope to stop their most determined adversary? He had pursued Dickon in the hope that it might help; instead, it was in danger of bringing about his downfall.
A sudden sound made him start. The flap of wing, close by. At first he could see nothing. Then it came again. The crow shifted on the ground – twitched and flapped with sudden ferocious energy. Galfrid stood, transfixed.
Then, as he watched, it flopped, sat upright, shook its ragged feathers and – to his utter astonishment – flew away.
XLV
THAT NIGHT, GISBURNE had a strange dream. A man burning – but not the one he thought. Though the face was indistinct, he knew it to be Thomas of Baylesford, and fought to get to him, his limbs heavy as lead. But then, somehow, it was Hood’s face laughing up at him from the flames, even as his flesh sizzled and blistered and fell away from his bones. And in his hand, refusing to be consumed by the fire, was an arrow. No, not an arrow – a rose.
He awoke suddenly, in a sweat. The dream swirled in his head – some impressions from it still vivid, others already fading. Within the confusion, Osanna’s words came back to him – words that had been clattering around in his head as he slept. Something she’d said about Dickon. Sweet little rose – that’s what he called me. Gisburne sat bolt upright in the dark room, and laughed, loud and deep. In the still of the night, it shook the rafters.
“I’m such a fool!” he said, only dimly aware that he had said it aloud. Then he leapt out of bed and hauled on his boots, hurrying past the chimney breast in a series of awkward hops until he had reached Galfrid’s chamber.
The drowsy squire stirred and propped himself up on one elbow.
“I’m such a fool!” laughed Gisburne, and clapped him heartily upon the shoulders. “The answer was right there!”
“Wha – ?” croaked Galfrid. But before he could articulate anything more, Gisburne, with another great guffaw, had grabbed the longbow from the corner of the room, taken up the quiver of arrows and – still in his nightshirt – was clumping away down the stairs.
GISBURNE STOOD IN the dark silence of the back yard, a bodkin point arrow resting upon the bow. He laughed to himself – then chuckled more at the impression he would have given anyone watching. They would have thought him a madman. But he did not care. So many nights he had sat awake striving to puzzle out the mystery, with no relish for the day to come. But tonight, he was eager for the dawn.
At the far end of the yard came a snuffling. Osekin’s pig was pushing its snout through the loose pickets of the fence, making a bid for Widow Fleet’s emerging turnip tops. Gisburne raised the bow, took aim, and began to draw. As if somehow aware, the pig fell suddenly silent and stood stock still, the white cross upon its back gleaming in the moonlight. Using all his strength, Gisburne drew the arrow to almost its full length. “Not today, Sir Pig,” he whispered, then turned and loosed the shaft into the drying post at the end of the yard.
It split the four-inch thick post asunder and continued into the night, the thunderclap of its impact sending Osekin’s pig scrambling for refuge and setting dogs barking all across London.
XLVI
The Tower of London
17 June, 1193
ONCE MORE, GISBURNE stood before Hood in his cell. This time, it was Gisburne who was laughing. “Dickon...” he said. “Dickon!”
That same look of fear flickered in Hood’s face.
“All this time I was searching for this phantom in the hope that he might in some way help me understand you,” said Gisburne, pacing and turning about the cell as if he were the one caged. “But he was you. You are Dickon!”
Hood merely looked confused, as if he was being spoken to by an idiot. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, old man...” But his fingers fidgeted with the necklace at his throat.
In a fury, Gisburne grabbed Hood’s shackled wrists and hauled him to his feet.
“Of course you do! You know it all. But your lies are catching up with you. And I vow to hasten them upon their course... Geoffrey of Lemsforde called upon you with two of his captains to recruit you for Henry’s secret service. But you declined. Why? Osanna said he seemed to recognise you. But where from? An army from which you deserted? Another life with which you grew bored – which you also left in flames? Not until later did Lemsforde recall where you had met. He came back alone to confront you. A fatal mistake – for him. You set afire the wagon, took your bow and arrows, and were gone.” Gisburne stood for a moment, his face inches from Hood’s. Hood’s eyes remained as empty of expression as a snake’s. Gisburne pushed him away in disgust. Hood fell back hard against the wall, then – chuckling quietly as if this were all part of some child’s game – slid down until he was sitting on the floor. Gisburne turned away, exasperated, and paced the cell. “And then what?” he muttered. “Who did you become next? Robert of Locksley? Or was
there another before that – before we met in Syracuse?”
“Ah, Syracuse!” smiled Hood, and slapped his knee. “Those were good times, weren’t they? Do you remember that Scottish archer with the one eye that looked way off to the left?” He laughed at the memory, shaking his head. “I wonder whatever became of him?”
“He died, Robert,” said Gisburne. “Saving your neck. He scalped a Turcopole who was about to skewer your guts with his lance, then took one of our own incendiary arrows in his back. You left him burning.”
Hood frowned at Gisburne’s words, as if trying to recall a lost dream, and failing.
Gisburne sighed heavily. “Well, there’s no one to save your neck this time,” he said. “And you are the one who will burn.” For all that Hood had done – all the chaos and misery and false hope he had spread – it nonetheless tore at Gisburne. Hood had still been a friend, of sorts. Gisburne was not like him: he could hide his emotions, yes, but not turn them off. In a perverse way, the thought reassured him. “Your execution is now one week away. Your last chance to reveal the truth.”
Hood looked back at him with a vacant expression. “Truth?” he said. He uttered the word as if it were in an unknown tongue.
“What does it matter anyway?” said Gisburne in defeat. “It can’t change anything. Thessalonika. Hattin. Rose.”
Hood perked up at the name. “Rose? Is Rose coming? How wonderful!” He grinned at the prospect, rubbing his hands in glee, his chains rattling, then looked suddenly perturbed. “I really should tidy up in here...”
“She’s dead, too, Robert. You killed her. Don’t you even remember that? That poor whore in Jerusalem whose life you snuffed out? And I helped you bury her. Dear God...”
“No, no... Rose is coming. To see me. You really should meet her, Guy. You’d like her.”
And with that, he began to sing softly:
“There is no rose of such virtue
As is the rose that buried you
Alleluia!”
The song dissolved into another insane chuckle.
GISBURNE DID NOT believe Hood’s mad act – not for one minute. Finally, he was done with him. “No more...” he said, and turned to the door. “You’ll not see me again, Robert.”
But before he could reach it, from the gloom behind him came a peculiar, sing-song voice. “Mis-di-rection!”
Gisburne stopped in his tracks. He turned. “What did you say?”
Hood spread his hands. “Magic tricks. Remember those? I remember them. People always loved my magic tricks.”
“I’ve no time for your mindless riddles,” said Gisburne. He turned again and hammered his fist on the door. “Guard!”
“You see, the essence of a magic trick,” persisted Hood, wagging a raised finger, “is that the most important thing of all is happening while everyone is busy looking somewhere else.”
Then he cocked his head and looked Gisburne straight in the eye. His eyes were burning with a strange intensity. It was not madness, but a fierce and unfathomable intelligence. As it bored into him, Gisburne felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.
“I’ve already wasted precious time looking in the wrong place,” he said. “And seen a life lost because of it. Why are you telling me this now?”
“Because I want to help you,” said Hood, his voice barely more than a whisper.
Gisburne stared at Hood for a moment. His gaze did not falter. In his eyes there was no madness. “How does this help me?”
“Because it’s what you most need to know.” He grinned. “The answers to your questions are far closer than you think.” And he tapped the side of his head.
Gisburne took a step towards him. “What do you mean?”
The thick iron bolt was shot back, and the door creaked open. Two helmeted and armoured guards stood framed within the space it left. Hood raised his eyebrows. “Goodbye, Guy,” he said.
“What does that mean,” demanded Gisburne, “‘closer than you think’?”
But Hood simply sat, and smiled, and bowed his head, and sang quietly to himself.
XLVII
Jewen Street
22 June, 1193
FOUR DAYS PASSED. On three of them, the streets erupted into violent confrontation. None really knew who they were fighting, nor why – but fear fuelled their anger, and opened the door to their prejudices. Two Jews were beaten and left for dead. A burning brand was hurled into an inn where two of the perpetrators were known to drink. It was swiftly extinguished – but still the city smouldered. A red hand print appeared on the stones of St Paul’s. It proved to be paint, not blood – but Gisburne did not doubt that blood would follow.
He and Galfrid, meanwhile, puzzled further over the document. Gisburne quizzed de Rosseley and Prince John about the names it contained – but the questions yielded nothing. And, at Gisburne’s insistence, Galfrid did not search for Ranulph.
“But you said we must find him,” Galfrid had said.
“It is in hand,” said Gisburne, but would say no more. Instead, he had instructed Galfrid to keep up casual contact with Isaac – both to keep him safe, and to make sure he kept him abreast of their investigations. That, Galfrid had done.
Gisburne, meanwhile, practised with the bow. They rode and sparred upon Hamstede Heath, and Gisburne had taken to wearing his mailcoat again – not just for this training, but all day. To get used to its weight again, he said – but these days it seemed wise to go protected. Galfrid had followed suit; they were now on a war footing.
On the evening of the twenty-second day of June, with Hood’s execution date two days away, Galfrid found himself in an inn just off Jewen Street, sat opposite his master.
“So, what are we doing here?” said Galfrid.
“The weapons,” said Gisburne, “did you pack them?”
“They’re with the horses. But why?”
“We’re going to an inn.”
“An inn.” Galfrid looked around him. “Am I missing something?”
“A different inn. One frequented by our friend Isaac.”
“But Isaac is at home this night. He has friends dining with him – to celebrate the last lick of paint going back on his walls.”
“Exactly!” said Gisburne, and his eyes gleamed.
Galfrid sighed. “Do you keep me in the dark on purpose,” he said, “or is it an illness?”
Gisburne leaned forward, and spoke so they might not be overheard. “These past few nights our friend Isaac has been visiting an inn near the wharves at Douegate. Not a very safe place for a London Jew to venture – and certainly not a place of which Elazar would approve. Why do you think he does that?”
“Perhaps he just likes that kind of inn,” said Galfrid.
“It’s not that kind of inn. And anyway, does he look like the sort?”
Galfrid shrugged as if to say: “You never can tell.”
“But there’s another thing...” said Gisburne. “Yesterday – quite independently, it would seem – that same place was visited by another friend of ours.”
Galfrid couldn’t think of any friends; and if Gisburne meant enemies, the list was too long to even contemplate.
“Bearded,” explained Gisburne. “Extremely tall. Likes to put on armour and bash people’s brains in...”
“He was there?”
“And gone again before we could make anything of it. But his being there at all tells us much.”
“You don’t suspect some connection between the Red Hand and Isaac?”
“But there already is a connection.”
“Ranulph?” said Galfrid.
“Ranulph,” said Gisburne. “Consider this: the Red Hand strikes at Isaac’s house. Ranulph runs. He hides out, but also gets word to Isaac to reassure him he is safe. Isaac, who is now regularly apprised of our efforts, arranges to meet him so he can pass on that information.”
“You think Ranulph is at that inn?”
“He has not been seen,” said Gisburne. “Not once. But I would stake my
life on it. The place is a haunt of Hansa merchants. They are a closed community, untouchable by the authorities. I doubt there’s a better place to hide in all London.”
“I’ve heard tell that Baylesford had dealings with the Hansa. And his ship lies at dock a mere stone’s throw away. Perhaps Ranulph means to leave on it.”
“If he hasn’t already,” said Gisburne. “But we find out tonight, come hell or high water.” He sat back and drained his cup.
“So, to go back to my original question,” said Galfrid, “if our business is at an inn down near the wharves, why are we here?”
“We’re here to make sure that Isaac is not there.”
“Well, I saw him not half an hour ago,” said Galfrid, “welcoming his guests. Settling in for the evening.”
Gisburne smiled. “Then we are free to go.” A commotion near the door made both turn, and Galfrid glimpsed the flailing limbs of a familiar gangling figure fighting to get past the mistress of the establishment. “And, if I’m not mistaken, here comes our guide...”
XLVIII
Douegate
22 June, 1193
THE EXTERIOR OF the Hansa’s tavern was black as a crow’s belly. It stood in a dark, cobbled street just where the River Wallbrooke flowed into the Thames, and was built of the thickest timbers Gisburne had ever seen – some carved with the shapes of outlandish maritime creatures. From within came the muffled drone of dark, unfamiliar music. But for a single white gull, the street itself was utterly deserted, as if everyone in London knew something about it that Gisburne and his squire did not.
Guy of Gisburne- The Omnibus Page 77
