Guy of Gisburne- The Omnibus

by Toby Venables

  At the sound of hurried, soft-booted feet upon the frosty ground, men all around Hereward tensed. Spears and axes were gripped more tightly. Took turned and raised a hand, indicating that he wished no weapons to be drawn. From a narrow path though the spiked tangle of bough and shrub hurtled a gangling figure, crossbow slung low, his long hood flying behind him. There was sweat on his brow, his red, watery eyes bulging. He had evidently been running.

  “They’re coming,” panted the newcomer, approaching Took on heavy feet. The monk gave the man a clap on the shoulder, and the exhausted lookout plodded on, melting into the throng.

  Took turned and exchanged some hasty words with Marian – too softly for Hereward to catch. She seemed to protest. Took’s response this time – gentle, but firm – was audible. It was not safe for her to be here while the meeting was taking place, he said. He made it seem utterly reasonable – caring – but Hereward suspected other motives. Perhaps the monk wished to avoid her being seen by their guest; perhaps, also, to shield her eyes. A lady of her standing might prove crucial to their cause – that, Took understood well – but, committed though she was, Hereward doubted she had the stomach for all they were prepared to do.

  Marian glanced nervously the way the lookout had come – her face flushed, her eyes as wide and alert as a doe’s – and without further question was led away beneath the large, protective arm of John Lyttel.

  Took turned and braced himself. They could hear horses: at least a dozen. Took had taken a great risk, exposing them in such a way. None of Hood’s party were mounted. Great though their numbers were, twenty knights could cut them down at such close quarters. Hereward had seen that happen, in other lands, under a different banner. Those with bows might get off a shot if they were lucky. But by then the horsemen would be upon them. This was meant to be a peaceful parley, of course, but there could be none here who were not thinking the same thoughts.

  No one spoke as the pounding of hooves on hard earth neared. Suddenly, they were there. Grim-faced, hard eyes glinting beneath battle-scarred helms, the twisted braids of their beards and hair falling over blackened mail and thick studded leather. Hanging about the broad backs of their short, stocky ponies were swords, axes and rounded wooden shields with battered iron bosses, their boards painted blood red – some bearing symbols: a raven, a great hammer, a skull – one, a fantastical image of a horned god upon a nine-legged horse.

  Norsemen. Pagans.

  This was not what was expected. Hereward felt the man next to him take an involuntary step back; several more did the same. Took glared at them. They held, but only just. Someone made a strange, constricted sound, as if the air had grown too thick to breathe. Hereward was thrust back to a dreadful day in Aquitaine, when he had stood amongst men paralysed by the certainty of their imminent death – by a fear so immediate and tangible that men had choked upon it.

  The Norsemen spread out as they advanced, rearranging into a tight horseshoe facing Took’s men. And then, into the midst of them, emerging like a ghost from the black gloom of the forest upon a moon-white destrier, came their guest.

  At the sight of him, there were gasps. One man whimpered. Somewhere, a child wailed in terror and was hastily whisked away.

  The figure sat a full head higher than his guards. He was tall and thin, a long dark cloak hanging about him, its hood framing his face. Or at least, what should have been a face. For within the cowl there were no features of flesh – just a blank, eyeless face of metal.

  The mask was simple and functional: a straight slit for the mouth, two circular holes for eyes, two smaller holes beneath the slight bump of the nose. It was a face that neither smiled nor frowned – devoid of expression, doggedly resisting all attempts to read within it some intimation of humanity.

  There could be no doubting his identity now. The White Devil. Tancred de Mercheval.

  As one, the Norsemen dismounted. They moved ahead of their mounts as Tancred slithered from his saddle, their stone-grey eyes fixed on their ragged hosts. Hereward had heard that Tancred’s views were now so extreme – heretical, most would say – that he trusted Christians least of all. In his twisted world, Christians were simply further down the path of corruption. Heathens were closer to God. And so Tancred had drawn his personal guard from the remote islands where the Norse – renowned for their boldness and savagery in battle – remained resistant to Christian ways.

  Hanging back at the mouth of the path, still mounted, were three more knights, their faces hidden within dark cowls. Knights of Tancred’s new order. What these men had been required to do – or sacrifice – to earn a place in this warped brotherhood, and how any survived in such poisonous, life-sapping company, Hereward could not imagine.

  The Norsemen stopped, Tancred within their defensive circle, his blank face turning slowly. Finally, it fixed on Took.

  “I am here.”

  From any other mouth the words would have seemed absurd. But none laughed. The sound of Tancred’s voice, like steel against stone, chilled Hereward to the marrow.

  Took smiled with the same warmth he had given Marian, and spread his arms, his eyes glinting with irrepressible zeal. “Welcome... Welcome! This is indeed a great honour. A great honour...” He almost chuckled with delight. “I have long admired the boldness of your ideas. They proved an inspiration to me when I was a lost soul. But I wish you to know that in addition –”

  Tancred’s raised hand silenced him. “Save your flattery.”

  Took, mouth still hanging open, stared at him, waiting for what utterance was to follow. But nothing came. He looked flustered, his prepared speech in ruins, his hero showing not the slightest interest in him. But Took remained the most pragmatic of men, not afflicted by an excess of self-doubt. And so he nodded, straightened, took a deep breath, and got down to business.

  “A man came to our company, calling himself the Red Hand,” he said. “He risked much to find us. But he sought information. He had also heard of certain... events... with which you were involved. He wishes to learn from them.”

  “What is this man’s education to me?” said Tancred. His voice, muffled by the mask, was a low hiss – barely more than a whisper. Yet it touched every ear like an icy wind.

  “The Red Hand wishes destruction upon someone. This also suits our purpose. And, I believe, yours too, my lord...”

  “I am no one’s lord,” snapped Tancred. “There is only one worthy of that title.”

  But Took, the wind now in his sails, ignored the rebuke. “This enemy is common to us all – a pest we would all rejoice to be rid of. Certain information that only you can supply will give our ally an advantage in his quest. Our quest... Such is the reason I contrived this meeting between us.”

  The monk thrust his hand beneath his cloak, then, and drew out a small, yellowed, tube, barely larger than a child’s little finger. He held it out, taking a step forward as he did so. The Norsemen tensed, their hands going to their weapons. Took stopped, his arm outstretched. “I will not speak the name openly,” he continued. “It is writ upon this parchment.”

  For a moment, there was only the snorting and stamping of the horses. This, Hereward sensed, was the moment in which Took’s fortunes – perhaps the fortunes of all within this lonely glade – would be made or lost. In the long silence, as Hereward’s eyes roved about Tancred’s Norse warband, he noticed that warrior nearest Took wore a necklace of small bones, just visible between the braids of his beard. They were human finger bones.

  “You dress as a man of God,” said Tancred, finally.

  “Yes,” said Took, holding his head up.

  “And yet you choose to fight amongst these... people.” Tancred looked about him at those gathered there.

  Took rose to the challenge. “Eat, sleep and fight,” he said. “And proudly so.” He raised his voice and gave a glance about as he proclaimed this. But none were bold enough to respond.

  “If you wish to fight for God, why did you not join one of the military orders? Th
e Hospitallers? The Templars?”

  “Their fight is not my fight. And this battle they take to foreign lands is mere distraction, a diversion from what is most pressing to us all. And an affront to the Almighty.”

  “You are aware that I was accepted into the Order of the Temple, and have been their fiercest advocate?”

  “I am,” said Took, still confident. “As I am aware that you outgrew them. That you left them behind. And you were right to do so.” He hesitated for a moment, as if uncertain whether to continue. “They have lost touch with the true meaning of Christ’s message. Become corrupted, rotten. Slaves to material wealth and earthly power.”

  Silence. Took stood, his confidence now seeming to waver every bit as much as his still-outstretched hand before the implacable, unreadable steel visage. Then, from within the mask, came a weird sound. It cut the cold air: a dry, rasping croak, like a death-rattle. Hereward shuddered involuntarily. It was a moment before he realised it was laughter.

  “You answer well, monk,” said Tancred. “So tell me – who do you fight? Princes? Barons? Bishops?”

  “All,” said Took.

  For a moment, Tancred stood motionless, silent, the expressionless holes of his eyes fixed upon his host. From beneath the mask was uttered a word Hereward did not understand, and the Norseman with the bone necklace took the parchment, and passed it to his master.

  Tancred held it aloft, and regarded it between thumb and forefinger. “Before I read this,” he said. “I would have you know the nature of this alliance you now seek to forge.”

  Hereward, puzzled by the words, did not see Tancred’s free hand pull at his hood. He was aware only of the dark fabric sliding off smooth metal. What was revealed was more than a mask. It was an iron skull – solid plates, shaped and joined by rows of rivets, covering the whole of Tancred’s head. Down the left side – the side Hereward could most clearly see – were catches, to allow the faceplate to be opened or removed.

  Then he saw Tancred’s left hand go to the side of his head, and with a shudder realised what the rebel Templar meant to do.

  There was a sharp click. Then another. The whole of the expressionless face jolted, then with a grating squeak of metal against metal, swung open.

  “Look into the face of Death,” said Tancred.

  The assembled company gasped. Took’s eyes bulged. Hereward heard himself utter a plea to God.

  Within the metal helm was a living skull, its dark flesh burned and withered until it barely covered the bone, its lips drawn back across blackened teeth, its lidless eyes staring. But even this was not the limit of the horror. The two sides were somehow misaligned, as if a giant had taken hold of the head – palms upon its ears, thumbs upon its cheeks – and made a crude attempt to twist the two halves apart.

  Hereward had seen hundreds, perhaps thousands of corpses in his time. He had seen mutilation from the battlefield that had so distorted and disfigured the victim as to render them unrecognisable to their own kin – at times, hardly recognisable as human. But he had never witnessed anything like this. It seemed inconceivable that life could continue behind such a shattered visage. It was a face that belonged in the grave. In Hell.

  “Many men have tried to destroy me. All have failed. I now stand as embodiment of a truth that cannot be denied. This is the reality of our material existence: pain, defilement, decay. All else is illusion. Know that I have no interest in your petty politics, your childish arguments, your pointless quests for what you call justice. These things are meaningless to me, as one day, they shall be to all. They merely prolong the death-throes of this irredeemably corrupted world – a world whose end I wish only to hasten.” Tancred turned his head slowly, so all present could see. “This is the one whose help you now seek. Do you still desire it?”

  Hereward detected fear in Took’s eye. But the monk fought it down. He clenched his fists and pushed out his bearded chin. “We do.”

  Whether that was the wish of all here, Hereward seriously doubted. But there was no going back now. Tancred’s thin fingers unwrapped the tiny scrap of thin parchment. The glassy, staring orbs of his eyes scanned its mottled surface.

  A crow called, distantly. Tancred’s eyes seemed suddenly to blaze with a cold fire, and for a moment, Hereward thought he could detect some mockery of a smile upon those devastated lips. Tancred crushed the scrap in his palm, and looked up once more. “I will help you.”

  A palpable sense of relief swept the crowd. Took himself clapped his hands together, and almost laughed.

  Hereward’s relief, however, was far greater than any there that day. In that one moment, with a sense of finality that almost made him weep, he realised his mission really was at an end. In recent days, he had ascertained what Took wished to achieve by using the Red Hand, and when it was to occur. He now knew of Tancred’s involvement, and if he was swift could bring about the rebel Templar’s capture whilst he was still in England. He did not have the name that was writ upon the parchment, true, but it was a mere detail. He would not wait for that. The first moment he was able, he would go directly to the Sheriff in Nottingham with his information. He would leave Sherwood and all these months of lies and restraint in this borrowed life behind him, and be Hereward no longer. He would see the wife who thought he was dead. And – praise God! – he would have a bath. His heart thumped and his head swam at the thought.

  “There is one matter that must be dealt with first,” said Tancred. Hereward looked up as a hush fell over the throng. Took was nodding slowly, his head downcast. Hereward looked around, and saw that others were as baffled as he.

  “We must thank you for the information you’ve given us,” said Took. The monk’s voice was grave, but it almost seemed there was a note of sadness in it. Took breathed deeply, lifting his head and his voice, then, as if to banish his suddenly sombre mood. “It shall be dealt with here. Now.”

  With that, Took turned towards his men. His eyes, glittering in the cool light, moved methodically from face to face, scanning each in turn. Men shifted nervously as the gaze passed. Some began to mutter. Took’s eyes drew closer – met with Hereward’s. Hereward stood straight, defiant, determined to hold the monk’s piercing gaze until it had moved on.

  But it did not.

  Took, staring fixedly at Hereward, raised his right arm, his finger pointing, his expression cold. “Him,” he said.

  All eyes turned upon the object of his gaze. Space cleared as those closest to it backed away.

  And then Hereward knew he was dead.

  LIII

  The Tower of London

  23 June, 1193

  LATE UPON ST John’s Eve, Guy of Gisburne and his squire Galfrid presented themselves at the gates of the Tower of London. The guards at the gatehouse – several of whom now knew Gisburne by sight, and who greeted him genially – were just as reticent as ever to admit them. Now, at least, they had the courtesy to obstruct him with apology and regret, and Gisburne understood, finally, that their hands were tied – that it was Fitz Thomas, and no other, who determined to make his life difficult. Finally, the gates creaked open, and Gisburne – longbow over one shoulder, quiver hanging at his saddle – rode into the castle ward with his squire at his side.

  And thus it was that the great longbow returned to the Tower.

  Within the castle, all was the same as ever. Grooms and servants went about their business as if this day were no different from any other. It seemed impossible to Gisburne that life here could carry on in a state of such total oblivion.

  There was, however, one deviation from normality. At the centre of yard, before the keep’s west wall, a scaffold was under construction. Hood’s scaffold. Before it stood a beaming Fitz Thomas, admiring the work as if it were all his own idea, and his own sweat. So low had the man now fallen in Gisburne’s opinion that he found himself unable to believe the Lieutenant capable of admiring things in any other way. It was his – in fact, or by some imagined right – or it was nothing.

  “Magni
ficent beast, isn’t it?” he called across to Gisburne with a smile. The hearty relish with which he regarded this instrument of execution made Gisburne feel sick. He and Galfrid dismounted, and the squire led the horses away to the stable. “I imagine you have come to see that all preparations are in order for tomorrow?” said Fitz Thomas. “The big day! Well, I can assure you they are. And what is more –”

  “I have no interest in what is happening tomorrow,” interrupted Gisburne. “Only in ensuring we reach it.”

  Fitz Thomas guffawed as if Gisburne had made some unintelligible theological pronouncement of dubious scholarship, pulled a face at one of the workmen, who laughed dutifully, then looked back at Gisburne. “Well, God willing,” he chortled.

  “It’ll take more than God,” said Gisburne. “We need men. Armed and ready. For tonight he will come.”

  Fitz Thomas stared at him with what Gisburne finally realised was a kind of pity. The Lieutenant laughed as one might laugh at a deluded infant, or a particularly dim dog. “Are you still fretting about this Red Hand of yours?” Gisburne half expected to receive a pat on the head as he said it. “This is the Tower of London!” As if this, and this alone, were the entire answer to the problem, Fitz Thomas spread his hands wide and chuckled ever more heartily, catching the eye of one of the carpenters upon the scaffold as he did so. The man joined his laughter, and one by one, his fellows joined him.

  Gisburne’s patience was gone. Today was the last day. Perhaps the final time he would ever see the Lieutenant of the Tower. He would not be missed – and Gisburne no longer cared much whether he offended him. But he did need his co-operation until this thing was done.

  That morning, as predicted, Mélisande was gone. How, he would never know – years of practice creeping past armed guards, he supposed. Then he had gathered his things, ensured that money was left for Widow Fleet should he not return, and as much for his own sake as his host’s, he had washed his walls clean. All of those obsessive marks – all the words, numbers, pictures and plans – were now meaningless. Now, there was only action.