“Someone tell me what happened,” said Gisburne.
“The Red Hand hit us hard,” said Ranulph. “No mercy this time.”
“My fellow Hospitaller, Sir Robert of Oglethorpe, lies dead upon the stair,” said Theobald. “Smashed beyond recognition. We could not even move him.” He shook his head in disbelief. “I have never seen such complete destruction of a man with a single blow.”
“I was the lucky one,” said Ranulph. He looked downcast. “But he dragged John with him.”
Gisburne clenched his fist and slammed it against the stone wall. “I’m a fool,” he said. “Now I have John. Well, now he has. Because I led him here.” It was one of the oldest tricks there was: to draw your enemy out, to weaken them by threatening something they valued, and for which they were prepared to take risks. It was how Richard had taken Taillebourg, ignoring its unassailable walls and instead ravaging the villages around until the army within could take no more, and rode out to their villagers’ defence. It was their doom. In his eagerness to protect a man’s life, Gisburne had committed the same blunder – and condemned him.
“I should’ve seen it,” he said. “Trusted my instincts. Trusted that he was safe.”
Mélisande placed a hand on his shoulder. “It’s not over yet,” she said. He looked her in the eye. It was just the kind of thing de Gaillon would have said. Just what he needed now.
“There’s blood here and on the stairs,” said Galfrid. “And it leads up.”
“We think it may be John’s,” said Mélisande.
Galfrid shrugged. “Whoever it belongs to, it’s left a good trail.”
“That is unlucky for him, then,” said Ranulph, as if trying to rise above his injury.
Gisburne shook his head slowly. “It’s not luck. He means for us to follow. He is clever, and he fears nothing. I do not believe he even expects to get out of this alive.”
“Do you think John still alive?” said Mélisande.
Gisburne nodded and stared at the floor, stained with blood. “For now.”
Theobald jabbed his sword point at the thick wooden post in frustration. “What kind of enemy is this? You said he had come for you. But he has had two chances to kill you.”
“Three,” said Gisburne. “And you’ve seen what he can do. He wasn’t fighting us before. He was toying with us. Herding us. Making sure we did exactly what he wanted. Just like he made sure I was here tonight.” He looked up above. “There is no question he means to kill me. But there’s something he wishes to show me first. Up there. On the battlements. That’s where I must go.”
“But if that is what he wishes...” said Theobald.
“The time for wishes and choices is past,” said Gisburne. “That’s where this will end.”
“Well, what’re we waiting for?” said Ranulph. He struggled to his feet, looking as determined and battle-ready as ever – but it was clear his fight was over.
“You must stay,” said Gisburne. “We’ll come back for you when this is done.”
“I will not stay,” growled Ranulph. “I still have one good arm – and I learned to fight with both!”
Gisburne put a hand on his shoulder. “Too many men have died already,” he said. “Too many I failed to protect. Let me say I saved one, at least.”
Ranulph tried to protest.
“Please,” interrupted Gisburne. “For my father’s sake. You saved his life. Let me repay that debt.”
Ranulph held his gaze for what seemed an age, then sighed and nodded slowly. “Give him Hell,” he said. “And give them reason to remember the name Gisburne.”
Gisburne turned to the others. “We move up to the battlements in three groups.” He turned to Mélisande. “Take Ranulph’s place with Otto.”
She pulled him to one side. “Why me?” she whispered.
“I need someone there I can trust. Someone with a strategic mind.”
“Are you sure you’re not trying to get me out of harm’s way? Trying to protect me? I don’t need that.”
He moved closer to her. “Nowhere will be out of harm’s way up there,” he said. “And when he comes, I don’t want you behind me. I want you behind him. Ready to take him. Because I know you can.”
He turned to the others. “Are we ready?” All nodded in acknowledgement. “Then we go.”
LVII
GISBURNE AND GALFRID emerged from the tower to find the Red Hand waiting. He stood mid-way along the north wall, stock still, like some monstrous pagan effigy, his black scales gleaming in the weak moonlight. About his neck, Gisburne now saw, was a necklace of severed human hands.
His hammer stood idle upon the flagstones, next to his right foot. One great, steel-clad arm – his left – was folded across the chest of a quivering figure in fine blue robes, now torn. The other hand held a sword, taken from the dead Hospitaller, its blade across his prisoner’s throat. Prince John.
The remainder of Gisburne’s army – Mélisande and Theobald, Otto and Forkbeard – had also emerged onto the battlements from the other towers. None dared move.
Gisburne put his bow down upon the stone walkway and held up his hands to show they were empty. “Please,” he said. “Spare him. It’s me you want. Take me. My life for his.”
Mélisande, standing on the walkway on the far side of the monster, gasped in horror.
“Please,” he implored. “I beg –”
But before he could complete the sentence, the Red Hand drew the full length of the blade across the Prince’s throat. Steaming blood cascaded from the gaping wound, splattering upon the stones. Clutching at his neck in a horrid, convulsive gesture, a thick gurgle bubbling from his glistening throat, the Prince collapsed to his knees, then keeled over, his head hitting the stones with a sickening crack.
“No!” cried Gisburne, lunging forward. But as he did so the Red Hand took up his hammer, then plucked up the body of the Prince as if it were a doll, and with it raised over his head and charged towards Mélisande. She threw herself down against the parapet as he thundered straight past, and with a roar hurled the body of the Prince from the west wall. Blood spattered as it spun in the air and plunged the hundred feet to the earth below.
All set about him without restraint. Theobald’s brother Hospitaller was the first to him, sword raised ready for a crushing blow – but the Red Hand’s hammer was already on the move. It swung, struck and demolished the knight’s head, flattening his helm. He collapsed, instantly dead, blood pumping from the ruptured, misshapen metal. Forkbeard, meanwhile, had rushed forward with astonishing speed, and looked about to leap upon his foe when the hammer swung back again. With amazing agility, Forkbeard dodged the blow, and dropped against the parapet, one hand upon the crenel. Continuing on its course, the huge hammer smashed into the stonework – and crushed the German knight’s hand. He howled in agony, rolling on the walkway, as on one side, Mélisande and Galfrid, and on the other, Theobald and Otto, closed in.
Gisburne, now the furthest from the fight, gathered his wits and laid an arrow upon his bow. A blinding light lit up the battlements as fire shot from the Red Hand’s left arm and set Theobald ablaze. Gisburne took aim and loosed his arrow at the Red Hand’s eye slit. The great monster turned as the screaming Theobald charged past him, and the arrow clanged against his helm, glancing off and sending him momentarily reeling.
Theobald collapsed to knees at Gisburne’s feet. Gisburne pushed him to the ground and rolled him over and over until the flames had ceased, but it was too late. Theobald of Acre was now no more than a smoking corpse.
Gisburne heard the clatter of great impacts, and looked up to see Galfrid raining blows upon the beast’s helm with his pilgrim staff. Breaking through that thick helm was a forlorn hope – but Gisburne could see Galfrid’s plan. As the Red Hand staggered, dazed by the ferocious impacts, Otto and Mélisande were closing in on either side.
Otto, advancing from behind in the Red Hand’s blind spot, swung his great two-handed sword at the killer’s neck, striking with
shuddering force. The Red Hand roared in pain – but stood as firm as a tree. In a rage, he swung wildly, his hammer battering Otto about the shoulder, smashing the bone. Then he grabbed the big German, flinging him onto the roof of the chamber below, and in the process knocking Galfrid almost off the parapet and sending Mélisande sprawling past him on the opposite side.
Gisburne was racing to their aid around the narrow stone walkway when the Red Hand turned and advanced on Mélisande. Gisburne, flying past her, threw down his bow and dropped into a ball. The big man stumbled over him and came crashing face down upon the stones – narrowly missing Mélisande. In a moment, she was on him, knife drawn, heaving up the metal plates and stabbing between them. He wailed and hurled her off; she staggered and fell, and was knocked senseless against the parapet.
Gisburne took up his bow and turned to see the Red Hand already advancing on the unconscious Mélisande, his left arm raised. He meant to burn her. Two thoughts flashed through Gisburne’s mind: that he was tiring, for he was not using his hammer; and that Gisburne would never reach her in time. He drew an arrow, heaved the heavy bow, and shot at the Red Hand’s broad back. It shattered against the armour and the Red Hand was knocked almost off balance. The big man turned to face him. He shot another. Then another. With each he advanced, and with each the Red Hand staggered and cried out from the impacts. One stuck fast in his shoulder.
But still the Red Hand did not stop.
And now he raised his left arm again, ready to incinerate Gisburne. Suddenly Gisburne saw the weakness – and the opportunity. He loaded an arrow, aimed it at the copper siphon, and let go.
From a distance of mere handful of yards, the arrow hit its mark. The arm jolted – a jet of bluish flame leaping from the pierced container and striking the Red Hand in the face. He roared, momentarily blinded, one of his weapons now useless.
Gisburne had only seconds before the other was brought to bear. Their earlier encounter in that muddy lane came back to him – and he charged at the towering figure.
Launching himself, he flung his arms about the metal giant, forcing him backwards towards the parapet, the tongue of flame still licking from the ruptured siphon. The big man crashed against the stonework and swayed dangerously over the precipice, his breaths – inches from Gisburne’s face – coming fast and loud inside his helm. For an instant, Gisburne glimpsed an eye glinting within the metal shell.
He could no longer swing the hammer. But that was not the end of him.
WITH A SUDDEN sense of panic, Gisburne felt himself being lifted. There was crushing pain as the great hands gripped him, and as he fought to free himself, the Red Hand heaved his whole body above his head. Fighting for breath, Gisburne swayed upon the Red Hand’s extended arms, and gazed down at the straight drop from the battlement to the earth below.
He blinked, strangely calm, staring into the abyss, the hiss of the Red Hand’s sulphurous flame in his ears.
Then a small object, no bigger than a finger, fell out of the pouch on his belt. It bounced upon the Red Hand’s helm and lodged between its spikes.
As the Red Hand’s arms flexed, Gisburne reached down, took up the small, papery tube, lit it from the siphon’s flame, and thrust it into the helm’s eye slit.
There was a brief moment in which the Red Hand exclaimed wordlessly, sparks fizzing from the eye-hole. Then a dull boom, like a clap of thunder inside a barrel, shook his every bone.
The Red Hand staggered, trails of smoke issuing from the eyes and nostrils of the dragon helm. He let his burden drop the wrong way, and Gisburne bounced on the stone parapet and twisted over the edge. As he fell, his left arm flailed and hooked around the merlon, and there he hung, a hundred feet up, legs flailing, suspended by his bad shoulder.
Above him, in the gap of the crenel, he saw the Red Hand swaying, still stunned by the explosion. With his last ounce of strength, Gisburne reached up with his right hand, wrapped his fingers about one of the metal scales at the small of the Red Hand’s back, and heaved for all he was worth.
The big man tottered backwards, stopped momentarily against the stonework, then began to tip. He tried desperately to right himself. But all that weight was now on the move, and would not be stopped.
Gisburne watched in a kind of detached horror. The huge figure tumbled over, past Gisburne – then, inexplicably, swung and dangled there. The great hammer was hooked over the crenel like a grappling hook, only the strip of leather looped about the man’s wrist – stretched to its limit by that huge weight – keeping him from oblivion.
Gisburne heard an entirely new sound from the terrifying figure: a human sound. The sound of fear. In response to some instinct beyond his understanding, Gisburne reached out his free hand – to what end, he did not know.
Then the strap gave.
The Red Hand plunged over the west wall and into the night, leaving a glowing trail of blue-white flame in his wake. Gisburne, swinging a hundred feet from death, watched as the flame grew smaller in the darkness, only dimly aware of the hands reaching out to him in aid.
Then came the sickening, crashing thud, and the light was extinguished.
LVIII
THE SURVIVORS OF the Battle of the White Tower stood beneath the west wall of the keep, gazing at the shattered, ironclad body of the Red Hand. None spoke.
He was face up, his limbs neatly splayed, as if he had just laid down to rest. Fragments of his armour lay about him, flickering with the reflected flames of the fire ship and the torch that Gisburne held in his hand. The copper siphon upon his arm was now crushed beyond recognition – the sharp smell of fuel pervading the air, its slick sheen covering portions of his metal shell. Four yards away, his great hammer – which had tumbled after him – was embedded in the earth. His dragon helm had come loose in the fall and was lost in the night. The face was as so many had described – bearded and shaggy-haired – but it was not at all as Gisburne had imagined. Not the face of a monster, but of a young man. Features that in Gisburne’s mind had been brutal were soft and open, almost child-like. But for the smudge upon his cheek where Llewellyn’s black powder had left its mark, and a trickle of blood from his mouth, one could believe him in a peaceful slumber.
At the sight of it, Gisburne – utterly drained – dropped to his knees upon the damp earth. As he looked into that face – hauntingly familiar, though seen for the first time – he wondered why so many of his victories filled him with such bitter sorrow.
SOME DISTANCE AWAY, a small group of people was gathering, at least half of them Tower guards. All stared down in disbelief, paralysed by what they saw. A woman wailed and sobbed uncontrollably.
Gisburne stood and moved to join them. Galfrid and Mélisande followed his flame.
This body contrasted in every way with the other. It was face down – broken and contorted and covered in blood. Gisburne nudged the body with his foot and rolled it over, to a collective gasp of horror. As the head lolled back, the slashed neck wound yawned open like a lipless mouth. The woman’s sobs pierced the air.
Gisburne drew his torch closer to the face. As he did so, Galfrid frowned. Here were John’s clothes, John’s hair and complexion, John’s stature. Even, somewhere behind the terrible injuries, John’s face. Yet as they looked upon him now, in the full light, all began to understand.
It was not John.
“Behold, Edric, son of Ælfric,” said Gisburne. “A weaver from Pocklington who had the dubious honour of looking every inch like our noble Prince.” This was the man who had taken John’s place with his entourage on the journey from Nottingham, who had caused Gisburne and the real Prince to be kept waiting outside the Tower gates. As the truth was revealed, a murmur gradually rose. None now knew whether to rejoice or to continue mourning.
“Then where is Prince John?” said Galfrid.
“Hidden with Llewellyn in the bowels of the castle,” said Gisburne, “accompanied by the last two members of his bodyguard. It is a place none but a handful of people know. I had thought i
t prudent to consider additional precautions should our defences be breached.” He sighed heavily as he looked upon the battered body. “I gave him the choice. At least, I hope I did. He knew of the dangers. Yet he accepted the task without question.” This man – this humble weaver, who had cowered in his wagon from Nottingham to London – was, Gisburne thought, one of the bravest men he had ever met. He only wished he could have saved his life, instead of hastening its end.
“Misdirection...” he muttered, to no one but himself.
THE SPELL WAS broken by the jovial tones of Fitz Thomas, as he bustled over in a state of self-important jubilation, his hands held aloft in triumph. Behind him scuttled a hunched servant bearing a tray of cups and a flagon.
“A great day!” Fitz Thomas proclaimed, rubbing his hands in glee. “The fire is contained, the Red Hand vanquished and I hear now that the Prince yet lives! A great day indeed!”
“A great day?” said Gisburne, barely able to conceal his disgust. “Six men lay dead. One of them at your feet.”
“Ah, yes, of course,” huffed Fitz Thomas. “Very sad. Tragic. Yes.” He grinned once more, his token grieving completed. “But a victory! Still a victory! And so here...” Turning to the servant, he took up the flagon and filled a cup with wine. He thrust it into Gisburne’s hand, then proceeded to fill another. “I think you have earned this, my friend. So let us drink to success, and –”
Fitz Thomas never completed the sentence. When he looked back on it, Gisburne would recall a distinct sound which, had he not been distracted, he might have identified. But all he knew at the time was that sudden stop, and a weird look of surprise upon Fitz Thomas’s face. The flagon tipped in his hand, splattering wine upon the earth, then both flagon and cup were dropped. He staggered forward a step, blood appearing from nowhere on his white surcoat, and spreading from the centre of his breastbone. There were screams. His eyes bulged. His throat gurgled. More blood frothed and cascaded from his contorting mouth, and with a sickening crunch, the gory spike of a polearm burst from his chest.
Guy of Gisburne- The Omnibus Page 85
