It amused everybody greatly, the contrast of “little” and “much”. As a result of it, even John Lyttel himself seemed to grow fond of his long-detested epithet. He was a good man, and kind. There had been tragedies in his life, Micel knew, though he also knew better than to ask about them. Somewhere, he believed, John had a wife, though what had become of her he never found out. His dismissal from the Tower guard clearly rankled with him, and it was only in relation to this that Micel saw him occasionally boil with anger. It had meant him quitting London, for his own good. Perhaps that was where his wife still was, Yet within the man’s being was to be found not a trace of bitterness, no hint of resentment towards those of better fortune.
There were few like him in the band. Every once in a while, Micel tried to imagine what John Lyttel’s life would have been like had he never left his father’s mill, watching the water turn the millstone, heaving sacks of grain off a wagon two at a time, just because he could – wanting for little, questioning nothing. Contented. In his quieter moments, Micel too questioned what his life here was for. Back home, it had seemed a wonderful dream, but now it was real. Too real, sometimes. Then he looked upon the face of Robin Hood, and all doubts melted away. He knew he would die for Robin.
And when he turned, there was Hood – advancing rapidly, a great crowd gathering around him, on his face the irrepressible smile of a man for whom death, hardship and pain meant nothing.
Bodies jostled past, pressing around the newcomer and obscuring his view. He abandoned his fire entirely, and pushed between them, just in time to see Took whip off the blindfold and cut the man’s bonds. The stranger blinked and looked about, apparently shocked to see so many here. But there was a hard look in his eye. He held Took’s gaze without fear.
“It says much for you that you got this far,” said Took. “But that in itself does not make you worthy.” Micel had heard of the spy who had infiltrated the band. It had stung Took deeply. The monk would not be fooled again.
As Took turned, the crowd parted, and Hood – as green from head to toe as an unripe corn stalk – stepped before the stranger. A hush fell as the pair eyed each other. Took stood to one side of his master. Behind Hood’s other shoulder hovered the ghostly figure of the woman known as Rose.
Micel had heard she was a nobleman’s daughter, and that it was partly this that had made Hood’s rescue possible – but then, everyone here had concocted some outlandish story for themselves. Certainly her clothes were fine, if now a little ragged. But they also seemed to hang off her. Either they had belonged to someone else, or she had grown thin since coming here. She edged towards Took, who patted her slender hand discreetly with a fatherly gesture. But no smile disrupted her oddly vacant expression, or brought light to those shadowed, haunted eyes. Today, a purple bruise also extended down her left cheek. Micel had known her first as Marian – but Hood now never referred to her as anything other than Rose. Names changed in Sherwood. Histories too. Here, Robin would often say, there were no rules. One could do, and be, whatever one wanted. For a fleeting instant, Rose-Marian’s sad eyes met with Micel’s, shaking him from his reverie. He briefly wondered whether she had found as much difficulty realising the dream as he.
Hood stood, feet apart, planted his fists on his hips and looked the newcomer up and down. “Well, what’s this?” he said. “A minstrel?” His great, hearty guffaw ignited the crowd, spreading laughter like a fire, and with it went a strange thrill. Of danger – of sudden, infinite possibilities; it was the thrill that accompanied Hood’s every move, and swept all before it. So bursting with good cheer was Hood that he almost seemed a caricature. Something beyond real – a character from a story or a ballad, somehow dropped into the ordinary world. It was not merely strange. It was mad, impossible. But it was also irresistible.
He leaned forward. “Tell me, minstrel, what can Robin Hood do for you?”
“Let me join you,” said the man. His voice was stern. He had an accent Micel could not place. Hood cocked his head on one side, never once breaking eye contact with their unexpected guest – not even to blink.
“An Irishman?”
The man gave a curt nod.
“We’ve had one or two of those before, though never a minstrel. I hear your country’s rich with songs.”
“We have our share,” said the Irishman.
“And do they sing of me there?”
“No,” said the Irishman. Then, after a moment, added: “Not yet.”
Hood chuckled to himself. “A good answer! So, tell me, minstrel, why do you want to join us? Do you think we lack entertainment?” There was a loud chuckle from the back – but the Irishman did not smile.
“Because Prince John and his cronies insulted my people. I would see him rot in Hell – and sooner, rather than later.”
Several muttered in agreement. One gave a muted cheer. Only Hood and those around him remained unmoved. Hood – still smiling his inexhaustible smile – narrowed his eyes.
“That’s why you should join us,” he said. “What I asked was why you want to join us – why you risked your life for it...”
The Irishman stared back at him for a moment, as if uncertain or unwilling to explain. But before he could speak – if he ever meant to – Hood’s attention was suddenly distracted. He took a sudden step forward.
“This instrument you carry,” Hood said. “I seem to have seen its like before.”
“I doubt that.”
Hood’s face fell into a childish pout, but the smile broke out again an instant later. “No, no – I am certain...” He wagged a finger. “It’s Saracen, is it not? What they call al-’ud. Or something like one?”
“With a few improvements of my own,” said the Irishman.
“And you do actually play it, do you?”
A few men sniggered.
“I do,” said the Irishman. But I doubt you want to hear the music this makes.”
“Really? Are you that bad?” There was more laughter at that.
“No, I’m good.” There was no humour in his voice. Without taking his eyes off Robin’s, the Irishman slung the instrument off his back. Hood grinned and clapped his hands in anticipation. But instead of putting the instrument across his chest to pluck at the strings, as Micel had seen other minstrels do, the Irishman held it straight out before him, lengthways, strings uppermost, the body extended towards Hood, the headstock tucked into his shoulder.
Hood looked down at the instrument in bewilderment, uncertain whether the Irishman meant for him to take it, or was awaiting some kind of benediction. He extended his hand – to what end, Micel, and perhaps Hood himself, did not know. In one swift move, the Irishman flipped the instrument over.
There was a collective gasp, and a shout of outrage. All around Micel, knives were drawn, muscles tensed. Only Hood’s raised hand kept them in check. Between the jostling men, Micel saw the source of their shock. Built into the back of the instrument, and almost completely concealed from the front and sides, was a crossbow – its steel-reinforced stock running the full length of the neck, its bow almost the full width of the body. The bow was drawn and cocked; a bolt aimed directly at Hood’s chest.
“Do you still want to hear its music?” said the Irishman. His thumb, Micel now saw, hovered over a trigger set into the instrument’s neck.
Hood smiled. Then laughed. And then he clapped his hands, as if at some entertainment. “Well done,” he said. “A winning performance!” He dropped his eyes to the crossbow, and raised his eyebrows in approval. “Compound bow. Also Saracen, I think. Good choice. Their crossbows are the envy of the West – famed for their power and accuracy.” He spread his arms wide. “Well, you have me. Finish me here and now and you can sing to your countrymen of how you killed Robin Hood!” He looked around at the dozens of weapon points now directed at their guest, each a tongue thirsty for blood. “I fear it would be a short song. But your fame would be assured.”
The Irishman stared at him, unblinking. For what seemed an age t
here was no sound but the wind in the tress and the crackle of the fire. “It’s the last thing I want,” he muttered, then swung the bow about and shot its bolt into the trunk of the lookout tree. Micel felt the mob lurch around him.
“Hold!” bellowed Hood. All froze on the spot.
“I meant only to show my worth. Now you see what kind of minstrel I am. What kind of music I bring. I can be of use to you, or not; do with me as you will.” And, quite unexpectedly, he dropped to one knee, his head bowed.
Hood studied him crouched there for some time, then again began to chuckle quietly. “I like you, Irishman,” he said. His eyes narrowed again. “But before we go further, let us return to your reasons for coming here...”
The Irishman hesitated and looked around, as if, for the first time, uncertain of his position. Then he looked Hood in the eye. “Niall Ua Dubhghail – the one you knew as the Red Hand...” he began. “He was my brother.” There was a murmur. Took leaned in and whispered something in Hood’s ear. Hood smiled, but waved him away. “I come to add my sword to yours, and to take revenge on his killer. John Lackland’s lackey. Sir Guy of Gisburne.”
The murmur grew into a rumble. There was not a man here who did not know that name.
“Don’t you know, Irishman?” said John Lyttel. “Robin has forbidden any man from laying a hand on Gisburne. Those are the rules.”
Hood closed his eyes and shook his head. “No rules, John,” he said. “Not if we decide otherwise.”
John Lyttel looked down at the mud, chastened.
“You are set against him and his Prince,” the Irishman said. “Bent on their destruction. To help you in that goal would be enough.”
Hood frowned a playful frown. “Am I bent on their destruction?” he said. Then he turned to his men, and bellowed: “Well, am I?”
They roared their affirmation back at him, fists and weapons raised. Micel, caught up in the frenzy, cried out with them. As the tumult died down, Hood turned back, his even white teeth bared in a broad, predatory smile. He shrugged, nonchalantly. “It would appear that I am.” The next instant, he turned away again. “Will?” he called. “Will! Get your scrawny arse out here!”
There was a shuffling. Directly opposite Micel, the men stood back, and into the space slid Will Gamewell. He turned a half circle around the Irishman, his black, beady eyes upon him, toying with a notched and rusty knife as he did so.
He was called Will the Scarlet – but none said it to his face, or none but Robin. It did not do to upset William Gamewell. Those who did were liable to wake up with their throats cut. Even in this select company – which had attracted many of the vilest villains in the land – he was regarded with caution, and near universal hatred. Some was the result of pure envy – Robin favoured this lank-haired wretch above all others – but there was no shortage of reasons for hating William Gamewell.
“Will?” said Hood. “You’re an excellent judge of character. What do you make of him?”
Will grabbed a handful of the Irishman’s tunic and pulled him to his feet. He looked the stranger up and down, poked him in the chest with a bony finger, tapped his knife against the purse on the man’s belt, then flicked him on the nose. Those about him tittered. The Irishman’s eye’s blazed, but he did not respond.
Picking dirt from under his fingernails with the point of his blade, Will turned to his master. “He’s a keeper,” he said. Hood grinned broadly and extended his hand.
“Welcome, minstrel,” he said. The Irishman grasped Hood’s hand as those all about cheered and clapped, his face breaking into a smile for the first time.
“There are great things ahead of us,” said Hood, with a wild glint in his eye. “So, now you know our names. Will the Scarlet. Friar Took. John Lytell there at your shoulder” – Hood scanned the surrounding throng – “and where there is Lytell, we must also find Much...” The men laughed. Several stood aside and turned to Micel, who reddened as Hood’s eyes fell upon him. “Hail to you, miller’s son!” Hood said, with a bow and an exaggerated wave. “But you have not given us your name, friend? The one you were born with or the one you wish to be known by, I don’t care which.”
“Ailin Ua Dubhghail,” said the Irishman. Hood frowned fleetingly at the unfamiliar syllables, then his smile returned. He shook the newcomer’s hand with unrestrained vigour.
“Welcome to our merry band, Alan O’Doyle,” he said.
Deleted Scenes
The Red Hand is a looong book. And while we at Abaddon love our books, and love Toby’s prose even more, one of the sadly necessary considerations when publishing a book is always: can we afford to print a book this long? Publishing is a hairy endeavour, when it comes to cost and profit, and when the printing costs and sales figures come head to head, difficult decisions have to be made. After some consideration, we regretfully asked Toby to cut some passages to make the book affordable.
But with the miracle of ebooks, all such considerations go out the window! You, gentle reader, have made the wise decision to purchase the electronic copy of Hunter of Sherwood: The Red Hand, and it is to you that the following passages – think of them as the ebook equivalent of those “deleted scenes” extras you sometimes get on DVDs – are dedicated.
Happy reading.
David Thomas Moore
Oxford
December 2014
Deleted Scene #1
Gisburne’s Speech to Micel
Gisburne’s hatred of the Hood extends beyond their shared history to fundamental philosophy; Hood cares nothing for those around him, and they love him all the more for it, and Gisburne – to whom duty is paramount – despises him for it. This short excision, from Chapter V, has Gisburne excoriating Hood to the impressionable Micel.
GISBURNE CUT HIM off. “King Richard buggered off to the Holy Land with three quarters of your wage and left his brother to take the blame for the mess he had left! You speak of things you do not understand, boy. Prince John had not the power to raise such taxes.”
“But...”
Gisburne leaned suddenly towards him again. The boy backed away. “Do you want to know the worst crime? They have stolen men’s hopes. Tricked them into acts of loyalty, and made dishonest use of the belief that the world can be made better. And what will they do with that? Why, whatever they see fit. And we – fools that we are – will praise them to the skies as they rifle our pockets, and call them heroes, and sing songs in their honour. Die for them, even. And afterwards, they will pick our bodies of whatever meat is left. Hood is a cold-blooded murderer. Richard, too. I have seen the best of men die at their hands – yes, and women and children too. These are the men you hero-worship, boy. If, after that, you still wish to follow their example, then that’s your God-given choice. Just don’t let yourself believe you’re doing your fellow Englishmen a service.”
Deleted Scene #2
Ghost Stories
Toby’s great strength as a writer is his love of the detail – of the homely, day to day business of living – and his books are full of rich, believable and above all fun asides that bring his characters to life. This whole chapter, falling between Chapters XII and XIII in this volume, describes an evening’s leisure for Gisburne, Galfrid and their royal companion.
IT WAS STRANGE to see the Prince outside of his normal confines. Evidently the Prince himself found it strange, too – but he wore it like liberation. Gisburne had feared John would feel vulnerable and exposed on the open road. Instead, he seemed filled with a child-like delight.
“This is the life,” he said with a sigh and a beaming smile. Gisburne and Galfrid exchanged a secret look, and Galfrid stifled a snigger. But, raising his eyes and looking about him, Gisburne felt the Prince was right. The afternoon sun was bright and warm, the breeze ruffling the trees cool and fragrant. The sky was blue and dotted with white scudding clouds. Bees buzzed. Birds sang. They were in no hurry and there was no one to pay them any heed, all troubles – for the moment – forgotten.
Yes, this was t
he life.
Gisburne began to realise that this was the longest time he had ever spent in Prince John’s company. So often, it was a matter of an hour or two, centred on intense discussions of the latest pressing matter. Now, free of the burdens of duty and status, Gisburne saw John as the young man he really was. Such were the responsibilities thrust upon a prince from the moment of birth, that youth – an entire phase of life – was bypassed. Gisburne had to remind himself that John was still only twenty-six.
John rode with ease – a natural. One could ride for hours that way and not tire – but Gisburne had never had any doubts about the Prince’s stamina for the journey. Whilst hardly the strapping physical specimen presented by his great brother – Richard had inherited the imposing height of his mother Eleanor, whilst John had got his father’s barrel-shaped body – John was far from the effete wastrel that his opponents painted him. Not only was he surprisingly robust, he also had his father Henry’s inexhaustible energy. Out on a dawn hunt, Gisburne knew, John would have left his critics standing – would, in fact, still be urging his horse on at sundown when they were fit to drop. John’s fault, if he had one, was that this energy so frequently went unchannelled. He had sometimes wondered what it was that so attracted John to the hunt. It wasn’t the thirst for blood or competition – the Prince enjoyed it just as much if his quarry effected a bold escape. Nor was it the company, nor the need to assert himself before others – he would just as well go alone. Today, Gisburne understood. It was the freedom.
AT THE CROSSROADS near Berughby, the promised inn came into sight. It presented a very different aspect from the last – newly built, freshly whitewashed, a huge pile of logs at one end and curls of smoke drifting from the chimneys. It was backed by thick forest and set back from the road, and before it, on a large stretch of grass, were various barrels and benches, among which a few weary customers were already sitting. A little way from it, close to the place where the two roads crossed, was the blasted stump of what had once been a great tree.
Guy of Gisburne- The Omnibus Page 87
