They dismounted and led their horses to the long trough next to the log pile. The animals drank thirstily. As Galfrid went ahead to arrange lodgings and food and Gisburne hung feedbags about the horse’s heads, John wandered out to the stump and sat himself upon it. The blackened wood presented a perfect seat – flat on top, but with a large section that had split off the main trunk on the forest side, and which now served as a backrest.
Gisburne did not take his eye off the Prince. As soon as he was done, he moved to join him, his eyes scanning the handful of guests as he passed. He’d rather leave their valuables with the horses than leave John unaccompanied. But none took any interest beyond the occasional nod or smile as he caught their eye. No one here was looking for any trouble – certainly not with the likes of him.
“Not exactly a throne,” said Gisburne as he stood alongside.
“One takes what one can get,” said John with a wry smile, and sat back, looking out across the road and fields beyond as if it were his new domain.
Moments later, Galfrid returned.
“We’re in luck,” he said. “Plenty of room for the night, the food is wholesome and I can vouch for the ale.” He wiped his lips. “There’s a good smoked ham and some fine aged cheese,” he added – then seemed to remember himself. “Unless...” he looked at the Prince, suddenly uncertain.
“Unless...?” said Gisburne.
“Unless we mean to observe the fast,” said Galfrid. “It’s Whitsunday Eve.”
Gisburne looked at Galfrid, then at the Prince, then back again. “What’s the alternative?”
“Vegetable pottage,” said Galfrid. They stood in silence for a moment.
“Well, if no one else is going to say it, I will,” said John. “I want ham and cheese, even if it means eternal damnation.”
“And the landlord will serve it?” asked Gisburne.
“I caught him picking at the ham,” said Galfrid. “He’ll serve it.”
Gisburne nodded. “Ham and cheese it is, then.”
John clapped his hands, rubbed them together in satisfaction, then stretched out his legs with a contented sigh. “Let’s sit out a while. It’s still early, there are hours before we need to be abed and it’s a fine night. Have the food brought out here.”
The last was issued as a command. Though spoken without any hint of harshness or disdain, it was a sudden reminder that John was unused to doing things for himself. Gisburne looked at Galfrid and gave a shrug, then, looking about, headed towards the log pile. He returned with two stout logs, each long enough and wide enough to sit upon, and set them down before John. Galfrid, meanwhile, tamped down the grass within the rough triangle formed by the three improvised seats, then headed off to fetch their bags as Gisburne dumped down another armful of logs in the space.
“What’s this?” said John, with a bemused smile.
“For the fire,” said Gisburne, heading off to fetch kindling.
“But it’s not even cold!” protested John.
“It will be,” called Gisburne.
AN HOUR LATER, as the sun was dwindling to a thin slash of blood red across the horizon and the air was growing cool, they were sitting around the cheering blaze, eating bread, ham and cheese and drinking good ale. Galfrid had not been wrong about that. Gisburne had learned that the squire was never wrong where drink was concerned. Several of their fellow patrons that evening had looked askance at the ham and cheese as it passed by, then turned back gloomily to their meatless pottage. But Gisburne didn’t care. He didn’t think God did, either. The fire popped, the flames bathing their faces with its warm light, the air fragrant with woodsmoke. Crows called distantly in the cooling air. From somewhere deep in the wood, an owl hooted.
These were the simplest of pleasures – but, right now, they seemed worth more than all the riches on earth. Gisburne withdrew his knife from the flames and ate the piece of smoked ham and melted cheese off its point. As the fragrant morsel hit his tongue – almost too hot for it – he felt a kind of rapture.
There had been only one curious thing to mar the idyll of the evening. They had been awaiting the arrival of their food. Galfrid had just struck a spark upon a tuft of wool from his flint and steel – a process that had much fascinated John – and the fire was beginning to crackle into life. They had suddenly been aware of a figure standing motionless, some fifteen yards from them – a scrawny looking man with long, lank hair. The sallow skin of his face was deeply pitted by a strange pattern of scarring, a relic of some childhood ailment. From the recognition on Galfrid’s face, Gisburne supposed this was the innkeeper – though none of them had seen him approach.
“Begging your gentlemen’s pardon,” he began.
“No need to beg,” said John cheerfully. “Come closer, enjoy our fire.”
The man did not move. “I come only to say that since you are to be guests beneath my roof tonight, you should know that I shall be bolting the doors before turning in.”
“Bolting?” said John, with some surprise, and looked right and left along the length of the road. “Are there outlaws hereabouts?”
“Not outlaws,” said the innkeeper. For a moment, it seemed the man was to say nothing more, but after a lengthy pause he added: “There are things I would rather keep outside, that’s all.”
John nodded as if all made perfect sense. The innkeeper returned the nod awkwardly, then turned and sloped away.
John raised his eyebrows. “It appears we are to be kept secure tonight.”
Gisburne was not apt to criticise anyone for the way they wished to keep their house. If the man wished to lock his doors, or throw them wide open, or ride about naked on a pig, that was his own concern. What struck him, though, was the man’s expression as he had addressed them – inexplicably hovering between anger and fear.
While these thoughts had played in Gisburne’s head, a maidservant – the innkeeper’s daughter, Gisburne guessed – had brought the food out to them upon a board. It had apparently taken some persuasion on Galfrid’s part to secure this small service, and she had seemed nervous as she approached – something to do with it being a fast day, perhaps. In softened mood this night, had felt a pang of sympathy for the girl, and attempted a reassuring smile – then had caught sight of the innkeeper watching from the doorway, his face now creased into scowl, and reined it in. The girl, her face flushed, had, at any rate, not been encouraged by Gisburne’s effort – nor by John’s cheery exclamation of delight. Still looking unaccountably perplexed, she had stopped some ten yards from where they sat, and – as if afraid to break their circle, or even approach it – had set the board down where she stood.
John had frowned at that. With a laugh and a hand extended in paternalistic welcome, he had urged: “A little closer, if you please! We’ve only just got comfortable...” The girl looked panicked, lifted the board, advanced it all of one foot, and scurried away, her eyes fixed on the ground. The innkeeper scooped her into the open doorway, and slammed the door.
Galfrid had given a heavy sigh, then, and – heaving himself up in cracking knees – brought the food the rest of the way.
“Are we really so terrifying?” mused John
“You can’t get the staff these days,” Galfrid muttered, then shot Gisburne a glance as if expecting some jibe at his expense. Gisburne had suppressed a smile, and said not a word.
“SO,” SAID JOHN, tearing at a piece of bread, “things I would rather keep outside... What do you make of that?”
Gisburne shrugged. “It’s a busy highway. People passing through day after day. Outlaws off in the woods. That makes you wary.”
“But things,” said John, pointing his knife to emphasise the word. “Not people. Things...”
An image of the Red Hand – or some mockery of it, all reptilian scales and plumes of fire – came unbidden into Gisburne’s mind. He realised only then, as the attendant anxieties gripped him, that the matter had been out of his thoughts for most of the day.
“The black dog,” pi
ped up Galfrid, matter-of-factly, without looking up. Both companions turned and stared at him as the squire folded a slice of ham into his mouth.
“A dog?” said John with a bemused frown.
“Black dog,” said Galfrid.
John snorted dismissively. “It’d take more than some stray barker to have me quaking in my bed – black, white or green.”
Galfrid shook his head. “This is no ordinary dog. The unearthly kind.”
Gisburne gave a spluttering laugh and slapped his knee, but Galfrid’s face did not crack.
“Surely you’ve heard of the gigantic black hound that prowls the roads at night? Hideous. Ghostly. Eyes like fire. Death following in his wake. Black Shuck they call him to the east. Padfoot up north. Skryker. Barguest. He’s got many a name. But everywhere you go, you’ll hear tell of him, and the places to be watchful. Along lonely thoroughfares. Near water. Where gibbets stand. By crossroads especially.” He glanced across at the place where the two roads met. Gisburne and John looked towards it, then at each other.
“A gigantic hound?” said John with an incredulous laugh.
“Big as a calf,” said Galfrid.
“And you think our innkeeper bolts his door against this savage beast?”
Galfrid shook his head. “He’s not savage. Not this one. He’s no need to be. This is no earthly creature. One need only touch him to be struck dead. But he’s more than that. Shuck is a portent of doom. He knows who death will strike – or himself brings it upon them, I know not which. Sniffs them out, senses the stink of the grave on them. Even the traveller who survives an encounter is henceforth forever cursed with ill luck.” Galfrid leaned closer to the Prince, eyes wide, then turned towards the surrounding dark. “And he’s out there, somewhere, right now...”
Gisburne glared at Galfrid across the fire. Considering John’s current predicament, this was not in the best of taste. Galfrid caught the look, and to Gisburne’s surprise, winked at him. John, meanwhile, sat forward, wildly amused.
“And you’ve seen this Padfoot, have you?” he asked.
“Not myself,” said Galfrid. “But I know plenty who have.”
“Well, there we have it,” said John. He sat back on his blackened throne and turned to Gisburne. “Have you ever noticed how you never meet the person who has actually seen the ghost or goblin or whatever it is, only ever someone who heard it from someone? They’re like a priest’s promises – always just around the next corner.” Both he and Gisburne, their spirits warmed by the ale, chuckled at Galfrid’s expense. “My mind is open to such things. And I have travelled far and wide. Yet never have I seen these ghouls and restless corpses that we forever hear about – far less some hellhound.”
“Nor I,” said Gisburne, and shot Galfrid a smile of perverse satisfaction.
Galfrid held Gisburne’s gaze, his face giving nothing away. “There is one thing I did see,” he said. John’s ears pricked up again, and his eyes narrowed. “Did I ever tell of the time I met Wakeful Mary?”
“If she’s the one who kept you up all night in Soissons, I don’t want to hear it,” said Gisburne. “I heard more than enough on the night.”
John cackled with laughter. Galfrid looked aggrieved. “Wakeful Mary has been dead these past hundred years and more,” he said in protest. “But if you don’t want to hear it...” And he sat back with a shrug.
“No, no!” said John. “We do want to hear it. In all its gory detail... It is Whitsun Eve, when we await the descent of the Holy Spirit, and this our vigil. It seems an appropriate night for ghost stories. So pray continue, Squire Galfrid.” And he rubbed his hands in delight.
“Well, then...” Galfrid leaned towards the fire, spat into it, and began. “It was back when I was a young squire – to a knight named Godbert. He was the pious sort. Fancied himself a Templar. In fact, it was whilst travelling to Dunwich to visit an acquaintance at the Templar church there – one he thought might help further this ambition – that these events took place.”
John leaned in closer. Gisburne, in spite of himself, did the same. Galfrid paused to poke the fire with a stick, making sparks fly up, then brushed his hands together.
“Well, the road from Snape to Dunwich is a lonely one, and it is not uncommon for parties who have to travel after dark to join together for company. So it was with us. At Snape bridge we were joined by two pilgrims, also heading for Dunwich, fearful of what they might encounter upon the journey. Godbert was more than happy to offer protection for honest pilgrims against thieves or robbers – as though he were a Templar already. It was not until we were well on our way that they admitted what really terrified them.
“Well, the old Snape road is a funny old road. Many will tell you they’ve seen things upon it. But the worst of these – the very worst – was poor Wakeful Mary. No one could say how it was she died. All anyone knew was that she would not lie in her grave, and that she had a vicious hatred of the living. If ever she heard a wayfarer upon that stretch of road at night – especially if he had the nerve to be singing a good Christian hymn – she would come screaming at him, her hair flying, her furious eyes wide as pot-lids. So terrible a sight was she that some dropped dead on the spot out of sheer fright.
“Our companions related how they themselves had witnessed such a thing when last they had travelled upon the road. On that occasion, they had been with a monk. All three had been warned at an inn to make no sound upon the road, and such was the innkeeper’s expression that for a long time they maintained their silence. But then, just as they were about to pass from Mary’s realm and beginning to feel themselves safe, the monk was unable to resist humming an Alleluya under his breath...” Galfrid paused and looked into the eyes of the Prince, rapt by the story. His voice had lowered to little more than a husky murmur.
“Hurtling out of the dark she came, flying the length of the road, her scream so horrible it tore at their ears. Our companions threw themselves flat upon the ground in terror. As one looked up, the stink of decay in his nostrils, he saw the monk trying to grapple with the shrieking cadaver, crying out prayers as he did so. But his fingers sank helplessly into her flesh, and his words just enraged her the more. The pilgrim saw her bony talons wrap about the monk’s throat, stifling the sound, then covered his eyes in horror. He heard the monk thud to the ground between them, stone dead. They lay there huddled against his corpse for an hour or more after the terrible sound subsided, not once daring to look up. When finally they did, they hurried away, leaving the poor monk where he fell.
“Hearing this, Godbert was suddenly emboldened. Good Christian knight that he was, he resolved not only to protect them, but to rid the road of this unclean pest. He returned to Snape and roused a priest, and demanded to be taken to the tomb which was said to hold poor Mary’s bones. She was to be laid to rest once and for all, either by benediction or the sword.
“And so the five of us went in solemn silence, the priest leading, and at length left the road altogether onto a far older track, through gorse and bracken. I wondered what kind of graveyard this must lead to, there being no church visible for miles around, but I did not dare speak. Finally we came to the spot – a bleak, lonely place – and I realised this was no Christian burial ground. All around us were earthen mounds – ancient graves, from pagan times – and a low mist swirled about. There was dark menace in every stone and stalk of that bleak moor. I’ll never forget it. Even the air felt dead. Looking back, I could no longer see the road, nor any human light in the darkness. It was as if we had left the world behind. I turned again to see the priest’s shaking finger pointing at the largest of the mounds, within which was set a rough, stone door no higher than my chest – a work of unimaginable age.
“Immediately, without fear, Godbert went to the door, thinking to prise it open. He had barely touched it when the stone sprang open of its own accord. There was no doubt now that the shrieking monster slumbered within.” Galfrid’s voice dropped further, to a barely audible whisper, as if still afraid to
wake her. John leaned in closer still from the edge of his throne, the flames casting strange shadows upon his face.
“As we stooped and entered the dark tomb, none dared even to breathe. We all stepped as though upon ice, knowing that the slightest sound would rouse her. Ahead of us, in the weird light of that heathen netherworld, lay a horrible sight – great slab of grey stone, longer than a man, hewn by unknown hands into a grim vessel. And within it lay the corpse-pale body of the hag. We crept around her, the knight ready with his sword, the priest with his words of blessing, none knowing whether either had the power to subdue the fiend...
“And then, as we bent over the ghoul’s coffin, a single dead eye opened, and... WAAAAH!” Galfrid lunged at the Prince, hands like claws and eyes bulging. John reeled backwards in shock, bowling off his stump, legs in the air, his cup flying from his hand in a trail of frothy liquid. Gisburne leapt up in alarm. Galfrid, meanwhile, sat back and resumed his supper. Gisburne prepared to berate the wayward squire, or at least plead his case – somehow – before the Prince had him hauled off and executed.
Then he heard laughing from the overturned figure on the grass, rising in volume. John slapped his knees and waved his feet in the air, then rolled over, hooting with delight. He sat up, grass in his hair, near helpless with laughter, climbed to his knees and clapped Galfrid upon the shoulder. Galfrid glanced up at his master, and grinned like the Devil. Gisburne simply stood, bereft of words.
“Squire Galfrid,” laughed John, “if ever this man should fail you” – he gestured to Gisburne – “then you are assured a place at my court as its Fool. Swear, at least, that you will come and relate that story to the king of France next time I am to meet with him...”
Guy of Gisburne- The Omnibus Page 88
