“A night sleeping in the woods, protecting the Prince from an invincible, fire-breathing monster, my reputation in ruins...” said Galfrid. “I can’t wait.”
Before either could speak further, a page ran up, thrust a longbow into one of Galfrid’s hands, and a quiver of arrows – blunts, with wooden tips for felling small beasts and birds – into the other. Then he bowed, and hurried away.
“The hunting party is ready to leave,” called the steward.
Galfrid gave him a smile and a nod. “Spare me a thought when you’re dining on fine roasted meats and drinking good wine with the Queen,” he muttered to Gisburne, through clenched teeth.
“Just try not to kill any of the Queen’s hounds,” said Gisburne, and shoved him on his way.
QUEEN ELEANOR SCOOPED up some of the cold grey mush from the bowl set before her and regarded it with obvious distaste. “This is what my physician tells me I must eat for my continued good health,” she said.
Blancmanger – a dish Gisburne had rarely eaten since childhood. His mother would pound up chicken meat and mix it into a kind of porridge with sweetened almond milk. He had liked it back then, and even now the taste and smell of it gave him pangs of nostalgia. The cheaper version, made with fish – popular because it was a suitable for Fridays and fast days – he detested. In her last days, before she gave up on food entirely, his sister had eaten little else. From the smell of it, Eleanor’s dish was evidently the latter.
She sighed deeply. “All this recent excitement, he says, has upset my humours. I have become choleric and fiery, and therefore must consume foods that are cold and wet. But this...” She turned the spoon and let its contents plop back into the bowl. “This robs me of humour altogether.”
Fortunately, the dish was not indicative of Eleanor’s hospitality. The long wooden bench – draped with a crimson cloth, decorated with rampant lions and edged with gold – was positively creaking under its burden of culinary delights. There were platters of roasted meats, steaming pots of rich game stew, several whole, poached fish, fragrant salads scattered with flowers foraged from the meadow and hedgerows, sweets and pastries in all manner of shapes, and sufficient fruits, nuts, pickles and cheeses to provide a fair feast all on their own. Thick, sweet-smelling beeswax candles were dotted about on candelabra of iron, while the insides of the tent had been painted so ingeniously that they appeared to be the panelled wooden walls and vaulted ceiling of some grand castle’s great hall – complete with tapestries. So complete was the illusion that it was only broken when the fabric shifted in the breeze.
Within this, servers wove ceaselessly, attending to Eleanor’s company of knights – far less forbidding, now, than they had seemed upon the road. All vessels were kept topped up with the drink of their choice, whether wine, ale or mead – the last of which was a heady brew of exceptional quality. Gisburne later learned it was made by monks who kept bees specifically for the purpose, and sent the greater part of their output to the Queen as a gesture of appreciation for the support she afforded them.
Gisburne had been seated next to the Queen at her own request. Feeling ill-equipped and certainly ill-dressed compared with the rest filling the tent, he had been prepared to loathe the whole experience. Instead, he had found himself utterly seduced by it. Old King Henry may have been a notoriously frugal man, but Eleanor’s well-known piety did not translate into a hatred of wealth or luxury. Once again, Gisburne fancied he saw traits that had passed to John.
As a young woman, Eleanor had been renowned throughout Europe for her love of fine things – and of other, more dangerous pleasures. That had brought her into conflict with her peers and superiors, and tales of her youthful wantonness circulated still. A formidable figure even then, she had flatly refused to bend to convention. A few – envious, no doubt – still reviled her for it, but far more admired her, even if they did not dare admit it.
Having persisted with the blancmanger forfour or five spoonfuls, Eleanor finally pushed it away and took a draught of wine. “Such stuff is fine for infants and invalids – but I am neither.” With that she reached out and dragged a dish of spiced, roast venison towards her. “I was born choleric and fiery,” she said, and spiked a morsel upon a silver knife. “I doubt my nature will change now.” She ate, and gave a sigh of deep satisfaction as she did so. Her eyes sparkled, and she slid the dish towards Gisburne. “The first of the season,” she said.
He needed no persuading – he had not tasted English venison since winter, and was near drooling like a dog. Its flavour was rich and smoky with the warmth of cinnamon. A rare treat. A royal dish. Eleanor smiled at his evident delight. “I like to see a man appreciating his food,” she said. “Too often I find myself among those who shun its pleasures or are blunted by overindulgence.” She turned to the assembled company lining the benches and rose from her seat. “Today is Whitsunday,” she announced. “The day the Holy Ghost, the Spirit of the Living God, descended to us. This is why we feast, to celebrate God’s greatest gift, and all his bounty.” She raised her cup as she spoke. “Veni Creator Spiritus!” As one, the knights raised theirs and responded with a rousing “Amen!”
She sat back down, as the contented hum of the company returned. “Now, tell me tales of your adventures, Sir Guy,” she said. She leaned forward, her former severity quite gone, and patted the back of his hand gently. “For you interest me, and I wish to be entertained.” She somehow made this sound the most reasonable and enticing of requests.
Gisburne shrugged, as if none of his actions were of any account. Eleanor smiled again; she seemed to like modesty. “We are on our way to London,” he said. “To join with your noble son, the Prince.”
Her face fell a little at that, and her nose wrinkled, as if at an unpleasant smell. “Hm,” she said. “Dear John...” Then the smile revived. “Do you know the King, Sir Guy?” she said, and broke off a tiny piece of bread.
“I had the honour to serve with him in the French territories, some years ago,” said Gisburne. At mere mention of this, Eleanor’s eyes brightened. Nothing could make it plainer that she adored her eldest son, and wished to speak of him. But Gisburne’s words had been guarded – his tone flat. It was a plain statement of fact. He had no desire to imbue it with any hint of admiration, nor to invite further talk of Richard. His experience of the man was that he was a tyrant and a bully who cared nothing for others. Very much like a child. Too much. But at least Eleanor would know that he had seen her beloved Lionheart first-hand.
“There are those who say his great reputation is undeserved,” she said, then looked away. “You will not be surprised to learn that I disagree. But the important thing is this: he has not done anything to contradict his reputation. He knows better than to do so.”
Gisburne felt that was more by luck than judgement, but he held his tongue.
“John, on the other hand, is perhaps viewed too harshly by the common man. This I will admit. His heart is not bad. The trouble is, he will occasionally do something that confirms all their worst opinions of him.” She spread her hands in a gesture of exasperation. “Worst of all of these came last December, with his idiotic and ill-judged declaration that Richard was dead, and that he was to assume the crown...”
“I believe he simply did not wish to see England fall into chaos without a King,” said Gisburne.
“England has a King,” snapped Eleanor. “The truth does not matter. Reputation is not truth. It’s how one is perceived. Believe me, I know all about reputations...” She calmed herself, and took a drink. “What was wrong was not that he did such a thing,” she said. “What was wrong was his eagerness. It made it appear that he wished Richard dead. Even when they agree with the cause, no Englishman relishes treason.”
Gisburne nodded in agreement. But what he was really thinking was that John would not have missed his brother one jot, and would barely have mourned him.
“John also keeps dangerous company,” continued Eleanor. “An alliance with the King of France may seem p
olitic, but how do you think the common man sees it – the scheming Prince cosying up to this land’s most hated enemy? When he stood against that vile snake Longchamp... Then, people flocked to his banner. All London rose to his defence. He made a good choice that day. But now he attacks those the people love, and gets into bed with those they detest. What does he expect people to think?”
Gisburne did not know how to answer.
“Forgive me,” said Eleanor, and smiled again with sudden sweetness. “Politics...” Something in her manner was reminiscent of the way men change the subject when they remember they’re talking to women – creatures they believe should not be troubled by such lofty matters. Gisburne was glad of the shift, regardless of how it came.
“Did you know I encountered the Prince upon the road?” she said casually, eating an almond.
She had seen him? Gisburne felt his neck grow hot. He did not know what to think – whether this was a trap, or some kind of test.
“Two days ago. Heading for London...” My God, thought Gisburne. Of course. John’s entourage... “Do you know he wouldn’t even come out of his carriage? Not even to greet his own mother?” She spoke with sudden bitterness. “Well, I certainly wasn’t going to beg. So off he went, on his merry way.”
Gisburne thought of the poor man acting as John’s double, cowering in the back of that armoured wagon while the Queen and her guard had prowled past.
“Spineless boy,” she muttered. “He’s afraid of me. He was always his father’s favourite.” Her expression suddenly turned hard as stone. “Which tells you all you need to know.” She sipped her wine again. “Tell me,” she said, “if John is your master and you have the same destination, why do you not travel together?”
“We were detained in Nottingham,” he said. “But we hope to catch up with the Prince tomorrow.” She could have no idea how ardently he hoped that.
“He means to stay at the Tower? I understand he has business there.”
“Yes,” said Gisburne.
Eleanor nodded. “He should be careful,” she said. “He has offended a few too many people in recent months. I know he thinks he liberated London, but the people will not thank him. They have what they wanted from him. And if he offends the few he has left, well... I would say he is lucky to have you, Sir Guy.”
“You are kind to say so, my lady.”
“I am not kind,” she said. “I simply state the case as I see it. You are honest, but have tact. He should have more men about him such as you. And he should listen to them. If he does so, make sure he understands this...” She leaned in towards him, her eyes blazing. “Richard will return as king, and John must accept his authority, no matter what. In my life I have seen brother fight against brother. Father against son. Husband against wife.” Her expression grew pinched as she uttered the words. Age fell about her. “I will not permit it again.”
Gisburne held her gaze for what seemed an eternity, then nodded solemnly. Eleanor sighed, as if suddenly tired, and sat back in her seat, her wine cup hanging from her fingers.
“Now,” she said with a smile, “regale me with tales of your battles, and of the ladies whose hearts you have won.”
The conversation thus far had been difficult – but if ever there was a task to which Gisburne was wildly unsuited, this was it.
THAT NIGHT, AS he lay in his bed, foggy with drink, he thought back over the events of their first full day on the road.
They had run into outlaws.
They had lost Prince John.
He stared into darkness, trying to focus his mind – trying to fathom the significance of two seemingly random numbers. Fifty-four... fifty-nine... They swirled around in his head, taunting him. Logic dissolved. Thoughts became ungraspable – turned to images. They span in circles, whizzing faster and faster, making less and less sense at each pass – until finally he fell into strange, disturbed dreams.
But the third and by far the most calamitous misfortune of this day, Gisburne was yet to discover.
Deleted Scene #4
Hereward the Wakeful
Hereward – John’s spy in the Hood’s camp, mentioned in passing early in the book – is a minor but notable character, through whose eyes we briefly see Hood and his camp later on, before he is discovered and killed. In this brief aside, cut from Chapter LII in this book, Hereward dwells on the historical Saxon whose name he had chosen for his dangerous mission.
IT WAS, NOW, the only name to which he answered. That part – growing accustomed to a new name – had been easy. Stopping himself from turning his head whenever he heard the old one, the real one... That had proved far harder. Fear of discovery and death had ultimately provided motivation. But now he vaguely wondered how long it would take to fully divest himself of his new name.
It had been carefully chosen. It was commonplace, so would not draw attention; it was Saxon, and so aligned him with the oppressed classes. It was also the name of the rebel who had resisted the Norman yoke after the Conqueror’s invasion. No one now lived who could remember Hereward the Wakeful. That was generations past. But many there were who spoke as if they did – as if they themselves had been there, bravely resisting King William’s army, hiding out in the Fens and foiling every attempt to root them out of that improbable, impassable, half-landscape. So frustrated did the king become by this band of outlaws, and so desperate to be rid of them was he, that it was said he resorted to hiring a witch to curse them all from a wooden tower overlooking the marshes. Some said the rebel hid there still – though that would make him a man of over one hundred and fifty years – and that one day, like King Arthur, he would return from his watery realm to champion the oppressed of Albion. Little wonder the story’s currency had grown of late. Hood had swapped swamp for forest, but the parallels were clear to see. And so the name “Hereward” had been selected as the most likely to be accepted by Hood’s men.
The legend of Hereward the Wakeful was well known. But how many, he wondered, knew of the truth behind it? Who here had read the contemporary account contained in the Gesta Herewardi, as he had? The Hereward described within that document was often at odds with the heroic figure of legend. It told how Hereward the Wakeful had joined with an army of Danes, and with them turned Viking, sacking the abbey of Burgh St Peter. Some said he had taken those treasures to protect them from the new Norman overlords. But, somehow, those treasures never did return to the abbey. Nor did they go to the aid of the poor, any more than Hood’s plundered loot had. Where they were spirited, no one knew for sure. To Danemark, perhaps.
It was an insider – a monk – who had finally brought about that troublesome rebel’s defeat, revealing a safe path through the Fens to the pursuing Norman army. That was the part the new Hereward – Hereward of Sherwood – liked the most. It was the part from which he drew strength – the part which he judged Sherwood’s outlaws to have forgotten, and its lesson with it. Well, they would remember it soon enough.
Deleted Scene #5
Ailin’s Crossbow
As the book draws to a close, we encounter the terrifying Niall Ua Dubhghail’s brother Ailin, who joins Hood’s growing company. In this passage, cut from Chapter LXII, Hood questions Ailin on the inspiration for his oud-slash-crossbow.
THE IRISHMAN STARED at him, unblinking. For what seemed an age there 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.”
“I would have done anyway,” said Hood, and smiled. He made him wait, then – a little longer than the Irishman had made him wait before finally shooting. “I like you, Irishman,” he said at length. “I think you may be worth a great deal to us.” Micel felt th
e tension in the surrounding mob begin to unwind. The Irishman, it seemed, had passed the test. “And as for this...” Hood gestured towards the instrument, and shook his head in wonderment. “This is one of your ‘improvements’?”
“I got the idea from a drunken Arab,” said the Irishman. “A man I believed might lead me to my prey.”
“The Saracens’ holy book forbids them intoxicating liquor,” said Took with a scowl, as if doubting the the Irishman’s story. He had evidently not been amused by the display.
The Irishman nodded, and fixed Took with a hard gaze. “Exactly so. And with every draught he looked heavenward and gave an apology – just like a Christian monk during the act of fornication.” All within earshot chuckled, with the exception of Took. “You and I know that a thing being forbidden doesn’t mean it isn’t done. Not among them. Not among us. And especially not here, in this forest. That’s why I’m here.”
Hood’s eyes had narrowed during the Irishman’s speech, but at the end, a broad grin broke out across his face. He laughed.
“Tell us more, master minstrel,” he said “You intrigue me.”
“I had learned the Arab was a friend of the one I sought,” the Irishman began. “He had been with him in Jerusalem, during the last days of Saladin. The Arab would not divulge why – not for love nor money. But he let slip that his friend – this man, this Christian – had entered the city disguised as a troubadour, and had brought with him a deadly weapon hidden inside an instrument.”
Took, Lyttel and Hood exchanged looks. Took seemed as if he would speak, but Hood silenced him with a finger to his lips.
Guy of Gisburne- The Omnibus Page 90
