It stood out there now, in the training yard, a curious wooden contraption with a multitude of swivelling arms upon complex pivots and gimbals, each of them made not only to swing in response to blows, but also to set others in unpredictable motion, and so constructed that Gisburne could place almost any weapon in each of its limbs. And challenge him it certainly did. Once, during a particularly energetic session, it had knocked him out cold. He had lain on the ground, undiscovered, for at least two hours before coming to. For a good few minutes more he had stayed where he was, taking stock of his injuries and imagining all of Llewellyn’s possible comments. Hm! Perhaps Prince John should have been sending Sir Pell on these missions rather than Sir Guy...
The solitary life had its drawbacks, as he’d learned earlier that winter. It had begun with weary limbs and a throat like rusted iron, progressing to the inevitable cough and streaming nose. But when the cough had persisted for two and three weeks, bit by bit robbing his limbs of strength and his lungs of breath, he had finally taken to his bed. His chest began to throb. His head swam with fever, and for a time he had lost his certain grip on life.
For days—how many, he did not know—he lay, too weak to sit up, barely able to sip water from his flask; eventually, it ran out. He felt his mouth dry out, and then listened to his own rasping breath with detached fascination. For some time, he had strained to hear what he thought to be the distant voice of a child crying—only to realise the sound was coming from within his own chest.
During the fever, he thought he heard someone rap on the door, but only once. He supposed they presumed him to be away, or were respecting his fiercely-guarded privacy. He even wondered, in his distracted state, if they were a little afraid of him. Several times he heard the boy outside come to feed and clean out the horses, but was too feeble to call out. On one occasion, he had opened his eyes to see the twitching pink snout of a rat sniffing at his face. He hazily thought to swat it away, but he found that his arm, like the rest of his body, no longer belonged to him. He vaguely wondered if this would remain the case even when the rat started to gnaw at it. But, finding him of limited interest, it had turned and wandered off.
Strange visions came to him. He saw glossy black ravens, hundreds of them, perched all about the walls. A dead man paced the room restlessly, somewhere just out of sight—somehow he knew it to be the grey corpse of his dead mentor, Gilbert de Gaillon. At one time Gisburne looked down at his body and saw it covered not with a blanket, but by the shimmering, shifting bodies of a vast army of wasps.
Then, one day, he awoke suddenly stronger, and determined to venture outside, barely getting past the door before collapsing, breathless, in the blinding sunlight. He awoke again propped up in bed, with Richild the laundress coaxing spoonfuls of broth between his lips. Never had he felt so glad to see another human face, but it was the look upon it that told him that he had probably come closer to dying in these past few days than he had ever done in all his years of battle.
Gisburne had emerged leaner of body, and more circumspect of mind. In the weeks that followed, as he had returned to life, he had gradually resumed his training. He put Sir Pell through his paces. He set up targets throughout the wood west of the paddock, and practised his archery skills. The bow helped build strength in his arms and chest, and was good for his ailing left shoulder—weak since his ordeal at Hattin.
He saw no one, and often days passed when he spoke only with his horses. Sometimes at night he sat alone, the hurdy gurdy he had brought back from the Holy Land upon his lap, and cranked out a mournful tune. Gisburne was not normally one to be sentimental about objects—they were tools, solutions to problems—but the fact that this fragile thing had survived such an ordeal made it precious to him. Perhaps he saw in it his own ordeal, his own survival—especially after his trials that winter. The wood still had the ripe smell of Jerusalem’s sewers when warm.
During his recovery there had been no demands on his time except those he made himself—not until de Percy’s intriguing message had lured him to that absurd midnight gathering. But perhaps that had been just as well. Rehabilitation would not be rushed.
Even now, as he lay on the pallet that had once almost been his death bed, listening to the creaks and knocks of Sir Pell, he knew he was not back to full strength. Judging by the sounds, the mechanism was moving too freely, too wildly. One of the arms had worked loose in the wind. He knew he should probably go and tie it down, but the will eluded him. The wind wasn’t strong; it would be fine until morning.
A horse whinnied. It sounded like something had upset Nyght. Maybe Gisburne would have to stop the clatter of Sir Pell after all. The sound came again, more insistent. Last time Nyght had made a fuss like that, it had meant rats in the stables. Gisburne groaned and lay for a moment, willing his horse to settle, listening to the pattering rain.
Then came a sound so familiar, yet so alarmingly out of place, that he found himself on his feet before his brain had even registered what it was.
The chink of a spur.
He pulled on his boots and his tattered black gambeson, fastened one buckle upon its front and threw his hauberk on over it. Then he drew his sword, let the scabbard and belt fall to the floor and felt the fine rain on his face as he cracked open the door.
VI
THERE WAS NO sign of movement in the yard, beyond the sway of the trees and the rhythmic clunk of Sir Pell. But he knew they were there.
Nyght whinnied again. Another horse answered his call—from somewhere in the depths of the woods. It would not be the only one. If what he had heard was indeed the chink of a spur, that meant a knight, and knights did not travel alone—nor did they come on social visits at night. Gisburne knew precious few who would even visit during daylight. Perhaps de Percy had dispatched men to try to persuade him further.
Or to kill him.
He moved across the yard, holding his sword low, the rain barely more than a mist, clinging to his face and hair, sending cold rivulets down his neck. He shivered, looked across at the weird shadow of Sir Pell, one arm appearing to wave in warning, and headed towards it. He had no doubt now they were in the trees at the northern edge of the yard; if they hadn’t seen him before, they would now. Well, let them. He tucked his sword under his arm and turned to Sir Pell, pulling the rattling limb back into place and securing it to the frame with its wet leather thong.
“You might as well come out,” he called to the trees. “We can’t stand here all night.”
For a moment, it seemed his voice had met with only empty gloom. But then came movement: heavy footfalls on the wet, gritty earth. Gisburne gripped his sword and turned to see a great cowled figure—over six feet tall and broad-shouldered—step out of the shadows. There was something immediately, disturbingly familiar about his bearing. Six yards from him, the figure stopped and threw back its hood.
So astonished was Gisburne at what he saw that his sword nearly fell from his hand. It was a face he had not seen in ten years—a face that no one within these shores had seen for at least five. The most well-known face in all the land.
Richard the Lionhearted, King of England.
“It cannot be...” said Gisburne.
“And yet here I am,” said Richard.
The King took a step forward, and Gisburne felt the grip on his sword tighten. What kind of trick was this?
“How do you come to be here? How is this possible...?”
“I am a king. I do what others can’t.”
“That’s no answer...”
“A year ago I was dead, or so my brother swore before God. But I stand before you all the same. How many do you know can do that?”
Good God. Did he really just compare himself to Christ? Without a hint of irony? “I suppose I should be used to people looming out of the shadows by now. But does no one meet by daylight any more? And out of the rain?”
Richard looked at the moon, now almost obscured by cloud, squinting against the icy rain. “You know, there’s nothing I’d
change about this dismal country more gladly than the weather. And yet I return to find it’s one of the few things that is exactly the bloody same.”
Gisburne heard a muffled snort of laughter from the trees to his left. Almost simultaneously, over to the right, deep in shadow, he sensed another movement. He had no doubt that Richard had him covered by at least a half-dozen crossbowmen.
“Is that what you’re here for? To talk about the weather?”
Richard’s countenance darkened. “Much has changed since I went away. But things are soon to be put aright.”
Gisburne’s mind raced. Much had indeed changed—much that could doubtless inflame the legendary Plantagenet temper. The question was, what in God’s name was the newly returned King of England doing here, now, in the rain, talking to him? He wielded no power; he was not a bishop or a baron. Most did not even know of his existence, and many who did would sooner forget it. And yet, indisputably, Gisburne had been a key instrument of many of those changes. For three years he had served as right hand to the King’s rebellious brother, during which John had all but waged open war against Richard’s representatives in England, had hindered efforts to have the captive king freed and even sought the aid of Richard’s most detested enemy, Philip of France, in his efforts to take the empty throne.
As far as Gisburne could see, just one possibility presented itself. “Are you here to kill me?”
Richard stared at him for a moment, the rain dripping off his neatly clipped red beard. Then the blank face broke into a smile, and the smile into a great, hearty laugh. From the shadows, his crossbowmen joined in. Ten of them, Gisburne judged.
“You think you are first amongst my enemies? No, Sir Guy, you do not have that dubious honour.” The smile dropped, leaving no trace of its passing, and those in the shadows fell suddenly silent. “But there is one who concerns me...”
My God, he means me to turn against Prince John. Gisburne was no longer bound to the Prince by duty, but there was still a question of loyalty, of friendship. Of what was right.
“As it happens, you were right to doubt my presence,” said Richard, pulling off his gauntlets. “In fact, I am not here. I have not yet arrived. But I shall.” He wiped his bare hand about his beard and flicked the rainwater away. “On the twentieth day of next month, my ship will arrive on the Kent coast, to be met by my mother Queen Eleanor and a cheering crowd of loyal subjects. A hero’s welcome. A day of rejoicing. It’s all arranged.”
“So what I see before me now is a just a ghost?” said Gisburne. “Well, why not? Perhaps I’m dead too. It would explain a lot, such as why I only ever seem to converse with people at night.”
“Consider this... reconnaissance. Life is a series of battles; my return is the next of them. And in battle, timing is everything. If I can also prepare the ground to my advantage, all the better.”
“You forget, I’ve seen your methods, though I was just an ignorant squire and you a humble Duke.” Gisburne wondered if he pushed the sarcasm too far, but Richard seemed not to have registered it at all.
“We have both come a long way since,” he said. He smiled and narrowed his eyes. “You think this is about my brother, don’t you? It is not. The Lionheart has nothing to fear from John Softsword.” His men chuckled dutifully. “John’s a weakling, always has been. His plays for support are increasingly desperate. And most of all, he is afraid of me. I don’t need to do anything against an enemy like that. Left to his own devices, he will destroy himself.”
“What, then?”
“I have a task for you.”
Gisburne stared at him for a moment. “You? Have a task for me...?” It was his turn to laugh, now. He shook his head, cackling at the absurdity of it. “Outlaws at large in broad daylight, lords and kings creeping about under cover of night... And now the Lionheart seeks help from Sir Guy of Gisburne. I never thought I’d be so popular as I have been these past few days! The world truly is turned upside down.”
Richard stared at him, steely and expressionless. “It is, Sir Guy. And that is precisely what I would have you remedy before my return to this Godforsaken land.” The King drew closer, within range of Gisburne’s sword—to remind him, he supposed, who was in control. “You know that I have no particular love for this country. I hate its damp and its constant rain, which turns everything to mud and mildew. I hate the damned English with their idiotically cheery ways. And most of all I hate their rebellious Saxon blood. So full of themselves, thinking they know better, arguing the toss. At least in Aquitaine and Limousin, they know their place.”
“Because you remind them,” said Gisburne, what remained of his mirth melting away, “by killing their families and burning their farms. Like I said, I was there. I saw for myself.”
Richard leaned in closer still, poking Gisburne’s chest as he spoke. “Yes, you know it yourself, because rebellion welled up in that heart of yours, didn’t it? Don’t deny it. There’s Saxon blood in you, too.”
Gisburne clenched his jaw. “My mother was of a noble Saxon family. My father of Norman stock.”
“Then you are not totally devoid of good sense.” Richard turned away and began to pace, his gauntlets clasped behind his back. “You also have a soldier’s pragmatism. I respect that. You will know that rebellion cannot go unpunished. That it must be crushed without hesitation, without mercy. I may have little regard for this rain-sodden land of fools and weaklings, good for growing nothing but mould and discontent, but I fought hard to make myself King of it. Now I’m back, and those who fail to grasp this reality shall not do so for long.”
Gisburne frowned, but he already sensed where this strange nocturnal conversation was going. “You say this does not concern John?”
“Not him.”
“Who, then?”
“Your old friend,” said Richard. “Your old enemy. The one they call Hood.”
Gisburne felt the laughter well up again—bitter and humourless this time, dying in his throat. “My God. You too. You want me to catch him...”
“I don’t want you to catch him,” snapped Richard. “I want you to kill him.”
VII
HE STARED AT the King for a moment. “You know, it’s funny... When I was determined to put an end to Hood, no one wanted to know me. I might as well have been a leper. Try to put the whole idea behind me, and suddenly it’s all anyone wants.”
“Circumstances change,” said Richard. “I know he has built an army. I know, too, that he has become a hero of sorts among the common folk. They feel he stands for them. While he was seen as the enemy of my brother, he served my purpose, but when I am returned, well... There is no place for upstart outlaws in my lands.”
“He has become much more than that,” said Gisburne.
“You believe he poses a threat.”
“Yes, I do. And so too must you, or you would not be here.”
Richard grunted dismissively. “He relies too heavily on the bow. Good for skirmishing or hunting, but I see no future for it in open warfare.”
“Hood does not engage in open warfare. He is a wolf. He hunts, draws out his prey, attacks, disappears back into the forest.”
“I understand the tactics well enough,” said Richard irritably. “And I know how to deal with them. You may not have approved of my methods, but you can at least attest to their effectiveness.”
“It’s more than tactics. A longbow costs not one hundredth of even the most commonplace sword. It is the weapon of the common man, beyond the means of no one. And yet, with it, a common man may kill a knight, though he be fifty sword-lengths distant.”
The King appeared unmoved. “I prefer the crossbow. It requires no strength or training. For every man skilled in the use of a bow there are ten—a hundred—who can wield a crossbow. You can put it in the hands of anyone: a soldier, a cook, a boy. That is the future.”
“You miss my point,” said Gisburne, unable to hide his exasperation. “This is not merely a question of military superiority. It is about what peop
le believe. The common longbow, fashioned by rough hands from wood cut in the forests of England—it is not merely a tool or a weapon. It is a symbol. It is rebellion. And Hood, who rules that forest, is its anointed king. You can kill a thousand men, break a thousand bows, but if you cannot break what drives them on, then you will only inspire more to come, and they will resist you with every last drop of that rebellious Saxon blood. That is why I gave up on this quest. I can fight a man, but I can’t fight a legend. No one can.” Gisburne stared into the cold, hard eyes of the King. “I have tried, God knows. But in the end... I tired of being part of his game, of fuelling that legend and being detested for it.”
“If avoiding the hatred of others were paramount,” said Richard, “we’d never get anywhere.” Then, to Gisburne’s great surprise, he gave a faint, fleeting smile. “I do not miss your point. I understand the situation exactly. And now I see that you do too—that you are indeed the right man for this task.”
“But why?” He took a single step towards the King; in the dark, fingers tightened about crossbow grips. “Just two days ago, I said that no army in England could challenge Hood and his men in their own domain. I believed it then, but I was wrong. If it was under your command, it could. You are Richard the Lionheart, scourge of Saladin, the greatest warrior of our age. It’s no secret I have little love for you, but your skills as a general are in no doubt, and, by God, you do know how to root out rebels. Those barons peck away at the problem, but you are the King. You could crush the man in a heartbeat—have all of Sherwood razed to the ground, if you wanted. And I know you would not hesitate to do so if it achieved your aim.”
Gisburne saw Richard’s fists clench. “Of course I could crush the man. But you yourself have identified the problem. I cannot...”—he corrected himself—“will not fight a legend.” He drew in very close, then, whispering so only Gisburne could hear. “You know of Hood’s reputation, how word of him has spread. Even my own men speak of him, sing songs of his exploits around their fires. Well, I, too have a legend to maintain. Posterity to consider. And for their sakes—and that of this fractured kingdom—King Richard cannot be seen to be Hood’s destroyer.”
Guy of Gisburne- The Omnibus Page 95
