And what of Hood? Gisburne did not know for sure. All he knew, with absolute certainty, was that Hood would ultimately destroy himself. What precise form his end would take, Gisburne could not guess—but it would be both astonishing and savage, bringing chaos in its wake.
Far more likely, of course, was that Richard would win the day, crushing Hood and slaughtering his army to the last man. Then Hood would be dead, and the result much the same: one less murdering bastard in the world. But also—and it was this, perhaps, that appealed to Gisburne the most—in victory Richard would be revealed for what he truly was. Perhaps the scales would fall from England’s eyes, and rebellion gain new impetus, with the martyred Hood—already a cult among England’s common folk—as its focus. In every one of Richard’s continental domains, they had risen against him at some time or another. Why not here? Gisburne imagined the fall of Richard—pictured him fighting and dying a brutal, bloody death on some nameless field at the hands of wrathful Englishmen, butchery meted out to him as it had been meted out to Harold upon Senlac Hill. Richard’s name as hated and disgraced as he had allowed the loyal and noble Gilbert de Gaillon to be hated and disgraced—and through him, Gisburne.
All they had to do was turn their backs on all of this.
But when he stood back from these fantasies—much as they pleased him—he saw beyond them an England plunged into chaos, a return to the grotesque anarchy that had taken Old King Henry his entire reign to put right. And who was there like him to save England now?
Richard would surely destroy himself, just like Hood. It would happen in some war in Aquitaine or Limousin, which Richard loved and which hated him, far from the England that loved him and which he hated.
But his legend remained. It was a lie, that legend, just as surely as Hood’s was. But was it not all the better for being so? And if it could do no more than hold the kingdom together, was that not preferable to blood and madness?
“Gisburne?” said Mélisande. “Are you all right?”
Gisburne looked up and saw de Rosseley studying him intently.
“Fine,” said Gisburne. “I’m fine.” And he urged Nyght on down the hill.
LV
THE TRUTH ABOUT their army dawned slowly. As they drew closer to the camp, Gisburne saw that several of the knights had their faces covered. Some wore their helms, all of which had faceplates of some kind. There was nothing so strange in that. But others, he noted, had veils about their faces, as Gisburne had seen among the desert nomads in Syria. Several were swathed in bandages, which also covered their hands.
Some did not have their faces covered—and seeing them, Gisburne finally understood.
“Great God,” said de Rosseley. “He’s given us lepers...”
Gisburne remembered where he had seen the knights’ banner before. The Holy Land.
“The Knights of St Lazarus,” he said.
“I thought I knew the banner...” said Asif. “But I did not believe it.”
“They fight as fiercely as any knights,” said Gisburne. “Often more so. I imagine they must have fought well for Richard.”
“And this is how he thanks them?” said de Rosseley, and shook his head. “You have to admire his strategy. The leper knights are separate from the rest, unseen. And who will miss them?”
“Neither we nor our mission exist,” said Gisburne. “And rest assured this battle will not be recorded in history, no matter how great our victory. Richard will see to that.”
Galfrid sighed. “If we die.... Who will miss any of us?”
Gisburne turned to Mélisande then, and caught her wiping a tear from her cheek.
“Are you all right?” he said.
“Of course.”
Gisburne thought to pursue it further, but saw a delegation approaching, and dismounted to meet them. There were three figures—at the head a tall, broad-shouldered knight whose armour and bearing marked him as someone of importance. His face was uncovered and bore the unmistakable signs that Gisburne had seen so often in Jerusalem. Swollen in places, obscured in others by scaly bumps and ridges that had begun to overwhelm his features—that had, Gisburne knew, begun to overwhelm his entire body.
Mostly, in England, one saw this only in beggars. Most of them had not begun as beggars, but leprosy—though regarded by the superstitious as a manifestation of sin—cared nothing for class. Baldwin IV, the Leper King of Jerusalem, had been proof of that.
The knight halted before him and bowed. “I am Hugolin of Ascalon, head of this order,” he said.
“And I am...”
“Sir Guy of Gisburne, I know.” He gave a lop-sided smile. “His Grace the King sent word. We may be kept apart, but do not think we are kept in ignorance.”
Hugolin looked from face to face. He appeared unfazed by Asif, even by the sight of a woman in armour, but on seeing Tancred—whose face was hidden behind his steel mask—he stopped, and something that might have been a frown distorted his features. Where no one else thought to look closer, Hugolin did. “Do you share my Brothers’ affliction?” he said.
“No,” said Gisburne. “His affliction is of a different kind.”
Hugolin nodded slowly. “You have my welcome,” he said. “All of you.” And he extended a hand of bandaged and deformed fingers. Gisburne grasped it. Hugolin smiled and closed his fingers. There was still strength in them—enough to grip a sword. “My men are yours, Sir Guy. What is our task?”
“A rebel force is coming. They march upon Nottingham as we speak.”
“How armed?”
“Bows, mainly. And staves and spears.”
“They are on foot?”
Gisburne nodded.
Hugolin grunted in satisfaction. “How many?”
“A thousand, at least. Perhaps thirteen hundred.”
Hugolin frowned. “A hundred against thirteen hundred...”
“I know those odds do not sound good...”
“Good enough,” said Hugolin. “But we must hit them fast, on open ground, before they have a chance to set arrows upon their bows. Otherwise...”
“I understand. I will say one thing, Sir Hugolin: I am not the Lionheart. I have but one aim—to destroy their leader and his lieutenants. The fate of the others means nothing to me. I am not out to punish them.”
Hugolin nodded slowly. “You wish for less killing.”
“Most will be easily broken, though some among them will fight to the last, for they have nothing to lose.”
“You may appreciate I know a little about that.” Hugolin turned and gestured to the small encampment. “Many of these men are kept alive only by the hope that they may take part in one last charge. This siege did not require it, more’s the pity. They will thank you for this opportunity, Guy of Gisburne. And they will not disappoint you. You will see.”
At that, he turned and called out to his men. “Knights of the Risen Saint! Up off your beds! Prepare to ride!” All about them, the men began to rise.
“Where do we ride, my lord?” called one.
“To battle!” At this, the whole camp rattled with sudden activity. Horses snorted and stamped; swords, helms and shields were strapped in place; men hauled themselves into creaking saddles and, one by one, lances were raised, until five score of them pierced the air.
Gisburne glanced at de Rosseley. There was no doubt that this was an awesome fighting force. And when Hugolin himself mounted up, lance in one hand, helm in the other, his face had creased into a smile.
Gisburne checked the strap about the battered wooden cylinder still buckled behind his saddle, and as he turned back, a group of young squires rushed forward and thrust lances into each his company’s hands. De Rosseley hefted the familiar weapon with satisfaction. Gisburne sat and stared at his.
“Nervous?” whispered Mélisande.
“Is it that obvious?”
“It’s natural,” she said, her own voice perfectly calm. “If you had no fear, that would mean you didn’t care, and if you didn’t care...”
/> Gisburne took the point. But right now, he’d pay a sack of silver not to care.
“I am no general,” he said. “I do not lead armies.”
“You led an army at Inis na Gloichenn,” said Galfrid, suddenly at his right side. “And we won, didn’t we?”
“They did not see us coming,” said Gisburne. With his arm tucked about the lance he drew his mail coif over his head, took the black and yellow painted helm off his saddle and put it on, pulling the chin strap tight. He frowned—hidden, now, beneath the faceplate—and bit his lip. “If we just had a way to hide our approach. To be on them before they had their arrows on their bows...”
An image flashed into his mind of his reckless charge to safeguard Galfrid and Mélisande as the besieged had spilled out of the castle. And all at once, by some strange alchemy of the mind, it struck him.
He turned to Galfrid. “You must ride back to Richard’s camp, as fast as you can.”
Galfrid glared, suddenly suspicious.
“Don’t worry,” said Gisburne. “I’m not banishing you. You won’t miss the fight. I just need you to steal something for me.”
LVI
HE HAD NOT expected it to happen that way, but at least now, it seemed, things were back on the proper course. Gisburne was doing what he was meant to be doing, where he was meant to be doing it.
For a time, things were uncertain. Gisburne and his friends had managed to disappear completely within the King’s army. Had that been their plan? It didn’t seem to be, but it had proven remarkably effective.
On the second day, when the bombardment by the siege engines had begun, curiosity had got the better of him, and he had entered Richard’s camp. It was a risk, he supposed, but he gambled on the fact that no one in this vast army was going to pay him any attention. And they did not.
All day he’d wandered. No one spoke to him, no one challenged him. He passed among them, invisible. But Gisburne and his company were invisible too, it seemed. It was not until the day was drawing to a close that he found them, with the King himself.
He realised his actions here were futile. He could do nothing against them, could enact no part of the plan. All he could do was watch. So he withdrew from the camp, and watched.
Now that, too, had paid off—except that Gisburne had an army of his own in tow. And what would that mean?
Sacrifices would have to be made. But, in the end, it would be the forest where this was played out. The forest where Gisburne’s company would inevitably be drawn. The forest where he would have his revenge.
And so he would wait, and watch, until it was all over. One way or another, that would be soon.
LVII
GISBURNE RODE OUT in front, watching and listening. This time, they would not evade him. This time, they would not escape.
He gripped the lance tighter and took a deep breath. It had been a long time since he had been among so many horses riding in formation, and even at a trot the sound of it gave him chills. There was nothing on Earth, short of a stone wall, that could stand against a massed charge of armoured knights. On the backs of those horses they were still just men, who loved and feared and doubted as much as any footsoldier, but that sound—a sound you felt as much as heard, in the pit of your stomach—it made you feel anything was possible.
“They must be close,” said de Rosseley. Gisburne turned to his friend, who had come up beside him. “We could do with some prior warning. How will we know?”
“We’ll know,” said Gisburne. Along this stretch, for the next few miles at least, the trees stood far back from the road. The open fields would give Hood’s army no cover, but it also meant they would see their attackers coming from some distance.
“The charge...” said de Rosseley. “When it happens—when we are fully committed, and they see it for what it is—that will be when we are most vulnerable. If, in that moment, they have time to get their bows...”
“I have a plan,” said Gisburne.
“Is it like your last plan?”
Gisburne smiled. “A good deal better than that.”
“Well, that’s a mercy.”
Both laughed—and knew what the laughter was masking. It was not sport this time; they won only by killing and surviving.
Gisburne looked behind him nervously. No sign of Galfrid, back from camp. He needed him; Galfrid was the plan. Gisburne looked ahead at the empty road once more, losing himself in the sound of the horses, and took another deep breath. There would be time. Galfrid would come.
“I’m sorry, Ross,” he said after a moment
“For what? For dragging me into this? I thought we’d buried that back at Clippestone.”
“No, that that. Not exactly. I mean up there on the hill. When I stopped. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
De Rosseley laughed. “I know what you were thinking. I was thinking it too.”
“Don’t tell the others.”
“Not even the good lady?”
“Especially her.”
“Of all people, she would understand.”
“Even so.”
They fell silent for a moment. “It is not like you, Guy,” said de Rosseley. “Having these doubts.”
“Times change. People, too.”
“They do indeed. But for the better as well as for the worse.” He stopped again, debating with himself, then carried on. “Just promise me one thing. When all this is over, follow your heart.”
“My heart?”
“That voice in your head. Whatever you want to call it. Do as it tells you.”
Gisburne was about to ask de Rosseley what he meant when something new caught his attention—something so subtle, he wasn’t at all sure it was real.
It was a sound—distant at first, but coming and going, like the wind. Something like.... singing. For a moment he thought his overwrought mind had spun it out of the hundred other sounds around him.
Then there it was again. He looked at de Rosseley and saw that he could hear it too. Hundreds of voices, just as they had heard back in the forest—distinct enough now to identify the tune, and for Gisburne to make out the half-heard words:
Robin’s in the green-a
Fa la-la la-la laa!
His bow is ever keen-a
Fa la-la la-la laa!
His merry men are seen-a
Fa la-la la-la laa!
Dancing in the green-a
Fa la-la la-la laa!
“Ready!” called Gisburne. All turned their shields from their backs and passed arms through straps. Helmets were tightened. Lances couched beneath arms. Gisburne looked back again, straining to see past the ranks of cavalry. Still no sign of the squire.
“Stay close,” he ordered. “Follow my lead. We commit only when we see their faces. Even then, keep your lances aloft until the very last moment.” He took Nyght to a canter, and a hundred knights followed.
He looked back again, his breathing suddenly loud beneath the faceplate. God’s teeth, Galfrid—where are you?
He heard a pounding of hooves off to his left, and turned back to see Galfrid burst from the distant trees and gallop along an intersecting track. The squire thundered closer, pulling alongside and slowing to a canter.
“Got it?” asked Gisburne.
“Got it,” said Galfrid.
Gisburne lowered his lance across the pommel of Galfrid’s saddle. The squire pulled a crumpled red mass from his tunic and began tying it about the lance point.
And suddenly Gisburne could see them—stretching the full width of the road, voices raised to the heavens, half of them waving staffs in the air. Not staffs: bowstaves.
His heart leapt. Their bows are not strung... De Gaillon had once told him how King Harold had caught an invading Norse army unawares—almost none of the Norsemen had time to put their armour on, which had turned the battle. To string a bow took valuable seconds—seconds that would work in their favour. But there was another factor upon which he now relied.
Galfrid rapped on the lan
ce to indicate the task was complete. Gisburne raised it high, and the banner flapped free—a great swathe of red bearing the three gold lions of the King.
“Christ, Guy,” called de Rosseley. “This is the plan? To deceive them into thinking we ride in the name of the King?”
“I watched you deceive an opponent into thinking a mace was in your right hand when it was in your left,” said Gisburne.
“That was not the same.”
“But we do ride in the name of the King, Ross. The deception is Hood’s, making his men believe the King welcomes them with open arms...”
Gisburne did not expect de Rosseley to approve, but it was all too late now. Up ahead, a great cheer had gone up. They had seen the Lionheart’s banner, and were already celebrating.
At one hundred and fifty yards, he began to make out faces—all smiling.
He took Nyght to the gallop, and felt the thunder grow behind him. Another cheer rose up at the sight of the King’s men racing to meet them.
Then, at a hundred yards, Gisburne began to see expressions change. Smiles disappeared, replaced by doubt.
Fifty yards.
He spurred Nyght hard and lowered his lance, the banner whipping wildly. He heard a hundred lances follow suit, and the knights fanned out either side of him.
Twenty yards.
In the space of a moment, realisation dawned, and the great host split apart like a wasp’s nest struck by an arrow.
Then the pounding cavalry rode over them.
LVIII
GISBURNE BARELY KNEW what happened on the first pass. He had participated in cavalry charges before, and the intensity of that experience was unlike anything he had ever known. The shouting, the screaming, the ground shaking under hooves, the sudden jarring, ear-splitting impact of wood and steel and flesh—like a wave crashing upon a shore; like being the wave, and having the roar rise up all around you, through you.
Guy of Gisburne- The Omnibus Page 121
