Tancred, who Hood had betrayed in spite of Took’s entreaties, and who perhaps now was to prove their undoing.
And as he thought these things, he saw his own end rushing towards him. He thought of how the first blow would come. How he would parry. With what he would counter.
But he did nothing.
Tancred’s sword point pierced his stomach with all of the Templar’s weight and momentum behind it. There was no pain. Just an impact, and a horrifying pressure that seemed to have no end. A pop inside, then a rush to the head. A jarring, shuddering sensation—which some part of him knew was the blade sliding past bone. The heat of his own blood.
And as he was run through, he gazed up at Tancred—literally staring into the face of death.
He clutched the blade in both hands. Nothing moved. His legs were water. He looked down and saw the scarlet cascade. Then the pain rose so great in him he wanted only for it to end.
And the world slid from him.
TANCRED STOOD OVER Galfrid as Took fell, the squire looking back up at him in blurred incomprehension.
Tancred had committed the ultimate sin of a knight; he had lost his sword. As Took had fallen, gripping the blade that spelled his doom, his collapsing weight had ripped the hilt from Tancred’s hand.
He looked down at Galfrid, so vulnerable at his feet, and hissed in frustration. The sword was not easily recoverable from the curled body of the monk. He hunted around for another—and saw Galfrid’s.
He snatched it up, gave Galfrid a last look, then swung the blade.
It connected with the crossguard of an attacker’s sword—one of Hood’s men, who had seen Tancred without a weapon. His expression changed when he saw Tancred was armed again—and fell further as the Templar advanced, raining down blows. Parrying desperately, the man fell back, and Tancred advanced.
Then a low cry made Tancred turn. A second man, a long knife in one hand and a rough, spiked mace in the other, was creeping up upon Galfrid, and the squire—still addled from the blow, but sensible enough to realise he was defenceless—was scrabbling backwards upon the ground, limbs flailing like an upturned beetle.
And Tancred had taken the squire’s weapon.
He turned back to his adversary, sword crashing hard against hilt. He gave the man no opportunity to attack, but he was defending himself like the Devil. He needed to end it—so he feigned a high blow, then sank his boot into the man’s unprotected groin.
The bandit doubled and fell, and Tancred, shrieking like a wraith, whirled about and flew at the other, whose face twisted in utter terror. He blocked wildly with his mace and caught Tancred’s flying blade—but the force of the blow thrust the mace into his own forehead. He staggered back and let go the mace, but one of its spikes had pierced his face, and he tottered about with the club hanging from it, looking for all the world like some bizarre figure from a mummers’ play.
Tancred turned again; the swordsman, already on his feet, was almost on him, sword up, ready to strike.
Tancred was caught off-guard. There was no defence.
Then a great roar rent the air, and as if by some dark magic, the swordsman’s head was cleaved clean in two. Half of it flopped on his shoulder in a splintered, gory mess right before Tancred’s eyes, and the man collapsed like a sack, blood welling from the opened head like a crimson spring.
He fell at Tancred’s feet, blood soaking his boots, and behind him stood the towering figure of the Norseman, a bloodied axe in his hands.
“Gunnar!” exclaimed Tancred in delight, extending a hand in friendship and gratitude.
Then something whirred through the air. Tancred jolted where he stood, stumbled back a step, and looked down at the crossbow bolt protruding from his breastbone.
As he swayed and fell, the Norseman cried out—a terrible, broken cry of anguish. As the roar turned to rage, he turned and saw the reeling outlaw with the mace still nailed to his head, and vented all his anger upon him.
The blow would have felled a tree. The man’s head bowled across the courtyard, his body collapsing like a puppet.
Galfrid righted himself, his head still buzzing. It was wet all around, although the water was black and warm. Only gradually did he realise it was blood. Not his.
He staggered to his feet, then went to Tancred’s side, where the big Norseman was already kneeling.
The Templar was still breathing. No one in all Galfrid’s experience had clung so fiercely to life. But it was feeble, fading—and Galfrid was sure that this time, at last, Tancred would fail. And yet this was the one time Galfrid wished for him to live.
Tancred had saved him. Died for him.
The skull face turned, its eyes on the squire. A hand reached up and gripped his tunic with bony fingers. “Did I fight well?” whispered Tancred.
Galfrid could only nod.
“Did I do right?”
“No one could have done better,” said Galfrid, his voice breaking.
There was nothing more: no sound, no movement, no last gasp of breath. One moment the Templar was alive, and the next an emptied vessel. The Norseman bowed his head, and his hand went to the hammer pendant about his neck, and Galfrid pulled away the dead fingers that still clung to his coat.
MÉLISANDE WAS SCANNING the forest for signs of the crossbowman when Gisburne reappeared. He crouched by her, behind the log pile. She did not turn to look at him.
“Hood?” she said.
“Gone.” He followed her gaze into the dark shadows. “Our crossbowman?”
“Gone to ground again. He got Tancred, almost got Galfrid. Tancred saved him.” She looked at him then and smiled. “The rest of us are well, I think.”
“One man down...”
“Not quite,” she said, and nodded across the corpse-strewn courtyard. Gisburne hunted about the shadows, seeing Aldric crouched between two huts. And there was Asif tucked in the doorway of another. And there, in the far corner, amongst a sprawl of butchered corpses, he saw Galfrid, knelt over a body... and opposite him, the big Norseman.
“Good God...” he muttered.
“I believe they call him Woden,” said Mélisande.
A long, slow whistle—like the cry of a wolf—came from the forest’s edge. Hood. Even his whistle was like no one else’s.
There were rustles, and the sound of footfalls. Gisburne spied subtle movement in the shadows—saw a low crouching figure dart for the trees.
“He’s calling them back,” said Gisburne.
“What’s left of them...” muttered Mélisande.
He broke cover and hissed to Galfrid. The squire turned and came to him, the Norseman close behind. Then Asif. Then Aldric, running low to the ground.
“Ross?” said Gisburne looking about. “Where’s Ross?”
Just then de Rosseley appeared, limping and dragging the still insensible Much along the ground by one foot.
Gisburne saw the bloody rag tied about his leg. “Ross? Are you all right?”
“I’ll live,” he said, and let Much’s foot drop. “This little wasp stung me.” He gave him a kick.
A rustle from one of the huts made them start, and one of Hood’s men—a skinny sort, with a weedy, adolescent beard—darted out past them and made for the gap in the trees that led to the log bridge.
De Rosseley drew his sword and was all for charging after the wretch when Aldric caught his sleeve.
“I might have set a small trap that way,” he said. “To pass the time when I was on watch.”
They heard the man crash into the forest. There came a thunk, and a scream—which abruptly ceased.
“Just a small one.”
“Another one down,” said de Rosseley, with some satisfaction, and winced as he put his weight on his leg.
Gisburne’s eye’s flicked nervously about the shadowy edge of the village. “We must get under cover quickly. Salvage what arrows you can and get back to the great hall. Don’t think this is over. Hood’s men came out of the shadows for arrows; we must assume they g
ot some.”
“But at what cost?” said Aldric, looking about him at the hacked and bleeding bodies.
“We got off lightly, thank the Almighty,” said Asif.
“Thank your armour,” said Galfrid, rapping his knuckles upon his dented helm
“Hood believes himself invulnerable,” said Gisburne. “But he won’t that mistake twice. And nor must we. Get to the hall, quickly!”
De Rosseley and Galfrid dragged Much between them, Asif and Aldric following close behind.
Gisburne gave a last sweep of the forest’s edge, and a wailing moan made him turn.
There, face-down in the mud, some distance away, was someone Gisburne had thought dead, but who was now raising himself up on his elbows. Gisburne recognised the rat-like features: Will Gamewell. The Scarlet.
Scarlet caught sight of them. “You bastards!” he cried out, his voice mocking. “You’re all dead!”
“Bring him,” said Gisburne.
“Gladly,” said Mélisande. A fresh arrow whistled past, no doubt prompted by Scarlet’s outburst.
She ducked low, and, gripping him by the scruff of the neck, dragged the rangy figure towards the hall, his skewered leg bumping along the ground so he howled every inch of the way.
LXVIII
GISBURNE LOOKED AT the meagre fistful of arrows—some bent, some bloody—and shoved them in the quiver at his side.
“Aldric? You have bolts?” he said.
“Two,” said Aldric. It was not the greatest of arsenals. Gisburne looked to the cylindrical box by the door, then back again.
“How many of them do you think there are now?” said Asif.
“Not many,” said Gisburne.
“Took is dead,” said Galfrid. “I saw it happen.”
“And we have Scarlet,” said Mélisande, and gave him a kick. Scarlet was tied to a post, a rag stuffed in his mouth. He raged into it as Mélisande continued past. She had wanted to leave the arrow through his leg, but Gisburne, ever pragmatic, had pulled it right through to use again. Scarlet’s cry as he’d done so was terrible indeed. Aldric had treated and bound both this and de Rosseley’s wounds, though the former with considerably less care than the latter.
“O’Doyle is somewhere out there,” said de Rosseley. “If it is him.”
“It’s him,” said Gisburne. “I have never met him, but I recognise his work. It was he equipped his brother, the Red Hand.”
“Then that is most of the Wolf’s Head accounted for,” said Mélisande.
“There’s only one that matters now,” said Gisburne.
“Where’s John?” whined Much, now fully conscious. “Where’s John Lyttel?” He cowered in a corner, grasping his knees; Marian slumped next to him, wide-eyed, lost in her own world. Asif kept a watchful eye on both, though Gisburne doubted they had any fight left in them. The Norseman—as downcast as Gisburne had seen anyone—sat silent and motionless away from the rest of them, seeming bereft of purpose.
No one seemed willing to volunteer an answer to Much’s question—until Scarlet, for the third time, worked the rag free and blurted out, with graphic attention to detail, just how Hood had finished off John Lyttel. Much lurched forward, clawing at the bound man, only to be dragged back by Asif and de Rosseley while Mélisande again stuffed the offending hole. Much sat, utterly despondent, and sobbed—but secretly, Gisburne was pleased. There surely was no chance Much would fight for Hood now.
For an hour, voices had called out from the forest, goading them. Cackling laughter, weird taunts, cries like animals. After a while a heavy rain began to fall. Gisburne was glad of it: let them contemplate the deaths of all they knew in the cold and wet. But even a soaking seemed not to dampen their spirit.
There had been talk of lighting a fire in the hall’s great hearth, but Gisburne had ruled against it. Better they stay in the dark, he’d said, and all had seen the sense.
From time to time, Gisburne had peered out of the windows, but seen nothing. Galfrid was crouched on watch by the great door. Though open only a crack, he had a clear view to what Lyttel had called “the armoury”, high up in its tree, and the single ladder to its entrance. Barrel upon barrel of arrows waited up there.
Once or twice an arrow had hissed out of the shadows towards them—perhaps Hood’s men had seen movement, perhaps simply to remind them that they were there—but they were token gestures. If Hood got his hands on those barrels, however, everything would change. So far, there had been nothing; they knew it was being watched, that anyone trying to make the climb would be stuck with arrows. Still, the possibility would be on their minds, as surely as it was on Gisburne’s. There was one unknown.
Gisburne crouched in front of Scarlet and yanked out the rag.
“You’ve been desperate to talk since you got here,” said Gisburne. “So talk.”
“Drink,” spat Scarlet. “Then talk.”
Gisburne gestured to Mélisande, who reluctantly passed a flask half-filled with ale. Gisburne tipped it down Scarlet’s gullet; he gulped noisily, half of it coursing down his front, then pulled his head back and flashed Gisburne a rat-toothed grin.
“So, what d’you want to talk about, eh?” he said with a sneer. “Hood’s plans? What he’s going to do to you? You really think I’m going to tell you?”
Gisburne shrugged. “If you’ve nothing to tell us, there’s no reason for you to live.”
Scarlet snorted. “I will tell you one thing. Hood’s not going to kill you. Not ever. He’s going to hurt you. Kill and defile all those around you.” He nodded towards Asif. “They’ll skewer the Saracen first. Then finish up with your precious squire. The woman, though—she’ll be mine. I’ll have her. Then cut her. Maybe leave her alive, after a fashion.”
“You’ll find that hard to do with your throat cut,” said Mélisande.
Gisburne could see she was shaking—not with fear, but barely contained rage. He saw her grip her knife tighter.
“It’s just talk,” he said.
“Just talk?” whined Scarlet. “Of course it’s just talk—that’s what you wanted, isn’t it?” He laughed—a horrid, hoarse, cawing laugh.
She glared at him in fury and disgust.
Scarlet’s smile vanished suddenly. “It’s going to happen, though. Do you know why? Because you didn’t even have the balls to kill me, when you had the chance.”
“Easily remedied,” muttered de Rosseley.
Gisburne, undeterred, leaned forward. “O’Doyle,” he said. “What about O’Doyle?”
“What about him?” said Scarlet—and immediately, Gisburne saw he had touched a nerve. “I hate that smug fucker. I don’t care if you do kill him. Hood won’t mind, neither.”
“Why not?”
“Didn’t like the way he was cosying up to his precious Rose.” He nodded towards Marian. “That’s why Hood wanted him on the outside.” Then he looked Gisburne in the eye, and smiled. “Set him up with a special mission, he has.”
Gisburne frowned. Scarlet chuckled again. “He has special orders if Hood dies.”
“To kill me?”
“He’d like that, O’Doyle. And I’m not saying he won’t, when he’s off the leash. But this... This is much better...” He licked his bloody lips and leaned forward confidentially. “If Hood dies in this forest, O’Doyle’s gonna kill the fucking King!”
Gisburne stared in disbelief as the outlaw’s laughter rang out. As if in sympathy, voices from the rain-sodden forest joined him, howling like wolves.
Marian wailed and rocked back and forth at the sound. Much blocked his ears, unable to take any more. “Stop him!” he begged. “Stop him laughing!”
Asif strode over to Scarlet and pressed a foot on his wounded knee, and the outlaw’s laugh turned to a cry. “Is this what your master did to John Lyttel?” said Asif, his eye burning. He applied greater pressure. “Do I have it right?”
Scarlet was screaming now, and Gisburne waved Asif away. Scarlet spat after him, his defiance seemingly limitless.
/> Asif stepped out of spitting range, his back to the window, and an arrow whistled in the darkness. The Arab jerked and staggered forward, his eyes bulging. He fell to his knees, an arrow in his upper back.
Scarlet whooped in triumph. Gisburne and Mélisande rushed to Asif’s side, supporting him.
“Careful! Careful!” said Aldric as they leaned him back against a post. The Saracen’s face was pale and ashen, his breathing rough.
“I told you!” cackled Scarlet with delight. “What did I tell you?”
Gisburne unbuckled Asif’s coat of scale and let it fall. The arrow had skimmed the top of the scales, passed through the mail on Asif’s left shoulder and driven down at an angle into his chest. Gisburne could see the fletching on the arrow in the dim light. Green; one of Hood’s own.
“Told you he’d hurt you!” whined Scarlet. “You won’t stop him!”
“Someone shut him up!” bellowed Gisburne, and de Rosseley stepped forward and clouted the outlaw around the head.
Asif was alive and still conscious—but only just.
“If we can light a small fire I can cauterise and bind the wound,” said Aldric. Gisburne nodded to Mélisande, who immediately set about finding tinder. “But for that, we must remove the arrow, which risks further damage.”
“It has to be done,” said Mélisande, scrabbling in her purse for steel and flint. She struck them together, the sparks bright in the gloom.
“No, wait...” said Gisburne, putting his hand before Aldric. “Hood’s broadheads are fixed to the shafts with beeswax. If the shaft is drawn, the head will stay inside. We’ll never get it out.”
Mélisande was blowing on the tinder, breathing the fire into life and piling kindling onto it.
Gisburne felt the front of Asif’s chest, then turned to face his friend.
“You all right, old friend?”
“I’ve had better days,” whispered Asif. He coughed and winced with the pain.
“There’s something I have to do,” he said. “It will mean more pain...”
Guy of Gisburne- The Omnibus Page 127
