He blinked up at his looming adversary, the expressionless, painted face cocked to one side. “This is not the end I imagined for you,” Tancred said. His voice was grotesquely child-like, his tone almost sing-song. Never had he sounded so insane. “I had hoped for something more elaborate. But no matter. An end is an end.” He drew himself up to full height again, and sighed deeply, as if with genuine regret. “Time to burn.”
And he tossed the torch into the lake.
WITH A GREAT roar, it turned into a lake of fire. In the dazzling light, Gisburne saw Tancred retreating along the tunnel. Then the wave of heat hit, robbing him of his breath. He turned back to the blazing expanse, knowing Galfrid was somewhere in it. He would not leave him. Not this time.
He heard a cry. Splashing at the edge of the ledge was Galfrid, his arm reaching up to Gisburne. As Gisburne watched, flames licked the length of it, then across Galfrid’s soaked head. He scrambled towards him, saw the desperation in his face, his mind racing. “Sorry, old man,” he said, and shoved the squire back under. Galfrid’s expression at that moment was one Gisburne would always remember. A moment later he dragged him back up by his hood and hauled him out, coughing and spluttering, the flames smothered and extinguished.
At his side, seemingly from nowhere, the great figure of Asif loomed, the flap of bloody scalp now bound up with the black material of his turban. Gisburne was never more glad to see him.
“We must leave now if we are to live!” Asif urged. “The smoke and heat will choke us!”
Gisburne began to move, then stopped. He stared through the haze at the mountain of wooden barrels. The fire had not yet spread into the tunnels, but in another few moments, the barrels would burn through and release their load. Galfrid grabbed his arm – “Come on!” – but Gisburne tore it from Galfrid’s grip.
There was no time to explain. He ripped the bolt from the dead knight’s shoulder, took up his crossbow, cocked the lever to span the bow and loaded the tethered bolt. He did not fuss with it this time – barely paused to take aim.
The bolt flew. It stuck fast in one of the barrels in the lower row. Gisburne pulled on it. It held. He wrapped the cord about the vambrace and gauntlet, and heaved. The barrel stayed where it was. The others now saw his purpose, locked arms around him and added their weight to his.
The barrel still did not move.
Flames licked about them. Gisburne could feel the air being sucked from his lungs. They had their whole combined weight pulling now. The cord was stretched to its limit – was surely about to snap. Then, as they watched, the cord caught fire and began to burn.
Hope was lost. There was nothing left for them to do, no chance of escape. Gisburne supposed there never had been much chance.
Without warning, the barrel popped out from beneath its cousins. They crashed backwards as it bounced once and flew spinning into the burning liquid. Through the smoke and heat haze, Gisburne saw several rows above the empty space shift, and stop. For a moment, nothing moved. Then, in one great rumbling motion, the entire heap collapsed into the lake.
“Brace yourselves!” bellowed Gisburne, and put his arm across his face. A great tidal wave of filth swamped them, knocking them off their feet, and hurled them hard against the rock wall. They clung on as it subsided, threatening to drag them with it.
Gisburne lay huddled for some time before he dared look – and it was only Asif’s laughter that persuaded him to do so.
The chamber was filled with thick smoke, the stinking tide of effluent slopping back and forth like a rough sea. But the flames upon its surface had been smothered.
Jerusalem would not burn tonight.
IV
DRIPPING, STINKING – BUT alive – they crawled out of the ragged, square opening in the crooked alleyway off the Street of Herbs and flopped exhausted into the street. At the sight of them, a thickset woman – the only human to witness these weird creatures emerge from the ground – screamed and fled, her basket bowling across the cobbles, strewing a trail of white linen. As they lay panting, Gisburne took advantage of the gift¸ and, dragging a veil towards him, attempted to wipe his hands clean of the stink of Jerusalem. Only then did he realise that the scabbard at his side was empty. He scrabbled at his belt – an irrational and futile gesture.
“My sword. It’s still down there...” He’d lost the crossbow, too. The hurdy gurdy, naturally, was still miraculously attached to him by its strap.
“We are not going back for it,” wheezed Galfrid.
“Damn it...” spat Gisburne. That sword had been with him since Boulogne.
Asif, still struggling for breath, gave a deep laugh. “Just give thanks that we still have our lives, my friend! A sword... That can be replaced.” Then, after a moment, he frowned and added: “What did he mean ‘something more elaborate’? What could be more elaborate than the destruction of an entire city?”
“He is a madman,” said Gisburne. He disentangled himself from the hurdy gurdy and tipped out a quart of filthy water. “Who knows what he means?”
As Galfrid lay there, he suddenly reached towards Gisburne and took a tight fistful of his tunic. In one hand he still grasped his trusty pilgrim staff, as if battle was not yet over. “Swear to me...” he said, an oddly wild look in his eye, “that next time, you will not let him live. Even if it means leaving me to die.” During all the months they had tracked Tancred, Galfrid had gone about the task with apparent ambivalence. But Gisburne had always suspected that it was an act. A façade intended to keep his darker feelings contained. Now, the façade had collapsed. “Swear it!’ he said, and shook Gisburne by his tunic.
“I swear,” said Gisburne. Galfrid let his grip loosen and his head droop.
Gisburne sighed heavily. “I failed,” he said. “I had him. He was literally in my grasp... And I failed.”
At that, Asif gaped. “Failed? Failed?” He fell flat on his back with laughter. “You have saved Jerusalem! Would that we could all fail so well!”
“But that madman is free. Still alive...”
“You don’t know that,” said Asif. “Not for certain.”
But Gisburne did. He felt it in his bones. The other knights, he was sure, had perished; the deluge had taken them. But Tancred clung to life.
“I will not make the mistake of assuming it,” said Gisburne. “Not this time. But we will track him again. He can’t escape us forever.”
Asif sat up and threw off his gauntlets. They landed with a splat upon the stones. “Ah, the world is full of madmen,” he said dismissively.
Gisburne rubbed his face with the linen and threw it aside. “One of whom, even now, returns to resume his place upon the English throne.”
“You mean the Lionheart?” said Asif. “Your King Richard?”
Gisburne simply gave a gloomy nod, and rose upon unsteady legs.
“But you have heard the news, yes?” said Asif.
“Of course,” said Gisburne with a frown, hauling Galfrid to his feet. When they had left England at the end of December, there had been no news of Richard for nearly three months. It was known his ship had set sail from the Holy Land in early October. It was reported to have stopped at Cyprus before continuing west, bound for Marseille, and he was expected back in England by Christmas. But the ship never arrived. There was no word, no sign. It was known that there had been violent storms in the Ionian sea, and when Gisburne and Galfrid set out for the east, many were convinced that the King was dead. Prince John’s star, it seemed, was in the ascendancy. Then in Acre, Gisburne had learned from a Venetian captain that the King’s ship had been blown ashore in Northern Italy and that he had continued overland. It seemed that, against all the odds, the charmed Richard had lived to fight another day after all. “The King makes for England as we speak,” said Gisburne.
“No!” said Asif. “He is taken captive – by his most hated enemy...”
Galfrid and Gisburne stared at each other. “Saladin?” said Gisburne.
Asif laughed. “Salah al-Din
? Hate Richard? Salah al-Din sent him fruit and horses when he was in need! No – Leopold, Duke of Austria...”
The two Englishmen were stunned into silence by the news. Neither knew what this would mean for the kingdom, nor what they would find when they returned.
As they walked along the dark street, there came a terrible shriek of torment, which was rapidly taken up by other voices. At first, they feared that this was Tancred’s doing – that they had failed after all, and that even now, disaster was sweeping the city.
But no, this was something else... Not terror, but grief. Arab women wailed. Ahead of them, a man was beating his chest in anguish, while several more threw their hands up in despair, all of them shouting, many with tears streaming down their faces. Others spilled out of houses and joined the commotion. Gisburne’s grasp of the language was not sufficient to make proper sense of what they were saying, but he could pick out a few words: the end, disaster, death. He looked at Asif – and saw utter shock writ upon his friend’s face. The Arab muttered something under his breath, then turned to Gisburne.
“Salah al-Din is dead,” he said.
V
Nottingham
2 May, 1193
MICEL HAD BEEN watching the two men for over an hour. All that time they had been sat in the corner, away from the rest, engrossed in conversation – the big one in the dark coat with his back turned towards the door, the smaller one keeping a sharp eye on the other customers in the alehouse. A few had thrown searching glances at the two strangers when they first entered, but none since had dared risk eye contact.
When he had brought them their ale and their food Micel had also kept his eyes low. But his ears were on stalks. They spoke in English, mostly. But every once in a while, both would slide into the Norman language, or some variant of it. Sometimes, he’d heard them speaking what sounded like priest’s Latin. These, Micel did not understand, beyond the odd word. Most frustrating of all was the fact that they made this switch just when the conversation was getting interesting. He never found out what “the remaining forces in Sherwood” were doing, who it was the dark man vowed one day to “bring down,” nor the nature of the pair’s interest in the movements of the Sheriff, and Nottingham Castle, both of which they discussed at length.
One word leapt out at him, nonetheless.
Hood.
Not “Robin,” not “Robin Hood.” Just “Hood.”
The hushed mention of this name – and the familiar way in which it was spoken – gave him a curious thrill.
There were other subtle eccentricities about them that excited him. They were clearly fighting men. The bigger one had the accoutrements and bearing of a knight – but not quite like any knight Micel had encountered before. This was, after all, hardly the sort of establishment any decent knight would frequent. And this one looked like he had slept rough. His black, hooded surcoat looked to be made of coarse horsehide. Micel had never seen its like, but it told its own story – of a life lived in extremes. His long coat of mail and the weapons on his belt, well-used though they were, were of the highest quality, and meticulously cared for. Micel had glimpsed the contents of his purse, too – more silver than he or his master would see in a year. In Micel’s mind, all these facts pointed to just one possible conclusion. They must themselves be connected with the famed outlaw of whom they spoke. His heart thumped harder at the thought that he was so close to such men. For a long time now, Sherwood had been silent. But Micel had always refused to believe that Hood had simply melted away. Perhaps, after all this time, Hood’s men were finally preparing to make their move. And when they did, he would be part of it.
“What is it boy?” said the dark man. Micel looked from face to face, uncertain what to say. The smaller, older man chuckled to himself as he supped. But the dark man frowned, evidently not amused. “Well? Are you going to fetch us more ale or not?”
The boy stood for a moment, literally open-mouthed. But Micel knew, as one always knows, that this was a pivotal moment in his life. He was faced with a choice – turn from the roaring torrent, or plunge over the edge and let it take him where it would. His mouth became dry. His head prickly and hot. Then, as if in a dream, he found himself leaning towards the dark man – so close, he could smell the tang of sweat and horsehide.
“Are you with Hood?” he whispered.
GISBURNE RECOILED FROM the words as if stung. “Christ, boy!” he spat. Pairs of eyes flashed in his direction. Blasphemy was a crime, and nowhere disapproved of more than among common folk. While Gisburne had learned to curb his tongue over the years, half a lifetime spent amongst soldiers formed habits that were hard to break. He felt the hot, furtive looks flick hastily away. No one wanted that kind of trouble.
“I thought...” began the boy, flushing red. “I thought you might be” – he lowered his voice – “with... him.” He swallowed hard as he said it, and looked about him. But all were now intently, deliberately, focused on their ale – and no one else’s business but their own.
Gisburne’s expression darkened. “And what if we were?” His voice had lowered to a growl.
The boy grew suddenly bolder. “I would join with you.”
“Then you would stand against the forces of law,” said Gisburne, gravely, “and likely end up hanged.”
The boy’s jaw clenched. “Better than living as a slave,” he said. But even as he spoke the words, his swagger began to falter under the hard, unreadable gaze of the two men.
Gisburne sighed and let his shoulders slump. “What’s your name?” The boy hesitated. “Don’t worry, we won’t eat you. You’re too scrawny.” Across the table, Galfrid laughed. Gisburne stabbed a piece of pork with his eating knife and shoved it in his mouth.
“M-Micel...” said the boy, raising himself up as he did so, as if in defiance of the sudden, nervous stammer.
“Michel?” said Gisburne with a frown.
“Mitch-ell...” repeated the boy, emphasising the hard sound at the heart of it. Gisburne saw Galfrid smile at that. The boy had spirit. And guts. Whether he had brains was another matter. “Micel it is then,” Gisburne nodded. “A Saxon name... Precious few of those about these days.” Micel gave a snort of disgust, as if it were somehow a sign of all that was wrong with the world.
“Of course you know that, for the most part, even Hood and his men have Norman names?” said Gisburne. “Robert. Thomas. John...”
If Micel did know, he didn’t know what to make of it. His eyes flicked to Galfrid and back – at once fearful and hot with rebellion. Gisburne pointed his knife at him, turning its point in a circle. “Of what interest is Hood to a serving boy, anyway?”
Micel’s face reddened further – then a boldness took hold of his features once more and he pressed on, his words coming fast, almost without breath. “He is of interest to us all. Hood is a hero. A champion of all true-born Englishmen. He stands for justice. For King Richard, who is our protector and who one day will return to deliver us. For the freedom of honest Saxons – freedom from the Norman yoke!”
There was a moment of silence before both Gisburne and Galfrid burst out laughing – to Micel’s obvious bemusement. The speech sounded every bit what it was – something overheard and repeated verbatim; lines that the boy only half understood.
“So, that’s the great struggle in this land is it? Between Norman and Saxon? You think real lives can so easily be disentangled?”
The boy stared, and went from foot to foot.
Gisburne broke off a piece of bread and chewed it. “My father was Norman. My mother a Saxon. So what am I? Both? Or neither? Or some third thing, perhaps? And who am I to take up arms against? Myself?” He leaned forward, gesturing with his knife as he spoke. “Tell me, who is this ‘true-born Englishman’? What language does he speak? From where does he come, and is his skin dark or fair? Do you see him here? Anywhere? The King himself was not born within these shores. He lives in foreign lands and speaks not your language. Is he such a man?”
Micel’s b
row was knotted, his lip protruding in indignation. Gisburne continued – more aggressively, now.
“Listen to me closely, boy... Hood cares nothing for you or his fellow Englishmen. And the Lionheart lives only for war. If they are the champions of England and the English, then we are doomed – and if we’re foolish enough believe in them then, by God, we deserve to be. They are thieves, squeezing silver from any they can. And do you really believe any of that goes to the poor? Have you, or anyone you know, ever seen any sign of it? Hood would steal from you without conscience. And every other honest working man. King Richard already has, several times over. He called them ‘taxes,’ but that does nothing to bestow honour upon them. It was money taken straight from their purses and put straight into his, so he could go and make himself king of Jerusalem – because England bored him. Tell me, does that sound heroic?”
Conversation elsewhere had now died completely. Eyes were secretively turned on the trio. Micel himself was redder than the beetroot pickle in the pot upon the table. For a moment, Gisburne thought he would bolt. Instead, he struck back. “It was Prince John made the taxes! King Richard...”
“King Richard buggered off to the Holy Land with three quarters of your wage and left his brother to take the blame for the mess he had left! You speak of things you do not understand, boy.” Now, the entire room was plunged into silence, none daring to move, every head turned away.
Micel was shaking. He looked close to tears – a child again. Unable to endure any more, he turned on his heels and fled. Gisburne, fired up and irritable, stabbed at a lump of cheese. Bit by bit, the murmur returned to the alehouse. Galfrid, meanwhile, was giving Gisburne one of his unreadable, inscrutable looks. Gisburne hated them; he felt he was being judged. Though perhaps what annoyed him most was that he actually cared what this irritating squire thought.
Hunter of Sherwood: The Red Hand Page 4
