“They call him the White Devil. He is...” – Haget struggled to find the right word – “pestilence.” He sighed deeply. “Why anyone feels the need to idolise such excuses for humanity when there are good men about is beyond me.”
“And that is what Took did? Idolise him?”
“And met with him, I believe.”
Gisburne’s blood turned to ice. First, Tancred’s men had seemed to possess knowledge of the Red Hand. Now there was evidence that Hood’s men had had contact with Tancred. The nightmare was becoming reality.
“Marian came under the influence of Took. The intensity of their relationship raised eyebrows – though I do not believe there was anything physical in it. If anything, it was worse than that – a meeting of minds.” He spread his hands. “For months, Took had been going – for days at a time. Into Sherwood, I now know. Then, one time, he simply did not come back. Lady Marian fell into a state of melancholy. She would speak to no one. Then, a week later, she ceased her visits.” Haget place his hands flat upon his table. “And that is as much as I know.”
Gisburne sat in stunned silence.
“I am sorry,” said Haget. “Truly.”
“It’s not your fault,” said Gisburne.
“I’ll pray for your success,” said the abbot. “And for her safety. It’s the least I can do.”
Gisburne nodded, and stared at the floor. “Tell me, Abbot Haget,” he said after a while, “what does a red dragon mean to you?”
Haget frowned, and looked hard at Gisburne for a moment, then gazed off into the corner of his cell as if some secret thing lurked there. “‘Then appeared another sign in heaven,’” he recited, almost in a whisper, “‘a great red dragon with seven heads and ten horns and seven crowns upon its heads. Its tail dashed one third of the stars from the sky, and flung them all to the earth...’” He looked up. “You are familiar with this image?”
Gisburne knew of it – vaguely – but had never exactly been a scholar of the scriptures. “From the Book of Revelation?” he said.
Haget nodded. “That is what a red dragon means to me.” Then, just in case Gisburne did not grasp his meaning, he added: “Apocalypse.”
X
Nottingham
13 May, 1193
ON THE THURSDAY before Whitsunday, Gisburne and Galfrid stood with their mounts outside the great gate of Nottingham castle watching John’s entourage leave for London.
The Prince did not travel light. There were a half-dozen wagons, each with one or two horses tethered behind it, carrying all the necessities and comforts the Prince and his court might desire during their sojourn at the Tower. One was packed with the Prince’s furniture, decorative tapestries and his bed. At times – especially during winter – he had even been known to bring his own glass for the windows. One was for food and the means of cooking it. Another was devoted entirely to wine. The Prince did not trust the wine of others. Many took this as evidence of his suspicious nature, and the fact that those immediately about him – who obviously saw him for the villain he was – were constantly bent on his murder. But the fact was, John had grown up with the cheek-sucking, vinegary plonk of his father’s court, and simply detested bad wine. Most of the great houses of England were, sadly, not so discerning.
The weather was warm and dry, and they raised a dust as they rumbled past. At the head of the convoy was John’s private coach, for which Llewellyn had devised a system whereby the cabin was suspended on thick chains. As John had once told Gisburne, neither the king of France, the Pope nor the Holy Roman Emperor had such a thing. It smoothed out the bumps of the journey and replaced them with a rocking motion which the Prince described as “no worse than a gentle sea voyage”. A sea voyage of any kind was absolutely the worst thing Gisburne could imagine, but he smiled and complimented Llewellyn’s ingenuity nonetheless.
The coach was adorned with elaborate carvings and brightly decorated in red and gold – but it had also recently been fitted with heavier armour to better proof it against attack. The new additions – stout planks of wood and straps of iron, with thick shutters for the heavily curtained windows – had been painted in accordance with the colours of the coach, but the shade of red was at some variance with the rest, and their general workmanship hurried and crude in comparison. The fastidious John would find that irksome – but on the whole, it was better he remain alive than be killed in a perfectly co-ordinated environment.
Llewellyn’s wagon was immediately behind the Prince’s, and driven by Llewellyn himself. He never entrusted anyone else with this task, even though it was becoming too great a labour for the old man over such distances. Today, he looked suitably grumpy at the prospect. His eyes flicked to his right and caught Gisburne’s, but made no sign of acknowledgment. This was a strict principle of Llewellyn’s – one that he adhered to without exception, more for the security of John’s agents than his own.
The remainder of the train consisted of at least fifty riders. Many were John’s immediate staff of stewards, squires and knights, plus as many petty politicians and bureaucrats as he could stand to have around him (very few of these, and not one clergyman among them). But at least half of them – clustered closely about the royal coach, and forming a distinct body of men – were heavily armed, with scarred, humourless faces and hard eyes that scanned the small crowd that had gathered as the convoy had begun to emerge.
They wore the Prince’s bright livery and flew his pennants upon their lances, but Gisburne could tell right away they were not English knights. He knew this look well enough. Norman mercenaries.
The word mercenary hardly did them justice. This was no disparate, rag-tag collection of warriors for hire, but a ruthlessly disciplined and organised company. They brought their own command structure, their own internal fealty and cohesion. In case one doubted it, their lances, helms and the mail beneath their identical surcoats were all precisely matching.
They were not merely for display. The lances were plain, ten-foot lengths of ash, knocked and dented along their lengths. The mail hauberks were seasoned by continual use, many with signs of repair. The helms, though polished, were pitted and scored from close combat, in which the wearers had evidently emerged the victors. John could not hope to find tougher or more experienced fighters if he scoured all of England; far less could he hope to trust them with his life. The Norman guard’s loyalty, however, was assured – with silver.
In all this, John himself was nowhere to be seen.
Galfrid squinted at the dark windows of the Prince’s coach, which were curtained with thick, blackened mail. The curtain parted for a moment, allowing a fleeting glimpse of red bearded face in the shadowy interior before a familiar ringed hand drew it closed once more.
“He’s certainly not taking any chances,” he said.
“Can you blame him?” said Gisburne.
Galfrid placed a calming hand on his mare’s neck as one of the wheels of the wine wagon gave a loud crack and a young squire’s horse spooked and tossed its head.
“Well, he’s heading for the safest place in England,” said Galfrid.
“That is good, yes,” said Gisburne. “But he has to get there first...” This much, perhaps, went without saying; what did not were Gisburne’s doubts about John’s safety within the Tower. He chose to leave them unsaid anyway. It had been eighteen months since Gisburne had breached the Tower defences, one icy night in November, and proven that it could be done. Measures had since been put in place, the Tower’s weak spots having been revealed. In theory, it should be more secure than it had ever been. But still the thought – the echo – troubled him, for reasons that, as yet, were not even clear in his own mind.
FOUR DAYS BEFORE, as they had neared Nottingham on the final leg of their journey south from Fountains Abbey, Gisburne had expressed a desire to locate the place on the north road where Wendenal had met his end. At first, it had seemed an impossible task; as they travelled the last few miles towards the city, every stretch of thick undergrowth o
n left or right seemed to suggest it might be the spot.
When finally they found it, there was no doubt.
The verges either side of the track – and especially upon the western side – had been churned and trampled to mud by dozens of hooves. Here and there on the track, the grass was yellowed or scorched black in neatly defined patches. On one magnificent outcrop of cow parsley, a single, prominent head of flowers had been burnt as black as its neighbours were white, and stood out in weird contrast, shrivelled but still fully intact, like the dark skeleton of its former self.
Close to the forest’s edge, the low-growing plants – harebells, nettles and wild garlic – had been crushed flat. In one place, the bracken and brambles had been broken and pushed apart where the men had entered. In places, they had been slashed with knives or swords, parts of them still hanging by shreds. And, to the right side of the opening, embedded in the bough of a young oak, was a crossbow bolt.
Then there was the smell. Thick and rank it was, yet also sickly sweet. It was carried on a breeze from the south-west. It could be anything – a dead fox or deer, perhaps – but both knew it was neither.
Even in broad daylight, it had taken them half an hour to find the exact spot – and then only by tracking the knights who had recovered the body.
It was a small, sheltered glade, hidden from almost every approach. This was why the Red Hand had selected it. Little grew here, save a scattering of bluebells and wild garlic. As they approached, their footfalls releasing the sharp, savoury aroma of the bruised garlic stalks, it collided and merged with the sick smell of decay. Flies buzzed energetically – more here than elsewhere.
On the ground beneath a large beech tree was the cause of the stink. It was little more than a shapeless mass – a few shreds of some glistening material now so rotted as to be beyond recognition, the ground stained black in a wide circle around it. Some of the stuff appeared to have been strewn in odd directions. Dragged by animals, Gisburne supposed. They would have made off with most of it soon after it happened. What was left – which was very little – nothing on four feet would now touch.
This was what remained of Sir William de Wendenal. Or at least, the part that was spilled upon the forest floor by his crazed attacker. A damp rope – its frayed end cut by a blade – still dangled from a bough some ten feet above the circle of black.
Gisburne had studied the location, and its approaches, noting how it had required the attacker to double back towards his eventual pursuers. It was the very last thing they would have expected – a bold move on his part. If madness was what afflicted him, there was method in it. And a fierce intelligence. He must not underestimate this one.
For some time, much to Galfrid’s irritation, he had scuffed the earth and crumbly leaf litter with his foot.
“What is it?” Galfrid had asked.
“Nothing,” replied Gisburne, distractedly. When he was still doing so back on the road, Galfrid had repeated his question. “I had hoped to find the nail,” said Gisburne. “The one that pinned the scrap of oilcloth,” as he said it, he placed a fingertip on his forehead. He saw Galfrid shudder. Then the squire, too, began rooting around in the dirt.
They never did find it. But, just moments before they had mounted up to continue on to Nottingham, Galfrid’s foot had found something pressed into the soft mud, which rose as his foot sank in. Another crossbow bolt. This one had evidently found its mark. But the head was as flat as if it had struck solid stone.
“SO, WHAT DO we do now?” said Galfrid as the entourage rumbled off eastward towards the Great North Road.
Gisburne, slow to respond, as if avoiding the question, fiddled with his sword, adjusting the belt so it sat more comfortably. It was his father’s sword, brought from his home in the village of Gisburne. It felt odd to be wearing it, for this treasured heirloom to have become a mere tool at his side. But it was time. The sword he acquired between Jerusalem and Acre had served its purpose, but already – having only put it to use twice – it was showing signs of poor workmanship. The blade was good – a fine crusader blade, which the seller had scavenged from somewhere – but the re-hilting had clearly been shoddy. The crossguard had begun to rattle, and the leather binding was already peeling away from the grip at that end.
“We do nothing,” replied Gisburne, at length.
“Nothing?”
“Until we leave.”
“Leave? Leave for where?”
“London.”
Galfrid stared at Gisburne, then at the receding convoy, then back at Gisburne again. “Could you not have warned me about this in advance?”
“I’m doing that now.”
“But if we’re to catch them up...”
“We’re not going with them.”
“What?”
“We don’t leave for another two days.”
“Two days?”
“Two days. Relax, Galfrid. There’s plenty of time.”
“Well, how long are we going for?”
“I don’t know.” Gisburne shrugged. “Better say a couple of months.”
Galfrid gave a peevish frown. “But you could have told –”
“Come on, Galfrid, you’ve got to two whole days to prepare. I’ve seen you do it in less than an hour.”
“All right, then...” said Galfrid, nodding. He was bemused. But also angry. He sensed some kind of plan – but Gisburne had not chosen to make him part of it. “So why wait? Why not today, as soon as we’re ready?”
Gisburne patted Nyght on the side of the neck, and began to lead him away. “No rush.”
“But what’s it for, this trip?” said Galfrid. “Give me some clue, at least.”
Gisburne did not turn around.
“If we’re not accompanying him now, when he’s most vulnerable, why go at all?” Galfrid called after, making a last bid for some kind of response. But Gisburne, still walking, said nothing.
“I’ll just get things ready, then...” said Galfrid feebly, as his master disappeared around the corner.
II
THE GREAT
NORTH ROAD
XI
The Village of Gisburne
June, 1171
GUY WAS LYING awake when he heard his father return. They were the sounds he had been anticipating for over a week: the pounding of hooves from outside, felt as much as heard; the clank of the latch as the front door was opened, its dry hinges whining; the thump and clatter of chattels being dumped upon flagstones. It was done with care, so as not to disturb the slumbering inhabitants – but in the still of the night, every sound seemed loud.
Guy’s heart leapt – but he did not move. Instead, he would wait for what he hoped – no, what he knew – was coming. He heard the slow, careful tread of heavy-booted feet approaching his door, a weary sigh and a familiar, stifled cough. Gripping the blankets in his small fists, he kicked his feet beneath the covers and gave a silent laugh of pure joy.
Every one of the thirty nights his father had been away, he had yearned to hear these sounds. Every night for the past eight, he had forced himself to stay awake in expectation of them, not wishing to miss the moment – but on every occasion, sleep had won the battle. He had drifted off into vivid and exhausting dreams of long journeys, in which familiar places suddenly seemed alien and indistinct and he was always getting further and further from home.
Tonight had been no different. The exception had been the dream. In it, he had been at home. It was winter again – something he’d known, rather than seen or felt – and somehow, beyond the ceiling above him, he could see that the dark sky was filled with thousands upon thousands of impossibly bright stars. He marvelled at it. Then, somewhere, there was a tapping – the sound of bony knuckles on wood, steady and deliberate. It came from the wooden shutter at his window. He knew right away that it was Adela.
“Um-brey...” she chanted in her reedy, little-girl voice. She wanted to come in out of the cold. Guy knew that too. She must be frozen, poor little mouse. That was w
hat his mother used to say to her – “poor little mouse”. But he felt too afraid to open the window. “Um-brey...” came the sing-song call again. Tap, tap, tap went the knuckles against the shutter.
Then he heard her begin to sob – a plaintive, hollow cry he had not heard in a long time – and saw his hand go to the latch.
The shutter was no longer there. Framed within the black space of the window, against a sky that seemed to stretch forever into darkness, was the face of Adela. It seemed to glow like the moon, its light pale and cold, her eyes huge and darkly circled. “Please let me in, Umbrey,” she said, and sobbed again.
Guy felt a shuddering horror. Various details inspired it: that she looked so sad. That the window was – he now remembered – twelve feet above the ground. That she was dead.
The face drifted towards him. He was unable to move. You died... He wasn’t sure if he spoke it or merely thought it. How can you be here? The question stirred memories, brought realisations. Adela could not be here. And this was not how his room was meant to be. It was like it was years ago, with the small rickety bed from which his foot once suffered an enormous splinter – so big his father had simply been able to pull it out with thumb and forefinger. His mother had insisted upon a new one then, and they had burned it on the fire that October. As these realisations came, challenging the seeming-reality of the dream, the world had begun to unravel. Its grip on him dissolved. Its images faded. Finally, he had jolted awake – with a deep sense of relief. All around was back just as it was meant to be – the shutter open, the warm night air wafting through, heavy with the scent of honeysuckle, the near-full moon almost perfectly framed at the window’s centre. All still. All real. He had lain there for only a few minutes when he had heard his father’s horse approach – and the dream was utterly forgotten.
Hunter of Sherwood: The Red Hand Page 10
