Hunter of Sherwood: The Red Hand

by Toby Venables

  “How was your reception at the Tower?” said Galfrid as they moved off. Far behind them, its battlements were just visible, blood red in the setting sun.

  “Frosty,” said Gisburne. “The tide is not in John’s favour.”

  “Was it ever?”

  “So, how did you fare? Better than me, I hope.”

  Galfrid sighed, and looked shifty. “It wasn’t easy. It’s still Whitsun week – it seems nearly every bed in London is taken. But I’ve found something. For tonight.” Gisburne wondered at that – for tonight – and the fact that Galfrid avoided his gaze as he said it. He was considering whether to query it when the squire spoke again.

  “Why did you not trust me to know about Llewellyn leaving messages?” He did not look Gisburne in the eye.

  “What?” The question caught Gisburne completely off guard. He wasn’t at all sure he wanted to tackle it. Not now, at least. “It wasn’t a question of trust,” he said. “Of course I trust you.”

  “And the fact that we would be meeting with Prince John? And that he was not in his carriage as you had led me to believe?”

  “Galfrid – such information is a burden.”

  “You trust me to carry your other burdens. It’s my job. Why not these?”

  “I told you, it’s not about trust. It’s just...” He struggled to find the words.

  “It’s just that if I were captured, I might divulge the information? Under torture?”

  So, that was it. Gisburne had been a fool. He had thought he was protecting his squire. Or sometimes just playing a stupid game with him. But he should have guessed that Galfrid’s incarceration at Castel Mercheval – and his treatment at the hands of Tancred’s vile servant Fell the Maker – would leave marks. Not on his body, perhaps, but marks all the same.

  “You think I would break,” said Galfrid. “That I would talk.”

  Gisburne shook his head vigorously. “No! You’re the last person who would.” But, deep down, he wondered whether he really had harboured such fears. “I’m sorry if it offended you,” he said. “Truly. That was never the intention. You know what I’m like. I keep things to myself. It’s a hard habit to break.”

  Galfrid nodded slowly. “I do know it,” he said. “But if you think me weak...” He hesitated, as if uncertain whether to continue. His tone strove to remain matter-of-fact. “If you think me weak, then you must say. For if it is the case, I am no longer worthy to serve you. I am here to relieve your burdens, not become one.”

  Gisburne rode for a moment, feeling the steady rhythm of Nyght’s hooves beneath him. Galfrid was not above fishing for compliments on occasion – and, God knows, he probably needed to, given Gisburne’s poor record for offering encouragement – but this was not one of those times. This was something else – something more fundamental. Galfrid was not threatening, or making a point, or trying to win some kind of victory over his master. He simply could not bear the idea that he might put his master in danger – that he might somehow fail him. Gisburne felt sick at the thought – panicked by the possibility that Galfrid might leave. The strength of feeling caught him completely by surprise. He had been self-contained and self-reliant for so much of his life. But then, his life had been small – what he could achieve, limited. Now, he was changing things, putting them right. And suddenly it struck him, as never before, that he could not do this alone. “There’s no one I trust more in the whole world,” he said. “No one.”

  Galfrid nodded. “Fine,” he said.

  “And I hope you trust in me too,” Gisburne just wanted this over. To go back to normal. To have a decent night’s sleep, and to wake up, and for those things he relied on – which were remarkably few – to still be there.

  “Now I do,” said Galfrid. Then, after a moment, added: “Except when it comes to your piss-poor dress sense.”

  Gisburne burst into laughter. He laughed until tears rolled down his cheeks. Even Galfrid – capable of maintaining inscrutability in the most extreme of circumstances – could not hold back a chuckle.

  For the next half hour they exchanged insults, and recounted some of the more absurd episodes in their history.

  As they rode, Galfrid leading the way, the streets grew narrower, darker, more crooked. They were once again in the labyrinth – underfoot, a rich, ripe stew of mud and mire, straw and ash, dung both human and animal, decaying matter of all kinds, rags, bits of bone and collapsed parts of the dilapidated façades. As they proceeded, these gaunt, teetering hives pressed ever closer, as if threatening to bring their seemingly permanent state of collapse to a sudden, shuddering conclusion. Past them slunk strange creatures in human form – some hurrying upon their way, others entirely without direction, looking as if they had only recently emerged from the dank swamp, and might at any moment disappear back into it.

  They turned into a long, straight lane, so cramped that both were forced to dismount and lead their reluctant horses, trusting their own boots to the stinking trough of filth. To Gisburne it resembled nothing less than a recently drained river bed, complete with the stink of dead fish.

  Up ahead, where the way widened a little, there could now be heard shouts, laughter, raised voices. Some place of nocturnal business, Gisburne supposed. On either side, whores hung out of windows, their obscene mutterings – many barely intelligible – building to a horrid crescendo as knight and squire passed. Gisburne flinched as grubby fingers reached out and stroked his face. He could smell them even above the street’s own stench.

  “Christ, do we really have to pass through these foul culverts to get where we’re going?”

  Galfrid looked suddenly shifty again. No sooner had he reached the bawdy house than Gisburne understood why. The squire stopped before its doorway. “Now, before you judge it too harshly...” he began, red-faced.

  Gisburne stared at his Galfrid in disbelief, then back again at the awful, mouldering structure. “These are our lodgings?” Over the door, fashioned in wood and painted a vivid red, was an enormous and rather badly carved penis.

  “Just above,” said Galfrid, and gestured to the upper floor of the misshapen pile.

  “There are rooms up there?”

  “Well, a room,” said Galfrid. “Of sorts.” Down a narrow alley along one side of the house – if such it could be called – Gisburne now saw there was a rickety wooden stair, its wood green and half rotten. At the top, a creaking door flapped open.

  Gisburne had slept in ditches, caves and rat-infested barns in his time. Once, he’d slept in a tree. Right now, he would have traded this for any one of them. His gaze descended once more to the enormous phallus above their heads. He noticed now that its upper side was soiled by a splatter of something that had evidently been tipped from the window immediately above. A slimy tendril of decayed vegetable matter hung from it, swaying limply in the breeze.

  “I know, I know,” said Galfrid, sheepishly. “So, it’s above a knocking shop. But it’s the best I could do. It has decent stabling at the back.”

  “Stabling?” said Gisburne, still aghast. “It sounds like it’s got an entire farmyard.”

  From within, since their arrival, had issued a relentless chorus of bovine grunting, accompanied by a cacophony of moans, cackles, hoots and shrieks, like animals undergoing some kind of torture. As Gisburne stood, it was punctuated by a guttural roar, a piercing squeal like a skewered piglet, then what sounded like someone vomiting from a tremendous height.

  “God in heaven,” he sighed, his dream of a good night’s sleep rapidly evaporating.

  “It looked better in daylight,” said Galfrid.

  “What is the name of this hellhole?”

  “It’s Master Bigot’s place,” said Galfrid.

  “And the street?” said Gisburne. Galfrid looked back at him, his face a perfect blank. “So Prince John knows where to find us, should he need to...?”

  Galfrid shifted on his feet, then muttered something under his breath. Gisburne only half heard. “What did you call it?”


  Galfrid sighed heavily. “Gropecunte Lane,” he said.

  AT THAT MOMENT, a squat man with a head like an inflated pig’s bladder barrelled out of the front door, his arm around a young woman in a filthy dress. Her skin was like tanned leather and she had no front teeth, but Gisburne judged her to be little more than seventeen.

  “Ah,” said Galfrid with a cough. “This is Master Bigot, our host.”

  Master Bigot’s eye’s widened at the sight of Gisburne. He let go the girl and, smiling broadly, extended a hand. Gisburne had no wish to take it. “I understand you is stayin’ with us,” said Master Bigot. “We is ’onoured, Sir... Sir...?”

  Gisburne nodded, but did not take the bait.

  Bigot laughed it off. “And this ’ere’s me pride and joy,” he said, and put a thick arm around the young woman’s shoulder again. “Me lovely daughter Custancia. She’s a beauty, ain’t she?” She giggled like an idiot, her tongue clacking behind toothless gums, and he gave a gravelly snicker that made Gisburne feel physically sick.

  “Like what you see, eh, gentlemen?” leered master Bigot, and gave her a squeeze. “Sixpence buys ’er for your bed, to warm you up whenever you so please.” On cue, and with all the passion of a fishwife gutting a haddock, Custancia hitched up her skirt to the knee, pushed her ham-like arms together so her generous breasts bulged still further and gave a gap-toothed but vacuous grin. Bigot leaned forward, confidentially. “There’s nothing she won’t do.”

  Gisburne’s hand went to the pommel of his sword – and by great effort of will remained there. “You are most generous, Master Bigot,” he said. “But I couldn’t possibly take your money. We’ll just knock the sixpence off the rent.” And with that, he turned and walked to the wooden stair.

  “Wha – ?” said Master Bigot. “But I...”

  “Goodnight, Master Bigot!” called Gisburne. Bigot turned to Galfrid for support – but the squire simply smiled, and turned on his heel to follow his master.

  “New lodgings, Galfrid,” hissed Gisburne as he climbed the stair, still gripping the sword pommel. “Before I have to kill Master Bigot.”

  “How long have I got?” asked Galfrid. Gisburne paused at the top of the stairs, before the rickety door. As he did so a great, gruff “Ooooh!” reverberated from below.

  “If I stuff my ears with wool, I may just hold out till morning,” said Gisburne through clenched teeth.

  Galfrid gave a world-weary nod, then turned to get the rest of their baggage. As he passed the still bemused Bigot, the squire raised a finger and poked it at their host’s face.

  “And if any of your lackwit customers tries to fuck my horse,” he said, “I’ll cut your balls off.”

  XXIV

  The Tower of London

  20 May, 1193

  PRINCE JOHN WAS still abed when Gisburne arrived at the Tower next morning.

  Never an early riser when left to his own devices – unless there was good hunting to be had – the Prince finally appeared clad in a strange gown suited neither to sleeping nor the rigours of the day. It was, explained John with some pride, for that state in between the two, which, when he was in one of his more indolent moods, could last longer than either.

  Gisburne’s own night had passed much as expected – slowly – and he had wasted no time in quitting Master Bigot’s wretched establishment as soon as he was able. Bigot, to whom Galfrid had unfortunately given the impression that they would be staying an entire month, had ranted at the squire as he saddled the horses in the yard, spittle flying from his fat lips, claiming he had given them a special price only because of the promised length of their stay.

  Gisburne, reaching his wits’ end at overhearing the outburst, had marched down the stair, put his sword point under Bigot’s wobbling, fleshy chin and told him he wouldn’t stay a minute longer in his rat-infested shithole even if under threat of death – and if Master Bigot were to threaten him with death, then he would be forced to respond in kind.

  Bigot, having involuntarily soiled his drawers, withdrew without further comment.

  Galfrid had then set to the task of finding more suitable lodgings – this time benefitting from an early morning start – whilst Gisburne, with a curious sense of déjà vu, had once again run the gauntlet of the Tower guard. Eventually, Fitz Thomas was again persuaded to appear, laughing amiably and looking as dishevelled as ever. Rumpled, affable, a little eccentric – but not too much. A friend to his men. A man of the people. “Sir Guy!” he had said. “What a pleasant surprise to see you again!” As far as Gisburne was concerned, it was neither pleasant, nor a surprise.

  Prince John showed no irritation at being roused from his bed, but at the mention of the shenanigans at the gate flew into a violent rage. “Who do these bastards think they are?” he roared, hurling a stool across his chamber. A leg snapped off as it struck the wall and somersaulted the length of the room. “That smiling snake Fitz Thomas is already dropping dark hints that I should further reduce my retinue – for the better running of the fortress, he said. Imbecile! And as for de Coutances... Do you know what he did? He paid off my guard at the agreed fee – the fee that was supposed to secure their services until August. He didn’t even haggle! Now I must find the money to pay him for the guard I don’t even have. And the damned man talks to me like an equal! No, worse – like he is a king! These damned people with their damned sense of entitlement. Maybe Hood did not have such a bad idea, robbing from the rich to give to the poor...” Gisburne did not think it timely to tell him Hood did no such thing. “I’d like to take their unearned wealth and give it to those more deserving! Which would be anyone!”

  It took half an hour and three quarters of a flask of wine for him to calm himself – but when he finally succeeded in doing so, the transformation was swift, and total. In moments he reverted entirely to his urbane, sardonic self, as if the other had been some dark interloper.

  “Now we are safely in London,” said Gisburne, eager to move things on, “I must ask you about the Irish expedition.”

  “Ah,” said John. “That.” He took another deep draught of wine. “Not my finest hour.” He sniggered at his own words. “No, not even my finest hour!”

  “All of those so far killed were there with you,” said Gisburne. “If we can establish who else was in your party, and ascertain which among them are now in London, we may anticipate the Red Hand’s next move.”

  “And warn them, too, of course,” said John. To this, Gisburne said nothing. John thought a moment, then threw up his hands in exasperation. “God’s nails, there must have been three hundred knights in all...”

  “But the victims belonged to a core group, did they not? Those closest to you personally?”

  John nodded. “True enough. But even of those...” He puffed out his cheeks and widened his eyes. “Perhaps I might remember half a dozen or so. Maybe more. But I was not even nineteen, and hardly the most interested in what was going on around me. Too self-absorbed. That was my entire problem.”

  “If we can establish a list of those men,” said Gisburne. “The ones whose loss would hurt you the most...”

  “I’ll do what I can,” said John with a shrug. Then he held a finger aloft. “But there is another way – to be absolutely sure. At Milford, prior to departure for Ireland, the knights accompanying me put their names to a document. Those most favoured – the inner circle, if you will – had their names writ first, and larger than the rest. Of these there were fewer than twenty.”

  “This document,” said Gisburne. “What was its purpose?”

  The Prince shrugged. “Pure affectation. An act of youthful exuberance – and idiotic vanity. You will know that prior to their departure from Dives, the Conqueror’s knights had their names put upon a scroll to mark the event – so they could show later that they were there. They had a sense they were making history. They were right. We flattered ourselves that our endeavour was of similar import. We were mistaken.” He gave a bitter laugh. “The Milford Roll! What fools we were
. If we’d only known what a shambles it would become – how much we would later wish to forget it...”

  “Can you tell me more of what happened in Ireland?” asked Gisburne.

  John winced. “You must understand,” he said, “that we were all young. Well, most of us... The older ones tolerated our antics. None wished to upset their Prince – poor little John Lackland, who suddenly had been given a land all his own to play with.” He sighed. “Did you know my father wanted to have me made King of Ireland? He even had the crown made. Gold, with peacock feathers – quite a beautiful thing. But the bastard Pope wouldn’t allow it. So I was merely to be Lord of Ireland – whatever that meant.” He gave another humourless laugh. “Even that was a joke.”

  “You said there were people in Ireland who might wish you harm. I need to know more of that – what offence was caused.”

  John slumped in his chair. “It began the very first day, when we disembarked at Dublin. We thought it amusing to humiliate our hosts – made fun of their long beards. I had Eustace Fitz Warren tug on one to see if it was real. Not surprisingly, these noble chieftains did not take kindly to being ridiculed, or regarded as barbarians. Over the next few weeks we travelled the land, squandering my father’s barrels of silver pennies on our own pleasure while the already tenuous grip my family had upon Ireland slipped steadily away.” It was the first time Gisburne had ever heard Prince John refer to his father or brother as family. “I still hold the title, you know,” said John, wistfully. He shook his head. “Worthless. Wasted.”

  “This chieftain – the one you say you humiliated. Can you recall his name?”

  John turned up his hands in defeat. “The names were all unfamiliar,” he said.