“How long has it been? Six years?”
“Nearly eight,” said Gisburne. “Though if I’d known you had this fine place I might have come sooner.” But he was aware that his own smile had quite fallen away. He looked back to the door where the steward still lingered, and shot him a reproachful glance.
De Rosseley followed his gaze. “Food and drink for our guest,” he called. The steward bowed and withdrew. “Sit down, Guy, for God’s sake. I’m not royalty.”
Gisburne pulled up a wooden chair. De Rosseley eased himself back down onto the bed, now less able to hide his agony. “Christ, Ross,” said Gisburne, “what the Hell happened here? That damned steward of yours said you came through last night unscathed...”
“What?” De Rosseley frowned. He looked back at his unexpected guest with genuine bemusement, as if the mention of “last night” meant nothing at all – as if Gisburne were speaking in a completely foreign language. After what seemed an age, the fog lifted. “Oh, this...” He gestured vaguely to his injuries. “No, no – I got these last week.”
Gisburne stared at him, dumbfounded. “Last week...?”
“A tournament,” said de Rosseley. He took up a goblet from beside the bed and supped a generous draught. “Cressy or Croissey, or some such place. I forget. I do so many.”
“Jesus...” said Gisburne. “You volunteered for that beating? Is is worth it? You look half dead.”
He eyed Gisburne up and down again. “Says the man dressed like a scarecrow. What in God’s name is that monstrous coat anyway?” He leaned forward to see it closer, then coughed, and winced in pain, and lowered himself to the bed once more. “These are the wounds of victory, not defeat. That always makes the pain bearable. And yes, Guy. It is worth it. As you see...” He spread his hands, indicating the stone walls that surrounded them. “Not a bad haul this outing. Captured and ransomed four knights. Won their horses and armour. Two Frenchies, one Austrian, one Byzantine.”
Gisburne raised his eyebrows at the last.
“I know,” said de Rosseley. “Random. Spectacular horse, though.”
“Carry on like this,” said Gisburne, “and you’ll have to build bigger stables.” If you live long enough, he thought.
De Rosseley snorted dismissively. “You don’t think I’d actually pay to have that horseflesh shipped over here? God, no! Sold them back to their former owners on the spot. Once the knights had been sold back to their owners, that is. Brought back a tidy sum in silver.” It was becoming clear to Gisburne how his host had acquired the funds for such a magnificent pile. De Rosseley sniggered. “Should’ve seen their faces. They could’ve killed me.”
“I’m sure that’s exactly what they have in mind,” said Gisburne. “Watch yourself, Ross. You’re not as young as you used to be.”
“You’re hardly a lad yourself, my friend.” De Rosseley smiled, then took another swig and narrowed his eyes. “Prince John’s man now, eh?”
Gisburne nodded.
De Rosseley began to laugh, and clutched at his side as he did so. “Guy of Gisburne, a lackey for Lackland! Well, I doff my cap to you, sir. How is the old bugger, anyway?” Gisburne could not suppress a smile at the word old. John was all of twenty-six. “Does he still favour silk undergarments and garnish his extremities with gold like a Byzantine whore?”
“As to the latter,” said Gisburne, “I could not possibly comment. As to the former, perhaps you would like me to put the question to him when I return to London?”
“Do!” It was issued almost as a challenge. “I’ve heard he stays in bed all day long and has a bath at least once a week.”
Gisburne rolled his eyes. “Stories, Ross – just stories. You know how people are.”
De Rosseley sighed. “He never was going to be the popular one of that brood, poor bastard.” He forced himself to sit up, and nudged Gisburne on the knee. “From what I’ve heard, though, you’ve been doing great things...”
“You heard that?” said Gisburne. He was not used to people having heard things about him. It made him uneasy.
“The capture of Hood. Everyone heard about that. Good job, old man! And there’s plenty more besides...” Gisburne decided to move the conversation on before de Rosseley had a chance to elaborate.
“It’s a different kind of mission that brings me here today,” he said. “There is a new menace: the Red Hand. I believe it was he who violated this castle last night.”
De Rosseley’s brow furrowed. “You pursue him on behalf of Prince John?”
“He has issued a threat against the Prince himself. And he has attacked others. Killed others. The fact is... you are the only one to have survived.”
De Rosseley went to speak, but at that moment the door opened and a servant entered with a platter of meat and bread and a jug of wine. De Rosseley sat in silence, his expression grave, until the servant had left the chamber, and the door had once again closed.
“Who has this monster killed?” he said.
“Walter Bardulf was first,” said Gisburne.
His host nodded. “I heard about Bardulf.”
“Then William de Wendenal,” continued Gisburne. “And a week ago, Hugh de Mortville.”
“Christ...” said de Rosseley. “Wendenal dead? I thought that stubborn old warhorse was sure to outlive me. And de Mortville? Who did he ever offend?”
“Perhaps no one. But he fell victim to someone’s grudge, nonetheless.”
“Ireland...” said de Rosseley, nodding. “We were all there. It has to be about Ireland.”
“So we believe,” said Gisburne.
“Political?”
“It’s not yet clear.”
“A red hand is a symbol amongst Ulstermen,” said de Rosseley. “The Uí Néill clan especially. But others, too. It had some mythic significance. There were stories of an ancient Irish king who sacrificed his own right hand in order to win the crown.”
“The victims’ right hands were also taken,” said Gisburne.
De Rosseley shook his head in disgust. “This killer of knights doesn’t act out of duty, or necessity. As you say, a grudge.”
“But why now, after all these years?”
“It’s not human nature to wait when the blood is up. But perhaps he couldn’t act before – somehow did not know who to direct his anger at, or lacked the means.”
“Or the slight itself was more recent than we all suppose.”
“Or only recently discovered...”
It was immediately clear to Gisburne why de Rosseley was so formidable a fighter. It wasn’t just his physical prowess. In just those few minutes he had stripped away all distractions and irrelevancies to identify the key defining factors of his opponent.
“Tell me what happened last night,” said Gisburne.
De Rosseley shook his head slowly. “I’ve witnessed some horrors in my time, and some wonders. But I tell you, Guy, this was the damnedest thing I ever saw.” He pressed the fingertips of both hands together. “It was late. Darkness had fallen. I had entertained my lady guest at dinner – a delightful evening. She had retired to her chamber and the household was mostly abed. I was of a mind to make a tour of the battlements, take the air – something I do each night, when it’s quiet. The gates were shut for the night; all was well. I had just spoken to the watch and was crossing the empty courtyard when he appeared out of the shadows by the north wall.”
“Appeared?”
De Rosseley nodded. “There is no other word for it. No warning. The first anyone knew was when he charged out of those shadows. And I do mean charged... right at me. There was no doubting I was his intended target.”
“But how did he get in?”
“One of my guards admitted to having seen a large man enter with others of my guest’s entourage earlier in the day. He was toting a heavy sack. Several of them carried such burdens – barrels or boxes. My lady does not travel light.” He smirked. “The guard assumed the man to be with them. Turns out he wasn’t. Must have hidden himself th
en until nightfall. Close on half a day he waited. It takes a particular type of man to do that.” De Rosseley nodded, interlinking the fingers of both hands. “He’s a dangerous one, all right.”
Gisburne leaned forward eagerly. “So, the guard saw his face?”
“Fleetingly. He was bearded. Unkempt hair. Dark. And he was dressed like a tradesman.” De Rosseley shrugged. “That was all he was able to give. I gave him Hell for his assumption – then rewarded him for having the balls to admit he’d seen the man.”
“What happened next?”
“It’s a jumble of impressions. You know how it is at times like that. There was this... thing charging at me, metal plates clanking. I could tell the great weight of the armour by the rise and fall of him. Some kind of heavy weapon was swinging up in his right hand. Huge. Then flames leapt from his left. The brightness of them blinded me for an instant. But they also lit up the grotesque head at the top of him... Nearly filled my breeches at the sight of it.”
“You called him a monster...” said Gisburne.
De Rosseley smiled. “Don’t let the word fool you,” he said. “I know he wants us to think that’s what he is – depends on it. To startle, and frighten. But they’re just tricks. You’ve had others describe what they saw?”
Gisburne nodded. “Some called it a dragon.”
“Then I’ll not insult you by repeating that part. I will only say that no matter what enemy I’m facing, no matter how terrifying their manner or appearance, I keep in mind one thing: It’s still just a man. When all’s said and done, this was just another challenger in armour charging at me. I’d faced that often enough.”
“But were you armed?”
De Rosseley shook his head. “No armour. No weapon. Not even a damn knife – I’d left it at the table. Most unlike me, I know.”
“Then how the Hell did you survive?”
“More by luck than judgement. But then comes the second, and even more puzzling mystery...”
Gisburne drew closer. He was about to hear something entirely new – perhaps something that might finally tip the balance in his favour.
“The situation was plain. I was injured, unarmed. I knew I couldn’t fight him – that if I tried, I’d be dead. I couldn’t run. Even if I were at full fitness, fast as he was coming, he’d have been on me before I got three yards.” Gisburne nodded in acknowledgement. He had already seen the grim evidence to support De Rosseley’s assessment.
“I understood right away that he thought strategically – he got himself into the castle, after all – but there were no tactics. He just charged. That’s all there was to it. What he lacked in finesse he more than made up for in strength – of his weapons, of his armour, of his person. He was heavy. And fast – over a short distance, at least. But such forward momentum means a loss of manoeuvrability.” He wagged a finger. “One must always look for the advantage, no matter how hopeless the situation appears. And in that second when I saw him coming at me, I knew that was mine. So...”
“So?”
“I did nothing. Not until he was almost on me, my eye on that flying hammer of his, hoping to God he didn’t fry me in the meantime. Then I let my body fall away to the left of him, like a fainting damsel. I rolled clear as he thundered past.” He rubbed his ribs. “Nearly bloody killed me.”
“And then you attacked?” asked Gisburne. What now occupied his mind was the possibility that the Red Hand had suffered injury.
De Rosseley shook his head.
“No?”
“I didn’t land a single blow.”
“But... how did you see him off?”
“I didn’t. Someone else did.”
“Someone else?” Gisburne was struggling to make sense of this. “Who?”
De Rosseley offered up an odd smile. “I have no idea.”
Gisburne sat staring at his host’s battered, bruised face and the smile that played about it. He had expected some answer to the Red Hand’s apparent invincibility – but now, he did not even know what question to ask. “Believe me, Guy,” continued de Rosseley, “I was as baffled as you. But I will tell you what I saw happen.” He sat himself up straighter, grimacing as he did so. “As I righted myself, my opponent began to turn. I had nothing now, you understand. No weapon to hand and no possibility of one. I could hear the shouts of alarm from the guards in the gatehouse, but they were still precious seconds away. And it was unlikely he would fall for the same trick again.” He paused, as if still puzzling over what had happened. “And then... I was suddenly aware of another figure, to the left of me. As slight as my attacker was great, dressed in black from head to toe, as if to merge into the shadows, his head and face completely covered. I swear he had not been there a moment before; it was as if he had just dropped from the battlements like a spider. Then, as the attacker began his second run, the black-clad man darted out, putting himself between the Red Hand and me. It seemed so ridiculous. He barely stood the height of the Red Hand’s nipple. I almost laughed out loud.”
Something in this description pulled at Gisburne’s insides. A pang of familiarity. But it couldn’t be... He fought the feeling down. “And then?”
“Our hall-raider thundered forward without hesitation, fully expecting to swat the little man aside. But then the stranger, too, did what he did not expect. He did not stand firm or try to resist, or flee. Like me, he just dropped to the ground – but right before his feet, in a tight ball. Unable to stop, the brute stumbled over the top of him, fell heavily, flat on the ground, all that force and weight now turned against him.” He nodded to himself as he saw it play out in his mind. “Then, before he could gather himself, the black figure was up again, and grabbed at the attacker’s great hammer – it had come loose in the fall. It was attached to the monster’s wrist by a length of thong or rope – but the little fellow was not to be deterred. He swung it all the same, though it seemed the weapon of a Titan in his grip, the great arm of the stunned giant still dangling from the end of it. He dashed the fallen attacker about the head. Once. Twice. Three times. The clang of his helm rang about the stones of the courtyard.
“I wasted no time. My guards were mustered – surrounding him with spears. I called to them to bring oil and a flame. I wanted him to hear me, too – to know what we intended, to feel his own damned fear. But he rallied at that, hauled on the hammer, wrenching it from the stranger’s grip, rolled and swiped out at him. The blow struck, and the stranger fell. The Red Hand was once again on his feet, the hammer back in his fist. I ordered my men to hold back – I knew they could not stand against that weapon. Crossbow bolts were loosed from the battlements – but to no effect. Men arrived with the oil. Knowing his situation was hopeless, he loosed a last, great burst of fire and made a run for it. The bulk of my men were between him and the gatehouse, but he headed the opposite way, up onto the battlements. Afterwards, we found a rope he had evidently secreted there earlier that night. Before we could do anything he was down the outside wall, off across the ditch and lost in the dark.”
“And the black-clad stranger?” said Gisburne.
De Rosseley shrugged. “Vanished. None saw him go. All eyes were on the Red Hand.”
Gisburne had hoped for an answer of some kind – some weapon he could take and put to use. Instead, he had come away with yet more questions. “Were there no casualties among your men?” he said.
“One lost his eyebrows to the flame. Beyond that, none. We were lucky.”
Gisburne gazed into his goblet. “Well, here’s to the famed de Rosseley luck...” he said, and drank.
“We could have been luckier,” said de Rosseley. “We could’ve caught the bastard. But by the time we rode out, he was long gone. How, I don’t know.”
Gisburne nodded slowly. “My guess? A wagon hidden off the road to the north of here. He gets himself to it, throws off his disguise and trundles away to London, an unkempt tradesman once more. Unheeded and unhindered.”
De Rossely gave a grunt of frustration. “If we’d only
known then what to look for...”
“Well, we know it now,” said Gisburne, still staring into his wine.
“He’s clever,” said de Rosseley. “But he’s not infallible. His actions are extreme. Risky. He’ll make other mistakes.”
“I have one month,” said Gisburne. “One month for him to make his mistake, or for me to track him down in a city of twenty thousand souls.” He raised his goblet again. “Here’s to life’s mistakes.”
“And when that month is up?” said de Rosseley.
Gisburne swigged his wine, but left the question unanswered. Something else, now, was nagging him. The other mystery.
“This stranger all in black...” he said. “Your strange guardian angel. Do you have any idea who it could have been, or what they were doing here?”
De Rosseley was silent for a long time. “I do have one idea,” he said. Then he leaned forward, and spoke in a low voice. “Have you heard of the Shadow?”
Gisburne had not.
“They speak of him in France,” said de Rosseley. “A dark-clad figure, appearing only at night. Fights like a hashashin. Some say he does King Philip’s bidding. Others, that he has an agenda all his own. No one has ever seen his face.”
Gisburne sighed, and let his head hang. It began to feel like it was filled with lead. “The Shadow. The White Devil. The Red Hand. The Hood... Christ, where will it all end? I seem to remember a time when people could just be themselves, and stand up for what they believed in.” He buried his face in his wine goblet once more, thoughts of the dark-clad figure coalescing in his mind. It was all too familiar. But how could that be?
“There is another such character I have heard of recently,” said de Rosseley, then leaned in closer still. His voice fell to little more than a whisper. “The Dark Horseman.”
Gisburne felt his heart sink. Yet another outlandishly costumed hero, desperate for fame, inspired by exaggerated accounts of the dubious deeds of madmen, charlatans and criminals. It dismayed him that the usually down-to-earth de Rosseley had apparently allowed himself to become enthralled by such men. “And what mischief does this one get up to? To what ridiculous lengths does he go to make himself a subject of ballads?”
Hunter of Sherwood: The Red Hand Page 24
