The air was so cold, it stung his eyes. Icy tears ran down his cheeks, and he could feel his jaw siezing. Within half an hour, his toes and fingertips were numb. But it was a joy. As Gisburne rode, breath coming in thick, foggy clouds, he watched crystals of ice form on the fine black fur at the edges of Nyght’s ears, until they were completely fringed with white.
Then he had returned to the palace where Galfrid was already awake, and prepared for battle.
“IT’S TIME,” SAID John, and plucked a fleck of goose down from his hose. At his signal, the five heralds raised their instruments in perfect unison, and blasted out a fanfare. The Prince stood and straightened his robes. All faces turned toward him.
“My lords, ladies...” He glanced towards the bishop, then evidently decided to depart from the prepared formalities. He cast his arms wide. “My fellow Englishmen!” There were a few hurrahs at that.
For Christ’s sake, keep it simple, thought Gisburne.
John cleared his throat. “I shall be brief,” he said. Another isolated cheer. “You all hear more than enough pontificating in your daily lives.” He could not resist a fleeting glance at the bishop as he said it. At this, there were cackles of laughter. The crowd began to warm. Gisburne doubted more than one man in ten knew what pontificating meant, but they got the gist. The bishop, meanwhile – who had entirely missed the Prince’s look – managed to confirm prevailing opinion by remaining grumpily oblivious.
“We are here today, by the grace of God, in celebration. Tomorrow we celebrate the birth of Our Lord Jesus Christ.” There was a murmur of appreciation. “Today...”
Please God don’t mention that it’s your birthday, thought Gisburne. They’ll think your comparing yourself to Christ...
“Today, we celebrate your skills. Your dedication. Your tenacity...” The murmur, which had ebbed, surged again, and grew to a swell of excited chatter.
“There is food. There is drink. There is good sport. And most of all, for one champion archer among you – no matter how humble his birth – a great prize...” John spread his fingers in a languid gesture to his left. Before it was even completed, two pages hurried forth bearing a long, red velvet bolster trimmed with gold upon a polished oak board. They tilted it towards the throng as far as they dared. There was a collective gasp.
Sat in a groove on the cushion was what first appeared to be a solid, metallic rod. As the pages moved, it shifted slightly, glinting in the pale winter sun. “A yard of pennies!” announced John proudly, gesturing again at the row of stacked silver coins. “An arrow’s length!” Most arrows were shorter than a yard, but it had a good ring to it – and it made John appear generous. “You wonder how many that is? I’ll tell you. It is one thousand, three hundred. I counted them myself!”
“I bet you bloody did!” came a muted voice from the back. John chose to ignore it, and the laughter that followed.
The pennies had been Gisburne’s idea. At first, John had been determined to have a solid silver arrow made, and had even consulted with Llewellyn about the possibility of casting such a thing from a real arrow. Galfrid had grumbled at the prospect. “A silver arrow’s a fine trophy for a knight or a noble,” he muttered to his master. “But what good is it to a peasant farmer or Yeoman? Better to give them cows or sheep.”
Galfrid was right; it should be something they could use. Something familiar, yet still impressive. Finally, he had convinced John with what seemed the perfect compromise. Everyone knew the value of a penny – of ten pennies. All could, therefore, imagine the worth of a hundred – a thousand. For most here, the prize was a fortune – more than their labouring would earn in five years. Enough to buy ten cows, or two war horses, or a fine suit of mail. To buy a house.
Enough for Hood to distribute amongst all his men, and ensure unswerving loyalty through another hard winter.
“Before this day is out,” continued John, “one of you shall leave with three and three-quarter pounds of silver in his poke!” He took up a goblet and raised it high. “Here’s to you all, archers of Sherwood! Eat! Drink! And may your arrows fly true!” A great cheer welled up from the core of the bowmen as John drank. Some of his men, positioned about the crowd, hurrahed and clapped heartily. It spread and multiplied until it was a single roar.
THE CONTEST BEGAN with all comers lined up to shoot at garlands of holly pinned upon the butts – the turf-covered mounds at the end of the range. Archers were permitted a single arrow, and shot one after another, in quick succession, from a distance of only sixty yards. Those who failed to get their arrow within the garland were immediately eliminated from the rest of the contest. This, John explained with a smile, was to “sort the sheep from the goats”. Many there were these days – especially after the rise of Hood – who fancied themselves bowmen.
Most of these, it soon became clear, were goats. Doubtless a good number could hit a tree or barn door from thirty yards – but from twice that, in front of a roaring crowd, many of them wilted.
It was a good-natured affair, accompanied by much raucous laughter. Those with genuine skills – the archers who would fight out the true battle later, when competition intensified – sailed through with ease. But this round was not about them. For now, the entertainment consisted chiefly of laughing at the expense of the incompetent – those whose nerve did not hold out, or whose skills were so pitifully poor that Gisburne had serious reason to wonder if they had even seen a real bow before today, let alone drawn one. Arrows went backwards, sideways, flew alarmingly into the crowd – most, fortunately, with less force than a child’s toy. One man almost took his own ear off, his arrow skidding along the half-frozen ground all the way to the targets, whilst another – with a bow that looked to have been made that morning from a still-green branch – drew his weapon with a great flourish only for it to snap completely in two. The crowd cheered and fell about. He turned with a wide grin and bowed deeply, as if his object had been entirely achieved.
And perhaps it had. After the initial elimination, all who had taken part were given food and drink for their trouble – a thank you from John. And then Gisburne understood. The contest had been free to enter for anyone with a bow. He judged that at least half had come here – with bows they had dusted off, borrowed, or made that morning – with the intention not of winning, nor even really taking part, but purely of taking advantage of the Prince’s hospitality.
John had not only accepted these fakers and hangers-on – he had been relying on them. Now, there was a great gathering of well-fed and grateful men, and a crowd whose mood had been transformed to one of irresistible cheer by their antics. Whether they would still think well of their Prince come the next morning’s hangover remained to be seen. But here, now, were gathered the merriest men in all Sherwood. It was one of those times when Gisburne found himself marvelling at John’s subtlety – when he saw in him his father’s shrewd wisdom, coupled with a generosity that seemed not to belong in the house of Anjou at all.
John cared about England. Not just the crown, or the wealth, but the nation itself. But none would see it. For John also had a face and manner which instilled unease and mistrust in nearly all who encountered him. Apart from occasional ill-luck, this was John’s only curse. England’s unquestioning adulation all fell upon his brother Richard – lucky, handsome, brave Richard, who cared for England not one jot.
NEXT, THE ARCHERS who had gone through – numbering perhaps fifty – were directed to a grove of trees on the far side of the range. The trees had been screened off by a huge expanse of oilcloth, painted to resemble an orchard. At another signal from John, and another blast from the heralds, the cloth was dropped, to a great “Ahhh!” from the gathered crowd. The skeletal, leafless winter branches – some still pale and glittering with frost – were festooned with gaily coloured ribbons, and between them, out of reach, all manner of prizes hung. There were hams, pouches of coins, good knives, flasks of ale and every kind of trinket, just waiting to be shot down and claimed by those with the skill
.
Favours, ribbons and bits of bark rained down as arrows hit – and missed – their marks. Men of all ages, some flushed with concentration, others near insensible with laughter, dashed and scurried about to claim their prizes. Those arrows that missed flew in all directions; it seemed little consideration had been given to what they might strike once past their intended targets. That no one went the way of old King Harold, or the Conqueror’s heir, William Rufus, was a miracle.
As the jolly crew returned to the main field – few of whom had come away empty handed – Gisburne scanned the scene once more, checking the distribution of his men, looking for faces, anomalies, patterns. He had failed to spot any familiar face or frame during the elimination round, which disturbed him. But out there, somewhere, was Hood; he knew it as surely as he knew the sun would rise and set. Galfrid, too – competing as one of the archers so he might mix with them, converse with them, listen to their gossip. Galfrid had seen Hood but once, and only briefly. Hood had seen him too – but Hood had a face that stuck in the mind, while Galfrid’s blended in. Gisburne gambled that Hood would not recall Galfrid’s face even if he saw it. Not until it was too late.
The moment’s diversion with John had passed; Gisburne was a soldier again, and there was a job to be done. But this was not shoeing a horse or making a barrel. If this went wrong, men would die. That was the soldier’s lot. There was satisfaction to be had at the end of it, nevertheless – or so he hoped.
There was perhaps one other source of simple pleasure today. One face now missing from the scene. Marian. She would soon be here, he knew. Prince John had invited her personally, and that could not be ignored. Not even by Marian.
His heart leapt at the thought of her arrival. But he dreaded it, too. It was not simply that she did not return his stronger affections; he had almost grown used to that. Her company had become more difficult of late. She had become restless. Occasionally, she had flown into a temper such as he had never seen. Always it was to do with some issue of injustice – or what she perceived to be injustice. Lately it had focused almost entirely on Hood and his exploits. She seemed entirely swayed by popular opinion on the subject, believing the ballads and the extraordinary tales as if they were gospel. How and where she had picked these up, he could not guess, but more than once he had caught her humming some scurrilous, outlawish ditty under her breath.
From time to time she disappeared altogether, giving her chaperones the slip. Hours later, she would reappear, as if nothing whatever were wrong – and when challenged, was as sullen and spiky as ever. Suspecting she had been keeping bad company, Gisburne had, on one occasion, followed her. She had put a shawl about her head and made her way to a noisy inn upon the west road, where she had sat for the best part of the evening over a single mug of ale. There had been no great revelation, no secret assignation, no consorting with dangerous outlaws. She simply sat, and sang along with the songs that filled the place. Songs of Robin Hood and his Merry Men. And, for the first time in months, she appeared to be happy. Then, as the tavern began to grow quiet again, she had slipped away under the crescent moon, back towards Nottingham Castle, where she had presented herself at the gates and demanded entry.
It should have been reassuring, Gisburne supposed – that she was not in thrall to Hood or one of his men, and was not involved in clandestine trysts. Yet somehow, the alternative was more disturbing. It meant that she was not being lured away from normal life, but repelled by it. Had she really become so discontented with her daily existence that her only pleasure was to pretend it did not exist, and that she was someone else? An infatuation could be overcome – but not discontent.
FINALLY, THE MAIN competition got underway. With everyone merry – bellies full, drink flowing, a good portion of them clutching their prizes – it became serious. Upon the butts were placed wooden boards, painted with concentric squares, at which the remaining competitors shot in pairs from a distance of a hundred and eighty yards, each with three arrows. This was another quick elimination, in which the weaker of each pair was instantly put out of the contest – to a chorus of cheers, boos and cries of sympathy. By this means, the numbers would be rapidly reduced by half, leaving twenty-four to fight the final battle.
“God, if I could have a thousand such men!” said John as the victors’ arrows drove into the targets. “What could stand against them?”
AS THE LAST pairs were being called by name, Gisburne spied Galfrid – now out of the competition, but clutching a capon tied about with green ribbon – edging through the crowd. Gisburne moved down to the left corner of the stand.
Galfrid did not look him in the eye, did not acknowledge him in any way. As he passed, and continued on towards the ale trestles, he said simply: “Simon-Over-Lee. Black hood.”
But Gisburne had already seen him. The hood entirely obscured the wearer’s features, but Gisburne did not need to see a face to know. He recognised the posture, the shape, the way he moved. How he had missed him until now, he could not imagine. Nearby were two other figures, eyes darting about shiftily – one, he recognised. A tall man, red-bearded. That had to be John Lyttel.
Trumpets sounded. “Next to shoot,” called the announcer, “Rainald the Fletcher...” There was a drunken cheer from a group of men within the throng. “And Simon-Over-Lee.” No cheers accompanied the second name.
Gisburne did not let his eye leave the black hood until its owner stood before the butts to take his turn. And when he drew, there was no doubt.
Gisburne descended from the stand and exchanged curt words with the captain of the guard. At his command, a company of armed men in plain clothing were deployed, spreading about the nucleus of competing archers like a net. But it would not close until the very last. Gisburne moved forward, towards the crowd.
Rainald was good. Every arrow – shot with steady deliberation – struck squarely in the target’s centre. He stepped away from the line with a nod of satisfaction, bow raised in triumph, his comrades cheering his certain victory. Had he been pitted against almost any other opponent that day, his place in the final would have been assured.
Simon-Over-Lee loosed his arrows in rapid succession. There was no hesitation, no thought, yet his draw of the great Welsh longbow – as tall as its owner – was stronger than any upon the field. So fast was it that one half expected the arrows to go askew and miss the mark entirely. But when the crowd looked, hardly realising what had happened, they gasped. All three were clustered dead centre of the middle square – so close one could not get a knife blade between them. “Simon-Over-Lee wins!” cried the announcer. In the throng, new bets were made – others renegotiated.
THE REMAINING ARCHERS would now compete for points in groups of six, with the four victors shooting against each other for the championship. John Lyttel and the other had now disappeared into the crowd, but Gisburne didn’t care about them. Hood was the prize. His black cowl was still visible atop his tall frame. Even if he broke through the net of the captain’s men, there were crossbowmen positioned every twelve yards around the edges of the tournament field, archers atop the stand, and mounted men behind the copse ready to ride him down. There would be no escape.
With de Gaillon’s words ringing in his head – Gisburne hung back, stopping at the rail mid-way between the royal stand and the shooting line. John had also insisted on him holding back until Hood had won or lost. He would have his sport this day, come what may. Just beyond the rail, the five heralds were now positioned, blowing fanfares to mark the victory of the bowman in each group.
Gisburne lost count of the number of fanfares. They began to rattle his brain. At the sound of the cry “Simon-Over-Lee wins!” he felt his teeth clench and his muscles tense more than he knew possible.
Two dozen became four: Robert Willeson, Lambert of Bowland, Osbert Le Falconer, Simon-Over-Lee. The shooting line drew back to two hundred and twenty yards. The entire field, now, was in a state of high excitement. There was hush as each man took the line.
R
obert Willeson was first out. Osbert Le Falconer – who seemed to sustain some injury to his right hand with his first shot – fell next. Now it came down to two.
Lambert of Bowland hardly looked the part. Balding, stout, barrel-chested and fifty if he was a day, he was the last man one would have picked out as a champion. He breathed hard, as if moving a great weight. His technique was minimal, seeming to involve the least part of his body. This extended even to his expression, which never changed. But with steady deliberation – in marked contrast to his opponent – he matched Simon-Over-Lee shot for shot. Gisburne thought he saw tension creep into the hooded man’s draw. All it would take was one error, and he, too would fall. But he did not fold. Try as they might, the judges could not separate them. The hushed crowd cheered with each loosed arrow.
All shafts spent, a new fanfare sounded. All looked about, uncertain what the outcome of the contest. As the murmur grew, the crowd was parted by liveried guards, and Gisburne saw Prince John making his way towards the butts.
This was not part of the plan.
John stepped out between the archers and the targets, accompanied only by three pages – two bearing the cushion bearing the yard of silver pennies, a third carrying a small iron pail which smoked in the cold air.
“Friends!” called John, his hands raised. All hushed. “So great is the skill displayed upon this field today, it seems we have a tie for first place! So, we have devised the ultimate test...”
The crowd buzzed with excitement at the prospect. All Gisburne saw, however, was the Prince standing unprotected in front of dozens of lethally-armed strangers.
Hunter of Sherwood: The Red Hand Page 32
