Hunter of Sherwood: The Red Hand

by Toby Venables

  BY ORDER, THE archers had not brought arrows to the field. Arrows were provided by the Prince, and each batch bore a unique mark so as to clearly identify the man who had shot them. In reality, there was little need for the arrows to be identified thus in the early stages of the contest – but Prince John had an ulterior motive. He allowed those competing to keep the arrows they had been given, another part of his great bounty. The arrows themselves were blunts – or what Gisburne had known as half-blunts when he was a boy. Like all blunts they had a bulbous wooden head, and were favoured for practice shooting or for hunting small animals and birds, because they killed the animal without damaging their flesh. But the half-blunts also had a short iron point, to ensure they would embed in the targets. They may not have been meant for killing, but they could still fell a deer – or a man. Should they later be used for any such nefarious purpose, it was understood that John had a list of names and marks, and that the owner of the arrows would be held to account, whether personally responsible for the deed or not.

  How this would help John if some madman decided here and now to send an arrow through his chest, however, Gisburne did not know.

  John turned, and took up a coin from the cushion. He held it aloft, catching the light. “A single silver penny!”

  There was a murmur as the third page took a stick from the pail and dabbed a spot of pitch upon centre of the target. It grew into a rumble of excitement as John pressed the penny into it, realisation dawning. Meanwhile, at the shooting line, two squires darted forward and, on bended knees, presented the two remaining competitors each with a new arrow. Broadheads. Killing arrows.

  Christ, John, thought Gisburne. Say your bloody piece and get off...

  “One arrow apiece!” called the Prince. “The victor shall be the archer who is first to split the coin; the first to miss forfeits the competition!”

  There were gasps, exclamations, applause. Most were clearly marvelling at the impossibility of the task – from here, the tiny coin was barely even visible. Only a few had perhaps realised that John was encouraging them to direct their arrows at an image of the king.

  John withdrew from the range, and Gisburne breathed once more. “Lambert of Bowland shall shoot first!” called the announcer.

  The old man took his position on the line, and squinted at the distant speck. The crowd fell so silent, Gisburne swore he could hear the archer’s whistly, nasal breaths. He nocked his arrow, stared at it upon the stave for a moment, then marked his target again. For what seemed an age he scrutinised it, then, in one move, he drew. The arrow flew, and struck dead centre. The crowd gasped. A page dashed out to inspect the target.

  “The coin is struck!” called the boy. There was uproar. Several dashed forward to congratulate Lambert, and were held back. Lambert himself remained implacable – but already the crowd was celebrating his win. They almost drowned out the reedy voice of the page as he added: “But it is not split!” The tumult died away, and all looked at each other in astonished bemusement. It was not over.

  Simon-Over-Lee stepped up to the line, head bowed. For the last time they fell into awe-struck silence, wondering what – if anything – could be done to better such a shot.

  Gisburne knew what Simon-Over-Lee meant to do before he made his move. It was a sudden memory of Hattin that triggered the realisation – of an act so audacious, so challenging, that it could only have been attempted by the man he had known as Locksley. And yet, it had been Gisburne himself who had suggested it. At the nadir of the battle upon that dusty, parched outcrop, with the Christian army near annihilated by Salah al-Din’s vast army, Locksley had been seeking a target for his last arrow – a final act of defiance in the face of certain death. And Gisburne, beyond desperation, but suddenly gripped by a mad idea, had pointed a shaking hand at the yellow tent of the Sultan – at Salah al-Din himself.

  Now, as Simon-Over-Lee laid his last arrow upon the bowstave, ready to take his shot, Gisburne saw the archer’s obscured face turn briefly beneath the shadowy cowl – towards the royal stand, and back again.

  And he knew.

  Gisburne vaulted over the rail, knocking a herald flying as he did so, and sprinted towards the shooting line. All that followed seemed to unfold as if the whole world were grinding to a halt. He saw Simon-Over-Lee begin to draw his bow.

  Running headlong, he pushed past men and women, barging them out of his way with little regard for their fate. They tumbled, faces contorted with near-comical outrage. He leapt over flailing limbs. If he fell now, it would all be over.

  In the closing moments he was suddenly aware that all eyes were on him. There were shouts of alarm. A hand clawed at his face and bloodied it – whether by accident or design, he never knew. He was dimly aware of men closing in from other, more distant parts of the crowd – his men.

  In the confused mêlée, the archer was momentarily blocked from view. When he appeared again, his bow was more than half drawn, his body turning towards Gisburne – towards the Prince.

  As he turned, his face was revealed. Gisburne met his gaze. Simon-Over-Lee. Robert of Locksley. Robin Hood. Astonishment flickered on that face as his arrow point swung around. It became a smile.

  With little thought for his own safety, Gisburne flung himself at Hood. His forehead hit something solid, which cracked under the impact. The arrow flew, whooshing past his right ear, its fletching grazing his temple. As they both hit the ground, Gisburne on top of Hood, something snapped, and the wind was knocked out of him. They rolled on the hard, frozen ground, and as he turned over Gisburne looked back to see John staring – astounded, but very much alive – and a vertical rent in the cloth pavilion where the arrow had passed.

  He had to be pulled off Hood. Afterwards, when Gisburne thought back on it, that whole part was a blur. He had never had much time for the notion of demons, and possession. It seemed to him that the plain folly or insanity of men was more than enough to account for the evils in the world. But, now and again, even he had seen madness that seemed to come from nowhere – without warning, and for no discernible reason. And then, every once in a while, he wondered.

  This was such an occasion. But this time, the possessed man was him.

  There was one memory that remained vivid in his mind. As he had been dragged off the bloody but still laughing Hood, he had looked up and seen Marian. How and when she had arrived, he had not been aware – he knew only that her expression would live with him forever.

  She regarded him with horror, outrage. Revulsion. He felt the door slam on years of intimacy and affection. As the guards closed in around Hood and bound him, she turned and quit the stand, then plunged into the pressing crowd, as if unable to bear another moment in this place, in this company.

  In his daze, he felt the hands of his comrades – the very same ones that had pulled him away from Hood – shake him, and slap him on the back. There were cheers. For a moment, he thought they would even lift him onto their shoulders. In the open pavilion, John smiled a broad smile and clapped his hands.

  On this day, Gisburne had achieved his highest ambition – a thing beyond the capabilities of any other knight in the realm. He had engineered the capture of the most dangerous man in England. He had saved the life of the heir to the English throne. He had put right the wrong that had gnawed at him every day for the past two years – that had threatened the very future of the kingdom. He had done all this, because he believed – no, he knew – that it was right. This was his greatest victory.

  And it felt like disaster.

  XXXVIII

  London

  June, 1193

  “I HAVE SOMETHING!” bawled Galfrid as he bounded up the stairs. With a cackle of delight he ducked his head under the low beam and booted open the unlatched door. Three times now he had cracked the top of his head on that beam when ascending the steps – twice when he was in a hurry. The last time, he’d struck it with such force that his knees had buckled and he’d slithered all the way to the foot of the twisting st
aircase. For a good few minutes afterwards, he had lain there in a heap, just gathering his wits, eyes watering, glad that on this particular occasion Gisburne was not in the house.

  This time, however, he knew Gisburne to be at home. He’d spied him up there from the rain-soaked street, his profile framed in the open window, sitting, staring. Galfrid knew why, and he knew at what. He seemed to be doing a lot of that these days. Too much. It frustrated Galfrid; it certainly wasn’t helping them towards their goal, and it was tying his master in knots. But try as he might, whether through subtle manipulation or bluff cajolery, Galfrid seemed unable to break the fixation. He might pull him out of it for a few hours – a day – but it would always draw him back, and he would see Gisburne closing in on himself again. Sometimes he would awake in the night to find Gisburne playing the hurdy gurdy by the open window – tunes Galfrid no longer recognised. Even the hooting interjections of Widow Fleet – of late in a perpetual state of war with her neighbour Osekin, whose pig continually invaded her yard – could not get through to him. And then there was the peculiar direction that Gisburne’s inquiries had begun to take.

  Today, however, Galfrid was triumphant. He had new information – something definite, this time. Piddling though it was in the scheme of things, after days of fruitless searches through sodden, muddy streets it felt like the retaking of Jerusalem.

  “I have something,” he repeated, throwing off his bag and flinging his sopping wet cap upon the table. Gisburne sat in exactly the same attitude Galfrid had seen from the street, chin on his fist, elbow on his knee, staring at his wall in intense concentration. With his other hand he turned one of Llewellyn’s bodkin points over and over. He did not turn. He did not speak.

  Galfrid shook the drips off his head and stepped into the front room. “New information...” he said.

  “What?” Gisburne stirred. His eyes flicked sideways, but still his head did not turn. “Oh. Good.” Then, his brow knotted, he was once again lost in his tangled, private world.

  Not all the rain London could tip upon Galfrid’s head had dampened his spirit today, but Gisburne had pissed the spark out with three words. He wiped a hand over his wet face and sniffed. He’d seen Gisburne like this a few times of late, but even so, this was a bad one. He fought the urge to kick the stool from under him, or throw the doorstop at his head. “Well, don’t you want to know what it is?” he said.

  Gisburne snapped out of his reverie, dragging his attention from the wall. “Yes, of course,” he said.

  The mad mural – Gisburne’s grubby, soot-black Monreale – had, in the past two weeks, grown and spread like a grimy weed, finally claiming every inch of wall. When that had run out, it had begun to creep across the ceiling – had even colonised parts of the floor. To what end, Galfrid could no longer guess. For as it had developed, so it had degenerated. Here and there, elements of it were still coherent – words, plans, devices – but the greater part had been drawn over and wiped out and drawn over again so many times that the overall impression was of something slowly disappearing into a smudged, foggy blur.

  “Baylesford,” said Galfrid. “He’s been seen. Two days ago, on Catte Street.”

  “You’re sure?” said Gisburne.

  “There’s no doubt this time. The witness – a wool merchant by name of Adelard – has known him for years. Even sailed with him on a couple of occasions. Gave a full and detailed description.”

  “Good,” said Gisburne, nodding. He sounded like he meant it this time, as if he was returning to the real world. “This is good.”

  “There’s something else...” Galfrid paused. He had Gisburne’s full attention now. “When Baylesford saw our witness, he ran.”

  “Ran..?”

  “Adelard said when Baylesford clapped eyes on him from across the street, he gave a brief smile of recognition – looked for all the world like he was about to greet his old friend – then his face fell, and he was off like a startled deer.”

  “Has Baylesford any reason to fear this man? To wish to avoid him?”

  “None that he knows. Things have only ever been cordial between them. But there is one other possibility... That Baylesford was running because he was recognised – that he wishes to avoid being found.”

  Gisburne rose to his feet, considering these words. “My God,” he said. “He knows. He knows he is a target, and has gone to ground...”

  “Perhaps Ranulph Le Fort too,” said Galfrid. “If they’ve heard of the murders, it would not take much for them to have drawn their own conclusions. Little wonder they have been so elusive.” He sighed heavily. “Unfortunately, it makes our task all the more difficult.”

  “But also the Red Hand’s,” said Gisburne. And he smiled.

  There had been no murders for over two weeks – not since the startling double event of the twenty-fifth day of May. Gisburne had theorised that the Red Hand had originally meant to spread the killings – that had the attack on de Rosseley proved successful, the murders of Jocelyn de Gaillard and Mortimer de Vere would have been days apart at the very least, maintaining a steady pressure on his pursuers. Now it seemed there may be other reasons why he had been quiet – and not of his own making.

  HIS LATE SILENCE had done nothing to quell the fear he had inspired, nor dampened the city’s morbid fascination. If anything, it had fuelled them. All knew that he was out there, somewhere, unapprehended, free to act, preparing to do so – and every day that passed without event only made some new horror more likely. Imaginations rioted. There was a void to be filled, and every wild dream, prejudice and dread flooded in to fill it.

  Some took the opportunity to blame the Jews. Others, the church. Many there were that talked of the Red Hand as a demon – even a harbinger of impending Apocalypse. But for some, he was an avenging angel, bringing judgement upon John and his cronies, upon authority, upon the city itself. Priests in the pulpit invoked his name. One claimed outright he had come as punishment for their failure to wrest Jerusalem from Saracen hands. Few who listened could see reason to doubt his words. As moods turned and tensions grew, Gisburne and Galfrid were forced to face the possibility that some fanatics might even feel driven to protect him.

  As if to confirm the arrival of some dark force, the long-augured storms had finally fallen upon the city. At midday on the first of June, day had turned to night, blinding lights flickered from the boiling, black clouds, and the sky cracked open. For days now it had rumbled on with no sign of respite and bringing no relief, and for days they had stuck doggedly to their task, wading through thick air and thicker mud.

  GALFRID KNEW GISBURNE’S search for Ranulph had yielded nothing. What he did not know was how much was due to lack of information, and how much with his master’s dangerously diverted attention. “So,” he said, striving to maintain as casual a tone as possible, “how did you get on today? Found anything to rival my revelation?”

  “Actually, yes,” said Gisburne. He tossed the bodkin point in the air and caught it. “Except...” His brow creased. He shook his head. “I’m not sure what to make of it yet.”

  “Well,” said Galfrid, “I’m listening.” He had not expected this answer.

  Gisburne looked suddenly shifty – almost embarrassed. His hand closed about the arrowhead. “It’s nothing, really.”

  “Ah,” said Galfrid. “Dickon...”

  Galfrid had watched as Gisburne’s curiosity about this man had turned into obsession. Why, he did not understand. He had told himself that his master had his reasons – that perhaps there was some obscure connection that Gisburne had not shared with him. He had a frustrating habit of not sharing information, after all. But, generous though he tried to be, he was struggling to find justification – and Gisburne, he sensed, knew it.

  Galfrid sighed heavily. He had no desire to hear about Dickon Bend-the-Bow. But, as he turned to leave, Gisburne suddenly began to blurt out his story, as if desperate to be heard – or for someone to bring clarity to all he was about to describe.


  “I spoke today with someone who knew him,” he said. “More than knew him. A whore named Osanna, who frequented Dickon’s caravan during the summer he spent in London. She’s a sad wreck now, destroyed by drink, but probably quite a beauty in her day. It took two weeks of enquiry to get to her. She was with Dickon the very night he disappeared. And she told me something. A secret she’d kept to herself for years in the vague hope he might return. Now, she’d tell it to you for half a cup of ale, except no one’s interested – or they weren’t, until I found her...”

  In spite of himself, Galfrid turned back to face Gisburne. His master’s eyes were glinting. “Three men called upon Dickon that evening. Many sought audience with him at that time – women especially. But this was different. Two were serjeants or knights – she could not tell which, and anyway only glimpsed them beyond the wagon cover. The third was clearly a knight – and a noble one. She remembered his name: Sir Geoffrey of Lemsforde. He insisted on speaking with Dickon in private, inside the wagon. She was never meant to hear their hushed conversation. No one was. Dickon presumed her passed out in his bed; Lemsforde probably did not even know she was there. The knight said he came as a representative of King Henry – that Dickon’s abilities had been noted, and that he wished to offer him an opportunity. That opportunity was never spoken outright, but it’s clear what was meant.”

  “An agent,” muttered Galfrid. “Acting for the King.”

  Gisburne nodded eagerly, and sat forward. “But Dickon politely declined – a response that must have taken Lemsforde aback, given that it was, in effect, a summons from the monarch. But who can blame Dickon? He had fame, women, people throwing silver at him night after night, and at no danger to himself. Then Osanna heard Sir Geoffrey ask him if they had met somewhere before. Dickon said not. And with that, they parted ways. But what she could see and others could not was that this question had disturbed him. She afterwards questioned him on it. He flung her out of his wagon in a rage. She found some other corner to sleep in that night – unaware, then, that his rejection had probably saved her life.”