“And you believe this testimony reliable?” said Galfrid.
“I do. It tallies with all I’ve heard.”
“A fine story. But where does all this lead?”
“There’s more...” said Gisburne. “The next morning she returned to find Dickon’s wagon destroyed and the camp in uproar.”
“You think Sir Geoffrey may have been responsible – because Dickon had refused the King’s offer?”
“It’s a possibility I briefly considered,” said Gisburne. “There was a hooded visitor to Dickon’s wagon later that night who no one has yet been able to identify. But there was another mystery. When she arrived, the wreck was still hot. She was among the first to pick through it. She saw the charred remains, and, distraught, had an idea to find some keepsake of him. An arrowhead came to mind, she said, and even in her distress, she considered gathering several, to sell as trophies. But she could find nothing. Everything was destroyed.”
“So, he’s dead after all,” shrugged Galfrid.
Gisburne raised the bodkin point between thumb and forefinger, and stared at it. “The odd thing was the arrows.”
“You said there were no arrows.”
“That was the odd thing. The arrowheads were of steel. According to Osanna they should have found at least two dozen of them in that burnt wreck. But they found not one.”
“So?”
“Obviously, someone took them.”
Galfrid frowned. This just seemed to be going from one pointless observation to another. “Why would anyone take Dickon’s arrows?”
“They wouldn’t,” said Gisburne, “unless they were Dickon himself. He did not die that night. Someone else – the hooded man, perhaps – died in his place, and Dickon took his bow and arrows and fled. Or perhaps he became an agent of the Crown after all, and is still operating in that capacity – in secret.” Gisburne sat back, at last satisfied.
Galfrid regarded him for a moment, uncertain quite how to respond. “That’s it?”
“Isn’t that enough? I know it’s not Sir Ranulph, but...”
“No, it’s not Sir Ranulph,” muttered Galfrid.
“But Dickon is alive.”
“So what?” said Galfrid, throwing up his hands, his patience spent. “What has been the point in all this – in chasing this ghost? Even if he were alive, do you seriously believe he could help you?”
“It’s not that,” said Gisburne.
“You know what drives me mad? Not only is this a wild goose chase, you don’t even need his skills. You’re as good an archer as any I’ve ever met.”
“It’s not that,” Gisburne snapped.
They stared at each other in silence. “Fine,” said Galfrid. “Explain it to me then. Make it make sense. Or can you not bring yourself to? Like you couldn’t tell me about John’s decoy, or Llewellyn’s messages, or the fact that your own father had been with the Prince in Ireland?”
Gisburne’s jaw clenched, as if holding in his answer. Galfrid took a step towards him.
“Those street urchins are out there, day and night. They have Baylesford’s description now – to the last detail – and they will find him. But it’s not his name next on your precious list; it’s Le Fort’s. You’re the one who worked that out – you – and now you have abandoned him. The man’s life is at stake, yet all you can do is worry over someone who has no connection with the task, who is in all probability already dead.”
“But he is connected,” insisted Gisburne. “And he’s not dead. Haven’t you been listening?”
“That was ten years ago! No one’s seen or heard of him since! And what if they had anyway? What difference can any of this possibly make?”
“Because he’s connected with Hood,” barked Gisburne. “Hood knows of him. Is afraid of him. Right here, right now. Hood knows he is alive, and he blanches at his name!”
So, that was it. Hood. At last, Galfrid began to understand. His heart felt like lead. He exhaled heavily. “Hood dies in fewer than a dozen days, God willing,” he said. “But others stand to die before that. Those deaths, I should like to prevent. Wouldn’t you?”
Gisburne stared at him, mute – as if robbed not only of words, but of the will to speak.
Galfrid could take no more. He puffed out his cheeks. “I’m going to get some food,” he said, then grabbed his bag and hat and headed out, down the stairs and back into the rain-lashed street – knowing full well that within minutes of his leaving, Gisburne’s mind would once again turn away from Ranulph Le Fort, and back to the fabled bowman.
XXXIX
Crippelsgate
14 June, 1193
ON THE FOURTEENTH day of June, the Red Hand’s interlude came to an abrupt end.
On that day, Gisburne and Galfrid were sat in a tavern in the shadow of the church of St-Giles-without-Crippelsgate. By the look on his face, Galfrid had not seen its like before. There were cloths covering the long tables. On either side were not benches, but chairs. And around them on every side sat the fashionable, the noble, the well-heeled.
Galfrid shifted uncomfortably. “What is this all about?
“I told you,” said Gisburne. “Food.”
“But we have food. There’s half a gallon of hogget stew left. And bread that was fresh this morning. And some of those German pickles you like.”
“Good food.”
Galfrid’s face hardened. “Are saying my cooking’s not up to scratch?”
That was not at all what Gisburne was saying. “Galfrid, please,” he said, holding up both hands. “Just accept this... in the spirit it is meant.” He had intended this meal as an apology, but Galfrid, as always, was not making it easy for him. “Your food is fine. Excellent, in fact. I just thought...” He gestured to his surroundings, hoping they spoke for him.
Finally, Galfrid seemed to understand. He nodded, even threatened to smile. “Well then...” he said. “I suppose the hogget will keep.” With that, he drew out his eating knife – a pitted and discoloured old blade with a plain wood handle and a point that had at some stage been snapped off and crudely sharpened back. He went to stab it into the table, but Gisburne thrust his outstretched hand, narrowly avoiding a skewering in the process.
“Please,” he said. “Not here...”
A foreign noble with the longest nose Gisburne had ever seen and a beard like a nun’s chuff shot them a sour look. Galfrid looked around, then carefully placed his battered old knife upon the table before him.
Wine was brought. Cups charged. A bowl of steaming broth arrived, followed by a salad of fragrant herbs, bread and cheese, and a dish of soft, spiced figs. They were immediately joined by a broad platter of hot ravieles – thin dough parcels of egg, cheese and saffron covered in butter with yet more grated cheese on top. Their lugubrious server – immaculately dressed in dark blue and white livery – named each dish in a monotone, managing to maintain an air of perfect civility whilst simultaneously regarding them as if they were a pair of animals wandered in from a provincial farmyard.
“I have heard this is some of the best food in London,” said Gisburne, after the servant had sloped off. Galfrid at first prodded the ravieles uncertainly, then spiked a parcel on his knife, sniffed it, and shoved it in his mouth. His face broke into a smile. From there on, there was no looking back.
For some time they ate in silence.
“It was not intentional, you know,” said Gisburne after the wine had been flowing a while, “me not telling you about my father in Ireland.”
“It’s your choice,” said Galfrid between mouthfuls. “And not my place to criticise.”
“You were right to criticise. The fact is, I did not know myself, until these past weeks. All that time he had kept it from me. I suppose I just wanted the secret to be mine for a while.”
Galfrid nodded slowly. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Really.”
At that moment, another dish landed upon the table – some kind of gargantuan fowl with onions in a deep red sauce. The aroma of garlic
and wine made Gisburne immediately salivate.
“What’s this?” he said.
“A new dish from France,” said the server wearily. “Cock in wine.” Then he added, deadpan: “And I’ve heard all the jokes.” He plodded off, leaving Gisburne and Galfrid staring down at the dish in wonder, and not a little trepidation. “Cock in wine...” repeated Galfrid.
It was clear from the legs alone that in life it had been a cockerel of considerable dimensions. That did not bode so well – but at least, if it turned out to be like boiled wood, thought Gisburne, they could lap up the sauce. When they went at it with their knives, however, they found the meat so tender it fell off the bone. Gisburne spiked a piece awkwardly. Galfrid, giving up on that approach, attacked it with a spoon. Both ate. The soft, gamey meat merged with the flavour of rich, reduced wine, onions, butter and tiny pieces of smoked pork. Galfrid raised his eyebrows. “This is not something I thought I’d find myself saying,” he said, “but that is without doubt the best cock I’ve ever tasted.”
They demolished the dish without further comment, and were taking on the sauce with what remained of the bread when the clamour burst upon them.
To his dying day, Gisburne would never know how Hamon found them there. But he was glad he did. Whether Hamon was as glad, having run the gauntlet of the tavern’s fanatically officious staff, was perhaps another matter.
It began with a banging at the door. Then shouting. The mud-splattered figure of Hamon briefly appeared, then – protesting in the most colourful of terms – was dragged back by his ragged tunic. There was a tussle, a crash, a number of firm entreaties that were flatly ignored. Somehow he broke through again, and made it half way to Gisburne and Galfrid before his pursuers caught hold and wrestled him to the tavern floor.
Gisburne stood, sending his wine cup bowling off the table, its contents spraying over a pair of excessively loud Flemish merchants. One jumped to his feet in reflex as the wine hit his face – and his belly almost upended their own table, sending a dish of spiced pork smashing to the floor, shards of bouncing pottery and splatters of sauce peppering the thrashing blue and white bodies of the servers. But before Gisburne could even make a move – and with a determination that made the Tower guard look positively easygoing – they had hauled the struggling Hamon up by his arms and legs, like a sheep for the shearing, and were heading for the door ready to fling him out.
Hamon had uttered nothing coherent to his masters during that chaotic encounter, but he had delivered his message, nonetheless – the message that both hardly dared hope would arrive. For as he had been dragged away, he had raised his right hand in a peculiar gesture, in which the thumb and first two fingers were extended. This signal had been established so he might deliver this most grave piece of news without having to speak the words aloud. It related to the Red Hand, and it said simply: We have found him.
With the tavern now in uproar, Gisburne and Galfrid scrambled for the door. Outside, Hamon lay sprawled in the muck.
“Are you all right, boy?” said Galfrid, hauling him to his feet.
“I’ve ’ad worse,” said Hamon. Then he turned back to the door of the tavern and slung a clod of dung at it. “Stuck-up bastards!” he shouted.
“Let’s all get out of here,” said Gisburne. “Before they realise we haven’t paid the bill.”
AS THEY HURRIED round to the yard where Nyght and Mare were waiting, Hamon – still breathless – apprised them of the situation.
“It was my mate Tom,” he said. “’E seen this bloke who fitted your description: a tinker, bearded and big, but all ’unched so as to ’ide it. He followed ’im, and he stopped ’is wagon outside an ’ouse in Jewen Street, and then ’e ’eard ’im ask for Ranulph Le Fort.”
“Christ,” said Gisburne. “He’s found Ranulph. Is there more?”
“The people of the next door ’ouse was Jews. They’s all Jews down there. They turned ’im away, said ’e’d come to the wrong place. And off ’e went.”
“Did Tom follow?”
“’E ’ad to leave him to come and tell me. But this were just minutes ago. Just as long ago as it took to run from Jewen Street.”
“Come on, then!” said Gisburne, and hauled himself into Nyght’s saddle.
XL
THERE WAS NOTHING Londoners feared more than fire. Though there were few alive to remember it, all here had parents or grandparents who had told them of the Great Fire of 1135. It was this fire that had damaged London Bridge, and which destroyed most of the properties between St Paul’s and St Clement Danes.
As Gisburne and Galfrid rode through narrowing streets, Hamon running ahead of them, limbs flailing, they saw ahead of them a rising column of black smoke. A sense of panic gripped Gisburne; they knew the Red Hand used fire, but this could destroy the city.
Though the rain had held off all day, the streets were thick with mud – heavy going for boy and horse. At times it seemed Hamon had the advantage, disappearing entirely out of view as he pressed ahead and darted off down the next alley. It only served to emphasise how painfully slow was the horses’ progress.
They had no trouble identifying the house on Jewen Street. Smoke was billowing from an upper story window, and the orange light of flames flickered inside. All around, local people milled and shouted – many in a tongue Gisburne did not understand – rushing with pails and pots of water in an attempt to fight the flames. Without hesitation, they plunged into the front door of the burning building, emerging moments later, coughing and choking. It seemed the height of selflessness. But if this house burned, their houses burned. As Gisburne dismounted, a woman next to him put her hands over her ears and simply wailed in anguish.
Hamon, meanwhile, was already talking avidly to a spindly lad who was watching out front – Tom.
“Is this it? The house where he knocked?” said Gisburne. “You’re sure of it?”
Tom nodded with awesome vigour. Hamon put a hand on the lad’s shoulder and turned to his masters.
“’E says ’e ’eard a fearsome shoutin’ and crashin’ inside before the fire started,” said Hamon. “But ’e ain’t seen no one come out since. ’E thinks the Red ’And must still be inside.”
Gisburne and Galfrid exchanged looks. “Get your staff,” said Gisburne. He pulled his sword – his father’s sword – from beneath Nyght’s saddle, where it had been discreetly stowed, and threw its strap over his shoulder. “Mark the front,” he said. “I’ll take the back. You boys watch the streets – and holler if you see anything.”
Gisburne ran off with heavy, mud-caked feet down the thickly mired alley running down the side of the next house, his palm on his sword pommel. As he went, leaving the immediate turmoil behind, he felt a thrill rise up in him. If this were true – if it were as Hamon said... For the first time, they were close. Better than close. They had him trapped.
At the end of the alley was a low, rotting gate, leading to a lane running along the backs of the houses. It was stuck fast in the mud; Gisburne vaulted over. A clutch of scrawny chickens flew up in the next yard as he did so, setting off other animals in the process. A large dog barked nearby. A smaller yapped from a distance, the sound muffled by the damp and mud. In a small enclosed yard, a single cow lowed gruffly. Gisburne slithered along the lane, back towards the burning house, the cries at the front somehow distant. The back door, he now saw, had been smashed so completely that it was now almost non-existent. Upon its hanging top hinge, only a splinter of wood remained. Gisburne drew his sword.
As he approached the yard, his attention momentarily diverted by the deep, foot-sucking mud, he seemed to see, from the corner of his eye, a large shape drop from one of the back windows. There was a heavy thud and a clank of metal, then silence.
He stood, motionless, seeing nothing – thinking, for a moment, his mind must be playing tricks. Then, beyond the low woodpile, a great figure rose up.
He had heard the descriptions a dozen times, had pictured the thing every hour of every day. But no
w it stood before him – solid, real, spattered with mud and gore – he felt his mouth turn dry and his damp limbs shudder.
The man was big, but it was his armour made him monstrous. Battered, spiked projections on the helm gave the impression of height, while its nightmarish face recalled the most grotesque carvings on the cathedral of Autun, a demon ready to consume lost souls. The rest of the armour – irregular plates ranging in size from palm to platter – seemed something animal: part reptilian, part insect. Its scales were almost black, but with a sheen of blue, like the carapace of a beetle. Gisburne had seen that before – cooked metal plunged into oil to keep it from rusting. Simple pragmatism, but the effect was pure evil. From one great, clawed arm, partially obscured by the heaped logs, hung the huge hammer. Upon the other was a long, copper cylinder.
For a moment they faced each other, its dead, empty eyes on him. It took three heavy steps around the woodpile. Gisburne could hear it breathing. Then, with a roar, it charged.
To stand firm was folly. That much, Gisburne knew. He feigned a swerve as the Red Hand closed, then flung himself to the opposite way. He heard flames roar as he rolled – felt their heat in the air. He righted himself, waited for the hammer to come as he knew it would, prepared to dodge it.
But it did not come. The Red Hand did not turn or stop. Caked in mud and muck, Gisburne scrambled to his feet as the great figure pounded off into the lane. The Red Hand had already pushed his luck to the limit with this attack. His only object now was escape.
Gisburne smiled. In leaving him alive, the Red Hand had made his greatest error. He had no mail to protect him – nothing but his horsehide coat, his sword and his eating knife. But he could still run – all day if he had to. Now he would see how long the Red Hand could last.
Hunter of Sherwood: The Red Hand Page 34
