Hunter of Sherwood: The Red Hand

by Toby Venables

  He sped off in pursuit, closing on the lumbering giant. The hammer smashed through a side gate, and the Red Hand headed off down another alley. Then another – twisting and turning through the tangled maze of back ways and tracks. He knew exactly where he was going – and he was fast for a big man. Gisburne’s wet surcoat flapped and wrapped about his legs with every step, and the past weeks of inactivity suddenly seemed to weigh upon him – on his lungs, on his limbs. But in this task, unencumbered as he was, he knew he was still the stronger – until the Red Hand chose to stop, and face him.

  As he drew closer, his pumping feet heavy with mud, his mind raced, calculating his options, his eyes scanning the back of his adversary for gaps, weak points. When he took him down, it had to be complete; if any fight was left in the big man – any at all – Gisburne would not survive.

  And then it hit him with the force of revelation. The Red Hand did not know he was being pursued. His visibility – and his hearing too – were limited by his great helm. And now, he was leading Gisburne back to his wagon. He thought of de Rosseley’s advice – how stamina would be what the Red Hand lacked. If he only hung back now, and kept pace, the Red Hand would be bringing defeat upon himself with every step.

  But then, as they turned down a narrow gap between two dilapidated buildings, labouring through the slimy, near-black mud, he saw it. With each increasingly heavy stride, the bottom edge of the Red Hand’s helm rose momentarily where neck and shoulder met. A gap – appearing and disappearing with the rhythm of his great stride. He could not let such an opportunity pass. The timing would have to be perfect. He would have only one chance – and if he missed, he would alert the Red Hand to his presence. Gisburne raised his sword across his shoulder.

  As the Red Hand cleared the two buildings, he turned a sharp right – and Gisburne’s opportunity disappeared up a low bank and through a gap in the crumbling wall. Gisburne fought to make the turn, skidded and slithered on the bank. He recovered and leapt through the gap, to find himself in a wide trackway with scruffy yards on either side – and in the middle of it the Red Hand standing, facing him.

  Whether he had heard him stumble on the bank, or glimpsed him as he turned, Gisburne would never know. But it mattered little now. The Red Hand would not run any more – not until he had put his pursuer down for good. If this great hulk charged at him, as he surely meant to, there would be little Gisburne could do. He could dodge him once – maybe twice. So he did the one thing he knew the Red Hand would not expect. He ran at him.

  The hammer swung – but too slow. The weapon’s great head boomed past Gisburne’s head as his right shoulder smashed into the Red Hand’s sternum, all his weight and momentum behind the blow. It was like running into a stone wall. But he heard the great man groan, and stagger back, and as he did so, Gisburne swung his whole body round, arms fully extended, sword gripped in both fists. He turned almost full circle, the tip of his blade shrieking as it swung through its great arc.

  Detached, almost curious, Gisburne watched as the Red Hand raised his left arm – not, he realised, to protect himself, but to release a burst of Greek Fire. The Red Hand’s flank was hung with thick plates of steel; Gisburne entirely unprotected. The flame would strike him full in the face from less than a yard.

  As his sword completed its circuit, he brought it down low, striking the Red Hand’s left knee with such force Gisburne feared the precious sword would warp. The blade turned as it met metal, bent about the knee joint and sprung back, whipping out of Gisburne’s wet grip, somersaulting twice and sticking in the mud four yards distant. Gisburne’s unchecked momentum sent him teetering off balance. His feet slid sideways in the slimy mire, and he crashed to the ground. But as he did so, he heard a roar from within the metal mask – a roar of pain.

  Strike a knee joint side on with enough force and it will make the bones shudder no matter what armour is laid against it. Gisburne – helpless, face down upon the ground – was aware of a moment of complete stillness – then felt the ground quiver beneath him as the Red Hand’s huge frame slammed upon it.

  He scrambled for his sword. With the Red Hand down, he had a chance. He could find a gap, and thrust his sword point into it. But even as his hand closed about the grip, the giant was up again. A piercing, half-human squeal cut the air, and Gisburne whirled round in confusion. The huge figure was loping unevenly towards him – hammer already swinging. Gisburne had only a second to judge its trajectory – but such a weapon cannot be made to change direction. He dropped and rolled again, out of its path – and was suddenly aware of another dark shape hurtling towards him. The ghastly squeal sounded again – now right by his face. Other harsh cries seemed to echo distantly. Then the hammer struck.

  Flesh and bone burst apart with a sickening crunch. Gisburne felt hot blood gush over him – buckets of it – and a pig, still twitching, its head obliterated by the hammer blow, collapsed over his chest. The blood splattered into his eyes, momentarily blinding him. Shocked, horrified, drenched in gore, Gisburne thrust the pig off him and scrambled backward in the mud, trying to blink the blood away. It rolled over like a bristly barrel, its legs convulsing as if still believing they could deliver it from harm. Behind him now, he heard a grunt. Snorting. The sticky patter of feet in mud. Ahead of him, through the stinging red mist, he could make out the looming figure of the Red Hand. But he was backing away.

  Gisburne turned just as the feral, mud-caked hogs fell upon him.

  They had smelled the blood. There was little they wouldn’t eat, but this had sent them into a frenzy. Grunting and squealing, they pulled at his coat and thrust their wet snouts at him. He swung and stabbed at them, and for a moment they drew back. He struggled to his knees, then the biggest of them – warty and bristled like a boar – went for him, barging into his chest.

  He fell backwards – felt one bite his boot, its teeth near breaking his toes. A trotter stamped into his side as the boar-hog came straight for his throat. His foot could take its chances, but his throat he meant to keep. He lashed at the hog with his blade, catching it square across the head and cleaving its skull an inch deep. The squeal that came from it was like nothing he had ever heard – a sound no one should hear. Such a blow would have felled a man, but the great bristled beast did not drop. It bucked and shrieked, spraying blood as it bit wildly at its fellows, its brains scrambled. The squealing grew into a hellish cacophony as each turned on the other and Gisburne, for the moment, was forgotten. He crawled backwards, watching in horror as the pack feasted on the steaming flesh of its fallen comrades.

  When finally he staggered to his feet, the Red Hand was gone. Gisburne turned this way and that, looking out across the impossible labyrinth of yards, paths and alleys, straining desperately to see some familiar shape, some pattern of tracks in the mud. But there was nothing. He glanced back at the pigs, still occupied with their meal. From nowhere, unbidden, a vision of the tavern and their dish with its deep red sauce entered his head, and he shuddered. As he turned to go, intent on putting as much distance between himself and them as possible, something in the mud caught his eye. He stooped, and picked it up. A thick, blue-black plate of metal, its leather bindings cut through – a piece of the Red Hand’s armoured shell.

  XLI

  IT AMAZED GISBURNE to discover just how far they had run. As he picked his way back through the maze, he found he was grateful for that column of smoke. Yet it seemed, as he neared, that it was now thinning. When finally he arrived, he saw the fire had been entirely quenched by the swift actions of the people. All that remained now was to enter the house, and see what new chaos the Red Hand had left in his wake.

  Looking around, he caught sight of Galfrid further up the street, deep in conversation with a well-groomed young man of the neighbourhood. The young man had his arm around an older woman – clearly a servant – who was weeping. Gisburne raised his hand and called his squire’s name. As he did so, a woman nearby turned and screamed. Gisburne drew his sword, and swung around. Another
joined her. Several men cried out, now – some cursing harshly. Gisburne looked this way and that, but could see no threat. Turning back, he saw Galfrid’s horrified expression – then he realised they were screaming at him.

  Blood. He had some blood on him. Of course.

  “It’s all right!” he called, sheathing his sword and raising his hands in a gesture of submission as he strode past. “I’m all right...”

  “Christ’s bollocks,” said Galfrid as he approached. “What happened to you?”

  “Don’t ask. Let’s just say I may be off ham for a while.”

  “Are you hurt?”

  “No,” said Gisburne. He wiggled his toes in his boot, and winced with at the sharp pain it induced. “It’s not my blood.”

  Galfrid’s eyes widened. “His?”

  “Sadly, no. Just an animal. How bad does it look?”

  “About as bad as it possibly could.”

  Gisburne felt his scalp, slimy with mud – or what he had supposed was mud. “Is it in my hair?”

  Galfrid nodded, his eyes still roving about Gisburne in disbelief. “It’s like you dived in and went for a swim in it.”

  Gisburne sighed. “I almost had him, Galfrid,” he said. “I was so close... But I injured him. And he left something...” He reached inside his surcoat and pulled out the metal plate.

  Galfrid looked at it, and puffed out his cheeks. “D’you really think anything could get through that?”

  “We can at least find out now,” said Gisburne. As he pocketed the plate, he noticed the young man to whom Galfrid had been speaking lurking a little way from him, still comforting the weeping woman. Galfrid followed Gisburne’s gaze.

  “This is Isaac,” said Galfrid. “Most of the people have been reluctant to speak with me, but Isaac is different.” Galfrid smiled at him. “This is his house. And Ranulph Le Fort is” – he corrected himself – “was a guest in it.”

  “Dead?” said Gisburne.

  Galfrid nodded.

  Isaac was well-dressed, his black hair neatly cropped – a man of decent means. Yet his face had an unhealthy pallor and was oddly lacking expression. Gisburne noted his hands were shaking. His home had almost been destroyed, and a man murdered; it was no surprise he was in a state of shock. As Gisburne stepped towards him, Isaac spoke some gentle words to the woman. She inclined her head, wiped her tears, and left them.

  “My housekeeper,” said Isaac. “I’ve known her since I was a boy. When I came back and saw the flames, I thought...”

  Gisburne nodded. “Ranulph was alone in the house?”

  “So it would seem.”

  “You knew him well?”

  “I knew him,” said Isaac. “He was a good friend over many years. Not just to me, but to the Jewish people. Even during hard times.”

  Gisburne nodded again. By all accounts, Sir Ranulph had championed all manner of causes, but he had not heard of this one.

  “How did you know him?” he said.

  Isaac blinked, and frowned. “Does it matter now?”

  Gisburne decided to leave that line of questioning for later. “Did he know the nature of the thing that threatened him? And did he say anything of it to you?”

  “He knew something came for him. And, yes, he spoke of it. Only in the vaguest terms, but then...”

  “But then..?”

  “All of London is talking of the Red Hand.”

  Gisburne looked up at the front of the house. Upon the door was scratched an x.

  “We need to look inside,” he said.

  “Maybe you should get cleaned up a bit,” said Galfrid, looking him up and down again. When Gisburne glanced around, he saw that almost all gathered outside the house were now staring at him, their expressions ranging from dread to disgust.

  “The house first,” said Gisburne. He turned to Isaac. “May we?”

  “Please,” said Isaac. He smiled, and gestured to his door as if welcoming them in for wine. Then he looked up to the blackened window and it seemed the heart was once again torn out of him.

  Before they took a step, a commotion down the street made them turn. A delegation was approaching – clearly the leaders of the community – at their head a grizzled, bearded man with an expression like a wet tombstone. Gisburne sensed danger. The man was small, his best years long past, but people shrank from his approach nonetheless. Isaac sighed. “It is Elazar,” he said. “Nothing happens around here without his say-so.”

  “Another outrage committed against our people!” Elazar bawled as he drew near. He stopped suddenly before the bloody figure of Gisburne and gazed in disbelief.

  “Adoni shelei...” he muttered, looking him up and down. “What horror is this?”

  “It’s all right,” Gisburne said. “It’s not my blood.”

  Elazar stared, as if appalled that that the creature before him had deigned to speak. “Who are you?” he barked. “What are you doing here? And why are you covered in... in...” Words failed the old man at this point. Given recent events, Gisburne supposed there was little he wasn’t covered in.

  “We are here on royal authority,” he said, “charged with investigating this attack.”

  Elazar stared for a moment, seemingly incredulous – then burst into laughter. Several about him joined in. “Royal authority?” chuckled the old man. Gisburne was the first to admit he hardly appeared the part. He stood and endured the laughter until finally it died away – and a sudden change came over Elazar’s face. A dark fury. “Do you want to know what I think of ‘royal authority’?” he said. A tall, muscular man to Elazar’s side muttered something and put a hand on the patriarch’s arm, but Elazar shook it off, took a step forward and stared up at Gisburne with hard unblinking eyes. “At the coronation of Richard, Jewish leaders – all respected citizens – came bearing gifts to show their respect for their new King. They found themselves barred from the ceremony, and were stripped and beaten. Word went around that the new King meant to kill us all.” He shrugged. “It wasn’t true, of course. But a mob went on the rampage anyway – all believing they acted on ‘royal authority.’ Across London, Jews were massacred. In other cities, too. Their businesses smashed, their houses burned. Some were baptised against their will; others set on fire in the street. I saw this with my own eyes – saw as my own wife was dragged from the house...” Elazar’s voice broke, and he gathered himself. “The new King condemned these terrible acts. Punishments were meted out – generally against those who had mistakenly destroyed Christian households. But most were never held to account. My wife’s murderers, whoever they were, went back to their lives. No doubt they live them still, somewhere in this very city. So, you will forgive me if I meet the notion of royal authority with some scepticism.”

  Gisburne lowered his head, and nodded slowly. “It is not Richard who is my master,” he said, “but his brother John, who made this city a commune. And my task is to bring a murderer to justice.”

  “And you think you can do that?” scowled Elazar. “That you can begin to understand this...” He pointed a gnarled finger at the x scratched upon the door, then turned back to the gathered crowd. “You see?” he cried. “The cross upon the door! The mark of the anti-semite!” There were angry mutterings. “I know how things are in my own city. How easily they shift. Are we simply to stand by and watch while it happens again?” The mutterings grew to angry shouts. Gisburne noted that Elazar was not speaking to his people in their own language. This display was clearly for his benefit.

  “It was not an attack against Jews,” Gisburne said, raising his voice above the clamour. They hushed. “There are other hatreds in the world, though you may not believe it.”

  “What do you know of that?” snapped Elazar. “It is beyond the understanding of one such as you.”

  “Since you have not once clapped eyes on me till today,” said Gisburne irritably, “you can have little idea of the limits or otherwise of my understanding. But I will tell you this...” He drew closer to Elazar, and lowered his voice
so the crowd could not hear. “Half of London is looking for something – anything – upon which to vent its rage. If you persist in claiming that it was an attack against Jews, you will succeed only in whipping up mindless acts of revenge – and in doing so, supplying all the excuses your enemies need to fuel another massacre.” He drew away again, and addressed the crowd in a clear voice. “This attack was not upon your people, but upon a Christian knight. It’s he who lies slain in that house.”

  There were murmurs, exclamations. Elazar glowered at him, but before he could respond, Isaac stepped forward and addressed the people in their own language. There were more dark mutterings as he did so.

  Isaac turned to Gisburne. “I told him what you say is true,” he said. “That the dead man is not a Jew. That I gave him sanctuary here.”

  Elazar glared at Isaac. “So. You brought this upon us.”

  “I helped a man,” said Isaac. “One who had need.”

  “A gentile,” said Elazar.

  “A man,” insisted Isaac. An anger burned in his eyes, of a quite different order from Elazar’s. “This is my house, and I am master of it. I alone paid the price. And I would gladly do so again.” He stepped forward. “‘Thou shalt not stand idly in thy neighbour’s blood.’” Several mumbled and nodded at Isaac’s words.

  Elazar clearly did not like having the scriptures quoted at him. But he could not argue – not with this. Not when the crowd swayed towards Isaac. Instead, he looked the blood-drenched Gisburne up and down once again.

  “So whose blood is this?” he said.

  “Not a neighbour’s,” said Gisburne. “At least, not a human one.”

  Elazar appeared bemused by his words. “What then?”

  “A pig’s,” said Gisburne.

  The circle around him visibly widened.