But there was another, more basic emotion. Relief. The relief of a soldier for whom the wait was finally over. For good or ill, they would make their move, and this, finally, would be the culmination of all his efforts.
Hereward looked about again, searching for the big Irishman. Even with his characteristic stoop, that shaggy figure should be easy enough to spot, rivalled in height only by John Lyttel. But there was no sign.
Somehow, it had been he who had inspired all this. The one they called the Red Hand. It had taken an iron will and extraordinary fire for the Irishman to seek them out. And he had done it not once, but twice. The first time had been just days before the archery tournament at Clippestone. Hood had been preoccupied with the contest – some might say obsessed – determined to take part and win in spite of Lyttel’s warnings. It was clearly a trap – any fool could see it, and Hood was no fool – but it drew him, nonetheless, as a flame did a moth. Hood saw no danger, for him or his men – or, if he did, chose to disregard it. He saw only challenge. And opportunity – for something more, Hereward had come to believe, than the simple glory of winning. But Hood had never revealed his full intention, and none questioned him on it.
This was the circumstance into which the Red Hand had blundered. Despite his clear delight at the man’s tenacity, Hood had sent the Irishman packing, telling him to return when he was ready. Hereward had wondered at that. Far less worthy men had come seeking to join Hood’s band and been welcomed into the fold. Why reject this one? At first, Hereward wondered if that had the problem. Perhaps this man had been too good. Perhaps, in him, Hood saw a potential threat. If that was the case – even if it wasn’t – Hereward was also curious why Hood had not simply had him killed. No outsider had come here and left alive before.
Then, when they were at their lowest ebb, just weeks ago, the Red Hand had appeared again. He was a sullen and strangely intimidating figure. Speaking to no one, he would sit for hours on end, hooded, staring into the ground, or the flames of the fire. Took conversed with him from time to time, in private, but there was something in his near-mute melancholy that made everyone else keep their distance.
Finally, realisation had dawned. Hood had not rejected the Red Hand at all. In telling him to return “when he was ready,” he was enacting a plan – but what that plan was, and how it had become entangled with Hood’s capture, was not entirely clear.
There had been a time, not long ago, when gathering information had been easy. Took had seen something in Hereward, and for a while he had been close to the heart of the band. But somehow, of late, that connection had withered and dwindled. Took had become distant, and Hereward had been reluctant to push. Nothing revealed one’s hand like excessive eagerness.
There was sudden movement in the crowd beyond Hereward’s line of sight, and men shuffled and parted. A familiar figure appeared before the throng, and advanced to join Took. All had grown accustomed to her now, but nothing could change the startling, almost absurd incongruity of her presence here. She, too, was dressed plainly, almost in the manner of a nun, her head and hair respectfully covered. But such youth, beauty and bearing could not be so easily disguised – could hardly have been more at odds with her grim, filthy surroundings. A rose amongst thorns, mused Hereward. But in truth, the contrast was far greater than that. These were not things grown from the same root. Her presence here was not only incongruous – it seemed almost dangerous, as if she should be ushered in all possible haste away from these gaunt, desperate peasants with their hungry looks and rusty blades to a place of warmth and safety. To her own kind.
At her approach, Took turned. He smiled warmly, and, grasping her hands in each of his, breathed her name with an almost paternal tenderness. “Marian!”
Lady Marian Fitzwalter had been Took’s other great surprise – and a clear indication of the authority he had built up in recent days. Not that she was the only woman here; there were many – and children too. At times, over the past year, whole families had flocked to Hood’s cause, believing him their saviour. But Marian was something quite different. Had any other man brought a beautiful young noblewoman into their midst – monk or not – there would have been no end of crude jibes at his expense. And protest too. But none challenged Took.
At the sound of hurried, soft-booted feet upon the frosty ground, men all around Hereward tensed. Spears and axes were gripped more tightly. Took turned and raised a hand, indicating that he wished no weapons to be drawn. From a narrow path though the spiked tangle of bough and shrub hurtled a gangling figure, crossbow slung low, his long hood flying behind him. There was sweat on his brow, his red, watery eyes bulging. He had evidently been running.
“They’re coming,” panted the newcomer, approaching Took on heavy feet. The monk gave the man a clap on the shoulder, and the exhausted lookout plodded on, melting into the throng.
Took turned and exchanged some hasty words with Marian – too softly for Hereward to catch. She seemed to protest. Took’s response this time – gentle, but firm – was audible. It was not safe for her to be here while the meeting was taking place, he said. He made it seem utterly reasonable – caring – but Hereward suspected other motives. Perhaps the monk wished to avoid her being seen by their guest; perhaps, also, to shield her eyes. A lady of her standing might prove crucial to their cause – that, Took understood well – but, committed though she was, Hereward doubted she had the stomach for all they were prepared to do.
Marian glanced nervously the way the lookout had come – her face flushed, her eyes as wide and alert as a doe’s – and without further question was led away beneath the large, protective arm of John Lyttel.
Took turned and braced himself. They could hear horses: at least a dozen. Took had taken a great risk, exposing them in such a way. None of Hood’s party were mounted. Great though their numbers were, twenty knights could cut them down at such close quarters. Hereward had seen that happen, in other lands, under a different banner. Those with bows might get off a shot if they were lucky. But by then the horsemen would be upon them. This was meant to be a peaceful parley, of course, but there could be none here who were not thinking the same thoughts.
No one spoke as the pounding of hooves on hard earth neared. Suddenly, they were there. Grim-faced, hard eyes glinting beneath battle-scarred helms, the twisted braids of their beards and hair falling over blackened mail and thick studded leather. Hanging about the broad backs of their short, stocky ponies were swords, axes and rounded wooden shields with battered iron bosses, their boards painted blood red – some bearing symbols: a raven, a great hammer, a skull – one, a fantastical image of a horned god upon a nine-legged horse.
Norsemen. Pagans.
This was not what was expected. Hereward felt the man next to him take an involuntary step back; several more did the same. Took glared at them. They held, but only just. Someone made a strange, constricted sound, as if the air had grown too thick to breathe. Hereward was thrust back to a dreadful day in Aquitaine, when he had stood amongst men paralysed by the certainty of their imminent death – by a fear so immediate and tangible that men had choked upon it.
The Norsemen spread out as they advanced, rearranging into a tight horseshoe facing Took’s men. And then, into the midst of them, emerging like a ghost from the black gloom of the forest upon a moon-white destrier, came their guest.
At the sight of him, there were gasps. One man whimpered. Somewhere, a child wailed in terror and was hastily whisked away.
The figure sat a full head higher than his guards. He was tall and thin, a long dark cloak hanging about him, its hood framing his face. Or at least, what should have been a face. For within the cowl there were no features of flesh – just a blank, eyeless face of metal.
The mask was simple and functional: a straight slit for the mouth, two circular holes for eyes, two smaller holes beneath the slight bump of the nose. It was a face that neither smiled nor frowned – devoid of expression, doggedly resisting all attempts to read within it some
intimation of humanity.
There could be no doubting his identity now. The White Devil. Tancred de Mercheval.
As one, the Norsemen dismounted. They moved ahead of their mounts as Tancred slithered from his saddle, their stone-grey eyes fixed on their ragged hosts. Hereward had heard that Tancred’s views were now so extreme – heretical, most would say – that he trusted Christians least of all. In his twisted world, Christians were simply further down the path of corruption. Heathens were closer to God. And so Tancred had drawn his personal guard from the remote islands where the Norse – renowned for their boldness and savagery in battle – remained resistant to Christian ways.
Hanging back at the mouth of the path, still mounted, were three more knights, their faces hidden within dark cowls. Knights of Tancred’s new order. What these men had been required to do – or sacrifice – to earn a place in this warped brotherhood, and how any survived in such poisonous, life-sapping company, Hereward could not imagine.
The Norsemen stopped, Tancred within their defensive circle, his blank face turning slowly. Finally, it fixed on Took.
“I am here.”
From any other mouth the words would have seemed absurd. But none laughed. The sound of Tancred’s voice, like steel against stone, chilled Hereward to the marrow.
Took smiled with the same warmth he had given Marian, and spread his arms, his eyes glinting with irrepressible zeal. “Welcome... Welcome! This is indeed a great honour. A great honour...” He almost chuckled with delight. “I have long admired the boldness of your ideas. They proved an inspiration to me when I was a lost soul. But I wish you to know that in addition –”
Tancred’s raised hand silenced him. “Save your flattery.”
Took, mouth still hanging open, stared at him, waiting for what utterance was to follow. But nothing came. He looked flustered, his prepared speech in ruins, his hero showing not the slightest interest in him. But Took remained the most pragmatic of men, not afflicted by an excess of self-doubt. And so he nodded, straightened, took a deep breath, and got down to business.
“A man came to our company, calling himself the Red Hand,” he said. “He risked much to find us. But he sought information. He had also heard of certain... events... with which you were involved. He wishes to learn from them.”
“What is this man’s education to me?” said Tancred. His voice, muffled by the mask, was a low hiss – barely more than a whisper. Yet it touched every ear like an icy wind.
“The Red Hand wishes destruction upon someone. This also suits our purpose. And, I believe, yours too, my lord...”
“I am no one’s lord,” snapped Tancred. “There is only one worthy of that title.”
But Took, the wind now in his sails, ignored the rebuke. “This enemy is common to us all – a pest we would all rejoice to be rid of. Certain information that only you can supply will give our ally an advantage in his quest. Our quest... Such is the reason I contrived this meeting between us.”
The monk thrust his hand beneath his cloak, then, and drew out a small, yellowed, tube, barely larger than a child’s little finger. He held it out, taking a step forward as he did so. The Norsemen tensed, their hands going to their weapons. Took stopped, his arm outstretched. “I will not speak the name openly,” he continued. “It is writ upon this parchment.”
For a moment, there was only the snorting and stamping of the horses. This, Hereward sensed, was the moment in which Took’s fortunes – perhaps the fortunes of all within this lonely glade – would be made or lost. In the long silence, as Hereward’s eyes roved about Tancred’s Norse warband, he noticed that warrior nearest Took wore a necklace of small bones, just visible between the braids of his beard. They were human finger bones.
“You dress as a man of God,” said Tancred, finally.
“Yes,” said Took, holding his head up.
“And yet you choose to fight amongst these... people.” Tancred looked about him at those gathered there.
Took rose to the challenge. “Eat, sleep and fight,” he said. “And proudly so.” He raised his voice and gave a glance about as he proclaimed this. But none were bold enough to respond.
“If you wish to fight for God, why did you not join one of the military orders? The Hospitallers? The Templars?”
“Their fight is not my fight. And this battle they take to foreign lands is mere distraction, a diversion from what is most pressing to us all. And an affront to the Almighty.”
“You are aware that I was accepted into the Order of the Temple, and have been their fiercest advocate?”
“I am,” said Took, still confident. “As I am aware that you outgrew them. That you left them behind. And you were right to do so.” He hesitated for a moment, as if uncertain whether to continue. “They have lost touch with the true meaning of Christ’s message. Become corrupted, rotten. Slaves to material wealth and earthly power.”
Silence. Took stood, his confidence now seeming to waver every bit as much as his still-outstretched hand before the implacable, unreadable steel visage. Then, from within the mask, came a weird sound. It cut the cold air: a dry, rasping croak, like a death-rattle. Hereward shuddered involuntarily. It was a moment before he realised it was laughter.
“You answer well, monk,” said Tancred. “So tell me – who do you fight? Princes? Barons? Bishops?”
“All,” said Took.
For a moment, Tancred stood motionless, silent, the expressionless holes of his eyes fixed upon his host. From beneath the mask was uttered a word Hereward did not understand, and the Norseman with the bone necklace took the parchment, and passed it to his master.
Tancred held it aloft, and regarded it between thumb and forefinger. “Before I read this,” he said. “I would have you know the nature of this alliance you now seek to forge.”
Hereward, puzzled by the words, did not see Tancred’s free hand pull at his hood. He was aware only of the dark fabric sliding off smooth metal. What was revealed was more than a mask. It was an iron skull – solid plates, shaped and joined by rows of rivets, covering the whole of Tancred’s head. Down the left side – the side Hereward could most clearly see – were catches, to allow the faceplate to be opened or removed.
Then he saw Tancred’s left hand go to the side of his head, and with a shudder realised what the rebel Templar meant to do.
There was a sharp click. Then another. The whole of the expressionless face jolted, then with a grating squeak of metal against metal, swung open.
“Look into the face of Death,” said Tancred.
The assembled company gasped. Took’s eyes bulged. Hereward heard himself utter a plea to God.
Within the metal helm was a living skull, its dark flesh burned and withered until it barely covered the bone, its lips drawn back across blackened teeth, its lidless eyes staring. But even this was not the limit of the horror. The two sides were somehow misaligned, as if a giant had taken hold of the head – palms upon its ears, thumbs upon its cheeks – and made a crude attempt to twist the two halves apart.
Hereward had seen hundreds, perhaps thousands of corpses in his time. He had seen mutilation from the battlefield that had so distorted and disfigured the victim as to render them unrecognisable to their own kin – at times, hardly recognisable as human. But he had never witnessed anything like this. It seemed inconceivable that life could continue behind such a shattered visage. It was a face that belonged in the grave. In Hell.
“Many men have tried to destroy me. All have failed. I now stand as embodiment of a truth that cannot be denied. This is the reality of our material existence: pain, defilement, decay. All else is illusion. Know that I have no interest in your petty politics, your childish arguments, your pointless quests for what you call justice. These things are meaningless to me, as one day, they shall be to all. They merely prolong the death-throes of this irredeemably corrupted world – a world whose end I wish only to hasten.” Tancred turned his head slowly, so all present could see. “This is the one whose hel
p you now seek. Do you still desire it?”
Hereward detected fear in Took’s eye. But the monk fought it down. He clenched his fists and pushed out his bearded chin. “We do.”
Whether that was the wish of all here, Hereward seriously doubted. But there was no going back now. Tancred’s thin fingers unwrapped the tiny scrap of thin parchment. The glassy, staring orbs of his eyes scanned its mottled surface.
A crow called, distantly. Tancred’s eyes seemed suddenly to blaze with a cold fire, and for a moment, Hereward thought he could detect some mockery of a smile upon those devastated lips. Tancred crushed the scrap in his palm, and looked up once more. “I will help you.”
A palpable sense of relief swept the crowd. Took himself clapped his hands together, and almost laughed.
Hereward’s relief, however, was far greater than any there that day. In that one moment, with a sense of finality that almost made him weep, he realised his mission really was at an end. In recent days, he had ascertained what Took wished to achieve by using the Red Hand, and when it was to occur. He now knew of Tancred’s involvement, and if he was swift could bring about the rebel Templar’s capture whilst he was still in England. He did not have the name that was writ upon the parchment, true, but it was a mere detail. He would not wait for that. The first moment he was able, he would go directly to the Sheriff in Nottingham with his information. He would leave Sherwood and all these months of lies and restraint in this borrowed life behind him, and be Hereward no longer. He would see the wife who thought he was dead. And – praise God! – he would have a bath. His heart thumped and his head swam at the thought.
“There is one matter that must be dealt with first,” said Tancred. Hereward looked up as a hush fell over the throng. Took was nodding slowly, his head downcast. Hereward looked around, and saw that others were as baffled as he.
“We must thank you for the information you’ve given us,” said Took. The monk’s voice was grave, but it almost seemed there was a note of sadness in it. Took breathed deeply, lifting his head and his voice, then, as if to banish his suddenly sombre mood. “It shall be dealt with here. Now.”
Hunter of Sherwood: The Red Hand Page 41
