The Hospitallers advanced towards it. Theobald stood ready with his sword as another gripped the curtain and thrust it back. Dust rose. Inside was a broad but disordered pallet bed, a table, a chair – and nothing more.
They moved on.
Ranulph and the Germans were first into the eastern chamber. It was from the corner of this room – the personal chamber of the Constable, Walter de Coutances – that the single stair rose. The room was as plain and practical as that which came before, but small touches of ostentation – gaudy covers upon the bed, an elaborate iron perch intended for a hawk, a mirror made of glass – suggested that in de Coutances’s absence, Fitz Thomas had made it his own. Now, it was as devoid of life as its neighbour – except in one respect. On the table sat a goblet half-filled with wine, on a platter a fowl half eaten, and next to it an eating knife, as if only just laid down. A beeswax candle had melted to a pool in its dish, a feeble flame barely clinging to its wick.
Through both of these rooms all had to pass in order to reach the north-east stair. But at the far end of de Coutances’s quarters lay another chamber, closed behind a blackened wooden door.
Gisburne shouldered his great bow, took up a fresh candle from a box on the wall, and lit it from the half-dead flame. He turned to his companions. “Wait here,” he said, then, ignoring Mélisande’s furrowed brow, advanced towards the closed chamber, one hand curled about the flame, its vast, spidery shadow sliding across the ceiling.
The door opened with a squeal of dry iron, the sound echoing about the dark space and grating his nerves. He held the candle before him, pushing it into the pitch black, shadows dancing around arches and angles of stone as he turned. Here and there, empty eyes and stone faces stared back. But there was nothing human here. Not alive, anyway.
For a moment he paused, staring towards the chamber’s eastern end, and listened.
“What is this place?” said a hushed voice behind him. Gisburne looked back. It was Otto – a black ghost in the gloom, his eyes and the silver rivets of his surcoat glinting in the candle flame.
“The crypt,” said Gisburne. Otto frowned at the word. “A place for bones,” he explained. “Of saints. And sinners.”
Otto’s expression shifted. He looked about and crossed himself, taking a step back into the doorway as he did so.
Gisburne had seen enough, but no sooner had he turned back towards the door then there came a shuffling from deep within the shadows. Then an odd sound – almost a whimper. The sounds were muffled, as if buried behind feet of stone.
“You hear something?” said Otto, raising his sword.
“No,” said Gisburne. He did not turn back into the crypt, nor did he allow space for Otto to pass. “It’s nothing.”
Otto looked at him for a moment. “Rat, maybe?”
“Yes,” said Gisburne. “Just a rat.” And he herded Otto ahead of him, out of the dark chamber. Otto stepped forward, as if to close the door behind them – to shut that cold space and whatever it contained.
“Leave it,” said Gisburne, and moved on.
THE NARROW SPIRAL stair had one flambeau still lit near the foot of it. Above it, all disappeared into black. Gisburne extinguished and discarded his candle, retrieved three unlit torches from the empty hall, then lit them one at a time. He passed one to Theobald and one to Ranulph, and kept the third. Then he led the way on up the stairway towards the second floor. Weird, shifting shadows cast about the curved stone wall as they climbed.
It was cramped – so much so they were forced to ascend in single file. If anything came at them here, wielding a sword would be difficult – the bow would be impossible. A single armed man at the door to the next floor would have no difficulty holding them back.
But the doorway was empty.
With tentative step, every sound magnified by the night, they crept into the still air of the first chamber.
Although a near duplicate of de Coutances’s room below, the court chamber had a very different aspect. Within it were long benches, at the far end a low wooden dais with a heavy, elaborately carved throne, and behind it, hanging so as to cover almost the entire wall, the banner of the King. A gold lion as big as a horse rose rampant upon a field of red. The symbol of Henry II, to signify his kingship over England.
Despite having passed this chamber on numerous occasions, on only a handful of those had Gisburne set foot further within it – and only once had he passed through the small door in the far right corner of the back wall. It was in an identical position to that which opened into the crypt on the floor below, and was built of the same blackened wood. Gisburne stared at it in silence, then turned his flambeau around the room, putting the closed door at his back, and moved instead towards the arches that opened into the great banqueting hall.
On the first floor, they had communicated only in hushed tones; on the echoing stair, in whispers. Now, none spoke. Gisburne gestured to Theobald and Ranulph to spread out, each entering the hall through a different archway.
From here, if all was well, Theobald would continue on up the yet more confined stair of the south-west tower. Ranulph and the Germans would move up the north-west, whilst Gisburne would return with Galfrid and Mélisande to the remaining stairway in the corner of the court chamber.
But first came the banqueting hall itself.
Gisburne had been here twice before – once, to dine in the company of Prince John. Then, it had echoed with the sounds of joyous chatter and music, the air filled with the aromas of roasted meats and spices, a crackling blaze in the hearth keeping the winter chill at bay. Now, forsaken, it was dark and damp and heavy with the creeping smell of mildew, whose relentless march the midsummer air outside had failed to impede. On the walls were dark, Flemish tapestries from the time of Henry – their tops now festooned with cobwebs. Behind the dais where England’s absent monarch should have sat – but never had – was a newer addition: the red banner of the Lionheart. Much like his father’s, it bore not one, but two gold lions. Richard could never resist going one better – it was what drove him. Gisburne fully expected a third lion to join them should Richard ever return from imprisonment.
The banner was poor quality – hastily prepared when Richard had rushed to England after his father’s death, eager to be crowned. It now had a torn, ragged hole in its top left corner, where it had been badly nailed to its timber spar. A tangled skein of old web, thick with black dust, hung across the head of the uppermost lion like a dirty crown.
The groups fanned out to check each nook and recess. Otto took the furthest. As he drew close, a shrill screech tore the air. From behind one of the tapestries, something flew at his head. He shouted and ducked, and Theobald raised his sword.
The chattering bird fluttered off into the rafters, where, finding no way out, it eventually settled. Ranulph smiled and clapped Otto on his enormous shoulder. They breathed again. There was nothing in the hall – nothing but a terrified sparrow for a monarch, and a company of spiders for his court.
There was one more place to check before moving on. It lay beyond the arch at the furthest end of the hall. This doorway led into the same chamber as the small black door – the Chapel of St John. It was open, and from it, a dim light glowed.
Gisburne moved towards it, gathering pace as he did so. The others fell into step behind him.
None – not even Gisburne – were prepared for what they found. In the chapel – dominated by massive Norman columns, above which, bounding the overlooking gallery, was a second row of stone arches – dozens of candles burned. It was not, in itself, a strange sight. But after all they had seen thus far – or, rather, all this place had been lacking – the sight of it chilled Gisburne to the bone.
For a moment, all stood transfixed. Then Ranulph stepped forward, and examined the tops of the candles, poking one with his finger. “These were lit not half an hour ago,” he whispered.
Theobald looked from Ranulph to Gisburne to Otto.
“John?” whispered Mélisande by Gisb
urne’s ear.
“Not John,” said Gisburne. Quite apart from anything else, a chapel was the very last place one would find the Prince.
“Tell me,” whispered Otto. “Are there ghosts in this place?” This big man, who Gisburne had judged to be afraid of nothing, had a tremor in his voice.
“No ghosts,” said Gisburne. “None but the human kind.”
“Then what is that?” said Otto. And he pointed up to the gallery.
Framed in one of the archways was a dark shape, massive, yet weirdly without depth – like a shadow. And it had the horned shape of a demon.
All stared at the motionless thing, striving to make sense of it. Still it refused to move.
“It’s just an illusion,” said Theobald. “A trick of the light. Nothing more.” One by one, the others – baffled by the eerily still shape – lowered their weapons. Even Otto turned, and wiped a hand across his forehead. He looked sheepish – embarrassed. Gisburne, too, was ready to look away.
Only then did it move.
With almost supernatural speed, it darted away, across the next opening, and there merged completely into the shadows. Mélisande saw Gisburne tense, and turned back to the gallery. All followed her gaze – and gripped their weapons tighter. Almost without thought, Gisburne had whipped an arrow from his quiver and set it on his bow. Now, his eyes strained to see – to find a target. To detect some movement. But there was nothing.
Then he heard it, echoing above. The rhythmic chink of metal.
“It’s him,” he said.
The sound receded. The shadow had been heading towards the north-east stair – directly through Prince John’s bedchamber. Realisation struck. “He will fail to find John up there,” said Gisburne. “He will come looking. Try to move down. But we must contain him – drive him back up to the roof if we can.”
“But where is John?” said Mélisande.
Gisburne was already at the small black door leading to the court chamber. He wrenched it open. “Go!” he hissed to Ranulph and Theobald. “Guard the stairways. Call out if you see him – but do not move from them. We must not let him pass.” They ran back into the banqueting hall with their men to take the remaining towers up to the next level, while Mélisande and Galfrid hurried after Gisburne towards the main stair.
THE SOUNDS THAT erupted and echoed through the north-east tower as they ascended were those of wanton destruction. Above them, furniture crashed and splintered. Objects were hurled across the room. Metal clattered. Pottery smashed.
It stopped abruptly. When Gisburne, Galfrid and Mélisande emerged from the stairway door, the dust still hung in the air.
This floor followed the now familiar pattern of three distinct chambers: a large hall to the west, a smaller room to the north-east, and a level of the chapel to the south-east. But it differed from the others in one important respect: around all of these chambers ran a continuous passageway set into the fifteen-foot-thick walls, part of which formed the gallery around the Chapel.
From the doorway at the top of the stair they could not see directly into John’s bedchamber. Instead, they were faced with a solid corner of stone, and stretching from it, at right angles to one another, corridors running the length of the north and east walls. From this, some yards distant in each direction, dark arched doorways opened into the chamber.
Gisburne looked to the nearest – the bedchamber’s north entrance – then unslung his bow, and nocked an arrow upon the string. “Stay by this door,” he whispered. “Let nothing past.”
“I didn’t come this far to guard a damned door,” said Mélisande. But behind the indignation, Gisburne sensed something else. Fear for his safety? Perhaps he flattered himself.
“You must stay,” he said, looking her in the eye. “No matter what you hear.” Mélisande knew as well as he that it was a necessary tactic. She gave a reluctant nod. “If he comes, keep him here. By any means. Distraction, diversion. Anything.”
“May we kill him?” said Galfrid.
“Please do,” said Gisburne. “Just don’t kill yourselves.” Then he turned, padded silently to the chamber door, peered around its edge, and slipped in.
It was as if a wild animal had been let loose. Everything was wrecked and strewn about. Prince John’s fine clothes were torn to shreds, his possessions broken and scattered, a barrel of wine – smelled before it was seen – burst open, its contents splattered and now flooding the wooden floor. Even the bed had been destroyed, its spilt straw guts – now stained deep red, in parts – transforming the royal chamber into a disordered stable.
He picked his way through the wreckage. Moving silently proved all but impossible – doubtless part of the Red Hand’s strategy. So be it. It was time to come out of the shadows. He levelled his bow, his eye to the arrow.
“Ranulph?” His voice rang though the silent spaces. “Speak!”
“Here!” came Ranulph’s echoing voice from the council chamber beyond.
“Theobald?”
“Here!” called the Hospitaller, his voice more distant than the first.
“Niall Ua Dubhghail!” bellowed Gisburne. It sounded like a challenge – and it was meant as one.
Before its echo had died, a huge figure burst forth from the furthest archway, roaring as it came. Gisburne drew and loosed his arrow at the great, misshapen head. There was a clang like a bell as it struck. The Red Hand reeled at the impact, the floor shaking under him. Gisburne loosed another at his chest. Then another.
None bit. But they hurt him. A fourth shattered to splinters on his midriff. The roar turned to a cry of pain, and he turned and fled into the third archway through to the council chamber.
He was limping. This, and the debris that cluttered the chamber floor, were all that had protected Gisburne from death. As he darted through the nearest arch, he set another arrow upon his bow – but the Red Hand was nowhere to be seen in the great hall.
For a moment, it seemed some act of magic. Then a crash within the bedchamber told Gisburne that his foe had wrong-footed him, and doubled back through the archway. He glimpsed the dark shape as it ran into the shadows of the corridor on the bedchamber’s far side – the corridor leading directly to the stair which Mélisande and Galfrid now guarded. Gisburne ran headlong to the other corridor, meaning to head him off.
He stepped into it with an arrow at full draw – and there, at the corridor’s end, standing before his arrow’s point, was Mélisande. He lowered the weapon. She looked along the adjoining corridor, then back at him, and shook her head. But Gisburne could hear heavy footfalls, and the clank of metal.
After a moment of disorientation, he understood. They were receding. The Red Hand had turned the other way, and was running along the passageway that circled the entire floor, and from which he could strike anywhere.
A cry went up from Theobald. Gisburne dashed back into the dark council chamber and towards the south-west stair. Another shout of alarm. A cry of pain, and a clatter of weapons, as if some great struggle were taking place. As Gisburne approached, he was dimly aware of Ranulph – the indefatigable fighter – rushing to the aid of the Hospitallers, both Germans hard on his tail.
“No!” cried Gisburne. “Stand fast!”
But Ranulph did not hear, or – with thoughts of revenge for Baylesford burning in his mind – chose not to. There was no time to argue now. Gisburne threw himself through the arch, arrow drawn – and there saw the Red Hand, two knights hanging off him, crashing against the walls of the corridor, and Theobald beyond, striking merciless blows with his sword. Gisburne aimed, but could not shoot without risking the Hospitallers’ lives. Then Otto and Ranulph charged past and flung themselves into the fray. They gripped him all around, Ranulph clawing at his helm, and for a moment it looked as if they may wrestle him to the ground – but the Red Hand, suddenly possessed of renewed strength, crashed back and forth between the stone walls – once, twice, three times – then flung all of his assailants off as if they were stalks of grass.
; Two of the Hospitallers tumbled and crashed down the stone steps, and Otto and Ranulph fell in a heap, blocking the corridor. With astonishing agility, the Red Hand leapt over them, slammed Otto’s fork-bearded comrade against the wall and sent Gisburne flying.
Gisburne gathered his wits and looked the length of the corridor stretching towards the now unguarded north-west stair. No sign. A flare of light – unaccountably bright – caught his eye from within the council chamber. Scrambling back to his feet, he ran towards it.
The unoccupied throne had been set ablaze, thick, choking smoke billowing from its upholstered seat with the sickly smell of burning horsehair. The others ran into the chamber – all, by some miracle, alive and walking.
Otto went to fight the fire, but Gisburne held him back. “Leave it,” he said. “Let it burn...” Then, frowning at the familiarity of the words, cursing his own stupidity, he turned and ran to the north-west stair. The Red Hand had long since passed, but from somewhere – he could not tell whether up or down – came the echoing clink of his armour.
Gisburne withdrew to the council chamber, his head bowed. “Mélisande?” he called. “Galfrid?” They came running. “We lost him,” said Gisburne. “We must regroup. Start again.”
“But what of that?” said Mélisande, pointing to the end wall.
The fire – which had seemed more a provocation than a serious attempt at destruction – was already dying. Now visible beyond it, illuminated by the flames, was a message. On the whitewashed wall of the Council Chamber, in smudged black charcoal, were scrawled three words:
NUNC IOANNES HABEO
Now I have John.
Gisburne stared in disbelief. “That’s impossible...” he muttered.
“It would appear not,” said Ranulph gravely.
“But John was never here,” said Gisburne. It was a bluff. It had to be. But the terrible possibility gripped him, nonetheless. “I must go,” he said. “Find John. Get him out.”
Hunter of Sherwood: The Red Hand Page 44
