Hunter of Sherwood: The Red Hand

by Toby Venables

  As he turned to leave the stable, a page from John’s entourage, breathless from running, careered into him, then pushed on past, fit to burst with the tidings he carried.

  He stopped and stared in astonishment at finding his Prince sitting upon the ground with straw and blood in his hair – so much so, he forgot to bow.

  “What is it, boy?” barked John, shaking his head. The boy looked at the lingering figure of Gisburne, then back to the Prince.

  “Speak, boy, speak!” John roared, his face reddening.

  “There is word from Queen Eleanor, my lord,” panted the boy. “King Richard is free of his prison. Even now he returns to England!”

  John’s face turned ashen, and as Gisburne turned to walk away, he heard him mutter: “The Devil is loose...”

  LXII

  The Forest of Sherwood

  1 July, 1193

  THE MAN WAS brought in blindfolded. John Lyttel and two others led him in, emerging from the forest like hunters with prey, their sudden appearance from the unbroken wall of green setting the whole place abuzz. A newcomer was a great event here. No roads led to this village.

  The man looked rough – not poor or needy, but weatherworn. Used to a life of extremes. If anything, he reminded Micel of the man he had seen at the Ferry Inn near Nottingham a lifetime ago – the one who had ranted about Hood, and the King, and rebellion. The man he had since come to know as Guy of Gisburne. Micel had barely begun to pay the bastard back for that insult. But there would be other opportunities. This one had the same defiant demeanour, the same strong, wiry limbs, the same dark look. Micel could tell as much even with the man’s eyes covered.

  Micel had stopped feeding the fire. It could wait. People stopped and stared, arrows unfletched, blades unsharpened, turnips for the pot, for the moment, left unpeeled. The arrival of an outsider meant an audience with Robin. What happened next would depend entirely on the mood of their leader. Life with Hood could be unpredictable, but one could never claim it was dull. Over near the forge, a huddle of men were already placing bets on the man’s chances.

  His hands were bound in front of him, and as he neared, Micel saw that about his belt hung scabbards for a knife and a sword – both empty. The naked sword now tucked into Lyttel’s belt had doubtless been taken from him. It was exactly the kind of sword Micel expected such a man to have: old and a little notched, but a good blade. Not made for show, but well-cared-for. A tool of his trade. But as the stranger drew closer still – uncertain where to place his feet – Micel saw something he did not expect. Across the man’s back was a musical instrument with a long neck and broad, flat, pear-shaped body. Micel almost laughed.

  As the stranger staggered into the broad clearing, he stopped, and for a moment seemed to turn his blind gaze upon Micel. There was something uncanny about that look. Micel shuddered, and felt his grip tighten about the faggot of firewood in his fist. Then the man turned again, swivelling his head this way and that, taking in the sounds of people and industry into whose midst he had now been brought. It was as if he was trying to build an image of the sprawling encampment – the secret village to which no path led, and which had, thus far, eluded all who set themselves against it. Only a select few found this place and lived.

  John Lyttel shoved the man forward. From the heart of the camp, where Hood’s great hall clung about the trunk of a great oak, Took was now striding, habit flapping, beard jutting ahead of him. Others came at his heels. If Robin was monarch of this forest, then Took was his chancellor. For reasons Micel could not begin to understand, he had taken to calling himself Friar of late. John Lytell had told him that just meant “brother”. It was some monkish thing, he supposed – though who he was supposed to be brother to, now he was so far beyond the reaches of any monastery or order, was anyone’s guess.

  John Lyttel was the closet thing Micel had to a friend. The big man – miller, soldier, Tower guard, and now outlaw – had taken young Micel under his wing from the very first, and so close had the attachment become that Lyttel’s comrades had jokingly referred to Micel as “The Miller’s Son”. The name had stuck.

  It amused everybody greatly, the contrast of “little” and “much”. As a result of it, even John Lyttel himself seemed to grow fond of his long-detested epithet. He was a good man, and kind. There had been tragedies in his life, Micel knew, though he also knew better than to ask about them. Somewhere, he believed, John had a wife, though what had become of her he never found out. His dismissal from the Tower guard clearly rankled with him, and it was only in relation to this that Micel saw him occasionally boil with anger. It had meant him quitting London, for his own good. Perhaps that was where his wife still was, Yet within the man’s being was to be found not a trace of bitterness, no hint of resentment towards those of better fortune.

  There were few like him in the band. Every once in a while, Micel tried to imagine what John Lyttel’s life would have been like had he never left his father’s mill, watching the water turn the millstone, heaving sacks of grain off a wagon two at a time, just because he could – wanting for little, questioning nothing. Contented. In his quieter moments, Micel too questioned what his life here was for. Back home, it had seemed a wonderful dream, but now it was real. Too real, sometimes. Then he looked upon the face of Robin Hood, and all doubts melted away. He knew he would die for Robin.

  And when he turned, there was Hood – advancing rapidly, a great crowd gathering around him, on his face the irrepressible smile of a man for whom death, hardship and pain meant nothing.

  Bodies jostled past, pressing around the newcomer and obscuring his view. He abandoned his fire entirely, and pushed between them, just in time to see Took whip off the blindfold and cut the man’s bonds. The stranger blinked and looked about, apparently shocked to see so many here. But there was a hard look in his eye. He held Took’s gaze without fear.

  “It says much for you that you got this far,” said Took. “But that in itself does not make you worthy.” Micel had heard of the spy who had infiltrated the band. It had stung Took deeply. The monk would not be fooled again.

  As Took turned, the crowd parted, and Hood – as green from head to toe as an unripe corn stalk – stepped before the stranger. A hush fell as the pair eyed each other. Took stood to one side of his master. Behind Hood’s other shoulder hovered the ghostly figure of the woman known as Rose.

  Micel had heard she was a nobleman’s daughter, and that it was partly this that had made Hood’s rescue possible – but then, everyone here had concocted some outlandish story for themselves. Certainly her clothes were fine, if now a little ragged. But they also seemed to hang off her. Either they had belonged to someone else, or she had grown thin since coming here. She edged towards Took, who patted her slender hand discreetly with a fatherly gesture. But no smile disrupted her oddly vacant expression, or brought light to those shadowed, haunted eyes. Today, a purple bruise also extended down her left cheek. Micel had known her first as Marian – but Hood now never referred to her as anything other than Rose. Names changed in Sherwood. Histories too. Here, Robin would often say, there were no rules. One could do, and be, whatever one wanted. For a fleeting instant, Rose-Marian’s sad eyes met with Micel’s, shaking him from his reverie. He briefly wondered whether she had found as much difficulty realising the dream as he.

  Hood stood, feet apart, planted his fists on his hips and looked the newcomer up and down. “Well, what’s this?” he said. “A minstrel?” His great, hearty guffaw ignited the crowd, spreading laughter like a fire, and with it went a strange thrill. Of danger – of sudden, infinite possibilities; it was the thrill that accompanied Hood’s every move, and swept all before it. So bursting with good cheer was Hood that he almost seemed a caricature. Something beyond real – a character from a story or a ballad, somehow dropped into the ordinary world. It was not merely strange. It was mad, impossible. But it was also irresistible.

  He leaned forward. “Tell me, minstrel, what can Robin Hood do for you?”
>
  “Let me join you,” said the man. His voice was stern. He had an accent Micel could not place. Hood cocked his head on one side, never once breaking eye contact with their unexpected guest – not even to blink.

  “An Irishman?”

  The man gave a curt nod.

  “We’ve had one or two of those before, though never a minstrel. I hear your country’s rich with songs.”

  “We have our share,” said the Irishman.

  “And do they sing of me there?”

  “No,” said the Irishman. Then, after a moment, added: “Not yet.”

  Hood chuckled to himself. “A good answer! So, tell me, minstrel, why do you want to join us? Do you think we lack entertainment?” There was a loud chuckle from the back – but the Irishman did not smile.

  “Because Prince John and his cronies insulted my people. I would see him rot in Hell – and sooner, rather than later.”

  Several muttered in agreement. One gave a muted cheer. Only Hood and those around him remained unmoved. Hood – still smiling his inexhaustible smile – narrowed his eyes.

  “That’s why you should join us,” he said. “What I asked was why you want to join us – why you risked your life for it...”

  The Irishman stared back at him for a moment, as if uncertain or unwilling to explain. But before he could speak – if he ever meant to – Hood’s attention was suddenly distracted. He took a sudden step forward.

  “This instrument you carry,” Hood said. “I seem to have seen its like before.”

  “I doubt that.”

  Hood’s face fell into a childish pout, but the smile broke out again an instant later. “No, no – I am certain...” He wagged a finger. “It’s Saracen, is it not? What they call al-’ud. Or something like one?”

  “With a few improvements of my own,” said the Irishman.

  “And you do actually play it, do you?”

  A few men sniggered.

  “I do,” said the Irishman. But I doubt you want to hear the music this makes.”

  “Really? Are you that bad?” There was more laughter at that.

  “No, I’m good.” There was no humour in his voice. Without taking his eyes off Robin’s, the Irishman slung the instrument off his back. Hood grinned and clapped his hands in anticipation. But instead of putting the instrument across his chest to pluck at the strings, as Micel had seen other minstrels do, the Irishman held it straight out before him, lengthways, strings uppermost, the body extended towards Hood, the headstock tucked into his shoulder.

  Hood looked down at the instrument in bewilderment, uncertain whether the Irishman meant for him to take it, or was awaiting some kind of benediction. He extended his hand – to what end, Micel, and perhaps Hood himself, did not know. In one swift move, the Irishman flipped the instrument over.

  There was a collective gasp, and a shout of outrage. All around Micel, knives were drawn, muscles tensed. Only Hood’s raised hand kept them in check. Between the jostling men, Micel saw the source of their shock. Built into the back of the instrument, and almost completely concealed from the front and sides, was a crossbow – its steel-reinforced stock running the full length of the neck, its bow almost the full width of the body. The bow was drawn and cocked; a bolt aimed directly at Hood’s chest.

  “Do you still want to hear its music?” said the Irishman. His thumb, Micel now saw, hovered over a trigger set into the instrument’s neck.

  Hood smiled. Then laughed. And then he clapped his hands, as if at some entertainment. “Well done,” he said. “A winning performance!” He dropped his eyes to the crossbow, and raised his eyebrows in approval. “Compound bow. Also Saracen, I think. Good choice. Their crossbows are the envy of the West – famed for their power and accuracy.” He spread his arms wide. “Well, you have me. Finish me here and now and you can sing to your countrymen of how you killed Robin Hood!” He looked around at the dozens of weapon points now directed at their guest, each a tongue thirsty for blood. “I fear it would be a short song. But your fame would be assured.”

  The Irishman stared at him, unblinking. For what seemed an age there was no sound but the wind in the tress and the crackle of the fire. “It’s the last thing I want,” he muttered, then swung the bow about and shot its bolt into the trunk of the lookout tree. Micel felt the mob lurch around him.

  “Hold!” bellowed Hood. All froze on the spot.

  “I meant only to show my worth. Now you see what kind of minstrel I am. What kind of music I bring. I can be of use to you, or not; do with me as you will.” And, quite unexpectedly, he dropped to one knee, his head bowed.

  Hood studied him crouched there for some time, then again began to chuckle quietly. “I like you, Irishman,” he said. His eyes narrowed again. “But before we go further, let us return to your reasons for coming here...”

  The Irishman hesitated and looked around, as if, for the first time, uncertain of his position. Then he looked Hood in the eye. “Niall Ua Dubhghail – the one you knew as the Red Hand...” he began. “He was my brother.” There was a murmur. Took leaned in and whispered something in Hood’s ear. Hood smiled, but waved him away. “I come to add my sword to yours, and to take revenge on his killer. John Lackland’s lackey. Sir Guy of Gisburne.”

  The murmur grew into a rumble. There was not a man here who did not know that name.

  “Don’t you know, Irishman?” said John Lyttel. “Robin has forbidden any man from laying a hand on Gisburne. Those are the rules.”

  Hood closed his eyes and shook his head. “No rules, John,” he said. “Not if we decide otherwise.”

  John Lyttel looked down at the mud, chastened.

  “You are set against him and his Prince,” the Irishman said. “Bent on their destruction. To help you in that goal would be enough.”

  Hood frowned a playful frown. “Am I bent on their destruction?” he said. Then he turned to his men, and bellowed: “Well, am I?”

  They roared their affirmation back at him, fists and weapons raised. Micel, caught up in the frenzy, cried out with them. As the tumult died down, Hood turned back, his even white teeth bared in a broad, predatory smile. He shrugged, nonchalantly. “It would appear that I am.” The next instant, he turned away again. “Will?” he called. “Will! Get your scrawny arse out here!”

  There was a shuffling. Directly opposite Micel, the men stood back, and into the space slid Will Gamewell. He turned a half circle around the Irishman, his black, beady eyes upon him, toying with a notched and rusty knife as he did so.

  He was called Will the Scarlet – but none said it to his face, or none but Robin. It did not do to upset William Gamewell. Those who did were liable to wake up with their throats cut. Even in this select company – which had attracted many of the vilest villains in the land – he was regarded with caution, and near universal hatred. Some was the result of pure envy – Robin favoured this lank-haired wretch above all others – but there was no shortage of reasons for hating William Gamewell.

  “Will?” said Hood. “You’re an excellent judge of character. What do you make of him?”

  Will grabbed a handful of the Irishman’s tunic and pulled him to his feet. He looked the stranger up and down, poked him in the chest with a bony finger, tapped his knife against the purse on the man’s belt, then flicked him on the nose. Those about him tittered. The Irishman’s eye’s blazed, but he did not respond.

  Picking dirt from under his fingernails with the point of his blade, Will turned to his master. “He’s a keeper,” he said. Hood grinned broadly and extended his hand.

  “Welcome, minstrel,” he said. The Irishman grasped Hood’s hand as those all about cheered and clapped, his face breaking into a smile for the first time.

  “There are great things ahead of us,” said Hood, with a wild glint in his eye. “So, now you know our names. Will the Scarlet. Friar Took. John Lytell there at your shoulder” – Hood scanned the surrounding throng – “and where there is Lytell, we must also find Much...” The men laughed.
Several stood aside and turned to Micel, who reddened as Hood’s eyes fell upon him. “Hail to you, miller’s son!” Hood said, with a bow and an exaggerated wave. “But you have not given us your name, friend? The one you were born with or the one you wish to be known by, I don’t care which.”

  “Ailin Ua Dubhghail,” said the Irishman. Hood frowned fleetingly at the unfamiliar syllables, then his smile returned. He shook the newcomer’s hand with unrestrained vigour.

  “Welcome to our merry band, Alan O’Doyle,” he said.

  Deleted Scenes

  The Red Hand is a looong book. And while we at Abaddon love our books, and love Toby’s prose even more, one of the sadly necessary considerations when publishing a book is always: can we afford to print a book this long? Publishing is a hairy endeavour, when it comes to cost and profit, and when the printing costs and sales figures come head to head, difficult decisions have to be made. After some consideration, we regretfully asked Toby to cut some passages to make the book affordable.

  But with the miracle of ebooks, all such considerations go out the window! You, gentle reader, have made the wise decision to purchase the electronic copy of Hunter of Sherwood: The Red Hand, and it is to you that the following passages – think of them as the ebook equivalent of those “deleted scenes” extras you sometimes get on DVDs – are dedicated.

  Happy reading.

  David Thomas Moore

  Oxford

  December 2014

  Deleted Scene #1

  Gisburne’s Speech to Micel

  Gisburne’s hatred of the Hood extends beyond their shared history to fundamental philosophy; Hood cares nothing for those around him, and they love him all the more for it, and Gisburne – to whom duty is paramount – despises him for it. This short excision, from Chapter V, has Gisburne excoriating Hood to the impressionable Micel.