Hunter of Sherwood: The Red Hand

by Toby Venables

  GISBURNE CUT HIM off. “King Richard buggered off to the Holy Land with three quarters of your wage and left his brother to take the blame for the mess he had left! You speak of things you do not understand, boy. Prince John had not the power to raise such taxes.”

  “But...”

  Gisburne leaned suddenly towards him again. The boy backed away. “Do you want to know the worst crime? They have stolen men’s hopes. Tricked them into acts of loyalty, and made dishonest use of the belief that the world can be made better. And what will they do with that? Why, whatever they see fit. And we – fools that we are – will praise them to the skies as they rifle our pockets, and call them heroes, and sing songs in their honour. Die for them, even. And afterwards, they will pick our bodies of whatever meat is left. Hood is a cold-blooded murderer. Richard, too. I have seen the best of men die at their hands – yes, and women and children too. These are the men you hero-worship, boy. If, after that, you still wish to follow their example, then that’s your God-given choice. Just don’t let yourself believe you’re doing your fellow Englishmen a service.”

  Deleted Scene #2

  Ghost Stories

  Toby’s great strength as a writer is his love of the detail – of the homely, day to day business of living – and his books are full of rich, believable and above all fun asides that bring his characters to life. This whole chapter, falling between Chapters XII and XIII in this volume, describes an evening’s leisure for Gisburne, Galfrid and their royal companion.

  IT WAS STRANGE to see the Prince outside of his normal confines. Evidently the Prince himself found it strange, too – but he wore it like liberation. Gisburne had feared John would feel vulnerable and exposed on the open road. Instead, he seemed filled with a child-like delight.

  “This is the life,” he said with a sigh and a beaming smile. Gisburne and Galfrid exchanged a secret look, and Galfrid stifled a snigger. But, raising his eyes and looking about him, Gisburne felt the Prince was right. The afternoon sun was bright and warm, the breeze ruffling the trees cool and fragrant. The sky was blue and dotted with white scudding clouds. Bees buzzed. Birds sang. They were in no hurry and there was no one to pay them any heed, all troubles – for the moment – forgotten.

  Yes, this was the life.

  Gisburne began to realise that this was the longest time he had ever spent in Prince John’s company. So often, it was a matter of an hour or two, centred on intense discussions of the latest pressing matter. Now, free of the burdens of duty and status, Gisburne saw John as the young man he really was. Such were the responsibilities thrust upon a prince from the moment of birth, that youth – an entire phase of life – was bypassed. Gisburne had to remind himself that John was still only twenty-six.

  John rode with ease – a natural. One could ride for hours that way and not tire – but Gisburne had never had any doubts about the Prince’s stamina for the journey. Whilst hardly the strapping physical specimen presented by his great brother – Richard had inherited the imposing height of his mother Eleanor, whilst John had got his father’s barrel-shaped body – John was far from the effete wastrel that his opponents painted him. Not only was he surprisingly robust, he also had his father Henry’s inexhaustible energy. Out on a dawn hunt, Gisburne knew, John would have left his critics standing – would, in fact, still be urging his horse on at sundown when they were fit to drop. John’s fault, if he had one, was that this energy so frequently went unchannelled. He had sometimes wondered what it was that so attracted John to the hunt. It wasn’t the thirst for blood or competition – the Prince enjoyed it just as much if his quarry effected a bold escape. Nor was it the company, nor the need to assert himself before others – he would just as well go alone. Today, Gisburne understood. It was the freedom.

  AT THE CROSSROADS near Berughby, the promised inn came into sight. It presented a very different aspect from the last – newly built, freshly whitewashed, a huge pile of logs at one end and curls of smoke drifting from the chimneys. It was backed by thick forest and set back from the road, and before it, on a large stretch of grass, were various barrels and benches, among which a few weary customers were already sitting. A little way from it, close to the place where the two roads crossed, was the blasted stump of what had once been a great tree.

  They dismounted and led their horses to the long trough next to the log pile. The animals drank thirstily. As Galfrid went ahead to arrange lodgings and food and Gisburne hung feedbags about the horse’s heads, John wandered out to the stump and sat himself upon it. The blackened wood presented a perfect seat – flat on top, but with a large section that had split off the main trunk on the forest side, and which now served as a backrest.

  Gisburne did not take his eye off the Prince. As soon as he was done, he moved to join him, his eyes scanning the handful of guests as he passed. He’d rather leave their valuables with the horses than leave John unaccompanied. But none took any interest beyond the occasional nod or smile as he caught their eye. No one here was looking for any trouble – certainly not with the likes of him.

  “Not exactly a throne,” said Gisburne as he stood alongside.

  “One takes what one can get,” said John with a wry smile, and sat back, looking out across the road and fields beyond as if it were his new domain.

  Moments later, Galfrid returned.

  “We’re in luck,” he said. “Plenty of room for the night, the food is wholesome and I can vouch for the ale.” He wiped his lips. “There’s a good smoked ham and some fine aged cheese,” he added – then seemed to remember himself. “Unless...” he looked at the Prince, suddenly uncertain.

  “Unless...?” said Gisburne.

  “Unless we mean to observe the fast,” said Galfrid. “It’s Whitsunday Eve.”

  Gisburne looked at Galfrid, then at the Prince, then back again. “What’s the alternative?”

  “Vegetable pottage,” said Galfrid. They stood in silence for a moment.

  “Well, if no one else is going to say it, I will,” said John. “I want ham and cheese, even if it means eternal damnation.”

  “And the landlord will serve it?” asked Gisburne.

  “I caught him picking at the ham,” said Galfrid. “He’ll serve it.”

  Gisburne nodded. “Ham and cheese it is, then.”

  John clapped his hands, rubbed them together in satisfaction, then stretched out his legs with a contented sigh. “Let’s sit out a while. It’s still early, there are hours before we need to be abed and it’s a fine night. Have the food brought out here.”

  The last was issued as a command. Though spoken without any hint of harshness or disdain, it was a sudden reminder that John was unused to doing things for himself. Gisburne looked at Galfrid and gave a shrug, then, looking about, headed towards the log pile. He returned with two stout logs, each long enough and wide enough to sit upon, and set them down before John. Galfrid, meanwhile, tamped down the grass within the rough triangle formed by the three improvised seats, then headed off to fetch their bags as Gisburne dumped down another armful of logs in the space.

  “What’s this?” said John, with a bemused smile.

  “For the fire,” said Gisburne, heading off to fetch kindling.

  “But it’s not even cold!” protested John.

  “It will be,” called Gisburne.

  AN HOUR LATER, as the sun was dwindling to a thin slash of blood red across the horizon and the air was growing cool, they were sitting around the cheering blaze, eating bread, ham and cheese and drinking good ale. Galfrid had not been wrong about that. Gisburne had learned that the squire was never wrong where drink was concerned. Several of their fellow patrons that evening had looked askance at the ham and cheese as it passed by, then turned back gloomily to their meatless pottage. But Gisburne didn’t care. He didn’t think God did, either. The fire popped, the flames bathing their faces with its warm light, the air fragrant with woodsmoke. Crows called distantly in the cooling air. From somewhere deep in the wood, an owl hooted.
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br />   These were the simplest of pleasures – but, right now, they seemed worth more than all the riches on earth. Gisburne withdrew his knife from the flames and ate the piece of smoked ham and melted cheese off its point. As the fragrant morsel hit his tongue – almost too hot for it – he felt a kind of rapture.

  There had been only one curious thing to mar the idyll of the evening. They had been awaiting the arrival of their food. Galfrid had just struck a spark upon a tuft of wool from his flint and steel – a process that had much fascinated John – and the fire was beginning to crackle into life. They had suddenly been aware of a figure standing motionless, some fifteen yards from them – a scrawny looking man with long, lank hair. The sallow skin of his face was deeply pitted by a strange pattern of scarring, a relic of some childhood ailment. From the recognition on Galfrid’s face, Gisburne supposed this was the innkeeper – though none of them had seen him approach.

  “Begging your gentlemen’s pardon,” he began.

  “No need to beg,” said John cheerfully. “Come closer, enjoy our fire.”

  The man did not move. “I come only to say that since you are to be guests beneath my roof tonight, you should know that I shall be bolting the doors before turning in.”

  “Bolting?” said John, with some surprise, and looked right and left along the length of the road. “Are there outlaws hereabouts?”

  “Not outlaws,” said the innkeeper. For a moment, it seemed the man was to say nothing more, but after a lengthy pause he added: “There are things I would rather keep outside, that’s all.”

  John nodded as if all made perfect sense. The innkeeper returned the nod awkwardly, then turned and sloped away.

  John raised his eyebrows. “It appears we are to be kept secure tonight.”

  Gisburne was not apt to criticise anyone for the way they wished to keep their house. If the man wished to lock his doors, or throw them wide open, or ride about naked on a pig, that was his own concern. What struck him, though, was the man’s expression as he had addressed them – inexplicably hovering between anger and fear.

  While these thoughts had played in Gisburne’s head, a maidservant – the innkeeper’s daughter, Gisburne guessed – had brought the food out to them upon a board. It had apparently taken some persuasion on Galfrid’s part to secure this small service, and she had seemed nervous as she approached – something to do with it being a fast day, perhaps. In softened mood this night, had felt a pang of sympathy for the girl, and attempted a reassuring smile – then had caught sight of the innkeeper watching from the doorway, his face now creased into scowl, and reined it in. The girl, her face flushed, had, at any rate, not been encouraged by Gisburne’s effort – nor by John’s cheery exclamation of delight. Still looking unaccountably perplexed, she had stopped some ten yards from where they sat, and – as if afraid to break their circle, or even approach it – had set the board down where she stood.

  John had frowned at that. With a laugh and a hand extended in paternalistic welcome, he had urged: “A little closer, if you please! We’ve only just got comfortable...” The girl looked panicked, lifted the board, advanced it all of one foot, and scurried away, her eyes fixed on the ground. The innkeeper scooped her into the open doorway, and slammed the door.

  Galfrid had given a heavy sigh, then, and – heaving himself up in cracking knees – brought the food the rest of the way.

  “Are we really so terrifying?” mused John

  “You can’t get the staff these days,” Galfrid muttered, then shot Gisburne a glance as if expecting some jibe at his expense. Gisburne had suppressed a smile, and said not a word.

  “SO,” SAID JOHN, tearing at a piece of bread, “things I would rather keep outside... What do you make of that?”

  Gisburne shrugged. “It’s a busy highway. People passing through day after day. Outlaws off in the woods. That makes you wary.”

  “But things,” said John, pointing his knife to emphasise the word. “Not people. Things...”

  An image of the Red Hand – or some mockery of it, all reptilian scales and plumes of fire – came unbidden into Gisburne’s mind. He realised only then, as the attendant anxieties gripped him, that the matter had been out of his thoughts for most of the day.

  “The black dog,” piped up Galfrid, matter-of-factly, without looking up. Both companions turned and stared at him as the squire folded a slice of ham into his mouth.

  “A dog?” said John with a bemused frown.

  “Black dog,” said Galfrid.

  John snorted dismissively. “It’d take more than some stray barker to have me quaking in my bed – black, white or green.”

  Galfrid shook his head. “This is no ordinary dog. The unearthly kind.”

  Gisburne gave a spluttering laugh and slapped his knee, but Galfrid’s face did not crack.

  “Surely you’ve heard of the gigantic black hound that prowls the roads at night? Hideous. Ghostly. Eyes like fire. Death following in his wake. Black Shuck they call him to the east. Padfoot up north. Skryker. Barguest. He’s got many a name. But everywhere you go, you’ll hear tell of him, and the places to be watchful. Along lonely thoroughfares. Near water. Where gibbets stand. By crossroads especially.” He glanced across at the place where the two roads met. Gisburne and John looked towards it, then at each other.

  “A gigantic hound?” said John with an incredulous laugh.

  “Big as a calf,” said Galfrid.

  “And you think our innkeeper bolts his door against this savage beast?”

  Galfrid shook his head. “He’s not savage. Not this one. He’s no need to be. This is no earthly creature. One need only touch him to be struck dead. But he’s more than that. Shuck is a portent of doom. He knows who death will strike – or himself brings it upon them, I know not which. Sniffs them out, senses the stink of the grave on them. Even the traveller who survives an encounter is henceforth forever cursed with ill luck.” Galfrid leaned closer to the Prince, eyes wide, then turned towards the surrounding dark. “And he’s out there, somewhere, right now...”

  Gisburne glared at Galfrid across the fire. Considering John’s current predicament, this was not in the best of taste. Galfrid caught the look, and to Gisburne’s surprise, winked at him. John, meanwhile, sat forward, wildly amused.

  “And you’ve seen this Padfoot, have you?” he asked.

  “Not myself,” said Galfrid. “But I know plenty who have.”

  “Well, there we have it,” said John. He sat back on his blackened throne and turned to Gisburne. “Have you ever noticed how you never meet the person who has actually seen the ghost or goblin or whatever it is, only ever someone who heard it from someone? They’re like a priest’s promises – always just around the next corner.” Both he and Gisburne, their spirits warmed by the ale, chuckled at Galfrid’s expense. “My mind is open to such things. And I have travelled far and wide. Yet never have I seen these ghouls and restless corpses that we forever hear about – far less some hellhound.”

  “Nor I,” said Gisburne, and shot Galfrid a smile of perverse satisfaction.

  Galfrid held Gisburne’s gaze, his face giving nothing away. “There is one thing I did see,” he said. John’s ears pricked up again, and his eyes narrowed. “Did I ever tell of the time I met Wakeful Mary?”

  “If she’s the one who kept you up all night in Soissons, I don’t want to hear it,” said Gisburne. “I heard more than enough on the night.”

  John cackled with laughter. Galfrid looked aggrieved. “Wakeful Mary has been dead these past hundred years and more,” he said in protest. “But if you don’t want to hear it...” And he sat back with a shrug.

  “No, no!” said John. “We do want to hear it. In all its gory detail... It is Whitsun Eve, when we await the descent of the Holy Spirit, and this our vigil. It seems an appropriate night for ghost stories. So pray continue, Squire Galfrid.” And he rubbed his hands in delight.

  “Well, then...” Galfrid leaned towards the fire, spat into it, and began. “
It was back when I was a young squire – to a knight named Godbert. He was the pious sort. Fancied himself a Templar. In fact, it was whilst travelling to Dunwich to visit an acquaintance at the Templar church there – one he thought might help further this ambition – that these events took place.”

  John leaned in closer. Gisburne, in spite of himself, did the same. Galfrid paused to poke the fire with a stick, making sparks fly up, then brushed his hands together.

  “Well, the road from Snape to Dunwich is a lonely one, and it is not uncommon for parties who have to travel after dark to join together for company. So it was with us. At Snape bridge we were joined by two pilgrims, also heading for Dunwich, fearful of what they might encounter upon the journey. Godbert was more than happy to offer protection for honest pilgrims against thieves or robbers – as though he were a Templar already. It was not until we were well on our way that they admitted what really terrified them.

  “Well, the old Snape road is a funny old road. Many will tell you they’ve seen things upon it. But the worst of these – the very worst – was poor Wakeful Mary. No one could say how it was she died. All anyone knew was that she would not lie in her grave, and that she had a vicious hatred of the living. If ever she heard a wayfarer upon that stretch of road at night – especially if he had the nerve to be singing a good Christian hymn – she would come screaming at him, her hair flying, her furious eyes wide as pot-lids. So terrible a sight was she that some dropped dead on the spot out of sheer fright.

  “Our companions related how they themselves had witnessed such a thing when last they had travelled upon the road. On that occasion, they had been with a monk. All three had been warned at an inn to make no sound upon the road, and such was the innkeeper’s expression that for a long time they maintained their silence. But then, just as they were about to pass from Mary’s realm and beginning to feel themselves safe, the monk was unable to resist humming an Alleluya under his breath...” Galfrid paused and looked into the eyes of the Prince, rapt by the story. His voice had lowered to little more than a husky murmur.