“Hurtling out of the dark she came, flying the length of the road, her scream so horrible it tore at their ears. Our companions threw themselves flat upon the ground in terror. As one looked up, the stink of decay in his nostrils, he saw the monk trying to grapple with the shrieking cadaver, crying out prayers as he did so. But his fingers sank helplessly into her flesh, and his words just enraged her the more. The pilgrim saw her bony talons wrap about the monk’s throat, stifling the sound, then covered his eyes in horror. He heard the monk thud to the ground between them, stone dead. They lay there huddled against his corpse for an hour or more after the terrible sound subsided, not once daring to look up. When finally they did, they hurried away, leaving the poor monk where he fell.
“Hearing this, Godbert was suddenly emboldened. Good Christian knight that he was, he resolved not only to protect them, but to rid the road of this unclean pest. He returned to Snape and roused a priest, and demanded to be taken to the tomb which was said to hold poor Mary’s bones. She was to be laid to rest once and for all, either by benediction or the sword.
“And so the five of us went in solemn silence, the priest leading, and at length left the road altogether onto a far older track, through gorse and bracken. I wondered what kind of graveyard this must lead to, there being no church visible for miles around, but I did not dare speak. Finally we came to the spot – a bleak, lonely place – and I realised this was no Christian burial ground. All around us were earthen mounds – ancient graves, from pagan times – and a low mist swirled about. There was dark menace in every stone and stalk of that bleak moor. I’ll never forget it. Even the air felt dead. Looking back, I could no longer see the road, nor any human light in the darkness. It was as if we had left the world behind. I turned again to see the priest’s shaking finger pointing at the largest of the mounds, within which was set a rough, stone door no higher than my chest – a work of unimaginable age.
“Immediately, without fear, Godbert went to the door, thinking to prise it open. He had barely touched it when the stone sprang open of its own accord. There was no doubt now that the shrieking monster slumbered within.” Galfrid’s voice dropped further, to a barely audible whisper, as if still afraid to wake her. John leaned in closer still from the edge of his throne, the flames casting strange shadows upon his face.
“As we stooped and entered the dark tomb, none dared even to breathe. We all stepped as though upon ice, knowing that the slightest sound would rouse her. Ahead of us, in the weird light of that heathen netherworld, lay a horrible sight – great slab of grey stone, longer than a man, hewn by unknown hands into a grim vessel. And within it lay the corpse-pale body of the hag. We crept around her, the knight ready with his sword, the priest with his words of blessing, none knowing whether either had the power to subdue the fiend...
“And then, as we bent over the ghoul’s coffin, a single dead eye opened, and... WAAAAH!” Galfrid lunged at the Prince, hands like claws and eyes bulging. John reeled backwards in shock, bowling off his stump, legs in the air, his cup flying from his hand in a trail of frothy liquid. Gisburne leapt up in alarm. Galfrid, meanwhile, sat back and resumed his supper. Gisburne prepared to berate the wayward squire, or at least plead his case – somehow – before the Prince had him hauled off and executed.
Then he heard laughing from the overturned figure on the grass, rising in volume. John slapped his knees and waved his feet in the air, then rolled over, hooting with delight. He sat up, grass in his hair, near helpless with laughter, climbed to his knees and clapped Galfrid upon the shoulder. Galfrid glanced up at his master, and grinned like the Devil. Gisburne simply stood, bereft of words.
“Squire Galfrid,” laughed John, “if ever this man should fail you” – he gestured to Gisburne – “then you are assured a place at my court as its Fool. Swear, at least, that you will come and relate that story to the king of France next time I am to meet with him...”
“Does he have a fancy for that sort of thing?” asked Galfrid, deadpan.
“No!” roared John. “Not at all! And no sense of humour either. None!” He guffawed, bent double, then gave a girlish whoop, retrieved his cup and filled it from the jug.
Gisburne sat back down upon his log, his own heart still thumping. Galfrid was either a madman with extraordinary luck, or the shrewdest judge of character in the kingdom. The Plantagenet temper was legendary. Gisburne, who found John for the most part an urbane and sanguine sort – far more prone to cutting sarcasm than outbursts of anger – had witnessed it only once. It was in response to the news that the detested William Longchamp had plans to return to England. The transformation from the man he knew had been total, and terrifying. In the space of a few minutes, red-faced and roaring like a madman, he had strewn or destroyed everything within his grasp – tearing cushions with his bear hands until they burst open, even reducing a stout wooden chair to kindling.
The Prince downed his ale, then, still laughing, patted the squire once again on the shoulder and went to relieve himself by the trees. Gisburne turned and squinted into the darkness, nervous at letting John out of sight. As if in response to his fears, John began whistling a cheery tune as his urine spattered against the foliage. Gisburne turned back to Galfrid and gave a heavy sigh. “Don’t try to get a rise out of the Prince,” he said in hushed tones. “It’s a long road to London, with the Tower at the end of it...”
Galfrid shrugged and raised his eyebrows, as if to say: Who? Me? Gisburne recalled only then that Galfrid had known the Prince longer than he had.
John joined them again, still grinning from ear to ear, and spread his hands before the fire.
“Your turn,” said Galfrid, gesturing towards him with the point of his knife.
“Turn?” said John with a frown.
“To tell a story.”
“Ah...” John rubbed his hands like a fly, his eyes glittering in the firelight. “Yes,” he said. “I think I know one...” And he sat back on his strange throne once more, interlocking his fingers. “There were once three noble princes, each of quite different temperament: one shrewd but without strength; one strong but without humanity, one humane but without shrewdness. One day, they were out hunting boar in the forest, when a thick mist descended. All at once they looked about them and realised they were lost, and separated from the party. They listened out for the yapping of the hounds, but nothing could be heard. Then, from out of the forest staggered three grim corpses, the flesh of each one –”
“Heard it,” interrupted Galfrid. Gisburne glared at him once again. “The three corpses are their fathers, returned to warn them of the weaknesses of the flesh.”
Irritation flashed in John’s eyes, but immediately dissipated. He threw up his hands. “Well, it’s down to you then, Sir Guy,” he said, turning to him.
“To me?”
“One more ghost story before we retire.”
Gisburne shook his head self-consciously and shifted on his seat.
“Come now,” pressed John, “you must have heard a hundred stories in your time. Surely there’s one you could relate.”
Gisburne sat in silence for a moment. “No,” he said. “No, there isn’t.”
A sound in the surrounding darkness – now ink-black, and made even more impenetrable by the brightness of the fire – made them start. Gisburne drew his knife, and Galfrid gripped his staff.
In the blackness, something shuffled again. John put his hand to his brow, as if squinting against the sun. “Who’s there?” he called. “Show yourself.”
A figure stepped into the glow of light – just barely – and stopped a dozen yards distant. All breathed a sigh of relief at the gaunt, but familiar features.
“I’m locking up now,” said the innkeeper, his manner civil, his tone as morose as ever.
“Come closer where we can see you properly,” urged John.
The man shuffled again, awkwardly. “I’ll not do so, if you don’t mind.”
Gisburne and Galfrid looked at each other, fr
owning.
“Tell us then,” said John, “for you have us wondering. What is so fearful upon this road that you lock your door at night?”
The innkeeper hesitated, looking John up and down with a peculiar expression. “Not the road,” he said. “There. Where you’re sitting. That stump... It was the hangin’ tree, before the lightning took it. That was God’s judgement upon it, some say. The blackest hearts in the county writhed and choked their last breath above where you sit, spilling their badness into the ground. There’s none hereabouts will go near that spot.”
He stopped. All sat in silence, hardly daring to move.
“Now, if you gentlemen will be so good as to come in...” He said, and with that he turned and walked back into the gloom.
Deleted Scene #3
Feasting with Eleanor
In the relentless drive to cut wordcount, some whole plot events saw the cutting-room floor. This chapter, falling between Chapter XII and Chapter XIII in this volume (and immediately following the above deleted scene), describes an unavoidable delay to Guy, Galfrid and John’s journey south, as they encounter (and in John’s case, avoid) the redoubtable Queen Eleanor, John’s mother.
THE SECOND OF the day’s troubles came late that afternoon. Galfrid had been lagging behind, and had dismounted to examine Mare’s hooves. Gisburne had dropped back to see what the problem was.
“This shoe’s giving her gip,” said Galfrid with a sigh, slapping her left shoulder. “A nail’s gone. Got a bit of a rattle to it.”
“Will she do until Walmesforde?”
“She’ll do,” said Galfrid. He looked past Gisburne. John was still riding ahead, oblivious. “Stay with him. I’ll catch up.”
Gisburne nodded, and turned Nyght about.
Up ahead, the trees that had bordered the road for much of the journey began to fall away to their left, opening out into a broad strip of meadow upon that side. Gisburne breathed deeply, catching the scent of the wild flowers that now surrounded them on every side.
John at last glanced back as Gisburne caught him up. “Is your squire all right?” he asked with a frown.
“Galfrid is always all right,” said Gisburne. “He just hardly ever admits it.”
John chuckled and turned back to the road, but offered no further comment.
“Where did you find him, anyway?” Gisburne asked. It occasionally occurred to him that he knew almost nothing of Galfrid’s origins, beyond the fact that he had spent time in the east of England, and perhaps came from there.
John never answered. Instead, his eyes widened and his jaw dropped. Following his gaze, Gisburne saw, at some distance, a caravan of horses and wagons approaching in a low haze of dust, at their head a large party of mounted men with red pennants flying from their lances. He had no idea who they were, but when he looked back at John, the Prince’s face had grown ashen, and fallen into an expression Gisburne had never seen upon it before. As if he were suddenly confronted by a scene of utter horror. As if he had seen a ghost.
“Oh, my God...” muttered John. With a sudden movement, he turned his horse and, in blind panic, rode straight at the curtain of dense forest upon their right side. Horse and rider disappeared into the trees with a great crash of dry undergrowth and cracking of twigs.
Gisburne looked around in alarm as Galfrid caught him up, an expression of bemusement upon his face. “What the Hell’s going on?”
“I have no idea,” said Gisburne, trying – and failing – to spot the Prince amongst the dense trees. He couldn’t even hear him now; John’s years of hunting had taught him how to move quietly through greenwood and thicket. “We’d better get after him...” he said. But when he turned back to Galfrid, the squire’s eyes, too, had widened at the sight of the train ahead.
Gisburne looked, and this time recognised the pennants: a single golden lion upon a red ground. It was Eleanor, Duchess of Aquitaine. Widow of King Henry II. Mother to King Richard the Lionhearted. Queen of England.
Prince John had fled at the sight of his own mother.
The outriders had seen them now. Whether they had caught sight of John was not clear. Gisburne thought it unlikely. But whether they had or had not, it was too late for him and Galfrid to follow the Prince. If he were captain of Eleanor’s guard, he would take a hasty departure as a highly suspicious act – and would shoot first and ask questions later. They’d be dead before they even reached the trees.
“Dismount,” said Gisburne.
“You sure?” said Galfrid.
“Do it,” said Gisburne, swinging his leg hastily over the cantle of his saddle and dropping to the ground. Galfrid did likewise.
“Now kneel,” he said.
“What?”
“Kneel and look at the ground. Stay that way until they’re gone.” He pushed Galfrid down. It had been so long since England had a resident King that he had almost forgotten the appropriate formalities.
Hooves approached and passed – perhaps the finest horses Gisburne had ever seen. He allowed his eyes to flick upwards. The eyes of the knights glared back, the pennants on their lances whipping in the breeze. In the main body of the train were a great many wagons, some ornate and gaily painted. Attached to one by an array of spidery red cords was a pack of sleek, grey hunting dogs. Before all these, surrounded by her guards and sitting tall in her saddle, was the Queen herself.
She was dressed plainly, like a nun – if a nun with taste and wealth. Her gown was blue-grey, her wimple pure white, but each made with such skill that the simple garments were rendered rich and luxurious. Framed by a white halo of veil and wimple, the long face and elegant features were still possessed of the beauty that had once so fascinated half of Europe. Everyone talked of her beauty. It had become a rather tired cliché, mostly repeated by people who had never seen her in the flesh, but only now did Gisburne understand the nature of it. It was not a collection of features or the shape of her figure – although both still possessed a statuesque elegance – but what animated them. While her physical charms had doubtless dimmed since her youth, the light within burned just as bright. Today, she wore an expression that was haughty and aloof, but behind those eyes, even in those fleeting seconds, Gisburne fancied he detected an intellect both fierce and mischievous. These were qualities he had seen in John – but rendered infinitely more imposing.
Certainly she was possessed of an indefatigable spirit. While still in her twenties, she had been on Crusade in the Holy Land. In later life she had given King Henry five sons and three daughters, and survived fifteen years imprisonment at his hand. After Henry’s death, she had re-emerged to become regent of England in Richard’s absence. Eleanor had been the only individual ever to rival Henry for sheer physical and mental energy – and even now, she did not stop. At the age of seventy, and with her vigour and iron will apparently undiminished, she remained the most powerful woman in the world.
Gisburne snapped out of his reverie. Her eyes were now on him. He dropped his gaze to the ground and held it there. Silently he prayed to make no impression, to arouse no curiosity – to be invisible. As the parade of hooves passed, he dared to look up again. Between the glinting, bobbing helms of the accompanying knights, he glimpsed the back of her head slowly receding, and allowed himself a sigh of relief.
Then she raised her hand.
A shout went up from the captain of the guard, and the entire cortège rumbled and thudded and clanked to a halt. The Queen turned her horse and rode towards the two kneeling figures. Her guardsmen parted to let her pass, reconfiguring about her in close formation.
Gisburne kept his eyes fixed on a rut in the road as the russet hooves of her bayclere mare plodded into view. He fell into shadow – felt her towering over him.
“Gisburne...” she said. It was not a question. He stared back up at her, dumbfounded, as if having witnessed some act of magic.
“We met when you were a boy,” she continued. Her voice was at once disarmingly youthful, yet hard as stone. Then she cocked her head
a little to one side and frowned. “You don’t remember...” Gisburne did not. Or did he? He wasn’t sure. He recalled meeting King Henry once. Had she been there too? “Your father was with you. I remember him well. A loyal servant to the King.” She peered closer. “You have his eyes.”
Gisburne felt his face redden, and bowed his head. “My lady... I am honoured that you... recognise... after all this time...” He wasn’t at all sure where his words were heading.
“I’ve an eye for such things,” she said, dismissively. “Please, rise. Your companion, too. And don’t look so petrified. I won’t bite.”
Gisburne rose. He wasn’t afraid of Eleanor; at least, he didn’t think so. But he was certainly disorientated to have encountered her riding her own horse upon the Great North Road – and to then have had her address him by name.
“My lady,” he said, feeling a need to give a better account of himself. “The forests into which you ride have concealed dangers. We encountered a band of brigands upon the road just this morning.” He glanced sideways at Galfrid. “Albeit rather ineffective ones...”
“Your vigilance and concern are noted, Sir...?”
“Guy,” offered Gisburne, with another bow.
“Sir Guy... Of course. I am poor with names, but I never forget a face.” Eleanor looked around in a manner of a lord surveying his land. “I am travelling England to raise the funds to secure the freedom – the life – of my son the King, only recently confirmed as being alive.” She glanced aloft. “Praise God. This is not something I would presume to entrust to another. Only a parent would understand this.” She fixed her look upon him again, and narrowed her eyes. “So, do you think my guard inadequate?”
Hunter of Sherwood: The Red Hand Page 49
