Gisburne regarded the formidable mounted figures looming all around. The eyes of every one of them were on him. “Not at all,” he said, and bowed once again. “And I meant no disrespect. But you ride in the open. A single man with a bow could – could...” He suddenly realised he did not know how to complete the sentence in a fitting manner.
“I have been married to a King of France and a King of England and have outlived both,” she said. “Let them try.” Her features softened, and for a moment broke into a smile of utterly beguiling warmth. “I am too old to worry, and too fortunate to ask more of the Almighty. What will be, will be.”
The warmth was banished. She sat up straight again, breathed the air and looked about her. “This is a pleasant spot,” she said. Then she turned her horse and announced in a strong, loud voice: “Here.”
Immediately, the guards spread out, the wagons were driven into a circle off the road, and a seemingly impossible number of servants scrambled out and set about preparing the camp. Gisburne wondered at it, setting up camp in a meadow when the comforts of Stanford lay just a few miles behind. But he supposed the Queen of England could do what she liked, where she liked.
“You will stay and dine with us tonight,” called Eleanor, without looking back at Gisburne. He felt his jaw clench. They had been due to reach Walmesforde before evening, but more important now was the small matter of the Prince – presently loose in the forest and easy prey for God-only-knew-what. For a moment, Gisburne considered his options – then realised he had none. One did not argue with Queen Eleanor. And so, with the fate of the Prince hanging in the balance, he resigned himself to an evening of pointless pleasantries in uncertain company.
Galfrid nudged him. “I think you’re in, there,” he whispered.
WITHIN MINUTES, ELEANOR’S servants had the rudiments of a camp laid out. Within half an hour, they had created an entire village of gaily decorated oilcloth, with the Queen’s pavilion at its heart – surrounded now by the knights’ pennants. They clapped in the stiffening breeze like the applause of gloved hands.
The knights had established a secure perimeter, in which Gisburne and Galfrid were now contained, before the wagons even ceased. As Eleanor had begun to dismount – which she had done without warning or issuing of any command – Gisburne saw a pair of pages spring from nowhere and rush a set of wooden steps to the side of her horse. She had stepped onto them without even pausing to look. Gisburne wondered if the pages had ever missed their cue.
Fires were lit. Food was prepared. Gisburne and Galfrid’s horses were taken and tended to. Over on the camp’s northern side, a small hunting party was forming up to gather more game for the pot. Among them, beneath a hat shaped like a small felt bucket, a steward strode about with a self-important air, as if all this frenzied activity depended entirely upon his presence. Perhaps it did.
Gisburne and Galfrid, meanwhile, simply stood about, bereft of purpose. With nothing to do but grow increasingly anxious about his missing charge, Gisburne’s mind raced.
An idea struck. He pulled off his dusty gloves and raised a hand, calling out to the steward.
“May I offer the services of my squire to aid with your hunt?” he said, and gestured to Galfrid with the clutched gauntlets. “Give him a bow and arrows and he’ll hit anything that moves. His abilities are legendary.” The steward gave a curt but respectful nod and called for a bow to be brought.
Galfrid grasped Gisburne’s arm and dragged him to one side. “Are you mad?” he hissed. “My skills with a bow are certainly not legendary...”
“You’re not going out there to hunt,” said Gisburne. “Not for game, anyway...” Galfrid frowned. Gisburne leaned in. “While they’re off bagging hares and pigeons, you must find our wayward Prince. The camp is heavily guarded. This will be the only chance to get in or out before dark.”
“And if I find him, what then?” whispered Galfrid. “Do I bring him back? If there’s one person on earth who can’t fail to recognise him, it’s his own mother. Christ, she even recognised you...”
“We have no choice,” said Gisburne. “You must stay with him. Make sure he’s safe. If your absence is noted, I’ll make some excuse – say you got drunk or ran off. We’ll meet on the road south between here and Stanford in the morning.”
“A night sleeping in the woods, protecting the Prince from an invincible, fire-breathing monster, my reputation in ruins...” said Galfrid. “I can’t wait.”
Before either could speak further, a page ran up, thrust a longbow into one of Galfrid’s hands, and a quiver of arrows – blunts, with wooden tips for felling small beasts and birds – into the other. Then he bowed, and hurried away.
“The hunting party is ready to leave,” called the steward.
Galfrid gave him a smile and a nod. “Spare me a thought when you’re dining on fine roasted meats and drinking good wine with the Queen,” he muttered to Gisburne, through clenched teeth.
“Just try not to kill any of the Queen’s hounds,” said Gisburne, and shoved him on his way.
QUEEN ELEANOR SCOOPED up some of the cold grey mush from the bowl set before her and regarded it with obvious distaste. “This is what my physician tells me I must eat for my continued good health,” she said.
Blancmanger – a dish Gisburne had rarely eaten since childhood. His mother would pound up chicken meat and mix it into a kind of porridge with sweetened almond milk. He had liked it back then, and even now the taste and smell of it gave him pangs of nostalgia. The cheaper version, made with fish – popular because it was a suitable for Fridays and fast days – he detested. In her last days, before she gave up on food entirely, his sister had eaten little else. From the smell of it, Eleanor’s dish was evidently the latter.
She sighed deeply. “All this recent excitement, he says, has upset my humours. I have become choleric and fiery, and therefore must consume foods that are cold and wet. But this...” She turned the spoon and let its contents plop back into the bowl. “This robs me of humour altogether.”
Fortunately, the dish was not indicative of Eleanor’s hospitality. The long wooden bench – draped with a crimson cloth, decorated with rampant lions and edged with gold – was positively creaking under its burden of culinary delights. There were platters of roasted meats, steaming pots of rich game stew, several whole, poached fish, fragrant salads scattered with flowers foraged from the meadow and hedgerows, sweets and pastries in all manner of shapes, and sufficient fruits, nuts, pickles and cheeses to provide a fair feast all on their own. Thick, sweet-smelling beeswax candles were dotted about on candelabra of iron, while the insides of the tent had been painted so ingeniously that they appeared to be the panelled wooden walls and vaulted ceiling of some grand castle’s great hall – complete with tapestries. So complete was the illusion that it was only broken when the fabric shifted in the breeze.
Within this, servers wove ceaselessly, attending to Eleanor’s company of knights – far less forbidding, now, than they had seemed upon the road. All vessels were kept topped up with the drink of their choice, whether wine, ale or mead – the last of which was a heady brew of exceptional quality. Gisburne later learned it was made by monks who kept bees specifically for the purpose, and sent the greater part of their output to the Queen as a gesture of appreciation for the support she afforded them.
Gisburne had been seated next to the Queen at her own request. Feeling ill-equipped and certainly ill-dressed compared with the rest filling the tent, he had been prepared to loathe the whole experience. Instead, he had found himself utterly seduced by it. Old King Henry may have been a notoriously frugal man, but Eleanor’s well-known piety did not translate into a hatred of wealth or luxury. Once again, Gisburne fancied he saw traits that had passed to John.
As a young woman, Eleanor had been renowned throughout Europe for her love of fine things – and of other, more dangerous pleasures. That had brought her into conflict with her peers and superiors, and tales of her youthful wantonness circulated still. A
formidable figure even then, she had flatly refused to bend to convention. A few – envious, no doubt – still reviled her for it, but far more admired her, even if they did not dare admit it.
Having persisted with the blancmanger forfour or five spoonfuls, Eleanor finally pushed it away and took a draught of wine. “Such stuff is fine for infants and invalids – but I am neither.” With that she reached out and dragged a dish of spiced, roast venison towards her. “I was born choleric and fiery,” she said, and spiked a morsel upon a silver knife. “I doubt my nature will change now.” She ate, and gave a sigh of deep satisfaction as she did so. Her eyes sparkled, and she slid the dish towards Gisburne. “The first of the season,” she said.
He needed no persuading – he had not tasted English venison since winter, and was near drooling like a dog. Its flavour was rich and smoky with the warmth of cinnamon. A rare treat. A royal dish. Eleanor smiled at his evident delight. “I like to see a man appreciating his food,” she said. “Too often I find myself among those who shun its pleasures or are blunted by overindulgence.” She turned to the assembled company lining the benches and rose from her seat. “Today is Whitsunday,” she announced. “The day the Holy Ghost, the Spirit of the Living God, descended to us. This is why we feast, to celebrate God’s greatest gift, and all his bounty.” She raised her cup as she spoke. “Veni Creator Spiritus!” As one, the knights raised theirs and responded with a rousing “Amen!”
She sat back down, as the contented hum of the company returned. “Now, tell me tales of your adventures, Sir Guy,” she said. She leaned forward, her former severity quite gone, and patted the back of his hand gently. “For you interest me, and I wish to be entertained.” She somehow made this sound the most reasonable and enticing of requests.
Gisburne shrugged, as if none of his actions were of any account. Eleanor smiled again; she seemed to like modesty. “We are on our way to London,” he said. “To join with your noble son, the Prince.”
Her face fell a little at that, and her nose wrinkled, as if at an unpleasant smell. “Hm,” she said. “Dear John...” Then the smile revived. “Do you know the King, Sir Guy?” she said, and broke off a tiny piece of bread.
“I had the honour to serve with him in the French territories, some years ago,” said Gisburne. At mere mention of this, Eleanor’s eyes brightened. Nothing could make it plainer that she adored her eldest son, and wished to speak of him. But Gisburne’s words had been guarded – his tone flat. It was a plain statement of fact. He had no desire to imbue it with any hint of admiration, nor to invite further talk of Richard. His experience of the man was that he was a tyrant and a bully who cared nothing for others. Very much like a child. Too much. But at least Eleanor would know that he had seen her beloved Lionheart first-hand.
“There are those who say his great reputation is undeserved,” she said, then looked away. “You will not be surprised to learn that I disagree. But the important thing is this: he has not done anything to contradict his reputation. He knows better than to do so.”
Gisburne felt that was more by luck than judgement, but he held his tongue.
“John, on the other hand, is perhaps viewed too harshly by the common man. This I will admit. His heart is not bad. The trouble is, he will occasionally do something that confirms all their worst opinions of him.” She spread her hands in a gesture of exasperation. “Worst of all of these came last December, with his idiotic and ill-judged declaration that Richard was dead, and that he was to assume the crown...”
“I believe he simply did not wish to see England fall into chaos without a King,” said Gisburne.
“England has a King,” snapped Eleanor. “The truth does not matter. Reputation is not truth. It’s how one is perceived. Believe me, I know all about reputations...” She calmed herself, and took a drink. “What was wrong was not that he did such a thing,” she said. “What was wrong was his eagerness. It made it appear that he wished Richard dead. Even when they agree with the cause, no Englishman relishes treason.”
Gisburne nodded in agreement. But what he was really thinking was that John would not have missed his brother one jot, and would barely have mourned him.
“John also keeps dangerous company,” continued Eleanor. “An alliance with the King of France may seem politic, but how do you think the common man sees it – the scheming Prince cosying up to this land’s most hated enemy? When he stood against that vile snake Longchamp... Then, people flocked to his banner. All London rose to his defence. He made a good choice that day. But now he attacks those the people love, and gets into bed with those they detest. What does he expect people to think?”
Gisburne did not know how to answer.
“Forgive me,” said Eleanor, and smiled again with sudden sweetness. “Politics...” Something in her manner was reminiscent of the way men change the subject when they remember they’re talking to women – creatures they believe should not be troubled by such lofty matters. Gisburne was glad of the shift, regardless of how it came.
“Did you know I encountered the Prince upon the road?” she said casually, eating an almond.
She had seen him? Gisburne felt his neck grow hot. He did not know what to think – whether this was a trap, or some kind of test.
“Two days ago. Heading for London...” My God, thought Gisburne. Of course. John’s entourage... “Do you know he wouldn’t even come out of his carriage? Not even to greet his own mother?” She spoke with sudden bitterness. “Well, I certainly wasn’t going to beg. So off he went, on his merry way.”
Gisburne thought of the poor man acting as John’s double, cowering in the back of that armoured wagon while the Queen and her guard had prowled past.
“Spineless boy,” she muttered. “He’s afraid of me. He was always his father’s favourite.” Her expression suddenly turned hard as stone. “Which tells you all you need to know.” She sipped her wine again. “Tell me,” she said, “if John is your master and you have the same destination, why do you not travel together?”
“We were detained in Nottingham,” he said. “But we hope to catch up with the Prince tomorrow.” She could have no idea how ardently he hoped that.
“He means to stay at the Tower? I understand he has business there.”
“Yes,” said Gisburne.
Eleanor nodded. “He should be careful,” she said. “He has offended a few too many people in recent months. I know he thinks he liberated London, but the people will not thank him. They have what they wanted from him. And if he offends the few he has left, well... I would say he is lucky to have you, Sir Guy.”
“You are kind to say so, my lady.”
“I am not kind,” she said. “I simply state the case as I see it. You are honest, but have tact. He should have more men about him such as you. And he should listen to them. If he does so, make sure he understands this...” She leaned in towards him, her eyes blazing. “Richard will return as king, and John must accept his authority, no matter what. In my life I have seen brother fight against brother. Father against son. Husband against wife.” Her expression grew pinched as she uttered the words. Age fell about her. “I will not permit it again.”
Gisburne held her gaze for what seemed an eternity, then nodded solemnly. Eleanor sighed, as if suddenly tired, and sat back in her seat, her wine cup hanging from her fingers.
“Now,” she said with a smile, “regale me with tales of your battles, and of the ladies whose hearts you have won.”
The conversation thus far had been difficult – but if ever there was a task to which Gisburne was wildly unsuited, this was it.
THAT NIGHT, AS he lay in his bed, foggy with drink, he thought back over the events of their first full day on the road.
They had run into outlaws.
They had lost Prince John.
He stared into darkness, trying to focus his mind – trying to fathom the significance of two seemingly random numbers. Fifty-four... fifty-nine... They swirled around in his head, taunting him. Logic dissol
ved. Thoughts became ungraspable – turned to images. They span in circles, whizzing faster and faster, making less and less sense at each pass – until finally he fell into strange, disturbed dreams.
But the third and by far the most calamitous misfortune of this day, Gisburne was yet to discover.
Deleted Scene #4
Hereward the Wakeful
Hereward – John’s spy in the Hood’s camp, mentioned in passing early in the book – is a minor but notable character, through whose eyes we briefly see Hood and his camp later on, before he is discovered and killed. In this brief aside, cut from Chapter LII in this book, Hereward dwells on the historical Saxon whose name he had chosen for his dangerous mission.
IT WAS, NOW, the only name to which he answered. That part – growing accustomed to a new name – had been easy. Stopping himself from turning his head whenever he heard the old one, the real one... That had proved far harder. Fear of discovery and death had ultimately provided motivation. But now he vaguely wondered how long it would take to fully divest himself of his new name.
It had been carefully chosen. It was commonplace, so would not draw attention; it was Saxon, and so aligned him with the oppressed classes. It was also the name of the rebel who had resisted the Norman yoke after the Conqueror’s invasion. No one now lived who could remember Hereward the Wakeful. That was generations past. But many there were who spoke as if they did – as if they themselves had been there, bravely resisting King William’s army, hiding out in the Fens and foiling every attempt to root them out of that improbable, impassable, half-landscape. So frustrated did the king become by this band of outlaws, and so desperate to be rid of them was he, that it was said he resorted to hiring a witch to curse them all from a wooden tower overlooking the marshes. Some said the rebel hid there still – though that would make him a man of over one hundred and fifty years – and that one day, like King Arthur, he would return from his watery realm to champion the oppressed of Albion. Little wonder the story’s currency had grown of late. Hood had swapped swamp for forest, but the parallels were clear to see. And so the name “Hereward” had been selected as the most likely to be accepted by Hood’s men.
Hunter of Sherwood: The Red Hand Page 50
