Hunter of Sherwood: The Red Hand Read online

  Seconds later, Micel returned with the replenished jug of ale. It landed on the table top with far more force than necessary – but the boy lacked the nerve to look Gisburne in the eye as he did it. Without a word, without a sound, he turned and slunk away.

  “I don’t think you should have said that,” said Galfrid.

  “The boy needed to be told,” said Gisburne irritably, charging his cup from the new jug. “It may save his life.” He took a deep swig of his ale.

  “Maybe so,” said Galfrid. “But he spat in your drink.”

  Gisburne coughed, flecks of ale spattering the table. A smile spread across Galfrid’s face. Gisburne wiped his mouth, then with a shrug clunked his cup against Galfrid’s. “I’ve drunk worse,” he said, and gulped at his ale once more. Galfrid gave a snort of laughter, and knocked back his own.

  “So...” Galfrid began. “What next for Sir Guy of Gisburne?”

  Gisburne sighed and stared into his cup. For once, he had no idea. When they had left for the Holy Land, circumstances had been turning in Prince John’s favour. Key enemies had been overcome. John’s power base in Nottinghamshire had been consolidated. And with the missing Richard’s fate ever more in doubt, even John’s enemies had begun to consider the possibility that they may soon owe ultimate allegiance to the Prince.

  But, as the poets put it, fortune is fickle. Like the moon, it both waxes and wanes. Gisburne and Galfrid had returned to chaos. So great had been the upheaval, it had proved difficult for the pair to establish a clear sequence of events as they had journeyed north – the garbled accounts muddied by talk of portents, and impending doom. Certain facts were clear: There had been insurrection. The realm had teetered perilously close to open war. So precarious had John’s own position become that he had fled to France. Some said he had since returned, but Gisburne himself had heard nothing conclusive. They would report to the Sheriff, Sir William de Wendenal, as Gisburne had agreed they would. But at this moment, he did not even know if his master was alive.

  “Back to being a farmer,” he said with a shrug. It was half statement, half question. He was not at all sure that the prospect was one he relished. But for now, what else could they do?

  Galfrid leaned forward, and allowed himself a smile. “Look,” he said, and spread his hands upon the table. For a moment he was silent, as if weighing up his words. “Perhaps it is time to stop all this. To settle.”

  Gisburne stared, taken aback by the sudden candour. “Settle?”

  “You have your father’s house. A good sum tucked away. The hard work is done. You have tested the Almighty, and yet you still live. Isn’t it time – ?”

  “Tancred,” said Gisburne. “That work is not done. I thought you of all people wished to see that monster destroyed.”

  Galfrid sighed. “So did I. But now we are back... Perhaps it’s time to let someone else worry about Tancred.” He shrugged, and fidgeted with his knife. “The thing is, you are now in the enviable position of having few enemies in England, and none who now would seek you out. You’ve made sure of that. But if you stay with Prince John...” Galfrid looked as if he did not know how to finish the sentence. But he did not need to.

  “You think I will be dragged down with his unpopularity...” said Gisburne grimly. “He’s not the villain of the piece, Galfrid.”

  “Neither was Gilbert de Gaillon,” said Galfrid. “But his fall precipitated yours, nonetheless.” Galfrid paused a moment for the words to hit home. “God knows I’ve served the Prince loyally these past years. But I’m saying this for you, now... The Prince’s greatest enemy in the realm has been subdued. And you did it. He will surely release you from his service if you request it, and will continue to think well of you.” He leaned in again, his customary inscrutable façade now quite fallen away. “But if Richard does return, and you make an enemy of him... That, even Guy of Gisburne cannot survive.” He sat back in his seat, and swigged his ale.

  Galfrid was right. Galfrid was always right. Even since Christmas, loyalties had shifted. Old scores and resentments had resurfaced. It was by no means certain that those who had once been their allies still remained so. But to just walk away from that... He could not say it did not have its attractions. And perhaps it would not be so bad. Perhaps it really was time he gave up worrying about the world and tended his own garden.

  There had been another sign of how things had changed. It was trivial, perhaps, to all but Gisburne, and it stirred mixed emotions in him. The previous day had been May Day. The air was fresh and invigorating, the sun bright and warm on their skin, the rich pastures and woodland they passed through had never looked greener, and the chuckling brooks that wove through them – their banks bursting with birdsong – never more cool and inviting. So idyllic a spring day was it, in fact, that it was hard to believe that strife of any kind ever afflicted this blessed land.

  There were other reasons why the mood all about was one of cheer. On this day, everyone, from the lowest peasant to the highest lord, was excused work. It was the nation’s holiday – a day of mischief and revelry across all England. As they had made their final approach to Nottingham, Gisburne and Galfrid had seen it in all its forms, from the sober to the wildly anarchic. There was music and dancing everywhere. Wells, barns, and even the humblest of abodes were decorated with bright flowers. There were maypoles, May Queens, and Lords of Misrule in all their incarnations – local peasants crowned king for a day, and whose word was law.

  But there was one particular celebration, in a village near Caggworth, that had caught his attention. There, in amongst the usual wild revelries, carried shoulder-high like a hero, was a Lord of Misrule whose form chilled Gisburne to the bone. Dressed head to toe in Lincoln Green, with a long-feathered hat and brandishing a toy bow – with which he shot leather-tipped arrows at the heart of the May Queen – he was, in every detail, and every gesture, a joyous caricature of Robin Hood. Never before had it been made so clear, the extent to which Hood’s legend had taken root. Seeing it now, Gisburne despaired for England. It also presented him with a practical problem to which he had no solution. He could fight a man. But how did one fight a legend?

  “Anyway,” said Galfrid, his tone lightened. “What’s the point bringing order to the realm if you never get to enjoy it? You’ve half a lifetime left you. Make the most of it!”

  “Wait a minute,” said Gisburne, narrowing his eyes. “Are you talking about yourself now? Is it really you who craves a quiet life?”

  Galfrid scowled. “You say that to the man who waded through flaming shit for you...” He spread his hands again. “I just want to see you settle down with a good woman, and – you know – live! And if I get to do the same, well, I’ll not complain.”

  “Ah, this again...” Gisburne stabbed a bit of bread.

  “Yes, this again!”

  Gisburne grunted. “I don’t know any good women.” He knew one or two bad ones, but they weren’t the marrying kind.

  Galfrid sighed heavily. “Yes, you do...” he said wearily, as if repeating it for the hundredth time.

  “Well,” said Gisburne, “as we both know, that situation is no longer so simple...”

  “I don’t mean Lady Marian,” said Galfrid flatly.

  Gisburne frowned, and stared at the squire, genuinely perplexed. He knew Galfrid’s views on Lady Marian Fitzwalter, even though he had never stated them outright. An unattainable fantasy; a lost cause. Perhaps, in the end, he would be proved right. In truth, the whole matter had become an intolerable agony. He did not wish to think of it – even though, at times, he could think of little else. In spite of it all, however, this irritating little man had now caught his curiosity.

  “Who then?”

  “You really don’t know?”

  “I’d hardly ask if I knew, would I?” The squire was testing his patience.

  Galfrid shook his head in disbelief. “Not even the faintest clue? Even though it’s been staring you in the face for a year?”

  “What in God�
��s name are you talking about?”

  “Mélisande,” blurted Galfrid. “Mélisande de Champagne. There. I’ve said it.”

  “Wha..? That’s ridiculous!” Gisburne gave a disdainful laugh. But he felt himself redden as he did so. His voice lowered to an urgent whisper. “She is an agent for the King of France...”

  “Exactly,” said Galfrid. “It’s perfect.”

  “Not that she is not admirable, but what makes you think...?”

  “What make me think?” Galfrid threw up his hands in exasperation. “Christ, man, a blind beggar could see it. It’s like two halves of a wheel that belong together – one fundamental thing out of joint in the universe that is screaming to be put right. So please, if you were to bring just one more bit of order to this chaos, could you not do something about it before she goes and marries some fat baron?” He slumped back, almost breathless.

  Gisburne stared at him, stunned. “Listen,” he said, uncertain whether to appear angry, or mortified, or to simply laugh it off, “this is neither the time nor the place to discuss thi –”

  There was a heavy crash as the door behind Gisburne’s back was flung open. Both he and the room fell silent. Heavy, jingling footfalls followed. Gisburne did not need to look round to know what they were. Soldiers, heavily armed.

  Galfrid glanced unobtrusively over his master’s shoulder.

  “How many?” Gisburne muttered.

  “Three. And at least two more beyond the door.”

  Gisburne nodded. “Whose? The Sheriff’s?”

  “Could be.” Galfrid narrowed his eyes and took another drink. “Don’t recognise their captain, though.”

  “Nothing to do with us,” said Gisburne. “Keep drinking.”

  “I’m looking for Sir Guy of Gisburne,” called the captain of the guard in a booming voice.

  “He really needs to learn some discretion,” muttered Galfrid.

  Gisburne allowed himself to turn and look. There were two men-at-arms, one of whom Gisburne recognised – a guard from the castle garrison. They could only be acting for Wendenal, or for Radulph Murdac, the castle constable. Both loyal to John – in principle, at least. A third man stood in front, his bearded chin jutting out as he scanned the alehouse’s interior, his face framed by a mail coif. His manner was aggressive. And superior, like one about to clap irons on a criminal. Gisburne didn’t like the look of him.

  “Guy of Gisburne,” repeated the captain, irritably. “Is he here?”

  Gisburne sighed. “Five. We can handle five.”

  “What did you do to upset him, anyway?” said Galfrid.

  Gisburne shrugged. “Exist?” He turned back to his drink. “Don’t look. Don’t speak.” But even as he had been turning away, he had seen one of the guards – the man he knew as Tom – pointing in his direction.

  “They’re coming over,” said Galfrid. “What d’you want to do?”

  “Nothing,” said Gisburne, and swigged from his cup.

  “You are Guy of Gisburne?” said the captain. He did not wait for a reply before adding: “You are to come with us. Your squire, too.”

  Gisburne wiped his mouth and looked up at him. “You’re new, aren’t you?”

  The captain narrowed his eyes and clenched his jaw.

  “You all right, Tom?” said Gisburne to the guard beyond the captain’s right shoulder. “How’s that mare of yours?”

  Tom half smiled, opened his mouth to speak, then met the captain’s eye. His eyes dropped to the ground.

  “You will come with us,” said the captain, then added, as if it were a tooth being drawn from his head: “if you please.”

  “Not just now,” said Gisburne.

  The captain pursed his lips, and rested his left hand on the pommel of his sword. It was a fine weapon, meant to impress. But Gisburne judged it had rarely, if ever, been used. “I have orders,” he said.

  Gisburne sighed. “I’m happy for you. But we have travelled a long way, and I intend to finish my meal.”

  The captain’s fist tightened upon the pommel. The leather of his sword belt creaked. “It is by order of the High Sheriff of Nottinghamshire and Derbyshire.”

  “He’ll wait,” said Gisburne.

  “It’s for the Sheriff to decide what he does,” snapped the captain. “He does not wait for...”

  “He’ll wait for us.”

  The captain’s eyes blazed. “You are to come immediately,” he said. “I have orders...”

  “And we have a jug of ale.”

  “Also a considerable quantity of cheese,” added Galfrid cheerfully, and proffered an absurdly large chunk of the stuff on the point of his knife.

  “Now!” insisted the captain. “And by force if necessary...” He gestured to his men. They stepped forward, weapons readied. But reluctance was writ all over their faces.

  Gisburne looked him in the eye for a long time. “When we’ve finished our lunch,” he said, and turned away again.

  Seeing that no further response would be forthcoming, his patience spent, the captain of the guard placed a rough hand on Gisburne’s shoulder.

  That was a big mistake.

  VI

  AN HOUR LATER, Gisburne and Galfrid found themselves standing before Sir Radulph Murdac, the Constable of Nottingham Castle. Flanking them were the guards who had brought them in – dishevelled, tunics awry, their faces cut, lumpy and swollen. It was clear at once who had got the worst of the encounter. In front, the captain – nose so badly broken it was blue, beard sticky with blood, left eye swollen like an overripe plum – swayed precariously. One of his front teeth was missing.

  “For God’s sake, man,” snapped Murdac. “Get those wounds seen to. You’re bleeding on my floor.” The captain tried to bow, almost fell, then staggered out of the door. Murdac clasped his hands behind him, looked into the faces of his two guests, then, with the deepest of sighs, turned his attention back to the smouldering logs in fireplace – or whatever lay beyond them.

  Gisburne felt like a child hauled in front of his father, awaiting inevitable punishment. That did not please him. It recalled vividly the time he had stood before his own father, after daring himself to smash the wasp nest in the horse paddock. This time, he had no idea what it was he was supposed to have done – and he was quivering not with dread, but with burning resentment. His instinct, then and now, was to volunteer nothing. He would wait for the Constable to have his say – if he ever did.

  Murdac’s hands tapped distractedly behind his back. He simply stared, his expression vacant, as if lost in thought. Gisburne glanced sideways at Galfrid. The squire raised an eyebrow. At first, Gisburne had read Murdac’s dark, strange mood as irritation or anger – which, under the circumstances, was to be expected. Now, however, it appeared to be something else altogether. If Gisburne did not know any better, he would say the Constable was troubled. Grieving. No, worse than that. In a state of shock.

  “There’d better be a good reason for this,” said Gisburne, no longer able to tolerate the empty silence. Murdac did not respond.

  This room – with its low, vaulted ceiling, wide fireplace and shadowy recess at the far end – held strong memories for Gisburne. It was the very chamber in which, two years past, Gisburne had first met Wendenal, the High Sheriff of Nottinghamshire, Derbyshire and the Royal Forests. Then, he had been dragged before the Sheriff as a common thief – accused of a crime committed by the man Gisburne had known in the Holy Land as Robert of Locksley, but who now chose to call himself ‘Hood.’ This chamber, and the encounter that took place within it, had turned his fortunes – had seen him arrive as a beggar and leave as a knight. It was the day he had entered the service of Prince John.

  Gisburne allowed the note of impatience in his voice to grow. “Where is William de Wendenal? I know he’s in residence.”

  Murdac turned, his face pale, and looked fleetingly as if he meant to respond to Gisburne’s question. But whatever reply rose in him faded before it was uttered. Gisburne tried a softer tone. “We
are meant to meet with him today. It was agreed.” Murdac nodded slowly, looked into the shadows in the curved recess at the far end of the chamber, as if seeking an answer there, then turned back again. “Yes,” he said, without meeting Gisburne’s gaze. “Yes, of course it was.”

  There was no malice in his voice. No resentment or irony. It was a plain statement. And it told Gisburne nothing. Murdac’s evasiveness – and the strange look in his eye, which he had only before seen in the faces of men who had suffered some great disaster – were beginning to unnerve him.

  “I’m sorry about the guards,” Gisburne began. “They were heavy-handed. Their captain...” Murdac raised a hand and waved the issue away. Gisburne continued, more irritably, this time. “If you or the Sheriff wished me to come, you had only to ask...”

  “That was my idea.” Gisburne knew the voice instantly. From the shadows stepped a familiar figure. Broad-shouldered, not tall; his hair and beard tinged with red. Prince John – Lord of Ireland, Count of Mortain, and, at this moment, the closest England had to a King.

  John looked haggard – his cheeks drawn, his eyes shadowed. Gisburne felt a sense of relief at the sight of him, that was almost overwhelming. Ever the pragmatist, he had put aside thought of John’s fate. But he understood that his own fate was entwined with John’s – that to exist without him now would bring struggle and hardship. And worse besides. Despite his attempts to tread lightly in this world – a strategy which, he had to admit, he was often forced to abandon on a spectacular scale – there were those who would doubtless seize the opportunity to settle scores if he were no longer afforded the Prince’s protection.

  But this was not the main source of his relief. Nor was it the fact that he regarded John as England’s best – perhaps only – hope of reversing the slide into anarchy that had accompanied the rule of its indifferent, absent king. It was simple joy that the man still lived. That one who he respected, and understood, and who understood him – who he even presumed to regard as a friend – was not lost.