XIII

 

 

The Great North Road

16 May 1193

 

THAT DAY THEY had arisen early, and after a leisurely breakfast turned their horses south onto the Great North Road. The three of them were in a bright mood. It was fine weather, the going was good, and all had slept soundly the night before at a crossroads inn near Berughby – the only fleeting interruption to Gisburne’s slumber occurring some time in the early hours when John had chosen to piss in a pot less than a yard from his head.

It was still morning when Gisburne turned his horse about and said to Galfrid: “Keep a close eye on the Prince.”

“Of course,” said Galfrid. He followed on, just behind John, his expectation being that Gisburne would dismount and answer a call of nature at the verge. But at the sound of hooves he turned, and saw that Gisburne was riding away at the gallop, heading along the track towards the village of Ganthorpe. “Right...” he muttered. Gisburne had said the minimum, and then rushed away before Galfrid had time to ask questions; he always did that when he was hiding something.

“Anything wrong?” called the Prince, looking back.

“No,” said Galfrid, having not the faintest idea. “Everything’s fine.”

The wait for Gisburne’s return must only have been minutes, but seemed to last forever. He rode up alongside Galfrid without a word, slowing to the others’ pace, just as if nothing had happened.

“Everything all right?” said Galfrid.

“Fine,” said Gisburne, without making eye contact. He was breathing hard, and Nyght was steaming. Wherever he’d been, he’d ridden hard there and back.

“So what was all that about?”

“All what?”

“One minute you’re sticking to the Prince like pitch, not letting him out of your sight, then suddenly you’re riding off.”

“It’s nothing important,” said Gisburne. “I’ll tell you when it is.”

“When it is...?” repeated Galfrid, with a frown.

Then John’s voice rang out ahead. “We’ve passed beyond my lands,” he said.

 

 

“I DON’T LIKE it,” said John. “Feels like leaving home for another country.” The lands to the north-east of England were John’s domain – a miniature empire, centred on Nottingham, over which he ruled with little interference. It was a sudden reminder to Gisburne that from here, there would be many more threats than the Red Hand.

“London practically is another country,” muttered Galfrid, coming up alongside.

“More literally than perhaps you realise,” said John. “You know that I granted them freedom? In return for the loyal support of the citizens of London when I stood against Longchamp, that time he squirrelled himself away in the Tower. Now they elect their own mayor, and rule themselves. A commune. Neither my father nor my brother would ever have sanctioned such liberty – not for a million silver marks.” He thought for a moment. “Well, perhaps my dear brother would. He’d have sold the lot – and for far less – when he was looking to fund his crusade. For a million he’d have let the French tow it to Calais and use it for a midden. Then, with England plunged into poverty, off he would go and squander the lot on conquering the entire known world. How will people remember him, I wonder?”

“Men are rarely remembered as they really were,” said Gisburne. “Kings even less so.”

John sighed, and nodded sadly, as if contemplating his own fate. “You know, when Saladin died, all he had in his possession was a single piece of gold and 40 pieces of silver – not even enough to pay for a funeral. The ruler of that great empire had given away all the wealth he had to the poor amongst his subjects. Godless he may be, but he could teach many of us something of chivalry and Christian virtues. Of noble kingship.”

“He knew how to win battles,” said Gisburne. A vivid impression of the disaster at Hattin, where Salah al-Din had crushed the Christian forces, momentarily flared in his memory.

“His people will remember him as a great man,” continued John. “Even his enemies respected him. Do you ever wonder how will posterity treat us?”

The words I try not to were on the tip of Gisburne’s tongue when up ahead, on the road, he spied movement. Two figures on foot, gesticulating wildly. He gestured silently to Galfrid – but the squire had already seen for himself. They drew in front of John, one on each side. Then he, too, caught sight of the figures. “What’s this?” he said, and raised himself up in his saddle.

They were dressed as pilgrims. There were no horses to be seen, and they were a long ride from the nearest village. Both were hatless, their clothing awry, and – as Gisburne could now hear – were crying out for help. He could make out the words robbery and outlaws. To most travellers, this signified honest men in distress. But something about the manner of their dress – and the fact they did not run to seek aid, but remained rooted to the spot, flanked by convenient cover – told Gisburne a different story.

“Christ’s boots,” he sighed. “Not this again.”

“Pilgrims? Robbed?” said John as they neared. “On Whitsunday? This is an outrage. We must help them. Gisburne – you and Galfrid dismount and bring them aid.”

Gisburne brought Nyght to a halt. “With respect, my lord, I suggest we spur the horses and pass them at the gallop.” In his mind, he added: ...or just trample them into the dirt.

“You may suggest it, Sir Guy,” said John, his tone suddenly testy. “But I insist we offer help.” Perhaps, thought Gisburne, it was thought of posterity and honour that had suddenly turned John into a good Samaritan. Perhaps the memory of Thomas Becket haunted him. Either way, the impulse was admirable – but it wasn’t the Prince’s head at risk.

“These men are no more pilgrims than I,” said Gisburne.

John was having none of it. He shook his head. “I’ll not have on my conscience the possibility that I left two pious men in distress.” And he gestured towards them. “Please...”

A memory forced its way into Gisburne’s mind – from almost a dozen years ago, when he was still a squire, but as vivid as if it were unfolding before his eyes. It was of the Prince’s brother Richard sending Gisburne’s knight and master Gilbert de Gaillon into an ambush. He pushed it aside, reminding himself that the Prince’s safety was his primary concern. And this would not have the same conclusion. Gisburne nodded dutifully, and trotted on, Galfrid close behind. “Let’s make this quick,” he muttered to the squire, and dismounted some ten yards from the two men, who were still wailing about thievery and murder.

 

 

NO SOONER HAD he got within five yards of the pair than a third leapt out of the bushes, clad all in green, with a part-drawn bow trained on them. He gave a loud laugh. “Take not another step!” he cried, triumphantly, “for I am Robin Hood! Now, hand over your valuables!”

Gisburne looked him up and down, and sighed. “Do you find this works for you?”

The robber’s smile faltered for an instant. “Have you not heard of my legend?” He puffed himself up again. “Now, hand it over unless you want to feel my arrow point. My patience wears thin!”

Gisburne stood and stared at him for what seemed an age. The arrow was shaking, the archer’s grip awkward, providing an inadequate rest for the shaft. Gisburne shook his head slowly. “You’re not Robin Hood.”

“I am!” he insisted. There was a hint of panic in his eyes. The two ‘pilgrims,’ who had merely stood throughout the conversation, began to back away.

“You are not,” said Gisburne, and took a step forward. The archer twitched, the arrow shaft clacking against the bowstave.

“How would you know?” he spat.

“Because I’ve met him,” said Gisburne. He heard Galfrid step up beside him. The panic in the archer’s eyes was almost frantic. “I’ve fought him. And Robin Hood would not let me do this...” In one swift movement, Gisburne dropped, grasped a stone, and hurled it at the bowman. It cracked against his forehead and bounced off into the brambles, the feebly loosed arrow whistling above Gisburne’s head. The archer howled and staggered, blood coursing down his face. He recovered just in time to see Gisburne boot him in the balls.

The pilgrims did not look likely to be rushing to their comrade’s aid, but they were not afforded the chance. Before either could make a move, Galfrid strode forward and smashed the left kneecap of the nearest with his mace. Seeing all was lost, the third made an unexpected lunge between Gisburne and Galfrid and leapt on Nyght’s back. In triumph, his pilgrim robes almost falling off him, he kicked his legs against the destrier’s flanks, and shouted “Yah! Yah! Yah!”

Nyght moved not an inch. The ineffectual outlaw’s expression changed to one of dismay as, with growing desperation, he found himself sat, heading nowhere, spurring the horse uselessly like an idiot.

“Bloody horse won’t bloody move!” he cried out to no one, a profuse sweat breaking out on his brow.

Gisburne, walking towards him, raised his right hand, then swept it downwards. Nyght immediately dropped and rolled onto his side, crushing the outlaw’s right leg beneath his flank. They probably heard his shriek in Stanford.

For a moment, Gisburne stood over the wailing, sweating outlaw as he made futile efforts to free his leg. He was letting the thief see him – letting him take in his adversary, and wonder at what was to happen next. The man’s eyes were wide with fear. “I had my horse taken once before,” said Gisburne at last. “Didn’t like it. Nor did he. So we came to an agreement – decided we didn’t want that to happen again.” He turned his head to one side so he could look the man squarely in the face. “Shall I make him roll all the way over on his back?” He turned his finger in a little circle.

“No!” cried the man. “Please!”

After a moment, Gisburne turned away, leaving the man there a little longer.

Galfrid, meanwhile, regarded the writhing figure at his own feet, clutching the shattered knee, huffing through his mouth with such ferocity that he was foaming at the mouth. Galfrid shook his head. “You’ve heard the phrase ‘thick as thieves’?” he said. “It’s you they were referring to.” And he booted the man in the ribs.

 

 

THEY RODE AWAY, leaving the pilgrims with two good legs between them.

“Yes, yes...” said John in response to the silence. “You were right and I was wrong.” Gisburne did not feel any reply was needed, and so said nothing. “Still...” John continued. “The man with the bow... Incompetent as he was, he may yet have hit his mark, and taken your life. Did that not give you pause?”

“If I paused for thought every time I stood before someone who might kill me,” said Gisburne, looking straight ahead, “I’d be dead already.”

John nodded, but the look of concern did not leave his face. “Be careful, Sir Guy,” he said. “You’re not the Red Hand. Arrows can still kill you...”