XVIII

 

 

The Great North Road

18 May, 1193

 

THEY STOPPED ONLY once more before London. Three miles from the Templar town of Baldac Mare’s shoe had finally given out, and after an hour seeking out the one blacksmith still working during the Whitsun holiday, they had finally fallen into an inn for the night – despite Gisburne’s reservations about the place. He did not relish the company of Templars.

For the past few days Gisburne had been possessed by a growing sense of dread. It was not just the attack at Clairmont – although that had snapped him out of any possible complacency. Even before this, he now realised, he had felt things closing in around them. Now he knew their luck, such as it was, was running out – that it had been running out from the moment they had set foot upon the road, like the sands in Llewellyn’s cherished hourglass.

Before Baldac, a peculiar event had occurred that had impressed this fact upon him.

They had been approaching a village in the southernmost reaches of Huntingdonshire when Gisburne had left the company and diverted briefly from the road – once again without explanation to the Prince or his squire. This time, however, Galfrid had spied the intricate mark – painted in white on a tree – as he did so.

“So, who is it?” Galfrid had said upon Gisburne’s return.

“Who’s what?”

“Who is it leaving the messages?”

Gisburne sighed. His squire was no fool. “Llewellyn,” he said, with a sigh.

Galfrid nodded, his eyes still fixed ahead. The Prince chuckled with delight. “So, Llewellyn leaves a message, marks the way to the spot with his astrological symbols. You pick it up, and thus are aware if there has been any incident with the wagon train up ahead. Correct?”

“Exactly that,” said Gisburne.

“Ingenious!” John laughed again. “And has there been any? Incident, I mean?”

“None,” said Gisburne. “But after Clairmont...” He did not complete the sentence. Gisburne had not told John everything about Clairmont. Most, but not all. Not about the numbers, nor the date to which he believed they led. He would tell him, but not now. Not while they were still on the road – still vulnerable. His instinct was to keep things contained, and controlled.

It was plain that the Red Hand was moving south. Heading for London, Gisburne was certain. If so, for reasons best known to himself, he had stayed his hand – against John, at least. Or the one he thought to be John. The outrage at Clairmont had just been a reminder – something to tease and spur them on their way. Gisburne did not doubt that by now the train, too, would have heard the news and picked up their pace. He thought again of John’s unfortunate decoy, cowering in his carriage, and hoped the man – whoever he may be – was well paid.

“Why didn’t you just tell me?” said Galfrid, gloomily.

“You didn’t need to know,” said Gisburne.

“Don’t you trust me?”

“Of course I do,” said Gisburne. “I didn’t wish to burden you with it.” In truth, Galfrid’s question stung him – but he wasn’t sure if he was feeling slighted, or just plain guilty. He could hear the sullenness in his own voice, and that irritated him, too. “Well, you know now, anyway.”

Galfrid sighed and nodded.

It had seemed John might take up the cudgel then – but a sound, coming and going on the wind from the village ahead, prevented him. A moment later, all thoughts of argument were forced from their heads.

 

 

THE WHOLE VILLAGE – which Gisburne later learned was named Evretoun – seemed in a state of celebration. The sound of their joyous singing – men, women and children all together – rose and fell on the air long before its source came into sight. When it did, Gisburne saw a great throng of people gathered upon the village green – the whole community, it seemed – their throats filled with song as they prepared for some kind of revelry. At the centre of the green the maypole stood, still adorned with wilted spring flowers – but a little distance from it, something new was being constructed. And it was this that was the focus of the activity. Some women gathered bundles of sticks, which they ferried towards it. Others sat in a circle about a pot and prepared food. The menfolk, meanwhile, were busying themselves at the site of the new structure, chopping, sawing and hammering, children and dogs capering about as they did. And all sang at the top of their lungs, each saw stroke, hammerblow or swing of an axe in time with their jaunty song.

“Can you believe this?” said Gisburne.

“Not entirely,” said Galfrid.

“Such joy!” said John surveying the sunny idyll, his eyes glittering with delight. “Now, this is what England is all about...” As the tune went round for the third time, they found themselves finally able to make out the words:

 

Robin’s in the green-a

Fa la-la la-la laa!

His bow is ever keen-a

Fa la-la la-la laa!

His merry men are seen-a

Fa la-la la-la laa!

Dancing in the green-a

Fa la-la la-la laa!

 

Gisburne felt his limbs tense involuntarily. Nyght skipped in response. John looked to him, holding up a reassuring hand. “It’s just a song,” he said. “Nothing more. Just a song...”

Gisburne knew it was true. In all likelihood they would just as happily be singing about gathering blooms in May, or a shepherd and his sheep. Doubtless many knew little or nothing about the man they called Robin Hood. Yet Gisburne could not remain as sanguine as the Prince. The plain fact remained, this was the song they had chosen to express their contentment today – the song that brought them together, and made young and old feel as one. Yes, just a song; but it was never just a song. Behind it lay something far deeper, and more troubling.

 

 

THEY CONTINUED TO ride slowly by, a handful of the villagers looking up and cheering or waving as they did so. John could not resist waving back, his smile beaming, his head rocking in time with their music. As they rode on, Gisburne suddenly noted a single point of discord amidst all the merriment. Beneath a tree, sat apart from the rest, three women were sewing, their expressions an odd mix of shock and grief, as if they had recently suffered some great mortification. One had a bruise upon her cheek, and swollen left eye. Over them stood a man with his arms folded and an expression like thunder.

Gisburne felt Nyght quicken slightly. Ahead and opposite the green was an inn, and outside it a broad trough of water. All took the opportunity to dismount and stretch their muscles as their horses drank.

“What do you suppose this is all about, anyway?” mused John, gazing across at the structure – which thus far consisted of little more that a rough-hewn post some twenty yards beyond the maypole. “A wedding, perhaps, or...”

At that moment, a young man came hurrying out of the inn clutching a bucket before him, its contents – apparently ale – slopping about and splattering the dusty road as he did so.

“You there!” called John. The man looked about, as if momentarily convinced John must be addressing someone else. “What is it you celebrate here today?”

He gave a broad, gap-toothed smile. “We caught ourselves a villain! Red-handed.” He said. “A scarlet one!”

Gisburne’s heart missed a beat at the words. A scarlet villain. Red-handed. Surely that would be too good to be true.

“What manner of man is he?” he said.

“See for yourselves,” said the man, indicating ahead, where the road curved away, out of sight. “’E’s in the stocks round by the crossroads, awaiting justice.” He turned as if to go, then stopped and turned back again with hatred in his eyes. “Just make sure and kick some dirt in his face or whip ’is feet as you pass.”

“Awaiting justice?” said John. “But the stocks are a punishment in themselves...”

The man laughed. “Well, we wasn’t about to let that one wander about free.” His expression grew suddenly serious, and he drew himself up. “There was those was for hangin’ him there and then. But we says no – it’s got to be done proper. So our protector, Lady Isabel de Clare, Countess of Pembroke, God bless ’er” – he crossed himself – “is sending her man to mete out justice to ’im. And that is a meat we shall all savour, and no mistake!” He chuckled at his own joke.

De Clare. Gisburne knew that name well. His father had mentioned it often in his youth. It had been in relation to Lady Isabel’s father, Richard de Clare, known to all as ‘Strongbow,’ who had been a thorn in King Henry’s side when Gisburne was a lad of no more than nine or ten. Richard de Clare, so Gisburne had since learned, was Earl of Striguil and Earl of Pembroke – though Henry had stripped him of the latter title. He had ventured to Ireland with great ambitions, and little to hold him back. There he had married Aoife, daughter of Dermot MacMurrough, the deposed King of Leinster. MacMurrough’s fee was help in restoring his crown – but before long, de Clare had set his sights on making himself king of that place. His army was formidable, bolstered by a contingent of Welsh longbowmen against whom, it seemed, nothing could stand.

Henry, whose grip on Ireland was tenuous at best, watched matters develop across the Irish Sea with increasing disquiet. There were negotiations with de Clare. For a time Gisburne’s own father must also have been caught up in it, for he spoke of it often. Finally, his patience gone, Henry had invaded Ireland – but by then, Gisburne’s father had stopped speaking of the matter altogether.

Henry’s ultimate solution had been to keep his enemy close. De Clare’s daughter Isabel became a legal ward of Henry II, who kept a close watch over her inheritance. She was one of the wealthiest heiresses in the kingdom, owning land in Wales and Ireland and numerous castles on the inlet of Milford Haven, including Pembroke Castle. She had also inherited the titles of Pembroke and Striguil.

Gisburne’s father occasionally joked that Isabel would make a fine match for his son. But that was a vain hope. Never one to allow his possessions to lay idle, Henry’s heir, Richard the Lionheart, had married off the seventeen-year-old Isabel to William Marshal within a month of his coronation, elevating the landless knight to the nobility and making him one of the richest men in England. William was twenty-six years her senior. Widely considered the epitome of the knightly virtues, the man who would become known simply as ‘the Marshal’ was also the most humourless, insufferable, self-righteous bore Gisburne had ever had the misfortune to meet. It was said he was the only man ever to unhorse the Lionheart, whilst campaigning for Henry against his rebellious son. He had spared Richard’s life, but killed his horse to prove the point. This act secured William an even greater reputation – and the respect of the man he knew would soon be King. On the whole, Gisburne would rather have seen the horse spared – better yet, that King Stephen had carried out his threat to launch the boy William from a trebuchet during the siege of Newbury Castle.

“Of what does this man stand accused?” asked John.

“’E’s not standing. ’E’s sat on his arse.” Gisburne expected the man to guffaw at his own joke – then realised he wasn’t aware he’d made one.

“What is his crime?” said John, testily.

The man’s face darkened. He leaned in, as if divulging something secret. “The scarlet sin. The sin God hates...”

The three travellers looked at each other. Slowly, the scene began to make a kind of sense – the three women separate from the rest, looking themselves like the condemned. But it was customary for them to fare much worse. Gisburne had seen terrible things done to unfaithful wives – flesh branded with hot irons, ears cut off, sometimes noses, too. They were outcast – marked for life – if they survived the ordeal at all. The man, by contrast, was often simply sent packing.

“But it’s more than that,” continued the man, as if anticipating the questions in their minds. “This one’s no mere man. ’E’s got the Devil in ’im...” He leaned in even closer as he whispered this, as if doing so would prevent the Devil from hearing. “The scarlet fiend bewitched three of our most respected women. Then, when he was caught in the act, he just laughed. But we was wise to ’im. We heard all about ’im, see. ’E’s played this game before, has William Gamewell. So, he sits in them stocks till Lady Isabel’s man comes. Then we’ll see a celebration – and I reckon half the shires of England will be cheering along wi’us.” He laughed again, but there was a wild look in his eye – a look at once defiant and pathetic.

Gisburne looked back across the village green, and finally realised what it was the villagers were building. A pyre. And a stake. They meant to burn their captive – on the very spot where, seventeen days ago, they had celebrated the emergence of new life.

“Isn’t all this premature?” said Gisburne. “If the judge has not yet even arrived...”

“Oh, ’e’ll be found guilty, all right,” said the villager, a sudden note of bitterness in his voice. Gisburne wondered, then, what his relationship was to those three women. “And burning is the only way. The judge will see that! I told you – the Devil is in ’im!” His eyes blazed with their own demonic fire as he spoke. “Burning! That’s the only way wi’eretics and perverts – and ’e’s both!”

Of course. It made sense now – or as much as it could ever make. There was no discontent in their midst, no straying from the path. The Devil – the outsider – made them do it. And so they could remain in denial about their women’s sins. They could focus all their ire on the satanic villain, and, once the problem was burned away, carry on as if nothing had ever happened. Perhaps it was necessary for the cohesion of so small a community. Perhaps it was for the best. But Gisburne wondered how long the illusion would last.

John, meanwhile, had stepped forward, his face flushed with indignation at the man’s presumption – but Gisburne gripped his arm. He had heard enough. With a simple nod, he turned away, leading Nyght with one hand and dragging John with the other.

The villager, suddenly remembering his purpose as if awoken from a dream, hugged his pail and scurried away.

 

 

IN SILENCE, THE endless round of song echoing at their backs, the travellers continued on their way. Ahead, the road snaked to the left. To their right, almost entirely obscured by the inn, lay the village church. Past the bend, they could see another road forking off to the right, heading south-west, while other, lesser trackways joined the hub at the same point – five in all.

And at the junction of these crossings, set back from the road on a bare patch of earth and positioned so all those passing could clearly see, sat the scarlet fiend himself.

Gisburne stopped. This was no Red Hand – not unless the Red Hand’s disguise was more devious than they could ever have imagined. There was no armour. No dragon’s head. No fiery breath or feet the size of fish-kettles. William Gamewell was every inch the ordinary man – his frame thin, his limbs wiry, his hair hanging lank and greasy. What set him apart was his face. It was not that there was anything out of the ordinary about the thin nose and thinner mouth – marked and battered though they were by the stones and animal bones and clods of dung that lay about him. Nor were the beady eyes and pock-marked cheeks any different from a thousand other men. It was, rather, the expression that played about these features that was troubling.

It was at once smug and resentful, confrontational and dismissive – even now, confined and humiliated as he was by the stocks, sitting in his own filth. It was an expression that had about it that quality that men most fear in others – that made them step aside for him, and avoid his gaze: it knew no fear, and it did not care. Little wonder that the village thought him possessed by the Devil. In death, Gisburne imagined, he would seem utterly unremarkable. In life, he was trouble incarnate.

“What are you looking at?” he said. His voice was a sneer.

“Nothing,” said Gisburne, his eyes remaining fixed on the prisoner.

“Ooh,” said the man, in mocking tones. “You’re scary. I’d be quaking in my boots – if I still had any fucking boots.” He waggled his bare feet stuck out before him. They were filthy and covered in cuts and bruises, his ankles rubbed raw from the wooden boards that held him in check. Gisburne guessed, from the look and smell of him, that he’d been there for two days at least.

“You should learn to have more respect,” said John.

“Why?” said Gamewell.

John’s eyes flashed with anger – but the reply left him lost for words.

“You don’t even know why, do you?” laughed Gamewell.

“I’ll not waste words on this vile excuse of a man,” said John to Gisburne, and turned away.

“Do what you like,” said Gamewell. Then he spat in the dust, and cocked his head back towards the village green. “But d’you hear who they’re singing about back there? That outlaw up north. The one they call Hood. Does he show respect? No. He kicks respect in the balls. And he’s doing all right. Everybody loves him.”

“And this is you ‘doing all right,’ is it?” said Gisburne. Galfrid gave a snort of a laugh at that. “Whilst they’re singing they’re also building your funeral pyre. That should teach you something.”

“Yeah, not getting caught. Not thinking so small. Not letting people live who get in my way.” He glared at Gisburne as he said it, as if goading the knight to harm him – daring him to. Then he tore his gaze away and slumped back. “Maybe I’ll hook up with that Hood next time. I’m sick of being surrounded by idiots.”

“Next time?” repeated Gisburne with an incredulous laugh. “You think there’ll be a next time?”

“Christ, maybe the villagers are right. Maybe he does have the Devil in him,” muttered Galfrid.

“Is that what they said? Well, maybe I like having the Devil in me. But not as much as those three whores liked having it in them...” He gave a hoarse laugh. Gisburne felt himself shudder with revulsion. He could not imagine by what means this man made himself attractive to women – it was if his very flesh was poisonous. “You know why they want to kill me? Why they want me to suffer as I die? Not because I fucked their wives. No. Because their wives wanted me to... That’s the part they don’t want to believe.” He chuckled. “What a joke. Do they think I’ll beg for mercy? For forgiveness? I won’t beg. Oh no...” He leaned forward, his eyes wide, a string of saliva dangling from his mouth. “I’d fuck them all again, and their daughters, even as the flames were licking about me. And you know what? They’d cry out for more.”

John turned and went to draw his sword. Gisburne again gripped his arm before it was half free of the scabbard. “For God’s sake, let’s just get out of here,” he said, and pulled at him. But the Prince would not budge.

Gamewell and John stared at each other for what seemed an age. Then, all at once, something seemed to change in Gamewell’s face. He frowned, then strained forward as if to peer closer at John, then gave an odd little chuckle. “They say it takes a villain to know a villain,” he said. His eyes narrowed, his thin mouth creasing into a reptilian smile. “And I know a true villain when I see one. Well, well, my lord,” he sneered. “Fancy humble little me meeting y –”

He never completed the sentence. Without a word, Galfrid stepped forward, swung the head of his pilgrim staff about and brought it up hard under Gamewell’s chin. There was a sickening crack. One of Gamewell’s teeth arced through the air, accompanied by a spray of blood and spittle, and bounced on the compacted mud of the road. Gamewell’s eyes rolled backwards into his skull, and he slumped forward, insensible. In tense silence, all three hastily mounted up, and headed out at the gallop.

 

 

FOR A WHILE, John had ridden ahead. Gisburne wasn’t sure if the Prince were doing so for his sake or theirs, but either way he was relieved. The Prince blew hot and cold, and his anger would pass, but he could live without the distraction of it in the meantime.

“The twenty-fourth day of June,” said Galfrid, out of the blue. Gisburne turned and stared at him. “I know that’s what he’s counting down to. The feast day of St John. I just don’t know why. What’s so significant about that day?”

Gisburne held his gaze, uncertain where to begin.

“Does the answer lie in London?” Galfrid continued.

“He’s not simply following us there. He’s making sure. Herding us.” It was exactly what Salah al-Din had done at Hattin. He had avoided engaging his enemy, and instead goaded and lured the Christian army towards the battlefield of his choosing. Then he had annihilated it. “That is where the Red Hand chooses to fight his battle. I realise that now. Where it was always going to be fought.”

“But do you know why?”

Gisburne looked away. “I have an idea. Part of an idea, anyway.” He hardly wished to speak of it. It was incomplete, unclear. And the connection it implied did not please him. But it would not serve them to be in denial. It never served anyone.

“Something is set to happen upon the feast day of St John? Something other, I’m guessing, than the celebration of a saint?”

“It’s the reason Prince John is going to London,” said Gisburne. “That date is... significant. To one man above all others.” Then, after a moment’s thought, he added: “And no saint, either. The very opposite.”

Galfrid stared at Gisburne for a time, as if reading his thoughts.

Gisburne did not even need to look back at him to know the question on his squire’s mind. He was certain, too, that he already knew the answer. But he decided to provide it anyway. It was time to speak the name once again – the name of the man who he had allowed himself to believe was buried.

“Hood,” he said.