XXVIII

 

 

King Stormont Castle

24 May, 1193

 

KING STORMONT CASTLE was a miracle of modern design. Describing a perfect circle, its crenellated stone walls sat like a crown atop a neat, conical mound on the hill overlooking the hamlet of Brimthorpe. While not as lofty as the castles of old, the mound’s sides were steep – their length exaggerated by the deep dry ditch surrounding them.

The circle was broken in only two places. As Gisburne had approached from the north-west along the Kent road, the low evening sun turning the stone to a blaze of gold, a simple, square tower had projected from the curved body of the castle on the western side, like a rectangular jewel set upon a golden ring. This, he guessed, was the chapel.

On the far side of the circular battlement, almost directly opposite, was the gatehouse. Of similar dimensions to the chapel, it opened onto a bridge across the ditch, which led into the bailey. Gisburne entered from a gate in the south-east. Armed guards at the entrance studied him as he passed.

Inside the bailey, surrounded by neat stone walls, was a community that easily rivalled Brimthorpe in size. There were stables, a bakery, kitchens, a brewhouse and a smithy – each of which he identified as much by their smell as their appearance. They all appeared newly built and well maintained. There was also a great hall of adequate proportions, and neat, orderly housing for the workers of the castle’s household from the steward down, many of whom now scurried about, fetching and carrying pots and platters – the wreckage of the evening’s formal meal in the castle overlooking them. Among the castle’s beetling servants – dressed plainly, but all well-presented and scrupulously clean, and all with a clear sense of purpose – Gisburne noted a few in a contrasting, more opulent dress, and apparently less familiar with their surroundings. These were, without doubt, the retainers of de Rosseley’s current guest.

As he walked towards the great crowned hill, the space suddenly opened out to reveal something quite at odds with its modest surroundings: a training ground the likes of which Gisburne had rarely seen outside the great castles of Normandy. There were pells and quintains, butts for archery, a field for the joust, jumps, tracks and obstacles to challenge both horses and men, even a pair of wooden towers upon which to test siege and defence tactics – and all set in space sufficient to allow for the hosting of an entire tournament.

Tournaments had long been banned on English soil – one of King Henry’s measures to re-establish public order after the horrors of Stephen’s reign. Although the pitched battle of the mêlée was undoubtedly valuable preparation for knights who had not yet seen battle – and an equally valuable income for many who had – Henry had never been afraid to go against wider opinion. In France and beyond, the Conflictus Gallicus had never waned – and expectation was high that if Richard ever returned to these shores, so too would the tournament. It was bloody, it was brutal, and the people loved it.

Gisburne had never participated in one, and now had little desire to; when his knighthood had suddenly been denied him, he had been forced into a different life, with harsher battles. But before that, as a lance-carrying squire, he had supported de Gaillon at the lists on more occasions than he could count. The last time he had met de Rosseley – over seven years ago in France, when he was en route to Sicily, and de Rosseley was heading the opposite way, to England – his old friend had been as infatuated with the tourney as ever. Judging by the ground before him, nothing had changed.

The castle now rose before him, asserting without dominating. Its lines were simple, but beautiful. In size it was generous without being overbearing, its dimensions balanced and pleasing to the eye. Its defensive capability was, nonetheless, formidable – all the more so for not having been overcomplicated. Unlike so many castles in Gisburne’s experience – square, dank, draughty dungeons of places, for the most part – it also looked like somewhere one might actually wish to live, and in comfort.

Its crisp stonework was also entirely new. Had Gisburne come this way just five years ago, so a local blacksmith had said, he would have seen nothing here but a dilapidated square keep, a wooden palisade and the bare beginnings of a stone gatehouse. No expense had been spared in bringing it to its current state – though Gisburne had seen far more costly piles which lacked such clarity of vision, and whose meandering building works had plodded along over decades.

All together, the castle created a vivid impression of its young lord.

At the gatehouse, Gisburne dismounted and presented himself to the guards. Their captain was courteous but wary, requesting details of his business. Behind him, members of his guard – fully armoured, some with weapons drawn – kept their eyes on him at all times. Given the outrage of the previous night, he could hardly blame them. This time, he was content to wait whilst his name and mission were conveyed to their master. Within moments, de Rosseley’s steward appeared, to escort Gisburne to his master. “Sir John has already retired to his chamber,” he said, his angular face giving nothing away, “but I am to take you there directly.”

Gisburne nodded and followed behind as a groom led Nyght away to food and water.

Within, the castle opened into a great circular courtyard, now cast into deep shadow by the failing light. What normally would have been a wide open space – room enough to train a horse – was today taken up by two wagons of considerable quality and sophistication. The larger of them – emerald green, picked out in gold – was of such luxury it made Prince John’s look like an ox cart. They also had an exotic air about them – curtains and carvings looked, to Gisburne, to be Arab in style, while other touches were distinctly Byzantine. Clearly, de Rosseley’s guest was someone of note.

About these, a number of servants moved with seasoned efficiency, securing things for the night, preparing for the morning. One – better dressed than the others, in a finely tailored green tunic, with fastidiously coiffured black hair – bowed low to Gisburne as he passed. His face – or manner – seemed familiar, but Gisburne couldn’t place him. Moments later, he was gone.

“Tell me,” said Gisburne, as they neared a door on the courtyard’s far side, “is Sir John well?” Only now, moments away from the meeting, was he suddenly struck by the need to be prepared for what he would find. He knew only what Hamon had been able to tell him – that de Rosseley was alive, but no more. But was he crippled? Insensible? Either could be possible.

“He is well,” said the steward. It was as bland and generic a statement as one could possibly have. They entered the doorway and began to ascend the stone stair.

“I was thinking of the attack made upon him...” pressed Gisburne. “I hope he suffered no ill effects.”

The steward nodded. “My lord came through unscathed,” he said.

Gisburne breathed a sigh of relief. It seemed a remarkable achievement. Almost inexplicable. One moment, the Red Hand is an unstoppable force. The next, he’s seen off without landing a blow. What made this attack so different?

The stair led to a curving corridor. The steward stopped at the first door, pushed it open, and stood aside with a bow.

 

 

AT THE FAR end of the dimly lit chamber, dressed in a nightshirt and shrouded in deep shadow cast by the curtains of his bed, lounged John de Rosseley.

“God’s hooks! Guy!” he exclaimed hoarsely, and rose unsteadily to his feet. Gisburne smiled – de Rosseley always had enjoyed his wine.

“Still a blasphemer, eh, Ross?” he said striding towards him.

“Ha!” De Rosseley waved a dismissive hand. “D’you really think I’d have lasted this long if my ways offended the Almighty?”

As Gisburne neared, de Rosseley stepped forward into the light – and Gisburne was shocked at the sight of him.

Guy of Gisburne had no views on God’s will, but he meant what he had said to Galfrid. John de Rosseley had been blessed with good fortune all his life – so much so that in battle other men felt their chances of survival increased simply by standing alongside him. He also emanated a boundless optimism that inspired others, in ways Gisburne had never quite managed. Few in his experience had. While there were many knights who were as indefatigable as de Rosseley – and many more who had his irrepressible humour – those who also had the skills to back up the swagger, and to survive, were few indeed. It was a combination Gisburne had seen in only one other man: Robert of Locksley, now known by the name of Robin Hood. They shared many similarities, now Gisburne came to think of it. Irresistible charm, awesome skills, a seemingly inexhaustible energy – not just of body, but of mind. But, for all his bravado, de Rosseley had one quality that nature had seen fit to deny Hood. A sense of honour.

The battered figure that stood before Gisburne now, however, hardly had the look of a lucky man. Nor did it in any way bear out the steward’s claim. Barely an inch of his visible flesh was its right colour. His left eye was black and swollen like a rotten apple. His bottom lip was split and crusty, every knuckle barked and ragged. There was a wide gash on his forehead, onto which some greenish-brown, foul-smelling sludge had been smeared. Below the scraped chin, the exposed part of his neck and shoulder showed an emerging bruise of vibrant blues, purples, browns and yellows, hinting at worse beyond. Gisburne was appalled at the severity of them. Never had he seen bruises yellow so fast. De Rosseley’s left shoulder was strapped up, and the way his right arm was folded about his side, which he tried to protect from movement, made it clear to Gisburne that some of the bones were broken. He had favoured his left knee as he stood, in a way that betrayed damage to his right. Gisburne supposed he was, at least, lucky to be alive.

De Rosseley, indifferent to his injuries, clapped his arms around Gisburne then stood back to look at him.

“How long has it been? Six years?”

“Nearly eight,” said Gisburne. “Though if I’d known you had this fine place I might have come sooner.” But he was aware that his own smile had quite fallen away. He looked back to the door where the steward still lingered, and shot him a reproachful glance.

De Rosseley followed his gaze. “Food and drink for our guest,” he called. The steward bowed and withdrew. “Sit down, Guy, for God’s sake. I’m not royalty.”

Gisburne pulled up a wooden chair. De Rosseley eased himself back down onto the bed, now less able to hide his agony. “Christ, Ross,” said Gisburne, “what the Hell happened here? That damned steward of yours said you came through last night unscathed...”

“What?” De Rosseley frowned. He looked back at his unexpected guest with genuine bemusement, as if the mention of “last night” meant nothing at all – as if Gisburne were speaking in a completely foreign language. After what seemed an age, the fog lifted. “Oh, this...” He gestured vaguely to his injuries. “No, no – I got these last week.”

Gisburne stared at him, dumbfounded. “Last week...?”

“A tournament,” said de Rosseley. He took up a goblet from beside the bed and supped a generous draught. “Cressy or Croissey, or some such place. I forget. I do so many.”

“Jesus...” said Gisburne. “You volunteered for that beating? Is is worth it? You look half dead.”

He eyed Gisburne up and down again. “Says the man dressed like a scarecrow. What in God’s name is that monstrous coat anyway?” He leaned forward to see it closer, then coughed, and winced in pain, and lowered himself to the bed once more. “These are the wounds of victory, not defeat. That always makes the pain bearable. And yes, Guy. It is worth it. As you see...” He spread his hands, indicating the stone walls that surrounded them. “Not a bad haul this outing. Captured and ransomed four knights. Won their horses and armour. Two Frenchies, one Austrian, one Byzantine.”

Gisburne raised his eyebrows at the last.

“I know,” said de Rosseley. “Random. Spectacular horse, though.”

“Carry on like this,” said Gisburne, “and you’ll have to build bigger stables.” If you live long enough, he thought.

De Rosseley snorted dismissively. “You don’t think I’d actually pay to have that horseflesh shipped over here? God, no! Sold them back to their former owners on the spot. Once the knights had been sold back to their owners, that is. Brought back a tidy sum in silver.” It was becoming clear to Gisburne how his host had acquired the funds for such a magnificent pile. De Rosseley sniggered. “Should’ve seen their faces. They could’ve killed me.”

“I’m sure that’s exactly what they have in mind,” said Gisburne. “Watch yourself, Ross. You’re not as young as you used to be.”

“You’re hardly a lad yourself, my friend.” De Rosseley smiled, then took another swig and narrowed his eyes. “Prince John’s man now, eh?”

Gisburne nodded.

De Rosseley began to laugh, and clutched at his side as he did so. “Guy of Gisburne, a lackey for Lackland! Well, I doff my cap to you, sir. How is the old bugger, anyway?” Gisburne could not suppress a smile at the word old. John was all of twenty-six. “Does he still favour silk undergarments and garnish his extremities with gold like a Byzantine whore?”

“As to the latter,” said Gisburne, “I could not possibly comment. As to the former, perhaps you would like me to put the question to him when I return to London?”

“Do!” It was issued almost as a challenge. “I’ve heard he stays in bed all day long and has a bath at least once a week.”

Gisburne rolled his eyes. “Stories, Ross – just stories. You know how people are.”

De Rosseley sighed. “He never was going to be the popular one of that brood, poor bastard.” He forced himself to sit up, and nudged Gisburne on the knee. “From what I’ve heard, though, you’ve been doing great things...”

“You heard that?” said Gisburne. He was not used to people having heard things about him. It made him uneasy.

“The capture of Hood. Everyone heard about that. Good job, old man! And there’s plenty more besides...” Gisburne decided to move the conversation on before de Rosseley had a chance to elaborate.

“It’s a different kind of mission that brings me here today,” he said. “There is a new menace: the Red Hand. I believe it was he who violated this castle last night.”

De Rosseley’s brow furrowed. “You pursue him on behalf of Prince John?”

“He has issued a threat against the Prince himself. And he has attacked others. Killed others. The fact is... you are the only one to have survived.”

De Rosseley went to speak, but at that moment the door opened and a servant entered with a platter of meat and bread and a jug of wine. De Rosseley sat in silence, his expression grave, until the servant had left the chamber, and the door had once again closed.

“Who has this monster killed?” he said.

“Walter Bardulf was first,” said Gisburne.

His host nodded. “I heard about Bardulf.”

“Then William de Wendenal,” continued Gisburne. “And a week ago, Hugh de Mortville.”

“Christ...” said de Rosseley. “Wendenal dead? I thought that stubborn old warhorse was sure to outlive me. And de Mortville? Who did he ever offend?”

“Perhaps no one. But he fell victim to someone’s grudge, nonetheless.”

“Ireland...” said de Rosseley, nodding. “We were all there. It has to be about Ireland.”

“So we believe,” said Gisburne.

“Political?”

“It’s not yet clear.”

“A red hand is a symbol amongst Ulstermen,” said de Rosseley. “The Uí Néill clan especially. But others, too. It had some mythic significance. There were stories of an ancient Irish king who sacrificed his own right hand in order to win the crown.”

“The victims’ right hands were also taken,” said Gisburne.

De Rosseley shook his head in disgust. “This killer of knights doesn’t act out of duty, or necessity. As you say, a grudge.”

“But why now, after all these years?”

“It’s not human nature to wait when the blood is up. But perhaps he couldn’t act before – somehow did not know who to direct his anger at, or lacked the means.”

“Or the slight itself was more recent than we all suppose.”

“Or only recently discovered...”

It was immediately clear to Gisburne why de Rosseley was so formidable a fighter. It wasn’t just his physical prowess. In just those few minutes he had stripped away all distractions and irrelevancies to identify the key defining factors of his opponent.

“Tell me what happened last night,” said Gisburne.

De Rosseley shook his head slowly. “I’ve witnessed some horrors in my time, and some wonders. But I tell you, Guy, this was the damnedest thing I ever saw.” He pressed the fingertips of both hands together. “It was late. Darkness had fallen. I had entertained my lady guest at dinner – a delightful evening. She had retired to her chamber and the household was mostly abed. I was of a mind to make a tour of the battlements, take the air – something I do each night, when it’s quiet. The gates were shut for the night; all was well. I had just spoken to the watch and was crossing the empty courtyard when he appeared out of the shadows by the north wall.”

“Appeared?”

De Rosseley nodded. “There is no other word for it. No warning. The first anyone knew was when he charged out of those shadows. And I do mean charged... right at me. There was no doubting I was his intended target.”

“But how did he get in?”

“One of my guards admitted to having seen a large man enter with others of my guest’s entourage earlier in the day. He was toting a heavy sack. Several of them carried such burdens – barrels or boxes. My lady does not travel light.” He smirked. “The guard assumed the man to be with them. Turns out he wasn’t. Must have hidden himself then until nightfall. Close on half a day he waited. It takes a particular type of man to do that.” De Rosseley nodded, interlinking the fingers of both hands. “He’s a dangerous one, all right.”

Gisburne leaned forward eagerly. “So, the guard saw his face?”

“Fleetingly. He was bearded. Unkempt hair. Dark. And he was dressed like a tradesman.” De Rosseley shrugged. “That was all he was able to give. I gave him Hell for his assumption – then rewarded him for having the balls to admit he’d seen the man.”

“What happened next?”

“It’s a jumble of impressions. You know how it is at times like that. There was this... thing charging at me, metal plates clanking. I could tell the great weight of the armour by the rise and fall of him. Some kind of heavy weapon was swinging up in his right hand. Huge. Then flames leapt from his left. The brightness of them blinded me for an instant. But they also lit up the grotesque head at the top of him... Nearly filled my breeches at the sight of it.”

“You called him a monster...” said Gisburne.

De Rosseley smiled. “Don’t let the word fool you,” he said. “I know he wants us to think that’s what he is – depends on it. To startle, and frighten. But they’re just tricks. You’ve had others describe what they saw?”

Gisburne nodded. “Some called it a dragon.”

“Then I’ll not insult you by repeating that part. I will only say that no matter what enemy I’m facing, no matter how terrifying their manner or appearance, I keep in mind one thing: It’s still just a man. When all’s said and done, this was just another challenger in armour charging at me. I’d faced that often enough.”

“But were you armed?”

De Rosseley shook his head. “No armour. No weapon. Not even a damn knife – I’d left it at the table. Most unlike me, I know.”

“Then how the Hell did you survive?”

“More by luck than judgement. But then comes the second, and even more puzzling mystery...”

Gisburne drew closer. He was about to hear something entirely new – perhaps something that might finally tip the balance in his favour.

“The situation was plain. I was injured, unarmed. I knew I couldn’t fight him – that if I tried, I’d be dead. I couldn’t run. Even if I were at full fitness, fast as he was coming, he’d have been on me before I got three yards.” Gisburne nodded in acknowledgement. He had already seen the grim evidence to support De Rosseley’s assessment.

“I understood right away that he thought strategically – he got himself into the castle, after all – but there were no tactics. He just charged. That’s all there was to it. What he lacked in finesse he more than made up for in strength – of his weapons, of his armour, of his person. He was heavy. And fast – over a short distance, at least. But such forward momentum means a loss of manoeuvrability.” He wagged a finger. “One must always look for the advantage, no matter how hopeless the situation appears. And in that second when I saw him coming at me, I knew that was mine. So...”

“So?”

“I did nothing. Not until he was almost on me, my eye on that flying hammer of his, hoping to God he didn’t fry me in the meantime. Then I let my body fall away to the left of him, like a fainting damsel. I rolled clear as he thundered past.” He rubbed his ribs. “Nearly bloody killed me.”

“And then you attacked?” asked Gisburne. What now occupied his mind was the possibility that the Red Hand had suffered injury.

De Rosseley shook his head.

“No?”

“I didn’t land a single blow.”

“But... how did you see him off?”

“I didn’t. Someone else did.”

“Someone else?” Gisburne was struggling to make sense of this. “Who?”

De Rosseley offered up an odd smile. “I have no idea.”

Gisburne sat staring at his host’s battered, bruised face and the smile that played about it. He had expected some answer to the Red Hand’s apparent invincibility – but now, he did not even know what question to ask. “Believe me, Guy,” continued de Rosseley, “I was as baffled as you. But I will tell you what I saw happen.” He sat himself up straighter, grimacing as he did so. “As I righted myself, my opponent began to turn. I had nothing now, you understand. No weapon to hand and no possibility of one. I could hear the shouts of alarm from the guards in the gatehouse, but they were still precious seconds away. And it was unlikely he would fall for the same trick again.” He paused, as if still puzzling over what had happened. “And then... I was suddenly aware of another figure, to the left of me. As slight as my attacker was great, dressed in black from head to toe, as if to merge into the shadows, his head and face completely covered. I swear he had not been there a moment before; it was as if he had just dropped from the battlements like a spider. Then, as the attacker began his second run, the black-clad man darted out, putting himself between the Red Hand and me. It seemed so ridiculous. He barely stood the height of the Red Hand’s nipple. I almost laughed out loud.”

Something in this description pulled at Gisburne’s insides. A pang of familiarity. But it couldn’t be... He fought the feeling down. “And then?”

“Our hall-raider thundered forward without hesitation, fully expecting to swat the little man aside. But then the stranger, too, did what he did not expect. He did not stand firm or try to resist, or flee. Like me, he just dropped to the ground – but right before his feet, in a tight ball. Unable to stop, the brute stumbled over the top of him, fell heavily, flat on the ground, all that force and weight now turned against him.” He nodded to himself as he saw it play out in his mind. “Then, before he could gather himself, the black figure was up again, and grabbed at the attacker’s great hammer – it had come loose in the fall. It was attached to the monster’s wrist by a length of thong or rope – but the little fellow was not to be deterred. He swung it all the same, though it seemed the weapon of a Titan in his grip, the great arm of the stunned giant still dangling from the end of it. He dashed the fallen attacker about the head. Once. Twice. Three times. The clang of his helm rang about the stones of the courtyard.

“I wasted no time. My guards were mustered – surrounding him with spears. I called to them to bring oil and a flame. I wanted him to hear me, too – to know what we intended, to feel his own damned fear. But he rallied at that, hauled on the hammer, wrenching it from the stranger’s grip, rolled and swiped out at him. The blow struck, and the stranger fell. The Red Hand was once again on his feet, the hammer back in his fist. I ordered my men to hold back – I knew they could not stand against that weapon. Crossbow bolts were loosed from the battlements – but to no effect. Men arrived with the oil. Knowing his situation was hopeless, he loosed a last, great burst of fire and made a run for it. The bulk of my men were between him and the gatehouse, but he headed the opposite way, up onto the battlements. Afterwards, we found a rope he had evidently secreted there earlier that night. Before we could do anything he was down the outside wall, off across the ditch and lost in the dark.”

“And the black-clad stranger?” said Gisburne.

De Rosseley shrugged. “Vanished. None saw him go. All eyes were on the Red Hand.”

Gisburne had hoped for an answer of some kind – some weapon he could take and put to use. Instead, he had come away with yet more questions. “Were there no casualties among your men?” he said.

“One lost his eyebrows to the flame. Beyond that, none. We were lucky.”

Gisburne gazed into his goblet. “Well, here’s to the famed de Rosseley luck...” he said, and drank.

“We could have been luckier,” said de Rosseley. “We could’ve caught the bastard. But by the time we rode out, he was long gone. How, I don’t know.”

Gisburne nodded slowly. “My guess? A wagon hidden off the road to the north of here. He gets himself to it, throws off his disguise and trundles away to London, an unkempt tradesman once more. Unheeded and unhindered.”

De Rossely gave a grunt of frustration. “If we’d only known then what to look for...”

“Well, we know it now,” said Gisburne, still staring into his wine.

“He’s clever,” said de Rosseley. “But he’s not infallible. His actions are extreme. Risky. He’ll make other mistakes.”

“I have one month,” said Gisburne. “One month for him to make his mistake, or for me to track him down in a city of twenty thousand souls.” He raised his goblet again. “Here’s to life’s mistakes.”

“And when that month is up?” said de Rosseley.

Gisburne swigged his wine, but left the question unanswered. Something else, now, was nagging him. The other mystery.

“This stranger all in black...” he said. “Your strange guardian angel. Do you have any idea who it could have been, or what they were doing here?”

De Rosseley was silent for a long time. “I do have one idea,” he said. Then he leaned forward, and spoke in a low voice. “Have you heard of the Shadow?”

Gisburne had not.

“They speak of him in France,” said de Rosseley. “A dark-clad figure, appearing only at night. Fights like a hashashin. Some say he does King Philip’s bidding. Others, that he has an agenda all his own. No one has ever seen his face.”

Gisburne sighed, and let his head hang. It began to feel like it was filled with lead. “The Shadow. The White Devil. The Red Hand. The Hood... Christ, where will it all end? I seem to remember a time when people could just be themselves, and stand up for what they believed in.” He buried his face in his wine goblet once more, thoughts of the dark-clad figure coalescing in his mind. It was all too familiar. But how could that be?

“There is another such character I have heard of recently,” said de Rosseley, then leaned in closer still. His voice fell to little more than a whisper. “The Dark Horseman.”

Gisburne felt his heart sink. Yet another outlandishly costumed hero, desperate for fame, inspired by exaggerated accounts of the dubious deeds of madmen, charlatans and criminals. It dismayed him that the usually down-to-earth de Rosseley had apparently allowed himself to become enthralled by such men. “And what mischief does this one get up to? To what ridiculous lengths does he go to make himself a subject of ballads?”

“They say,” began de Rosseley, “that he made fools of the Templars. Took a great treasure from under their noses. That two crossbow bolts to the heart did not kill him, that he single-handedly destroyed Tancred de Mercheval’s greatest knights, and left his castle a pile of smoking rubble...” De Rosseley smiled like a cat, clearly relishing the slow realisation dawning upon Gisburne’s face.

“The Dark Horseman?” said Gisburne, aghast.

“That’s what the French call him,” said de Rosseley, sitting back. “What they call you.”

Gisburne slumped back in his chair, appalled. De Rosseley chuckled, and clapped his hands together. “Death rides a black horse, my friend!”

“If it’s Revelation you speak of,” said Gisburne, his voice flat, and emotionless, “Death rides a pale horse. The black horse brings famine.”

“Oh, who cares about the details,” said De Rosseley, and slapped him on the knee. “Face it, my friend. You are a fucking legend!”

Gisburne had faced many monsters in his time. He was about to face another. What he had never anticipated was that he would become one. Now, this horrifying thing he had unwittingly created was lumbering off into the world, dragging him and his reputation behind it, entirely beyond his control. That was what a legend was. A legend wasn’t real. It was beyond real. It had its own agenda. Now, he realised, he was another step closer to being like Hood. Except that Hood recognised nothing as monstrous. He loved his legend. He sat high upon its grotesque, deformed shoulders as it strode across England, and laughed.

Gisburne clasped his fingers together, and tried to re-establish his focus. “I must return again to this ‘Shadow,’” he began. “If you’re right – if it was them – what business might they have here?”

De Rosseley shrugged, and looked away into the dark corner of the chamber. “An enemy of this one you call ‘Red Hand,’ perhaps. Someone like you – but working for a different master.” He smiled. “If so, you two should really get together...” He thought for another moment. “But then again, perhaps we’re looking at this all wrong. If the Shadow does indeed serve the French King, perhaps they were here not to protect me, but my guest.”

Gisburne felt his muscles tense. “Ross – who is this guest?”

“A noble lady,” said de Rosseley, evasively. “And, before you say anything, I saw her first...” He shrugged. “Time I started to think about a wife before the last vestiges of sense and vigour are knocked out of me. And one could do a lot worse than the daughter of a French Count.”

All at once, Gisburne remembered the half-familiar face in the courtyard, and every tantalising clue fell into place beyond any possible doubt. “Her name, Ross,” he said. “Tell me her name...”

Hardly were the words out of his mouth than the door of the chamber clanked and creaked opened behind him. “Ah! It appears I can do even better,” said de Rosseley. Gisburne turned and saw, framed in the doorway, three overlapping figures: the steward, the liveried servant from the courtyard, and between them, de Rosseley’s esteemed guest. The steward opened the door wide, bowed low and drew back to allow her to enter.

“Gisburne,” said de Rosseley, rising from his bed, “allow me to introduce Lady Mélisande de Champagne...”