XXXV

 

 

“SO, WHAT DO you want of me?” said Llewellyn, his hands spread wide.

For once, Gisburne did not know. Every other time he had brought himself before England’s greatest and least-well-known enginer, he had come with a specific need. To shoot a grapple over a ninety-foot rampart. To hurl fire in the form of a ball. To stop a sword blade without use of a shield.

But today... What was it he wanted?

“Well?” prompted Llewellyn.

Gisburne shuffled on the barrel that served as his seat. “Answers,” he said.

Llewellyn stared at him. “Answers... Can you be more specific?”

Gisburne sighed, frustrated by his own lack of clarity – by the words he knew he was about to utter. “Answers to the problem of the Red Hand.”

“I’m an enginer,” said Llewellyn, “not a mystic. If you want answers, I need questions.”

But Gisburne did not know the questions. If he did, they were either too numerous, or too vague to be of use. “The time will come when I must face him,” said Gisburne, “either in the streets, or within these walls. It is inevitable. But I must have a strategy – some means of dealing with him. And – though it pains me to say it – I have none.” He sighed and rubbed his brow. “We tell ourselves John is now safe within this fortress. But all of us know that even the Tower is not safe against a resourceful man. And this man is resourceful. If we do not intercept him first, then I believe he will come here. I even believe I know when. Somehow, he will gain entry. What happens next – what I must do to stop him – should be straightforward enough. Just like Clippestone. A sufficient number of armed men, correctly deployed. The right bait. Ways left open to admit him. A perimeter that can be rapidly secured. And yet... it is not like Clippestone.”

He leaned forward on his seat. “Control the battlefield. You know de Gaillon’s old adage. Well, I can make all the preparations, set all the traps. That, I know. But this Red Hand is so self-contained, so untouchable, so separated from his surroundings... He walks through all we set before him. He makes his own battlefield – one he brings with him. One we cannot control. I need something to even the field. Something I can use. A sure way to bring him down.” He stopped, almost out of breath from his monologue.

Llewellyn nodded slowly. “I see,” he said. “You mean weapons. Well, why didn’t you just say so?” He placed his hands upon his knees. “I have been considering all that you have told me of him. With regard to this fire siphon of his... Now, that is interesting! We have seen such things in use amongst the Byzantines, but making it operable with one hand only – that is something new. I believe that he may be using the tension of a spring or perhaps even a small bow to exert pressure on the plunger of the siphon. It would not need to be strong or large to achieve this. We know the siphon is attached to his left forearm, and we may imagine that there is a trigger that he can operate with a movement of his hand. It may even be that when he releases pressure on this trigger, the mechanism locks again, leaving some tension in the bow. That would explain how he is able to discharge it several times.” He chuckled to himself. “Quite ingenious!”

Gisburne was not entirely sure whether Llewellyn was referring to the Red Hand, or himself. Fascinating though this was, he was not sure how it would help him. “I just need to know how he can be killed,” he said. “Or at least, how to avoid being killed myself. De Rosseley’s view is that in a sustained fight the Red Hand would tire, but his opponent needs to live long enough to achieve victory. And there is the problem. Crossbows have proved ineffective. His fire prevents anyone from getting close. Even if they do, every weapon is swept aside by his hammer, and no shield or armour can provide adequate protection against it.”

“There may be other ways,” said Llewellyn, rubbing his beard. “If we think differently. Beyond weapons.”

“Beyond weapons?”

“Water will drown him. With that weight of armour, he’d sink like a stone.”

Gisburne nodded. “Advantage becomes disadvantage...”

“Exactly.”

“But then we have to get him to water...”

Llewellyn shrugged. “Fire will burn him. Those metal plates will deflect a short burst of flame, but set him ablaze and that shell of his would become an oven.”

“De Rosseley had that idea, too. Oil and a flame. But they could not apply it in time.”

“That is the challenge. To have the means of bringing those elements together quickly. Throwing oil or pitch over him is simple enough – but having it ready, in the right place, at the right time...”

“Greek Fire?” ventured Gisburne. It had worked in the past.

Llewellyn shrugged again. “Possible. But the type I have here must be kept from the air, and thrown in a sealed vessel. Such vessels are too robust to break against a human body – even an armoured one. They’re simply not meant for that. They will smash upon the ground, of course, but if he is moving at speed, as all describe him doing...” He shrugged.

“Thinner vessels, then? More fragile?

Llewellyn sighed. “But make them sufficiently fragile and they are no longer safe to carry. One knock and it’d be you going up in flames.”

“What about replicating the siphon device he uses?”

“It might be done, if I only had more time, and less limited resources...”

“Am I to have nothing?” said Gisburne throwing up his hands. He had never known Llewellyn to be so defeatist.

“I have only what is here,” said Llewellyn irritably. “Take it or leave it.”

Gisburne moderated his tone. “I’ll take whatever you can give,” he said. “Oil, pitch, Greek fire. Anything. We must start somewhere.”

Llewellyn nodded, and calmed himself; for a moment, Gisburne thought the old man was going to apologise. Something seemed to occur to him then. He turned towards his impossibly cluttered shelves. “I had been trying to develop a vessel that would burst of its own accord, after a precise interval of time – even in mid-air.” He shook his head. “One day, maybe... But there was something I had been experimenting with in that regard. No use to me at the moment – too approximate – though I hope to unlock the secret of their composition.”

He delved into a large, lidded, jar and pulled out a fistful of what Gisburne first thought were small candles, a little bigger than a finger, and dull grey in colour. When Llewellyn turned back into the light, Gisburne saw that they appeared to be composed of some papery material, such as wasps used to make their nests, each one twisted into a point at the top.

“I don’t know how you might employ them,” said Llewellyn, offering one to Gisburne. “A distraction, perhaps. A little surprise.” He chuckled. “They will at least be something he does not expect.”

Gisburne took it from him. “What are they?”

Llewellyn wandered to the bench and picked up a small earthenware bottle. “They were wrapped with a consignment of silk from the Far East. It came with a Radhanite trader – one of the last of that breed. In the land they were made, so he said, they are regarded as a child’s toy.”

Gisburne turned the tube over in his fingers, still baffled. Did it make a noise? Did one break it open? Or blow down it?

Llewellyn placed the bottle upon the anvil in the furthest corner of the room, used a candle to light the twisted tip of one of the grey tubes, then dropped it inside the bottle. He turned back to Gisburne. “You may wish to cover your...”

Before he could finish the sentence, the bottle exploded with a deafening thundercrack. Gisburne ducked involuntarily, shards of pottery whizzing past his head, bouncing off jars, ironwork, barrels, and the walls themselves – their strange music mingling with the ringing in his shocked ears.

“That was always the problem,” coughed Llewellyn, wafting away the choking, acrid smoke that now filled the room. “Timing.”

As Gisburne straightened, he found his hands and knees shaking from the shock. “I’ll take them,” he said.

Llewellyn stuffed them unceremoniously in Gisburne’s bag, as if glad to be shot of them.

Then he cleared his throat, and averted his eyes from Gisburne’s as if somehow embarrassed at what he was about to say. “I regret there is one other obstacle,” he said. “A more considerable one. As if you do not already have enough...”

Gisburne could not imagine what it could be that he had not already considered. Llewellyn planted himself on a barrel and placed his hands on his knees again, all the while staring at the floor.

“You speak of preparations within the Tower,” he said. “Of traps, and armed men. But these walls are not Prince John’s. There was a time he could act as its master – was its master, to all intents and purposes – but no longer. His guard is dismissed. The Tower’s garrison does not answer to his command – and their own commander is not of a mind to co-operate.”

“Fitz Thomas...” muttered Gisburne.

Llewellyn nodded. “The balance has shifted,” he said. “Oh, it’s all done with a smile, of course, as if he is everyone’s friend and doing us all favour. And what is so galling is that they all believe it. He has the full trust of de Coutances – and therefore the King. His men worship him. He even has a succession of adoring young ladies visit him here – nobility, every one – who, I can assure you, do not experience the difficulty in gaining access you do.”

Gisburne raised his eyebrows. “Adoring young ladies...?”

“It’s nothing like that. At least, not in deed. They feel safe in his company. So they fawn and flirt as he regales them with his wit in that eccentric, fatherly way he affects, all the while pretending he is not picturing them naked and debauched. God, give me good honest whoring any day.” He huffed in disgust. “But make no mistake – he means only to feather his own nest – rubbing up against the high and mighty, worming his way into their affections and boosting his own sense of self-importance by manipulating those more important than he wherever he can do so without redress. Without tarnishing his image. Just yesterday he booted half of John’s retinue out of the Tower precincts. Didn’t even ask. Just did it. They’re out there now, I suppose, camped on some scrap of ground. God knows where. When challenged, he smiled and said, in that reasonable way he has, that there was little point duplicating services that already existed within the Tower. ‘An unnecessary strain upon resources and bad for security,’ he said.”

Gisburne gaped at Llewellyn in astonishment. “Surely John did not just stand by?”

Llewellyn snorted. “He did not! He raged like you cannot imagine. But I saw Fitz Thomas’s face as he did so – when, for a moment, the mask slipped. He enjoyed it. And he knew John could do nothing. There was no one left to do his bidding – he had made sure of it. Except for me, a few pointless hangers-on and a handful of personal servants, you and Galfrid are all he has – all he can rely on. Within these walls, he is no better off than a prisoner. Than Hood. And outside them...”

“Outside them lurks the greatest threat he has yet faced,” said Gisburne. The Tower was a trap all right – but it was beginning to feel like it was John who was caught in it. “So, we can rely only on ourselves... Well that’s nothing new. But enough of thinking ‘beyond weapons.’ Just tell me something I can carry in my hands to stop this killer.”

Llewellyn sighed heavily. “As you know, plate armour is something with which I have been experimenting. The trick is making the sheets of steel of sufficient size and strength. They must be light enough for a man to carry, yet thick enough to provide adequate defence; soft enough to shape, but hard enough to resist blows and projectiles. Too soft and it can bend or be pierced, too hard and it will split and crack. But none of these issues affect this man. He has covered himself with flat plates, taking such weight upon himself as an ordinary man would not countenance.”

“Something must be capable of penetrating them,” said Gisburne.

“We already know they have deflected crossbow bolts at close range.”

“Might something more powerful be constructed? An arbalest?”

“Again, if I had more time...”

“Is there not something here, like that which you gave me for Jerusalem?”

“Which you left there...” grumbled Llewellyn. “Believe me, if I had such a weapon here I would tell you, and the crossbows in the Tower’s armoury are no different from those we know to have failed. And before you waste time looking, you’ll not find anything to meet your needs out there, either. The crossbow is frowned upon by the Pope, and meant only for heretics and infidels. Barons may bend the rules, but you’ll not find a banned siege weapon knocking about London’s streets.”

“There must be something...”

“Just one thing, perhaps,” said Llewellyn. Gisburne frowned. “Six feet of English yew.”

“A longbow?” Gisburne felt his muscles shrink from the idea.

“Little can match it for power,” said Llewellyn. “A heavy warbow might have a chance. Straight on, at close range, if the target is not moving...” He turned and rummaged in a small wooden box, then counted out two dozen steel spikes. “These are hardened bodkin points for arrows,” he said. “If anything can penetrate that armour, it will be these.”

“But you cannot say for sure...”

“No one can say that without seeing the armour.”

“By which time, it’s too late...”

Llewellyn exhaled sharply in exasperation. “Stop making excuses! You accept defeat before you’ve even begun! It’s not just about the armour. You know as well as I what de Gaillon would say: every fortress has its weak point – an overlooked or unguarded spot. The Red Hand has proved that himself time and again.”

“You mean an eye-slit in his helm?” said Gisburne. “A gap between the plates?” It seemed a forlorn hope. Not something he wished to stake his life on.

“I heard you were once pretty good with a bow,” said Llewellyn.

“A bow’s not a knight’s weapon,” snapped Gisburne. “And no man alive could guide his arrow point to such a target. It would be like...”

“Like trying to hit a silver penny?” ventured Llewellyn.

Gisburne scowled at him.

“I knew of one who could do it,” said Llewellyn. “I saw it done.”

Gisburne gave a humourless laugh. “Yes, but that man is now in a cell in this very fortress.”

“No, no,” said Llewellyn, waving his hand dismissively. “Not Hood.”

“There’s another? Another as good as him?”

“Perhaps better. I saw him. Right here in London. Though whether he’s even still alive...”

Gisburne leaned forward. “Tell me everything.”