XXXVII

 

 

Clippestone Royal Palace, Sherwood Forest

24 December, 1192

 

GUY OF GISBURNE stared out across the hazy, hectic field and dared to contemplate victory.

Exhausted from lack of sleep and chilled to the bone, one side of his face burning in the heat from the brazier on the royal stand, he blinked against the freezing wind and the drifting, greasy smoke of the cooking fires, knowing that somewhere within the seething multitude – into the jaws of his painstakingly prepared trap – walked Hood.

He pulled at the mail coif about his head, the metal made hot as a cooking pot by the brazier’s flames and looked out from his vantage point on the berfrois. Below him,five trumpeters – their hands clamped over the mouthpieces to prevent the metal freezing to their lips – waited to sound the fanfare. Royal pennants whipped above in the gusting breeze. Shouts and chatter and jaunty Yuletide music wafted all about. His brain felt cooked, his limbs frozen, but he no longer cared. At last, on this bright December day, he dared to believe what for so long he had chosen to deny. Today would see the greatest triumph of his career. He would write the ending of Hood’s story.

“Well, what a merry ballad this will make,” said a quiet voice behind him, and he turned. Prince John was in his richest robes of blue velvet trimmed with white fur, a gold-hilted dagger at his belt, his many rings worn over black gloved hands. “Men shall sing of you and of this day, Guy of Gisburne,” he said, beaming. “Mark my words.”

Gisburne felt a hand upon his back as John ascended the two steps to his raised dais, and seated himself upon its gilded throne with a sigh of satisfaction. A special place had been made upon the berfrois so the brazier could be positioned immediately before him without impeding his view – or setting fire to the stand. Now he sat toasting his extended fingers in comfort, while on the tiered benches to either side the invited barons, noble ladies and high-ranking clergy sat on steadily numbing buttocks, their extremities turning to ice – another of John’s minor acts of revenge upon them.

“Join me, Sir Guy,” called John, and gestured to the seat next to him. The heads of several gathered nobles turned. The bishop scowled. This was revenge too – publicly favouring so lowly a knight as Gisburne over these high-born buffoons. Gisburne hesitated. Until now, he had been in the shadows, working for the Prince behind the scenes, in secret. John read his thoughts. He leaned forward. “Time to give credit where it is due,” he said.

Gisburne, feeling a fraud in the ceremonial knight’s mail that had never once been worn for combat – even though he had been in combat more often than any man here – climbed the wooden steps under the steady gaze of the most powerful men in the kingdom, and took his place at the Prince’s right hand.

 

 

ARCHERS HAD COME from all over Nottinghamshire, Derbyshire and the northern counties to compete for the prize. Perhaps further afield even than that. Undoubtedly, however, it was the chance to see the palace itself that had so swelled the numbers.

Clippestone was a royal residence of unrivalled size and splendour; its stables alone had stalls for over two hundred horses. Yet in the three whole months Richard had spent in England since his coronation – mostly under sufferance – he had never once set eyes on it. Gisburne wondered whether he even knew of its existence, tucked away here. Perhaps it was just as well; he doubtless would have sold it.

John, meanwhile, was not one to look a gift horse in the mouth – especially when it could facilitate endless hours of hunting. Today, it would play host to the greatest hunt of all – the culmination of a quest that had absorbed them for the past year: the capture of the man who Gisburne had once called Robert of Locksley, known to the world as Robin Hood. For this great purpose, Clippestone’s location in the heart of Sherwood Forest could hardly have been more fitting.

“We should have some fine sport today!” announced the Prince, and raised a steaming goblet of mulled wine. Several barons and worthies seated nearby smiled and nodded at his words – a little too eagerly, Gisburne felt. But only he knew what John really meant.

“Let’s just hope the bastard turns up,” muttered John into his cup.

But of course he would. That was the beauty of Gisburne’s plan. Anyone else would have seen it for the trap it was, and and steered a wide berth. But not Hood. He would see it was a trap and come anyway. And others of his band of merry men would come with him, blindly putting their lives at risk for their leader. Their presence served no purpose; Hood stood a far better chance of evading capture alone. But he required an audience. Someone to tell the tale, write the ballad.

Gisburne stared out across the teeming crowd once again, his eyes straining to pick out a face – that face. Gilbert de Gaillon would have slapped him down for such impatience. You’re letting your enemy take control, he would have said. Granting him power over you. Do not allow it. You control the battlefield. Now stand back. Let him commit. Try to force it, and your prey will flee.

He looked away from the throng, and surveyed the faces in the stand instead. “The bishop doesn’t look too happy,” he muttered.

“The bishop never looks happy,” John snorted. “Who will rid us of these troublesome priests...” Gisburne looked at John in alarm. John raised his eyebrows. “It was a joke.” After the murder of Thomas Becket, however, the joke did not amuse. “Oh, come along, Sir Guy,” said John, dismissively. “Enjoy yourself. I command you...”

“I think enjoyment is the problem,” said Gisburne. “I sense the bishop disapproves of such activity on the Eve of Christmas.”

John shrugged. “Well, of course he does. He wants everyone to be as miserable as him. But wasn’t it God put joy in our hearts? Christ knows it wasn’t the bishop...”

“I fancy it’s not our hearts he’s thinking of, but our stomachs. It’s supposed to be a day for fasting.”

John clutched at his chest with faux mortification. “Are you accusing me of fostering irreligious behaviour, Sir Guy? Look around. Do you see any prohibited food being consumed? You do not. We are observing the holy writ – to the letter. It doesn’t mean we have to mope about like condemned men.”

“What of the geese you have roasting on spits between the Two Oaks?” Gisburne nodded towards the trails of smoke. “There looked to be at least fifty of them.”

“Seventy,” said John with a smile of satisfaction. “But you will find they are barnacle geese. A creature of the sea – and according to the church’s own rules, regarded as a fish. Therefore, entirely acceptable fare for a fast day.”

Gisburne nodded slowly, almost allowing himself a smile at John’s ingenuity. John caught the bishop’s eye, and gave him a broad smile, and a regal nod. The bishop dutifully nodded back – with as much reticence as he could muster. Amongst this joyful throng, his red face stood out like an angry boil.

“Yes, that’s right...” muttered John, still smiling at the pontiff. “Don’t, whatever you do, miss an opportunity to spread your resentment and your misery.” He tore his look away. “He has his secret supply of veal and sausage tucked away somewhere, you can be sure of it...” He sighed deeply. “Well, we have a fine gathering, and a fine day. And it is my birthday. A day of celebration – with more to celebrate come nightfall. The others can keep their gold and their riding cloaks – you will be giving me the best birthday present of the lot.” He turned back to Gisburne and clapped him on the shoulder again – more in the manner of a friend than a prince. “So enjoy yourself. I insist!”

Gisburne took a breath of the icy air, laden with the aroma of roasting meat, and lifted his eyes away from the crowd, to the tops of the tallest trees at the edge of the forest. Dotted about their topmost branches, as if waiting for something, was the largest gathering of crows he had ever seen.

 

 

THAT SAME MORNING, just after dawn, Gisburne had ridden out on Nyght. At that hour the royal palace itself – which never truly slept – was already coming alive. In two hours’ time, the great open space in which the competition would take place – known as the ‘tournament field,’ although no tournament had ever taken place there – would begin to buzz with stewards and servants, cooks and pages. In four, the entire field would be swarming with every kind of curiosity seeker from the peasantry up, all eager to take whatever free handouts John had to offer and, Gisburne did not doubt, revel in the sight of a common archer taking a valuable prize off the Prince.

There was no real need for Gisburne’s tour. All preparations for the day’s bold plan had been gone over time and again, and he had barely shut his eyes the previous night for thinking about the day that was to follow. This moment, with only Nyght for company – this quiet, idyllic moment – was to be one of respite. Of prayer, almost. The calm before the storm.

Gisburne had arisen as soon as there was light in the sky. He left Galfrid snoring and crept out alone through the freezing, foggy air to the vast stable block. With the earthy, sweet smell of the stable filling his nostrils, he combed Nyght’s sleek black coat until it shone, pausing to crush the few stubborn beads of caked mud still stuck in the long hairs of his tail. He ran his hand down the back of each leg, checking for any lumps or tender spots, then lifted the hooves to his knee and scraped the mud and muck from around the shoes. On went the blanket, its creases smoothed, ready for the saddle. It was only a few weeks old, still with the smell of fresh leather. It had been made for him by a half-blind saddlemaker in Beestone whose work was revered by those in the know. What most also knew, but had the courtesy not to acknowledge, was that it was actually his daughter who now did the lion’s share of the work.

It took some time to seat it right, but he did not rush. He relished the work; over the years, fighting as a rootless mercenary, he had grown accustomed to doing things for himself. In truth, terrible though those years had been, he missed this part – the steady ritual, the pleasure of losing oneself in simple tasks. So often these days they had to prepare in haste. But this morning, he would take things at his own pace, and do them in his own way. Nyght tolerated it with the patience of Job – a quality he reserved exclusively for Gisburne and Galfrid.

Finally, he led him out. On the stable door a spider’s web sparkled like a fine jewel of glass. In the yard, the ruts had tiny puddles of thin, opaque ice, under which the water seemed somehow to have disappeared. They cracked like empty eggshells under Gisburne’s booted feet.

Then man and horse headed out to greet the dawn.

When he had looked out from his small, icy window, his first impression had been that snow had fallen during the night. In fact, it was merely a hard frost – but the transformation, if anything, was more complete. Crystals of ice clung to every surface, turning every tree, leaf and blade of grass to a white ghost. The timbers of the berfrois – not yet adorned with pennants and coverings – shimmered like the frozen bones of some Leviathan. In the air, meanwhile, hung a low, thick mist which the sun struggled to penetrate.

The air was so cold, it stung his eyes. Icy tears ran down his cheeks, and he could feel his jaw siezing. Within half an hour, his toes and fingertips were numb. But it was a joy. As Gisburne rode, breath coming in thick, foggy clouds, he watched crystals of ice form on the fine black fur at the edges of Nyght’s ears, until they were completely fringed with white.

Then he had returned to the palace where Galfrid was already awake, and prepared for battle.

 

 

“IT’S TIME,” SAID John, and plucked a fleck of goose down from his hose. At his signal, the five heralds raised their instruments in perfect unison, and blasted out a fanfare. The Prince stood and straightened his robes. All faces turned toward him.

“My lords, ladies...” He glanced towards the bishop, then evidently decided to depart from the prepared formalities. He cast his arms wide. “My fellow Englishmen!” There were a few hurrahs at that.

For Christ’s sake, keep it simple, thought Gisburne.

John cleared his throat. “I shall be brief,” he said. Another isolated cheer. “You all hear more than enough pontificating in your daily lives.” He could not resist a fleeting glance at the bishop as he said it. At this, there were cackles of laughter. The crowd began to warm. Gisburne doubted more than one man in ten knew what pontificating meant, but they got the gist. The bishop, meanwhile – who had entirely missed the Prince’s look – managed to confirm prevailing opinion by remaining grumpily oblivious.

“We are here today, by the grace of God, in celebration. Tomorrow we celebrate the birth of Our Lord Jesus Christ.” There was a murmur of appreciation. “Today...”

Please God don’t mention that it’s your birthday, thought Gisburne. They’ll think your comparing yourself to Christ...

“Today, we celebrate your skills. Your dedication. Your tenacity...” The murmur, which had ebbed, surged again, and grew to a swell of excited chatter.

“There is food. There is drink. There is good sport. And most of all, for one champion archer among you – no matter how humble his birth – a great prize...” John spread his fingers in a languid gesture to his left. Before it was even completed, two pages hurried forth bearing a long, red velvet bolster trimmed with gold upon a polished oak board. They tilted it towards the throng as far as they dared. There was a collective gasp.

Sat in a groove on the cushion was what first appeared to be a solid, metallic rod. As the pages moved, it shifted slightly, glinting in the pale winter sun. “A yard of pennies!” announced John proudly, gesturing again at the row of stacked silver coins. “An arrow’s length!” Most arrows were shorter than a yard, but it had a good ring to it – and it made John appear generous. “You wonder how many that is? I’ll tell you. It is one thousand, three hundred. I counted them myself!”

“I bet you bloody did!” came a muted voice from the back. John chose to ignore it, and the laughter that followed.

The pennies had been Gisburne’s idea. At first, John had been determined to have a solid silver arrow made, and had even consulted with Llewellyn about the possibility of casting such a thing from a real arrow. Galfrid had grumbled at the prospect. “A silver arrow’s a fine trophy for a knight or a noble,” he muttered to his master. “But what good is it to a peasant farmer or Yeoman? Better to give them cows or sheep.”

Galfrid was right; it should be something they could use. Something familiar, yet still impressive. Finally, he had convinced John with what seemed the perfect compromise. Everyone knew the value of a penny – of ten pennies. All could, therefore, imagine the worth of a hundred – a thousand. For most here, the prize was a fortune – more than their labouring would earn in five years. Enough to buy ten cows, or two war horses, or a fine suit of mail. To buy a house.

Enough for Hood to distribute amongst all his men, and ensure unswerving loyalty through another hard winter.

“Before this day is out,” continued John, “one of you shall leave with three and three-quarter pounds of silver in his poke!” He took up a goblet and raised it high. “Here’s to you all, archers of Sherwood! Eat! Drink! And may your arrows fly true!” A great cheer welled up from the core of the bowmen as John drank. Some of his men, positioned about the crowd, hurrahed and clapped heartily. It spread and multiplied until it was a single roar.

 

 

THE CONTEST BEGAN with all comers lined up to shoot at garlands of holly pinned upon the butts – the turf-covered mounds at the end of the range. Archers were permitted a single arrow, and shot one after another, in quick succession, from a distance of only sixty yards. Those who failed to get their arrow within the garland were immediately eliminated from the rest of the contest. This, John explained with a smile, was to “sort the sheep from the goats”. Many there were these days – especially after the rise of Hood – who fancied themselves bowmen.

Most of these, it soon became clear, were goats. Doubtless a good number could hit a tree or barn door from thirty yards – but from twice that, in front of a roaring crowd, many of them wilted.

It was a good-natured affair, accompanied by much raucous laughter. Those with genuine skills – the archers who would fight out the true battle later, when competition intensified – sailed through with ease. But this round was not about them. For now, the entertainment consisted chiefly of laughing at the expense of the incompetent – those whose nerve did not hold out, or whose skills were so pitifully poor that Gisburne had serious reason to wonder if they had even seen a real bow before today, let alone drawn one. Arrows went backwards, sideways, flew alarmingly into the crowd – most, fortunately, with less force than a child’s toy. One man almost took his own ear off, his arrow skidding along the half-frozen ground all the way to the targets, whilst another – with a bow that looked to have been made that morning from a still-green branch – drew his weapon with a great flourish only for it to snap completely in two. The crowd cheered and fell about. He turned with a wide grin and bowed deeply, as if his object had been entirely achieved.

And perhaps it had. After the initial elimination, all who had taken part were given food and drink for their trouble – a thank you from John. And then Gisburne understood. The contest had been free to enter for anyone with a bow. He judged that at least half had come here – with bows they had dusted off, borrowed, or made that morning – with the intention not of winning, nor even really taking part, but purely of taking advantage of the Prince’s hospitality.

John had not only accepted these fakers and hangers-on – he had been relying on them. Now, there was a great gathering of well-fed and grateful men, and a crowd whose mood had been transformed to one of irresistible cheer by their antics. Whether they would still think well of their Prince come the next morning’s hangover remained to be seen. But here, now, were gathered the merriest men in all Sherwood. It was one of those times when Gisburne found himself marvelling at John’s subtlety – when he saw in him his father’s shrewd wisdom, coupled with a generosity that seemed not to belong in the house of Anjou at all.

John cared about England. Not just the crown, or the wealth, but the nation itself. But none would see it. For John also had a face and manner which instilled unease and mistrust in nearly all who encountered him. Apart from occasional ill-luck, this was John’s only curse. England’s unquestioning adulation all fell upon his brother Richard – lucky, handsome, brave Richard, who cared for England not one jot.

 

 

NEXT, THE ARCHERS who had gone through – numbering perhaps fifty – were directed to a grove of trees on the far side of the range. The trees had been screened off by a huge expanse of oilcloth, painted to resemble an orchard. At another signal from John, and another blast from the heralds, the cloth was dropped, to a great “Ahhh!” from the gathered crowd. The skeletal, leafless winter branches – some still pale and glittering with frost – were festooned with gaily coloured ribbons, and between them, out of reach, all manner of prizes hung. There were hams, pouches of coins, good knives, flasks of ale and every kind of trinket, just waiting to be shot down and claimed by those with the skill.

Favours, ribbons and bits of bark rained down as arrows hit – and missed – their marks. Men of all ages, some flushed with concentration, others near insensible with laughter, dashed and scurried about to claim their prizes. Those arrows that missed flew in all directions; it seemed little consideration had been given to what they might strike once past their intended targets. That no one went the way of old King Harold, or the Conqueror’s heir, William Rufus, was a miracle.

As the jolly crew returned to the main field – few of whom had come away empty handed – Gisburne scanned the scene once more, checking the distribution of his men, looking for faces, anomalies, patterns. He had failed to spot any familiar face or frame during the elimination round, which disturbed him. But out there, somewhere, was Hood; he knew it as surely as he knew the sun would rise and set. Galfrid, too – competing as one of the archers so he might mix with them, converse with them, listen to their gossip. Galfrid had seen Hood but once, and only briefly. Hood had seen him too – but Hood had a face that stuck in the mind, while Galfrid’s blended in. Gisburne gambled that Hood would not recall Galfrid’s face even if he saw it. Not until it was too late.

The moment’s diversion with John had passed; Gisburne was a soldier again, and there was a job to be done. But this was not shoeing a horse or making a barrel. If this went wrong, men would die. That was the soldier’s lot. There was satisfaction to be had at the end of it, nevertheless – or so he hoped.

There was perhaps one other source of simple pleasure today. One face now missing from the scene. Marian. She would soon be here, he knew. Prince John had invited her personally, and that could not be ignored. Not even by Marian.

His heart leapt at the thought of her arrival. But he dreaded it, too. It was not simply that she did not return his stronger affections; he had almost grown used to that. Her company had become more difficult of late. She had become restless. Occasionally, she had flown into a temper such as he had never seen. Always it was to do with some issue of injustice – or what she perceived to be injustice. Lately it had focused almost entirely on Hood and his exploits. She seemed entirely swayed by popular opinion on the subject, believing the ballads and the extraordinary tales as if they were gospel. How and where she had picked these up, he could not guess, but more than once he had caught her humming some scurrilous, outlawish ditty under her breath.

From time to time she disappeared altogether, giving her chaperones the slip. Hours later, she would reappear, as if nothing whatever were wrong – and when challenged, was as sullen and spiky as ever. Suspecting she had been keeping bad company, Gisburne had, on one occasion, followed her. She had put a shawl about her head and made her way to a noisy inn upon the west road, where she had sat for the best part of the evening over a single mug of ale. There had been no great revelation, no secret assignation, no consorting with dangerous outlaws. She simply sat, and sang along with the songs that filled the place. Songs of Robin Hood and his Merry Men. And, for the first time in months, she appeared to be happy. Then, as the tavern began to grow quiet again, she had slipped away under the crescent moon, back towards Nottingham Castle, where she had presented herself at the gates and demanded entry.

It should have been reassuring, Gisburne supposed – that she was not in thrall to Hood or one of his men, and was not involved in clandestine trysts. Yet somehow, the alternative was more disturbing. It meant that she was not being lured away from normal life, but repelled by it. Had she really become so discontented with her daily existence that her only pleasure was to pretend it did not exist, and that she was someone else? An infatuation could be overcome – but not discontent.

 

 

FINALLY, THE MAIN competition got underway. With everyone merry – bellies full, drink flowing, a good portion of them clutching their prizes – it became serious. Upon the butts were placed wooden boards, painted with concentric squares, at which the remaining competitors shot in pairs from a distance of a hundred and eighty yards, each with three arrows. This was another quick elimination, in which the weaker of each pair was instantly put out of the contest – to a chorus of cheers, boos and cries of sympathy. By this means, the numbers would be rapidly reduced by half, leaving twenty-four to fight the final battle.

“God, if I could have a thousand such men!” said John as the victors’ arrows drove into the targets. “What could stand against them?”

 

 

AS THE LAST pairs were being called by name, Gisburne spied Galfrid – now out of the competition, but clutching a capon tied about with green ribbon – edging through the crowd. Gisburne moved down to the left corner of the stand.

Galfrid did not look him in the eye, did not acknowledge him in any way. As he passed, and continued on towards the ale trestles, he said simply: “Simon-Over-Lee. Black hood.”

But Gisburne had already seen him. The hood entirely obscured the wearer’s features, but Gisburne did not need to see a face to know. He recognised the posture, the shape, the way he moved. How he had missed him until now, he could not imagine. Nearby were two other figures, eyes darting about shiftily – one, he recognised. A tall man, red-bearded. That had to be John Lyttel.

Trumpets sounded. “Next to shoot,” called the announcer, “Rainald the Fletcher...” There was a drunken cheer from a group of men within the throng. “And Simon-Over-Lee.” No cheers accompanied the second name.

Gisburne did not let his eye leave the black hood until its owner stood before the butts to take his turn. And when he drew, there was no doubt.

Gisburne descended from the stand and exchanged curt words with the captain of the guard. At his command, a company of armed men in plain clothing were deployed, spreading about the nucleus of competing archers like a net. But it would not close until the very last. Gisburne moved forward, towards the crowd.

Rainald was good. Every arrow – shot with steady deliberation – struck squarely in the target’s centre. He stepped away from the line with a nod of satisfaction, bow raised in triumph, his comrades cheering his certain victory. Had he been pitted against almost any other opponent that day, his place in the final would have been assured.

Simon-Over-Lee loosed his arrows in rapid succession. There was no hesitation, no thought, yet his draw of the great Welsh longbow – as tall as its owner – was stronger than any upon the field. So fast was it that one half expected the arrows to go askew and miss the mark entirely. But when the crowd looked, hardly realising what had happened, they gasped. All three were clustered dead centre of the middle square – so close one could not get a knife blade between them. “Simon-Over-Lee wins!” cried the announcer. In the throng, new bets were made – others renegotiated.

 

 

THE REMAINING ARCHERS would now compete for points in groups of six, with the four victors shooting against each other for the championship. John Lyttel and the other had now disappeared into the crowd, but Gisburne didn’t care about them. Hood was the prize. His black cowl was still visible atop his tall frame. Even if he broke through the net of the captain’s men, there were crossbowmen positioned every twelve yards around the edges of the tournament field, archers atop the stand, and mounted men behind the copse ready to ride him down. There would be no escape.

With de Gaillon’s words ringing in his head – Gisburne hung back, stopping at the rail mid-way between the royal stand and the shooting line. John had also insisted on him holding back until Hood had won or lost. He would have his sport this day, come what may. Just beyond the rail, the five heralds were now positioned, blowing fanfares to mark the victory of the bowman in each group.

Gisburne lost count of the number of fanfares. They began to rattle his brain. At the sound of the cry “Simon-Over-Lee wins!” he felt his teeth clench and his muscles tense more than he knew possible.

Two dozen became four: Robert Willeson, Lambert of Bowland, Osbert Le Falconer, Simon-Over-Lee. The shooting line drew back to two hundred and twenty yards. The entire field, now, was in a state of high excitement. There was hush as each man took the line.

Robert Willeson was first out. Osbert Le Falconer – who seemed to sustain some injury to his right hand with his first shot – fell next. Now it came down to two.

Lambert of Bowland hardly looked the part. Balding, stout, barrel-chested and fifty if he was a day, he was the last man one would have picked out as a champion. He breathed hard, as if moving a great weight. His technique was minimal, seeming to involve the least part of his body. This extended even to his expression, which never changed. But with steady deliberation – in marked contrast to his opponent – he matched Simon-Over-Lee shot for shot. Gisburne thought he saw tension creep into the hooded man’s draw. All it would take was one error, and he, too would fall. But he did not fold. Try as they might, the judges could not separate them. The hushed crowd cheered with each loosed arrow.

All shafts spent, a new fanfare sounded. All looked about, uncertain what the outcome of the contest. As the murmur grew, the crowd was parted by liveried guards, and Gisburne saw Prince John making his way towards the butts.

This was not part of the plan.

John stepped out between the archers and the targets, accompanied only by three pages – two bearing the cushion bearing the yard of silver pennies, a third carrying a small iron pail which smoked in the cold air.

“Friends!” called John, his hands raised. All hushed. “So great is the skill displayed upon this field today, it seems we have a tie for first place! So, we have devised the ultimate test...”

The crowd buzzed with excitement at the prospect. All Gisburne saw, however, was the Prince standing unprotected in front of dozens of lethally-armed strangers.

 

 

BY ORDER, THE archers had not brought arrows to the field. Arrows were provided by the Prince, and each batch bore a unique mark so as to clearly identify the man who had shot them. In reality, there was little need for the arrows to be identified thus in the early stages of the contest – but Prince John had an ulterior motive. He allowed those competing to keep the arrows they had been given, another part of his great bounty. The arrows themselves were blunts – or what Gisburne had known as half-blunts when he was a boy. Like all blunts they had a bulbous wooden head, and were favoured for practice shooting or for hunting small animals and birds, because they killed the animal without damaging their flesh. But the half-blunts also had a short iron point, to ensure they would embed in the targets. They may not have been meant for killing, but they could still fell a deer – or a man. Should they later be used for any such nefarious purpose, it was understood that John had a list of names and marks, and that the owner of the arrows would be held to account, whether personally responsible for the deed or not.

How this would help John if some madman decided here and now to send an arrow through his chest, however, Gisburne did not know.

John turned, and took up a coin from the cushion. He held it aloft, catching the light. “A single silver penny!”

There was a murmur as the third page took a stick from the pail and dabbed a spot of pitch upon centre of the target. It grew into a rumble of excitement as John pressed the penny into it, realisation dawning. Meanwhile, at the shooting line, two squires darted forward and, on bended knees, presented the two remaining competitors each with a new arrow. Broadheads. Killing arrows.

Christ, John, thought Gisburne. Say your bloody piece and get off...

“One arrow apiece!” called the Prince. “The victor shall be the archer who is first to split the coin; the first to miss forfeits the competition!”

There were gasps, exclamations, applause. Most were clearly marvelling at the impossibility of the task – from here, the tiny coin was barely even visible. Only a few had perhaps realised that John was encouraging them to direct their arrows at an image of the king.

John withdrew from the range, and Gisburne breathed once more. “Lambert of Bowland shall shoot first!” called the announcer.

The old man took his position on the line, and squinted at the distant speck. The crowd fell so silent, Gisburne swore he could hear the archer’s whistly, nasal breaths. He nocked his arrow, stared at it upon the stave for a moment, then marked his target again. For what seemed an age he scrutinised it, then, in one move, he drew. The arrow flew, and struck dead centre. The crowd gasped. A page dashed out to inspect the target.

“The coin is struck!” called the boy. There was uproar. Several dashed forward to congratulate Lambert, and were held back. Lambert himself remained implacable – but already the crowd was celebrating his win. They almost drowned out the reedy voice of the page as he added: “But it is not split!” The tumult died away, and all looked at each other in astonished bemusement. It was not over.

Simon-Over-Lee stepped up to the line, head bowed. For the last time they fell into awe-struck silence, wondering what – if anything – could be done to better such a shot.

Gisburne knew what Simon-Over-Lee meant to do before he made his move. It was a sudden memory of Hattin that triggered the realisation – of an act so audacious, so challenging, that it could only have been attempted by the man he had known as Locksley. And yet, it had been Gisburne himself who had suggested it. At the nadir of the battle upon that dusty, parched outcrop, with the Christian army near annihilated by Salah al-Din’s vast army, Locksley had been seeking a target for his last arrow – a final act of defiance in the face of certain death. And Gisburne, beyond desperation, but suddenly gripped by a mad idea, had pointed a shaking hand at the yellow tent of the Sultan – at Salah al-Din himself.

Now, as Simon-Over-Lee laid his last arrow upon the bowstave, ready to take his shot, Gisburne saw the archer’s obscured face turn briefly beneath the shadowy cowl – towards the royal stand, and back again.

And he knew.

Gisburne vaulted over the rail, knocking a herald flying as he did so, and sprinted towards the shooting line. All that followed seemed to unfold as if the whole world were grinding to a halt. He saw Simon-Over-Lee begin to draw his bow.

Running headlong, he pushed past men and women, barging them out of his way with little regard for their fate. They tumbled, faces contorted with near-comical outrage. He leapt over flailing limbs. If he fell now, it would all be over.

In the closing moments he was suddenly aware that all eyes were on him. There were shouts of alarm. A hand clawed at his face and bloodied it – whether by accident or design, he never knew. He was dimly aware of men closing in from other, more distant parts of the crowd – his men.

In the confused mêlée, the archer was momentarily blocked from view. When he appeared again, his bow was more than half drawn, his body turning towards Gisburne – towards the Prince.

As he turned, his face was revealed. Gisburne met his gaze. Simon-Over-Lee. Robert of Locksley. Robin Hood. Astonishment flickered on that face as his arrow point swung around. It became a smile.

With little thought for his own safety, Gisburne flung himself at Hood. His forehead hit something solid, which cracked under the impact. The arrow flew, whooshing past his right ear, its fletching grazing his temple. As they both hit the ground, Gisburne on top of Hood, something snapped, and the wind was knocked out of him. They rolled on the hard, frozen ground, and as he turned over Gisburne looked back to see John staring – astounded, but very much alive – and a vertical rent in the cloth pavilion where the arrow had passed.

He had to be pulled off Hood. Afterwards, when Gisburne thought back on it, that whole part was a blur. He had never had much time for the notion of demons, and possession. It seemed to him that the plain folly or insanity of men was more than enough to account for the evils in the world. But, now and again, even he had seen madness that seemed to come from nowhere – without warning, and for no discernible reason. And then, every once in a while, he wondered.

This was such an occasion. But this time, the possessed man was him.

There was one memory that remained vivid in his mind. As he had been dragged off the bloody but still laughing Hood, he had looked up and seen Marian. How and when she had arrived, he had not been aware – he knew only that her expression would live with him forever.

She regarded him with horror, outrage. Revulsion. He felt the door slam on years of intimacy and affection. As the guards closed in around Hood and bound him, she turned and quit the stand, then plunged into the pressing crowd, as if unable to bear another moment in this place, in this company.

In his daze, he felt the hands of his comrades – the very same ones that had pulled him away from Hood – shake him, and slap him on the back. There were cheers. For a moment, he thought they would even lift him onto their shoulders. In the open pavilion, John smiled a broad smile and clapped his hands.

On this day, Gisburne had achieved his highest ambition – a thing beyond the capabilities of any other knight in the realm. He had engineered the capture of the most dangerous man in England. He had saved the life of the heir to the English throne. He had put right the wrong that had gnawed at him every day for the past two years – that had threatened the very future of the kingdom. He had done all this, because he believed – no, he knew – that it was right. This was his greatest victory.

And it felt like disaster.