XLIV

 

 

Hamstede Heath

16 June, 1193

 

THE NOTE SAID simply Hamstede Heath. Noon, in Galfrid’s hand. It did not specify which part of Hamstede Heath nor for what purpose. He had found it pinned to his coat when he woke up that morning, and his squire gone. But why was he now communicating with him via scraps of parchment?

It was good to get out of the city – to leave behind its spreading madness. As the ever-present press of humanity was left behind and gave way to trees and heathland, he felt a pleasant calm descend – of a kind he had not felt in weeks. The space widened out into a broad meadow edged with trees, punctuated only by the rotting stumps of a trio of felled oaks, and a new concern took over. How was he ever to find Galfrid in this vast expanse?

In the event, his ever-resourceful squire found him. Within minutes, Gisburne heard the sound of hooves, and there was Galfrid upon Mare, beetling towards him across the spongy meadow, his trusty pilgrim staff strapped across his back. Gisburne met him half way, a stone’s throw from the oak stumps.

“So, what’s this all about?” said Gisburne by way of a greeting. He noticed, now, that what Galfrid carried across his was back not his pilgrim staff at all – that was tucked in its customary location on his saddle – but a stout longbow. By his side hung a sack whose object Gisburne could not guess.

“Training,” said Galfrid. Gisburne laughed, then saw Galfrid did not mean it as a joke. “That’s what a squire does, isn’t it?” Galfrid said. “Helps his knight to prepare? To remain at his peak?”

“Are you asking or telling?” said Gisburne, still smiling.

“The point is,” said Galfrid, “you’ve been sitting on your arse for the best part of four weeks.”

Gisburne recoiled. “I’ve traipsed about every whore-strewn street in London! And two days ago I fought the Red Hand himself. I hardly think that qualifies...”

“Yes, but I bet you felt it afterwards,” interrupted Galfrid. “In your legs, in that dodgy shoulder of yours. Can’t have that with the challenges coming up. Training’s what you need.”

And with that Galfrid dismounted, and lifted the sack from his saddle, then looked across towards the stumps.

“Perfect distance, I reckon,” he said. “Yes, just here will do just fine.”

“Fine for what?” Gisburne was already beginning to tire of this game.

“To get back to what you’re good at...”

“And what is that?”

Galfrid took the the huge bowstave off his back, put one end upon his boot so it would not sink into the soft earth, bent the bow with supreme effort, and strung it. He held it out towards Gisburne, a smile on his face.

Gisburne studied it. “Where did you get this?”

“I liberated it,” said Galfrid.

“Liberated it?”

“From the Tower armoury.”

Gisburne’s eyes widened. “You stole from the Tower? From under Fitz Thomas’s nose?” He could not resist a smile. “How in God’s name did you get it past the guards at the gate?” He looked at the thing – it was taller than Galfrid himself. Not the easiest object to conceal.

“The Welshman had a potion to render both me and the bow invisible,” said Galfrid. He remained utterly deadpan as Gisburne stared back at him.

“How remarkable that Llewellyn never mentioned this potion before,” he said, his voice heavy with sarcasm.

“He lost it for a time,” said Galfrid, “on account of it being invisible.” Then he sighed. “All right, I walked out. With the bow in plain sight, over my shoulder. And I gave the guards a hearty greeting as I did so – made sure every one of them saw me. So they thought nothing of the bow.” At this he almost allowed himself a smile of his own. “The first rule of being successful as a thief is not to look like one.”

“I dare say you could give Hood and his rabble a run for their money.”

“The Welshman did help with its procurement from the armoury,” said Galfrid. “He also fixed these up for you.” Unwrapping the bundled sack, he revealed a quiver full of arrows, and drew one out. It bore one of the bodkin points that Llewellyn had given him. Gisburne had not even noticed they had gone. “Those fletched in red are bodkins, those that are plain are blunts for practice.”

“Practice?” said Gisburne, looking from Galfrid to the stumps and back. Then he noticed the curious harness upon the quiver. He lifted the strap, puzzling over its arrangement. “And what is this?”

“That was my idea.” Galfrid beamed. “You wear it not at your waist, but across your back.” He slung it over his shoulder to demonstrate. “You can draw an arrow and lay it more swiftly upon the bow, in one smooth action. Even if you are on the move.”

Gisburne nodded in approval. “Ingenious.” His attention went back to the bow, and he turned the yew shaft around in his hands, testing the string. It was a good bow. The right size for him, but also the heaviest bow he’d ever seen – at the very limit of his pulling power, he would guess. Doubtless Galfrid had selected it for precisely those reasons. Then his smile fell away, and he thrust it towards the squire. “But I don’t want it.”

Galfrid, who had taken the bow back purely in reflex, stared at him in amazement, then pushed it towards his master once again.

“You have need of a powerful weapon,” he said.

But Gisburne did not take it. “And it is appreciated. But it’s not enough.” With firm hand, he again pushed it away.

“It’s the best England has. Your best chance.”

“I don’t trust to chance,” snapped Gisburne.

The bow came back again. “Then what do you trust to? Even the slimmest chance is better than none. You taught me that. And don’t give me all that a bow is not a knight’s weapon shit!”

Galfrid had anticipated exactly what Gisburne had been about to say. Now, thrown back at him like this, the words seemed idiotic, arrogant. Not like his own words at all. “I have not shot a bow since Boulogne,” he said, avoiding Galfrid’s gaze. “That skill is gone.”

“Bollocks. It never leaves you,” urged Galfrid. “And we both know how this is going to go. You will come up against this man again. But you cannot let him get too near.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” snapped Gisburne. “I’m the one who’s seen him up close, remember.”

“The bow is your best chance.” He thrust it hard against Gisburne’s chest. This time, Gisburne took it, flung it upon the ground and turned back to his horse.

In a burst of anger Galfrid snatched it up, and lunged towards his master. “What is it with you? Are you really so pig-headedly proud? Do you want to be killed? Or is there some other fear brewing in there? The fear that using the bow somehow makes you more like Hood?” He roared the last, with such heat that he startled a cloud of crows from the nearby treetops.

Gisburne stood silent, motionless, listening to the mocking laughter of the black birds as they wheeled overhead. The words had hit home. Until now, Gisburne had known only that he felt a deep reluctance to rely on the bow. He had not interrogated that feeling. Perhaps he had not wanted to. But, as he so often did, Galfrid had pinned it.

The squire took a step towards his master, his expression suddenly changed. “I just don’t want you to die.”

Gisburne turned, grabbed the bow with one hand and a blunt with the other, then turned and in one swift movement loosed an arrow into the air. There was an explosion of black feathers and a crow fell spinning to the earth.

“Satisfied?” he said, and stalked off back to his horse.

 

 

GALFRID STOOD LONG after the sound of Nyght’s hooves had faded, staring at the crumpled black bird, its feathers fluttering in the gusting wind. Its breast glistened with wet blood. The arrow itself had bounced off. He would retrieve it later.

His attention wandered to the forest’s edge. Gisburne, always self-contained, had of late become an enigma. A Gordian knot of tangled problems. Clearly, the past weeks, and those to come, weighed heavy upon him. But something else was gnawing at his soul. Galfrid did not know quite what – but he had his suspicions. Dickon. Dickon the distraction. Dickon the irrelevance. For good or ill, Galfrid sensed that until Gisburne solved the unsolvable enigma of Dickon Bend-the-Bow, he would never be himself. And if he was not himself, how could he hope to stop their most determined adversary? He had pursued Dickon in the hope that it might help; instead, it was in danger of bringing about his downfall.

A sudden sound made him start. The flap of wing, close by. At first he could see nothing. Then it came again. The crow shifted on the ground – twitched and flapped with sudden ferocious energy. Galfrid stood, transfixed.

Then, as he watched, it flopped, sat upright, shook its ragged feathers and – to his utter astonishment – flew away.