XLV

 

 

THAT NIGHT, GISBURNE had a strange dream. A man burning – but not the one he thought. Though the face was indistinct, he knew it to be Thomas of Baylesford, and fought to get to him, his limbs heavy as lead. But then, somehow, it was Hood’s face laughing up at him from the flames, even as his flesh sizzled and blistered and fell away from his bones. And in his hand, refusing to be consumed by the fire, was an arrow. No, not an arrow – a rose.

He awoke suddenly, in a sweat. The dream swirled in his head – some impressions from it still vivid, others already fading. Within the confusion, Osanna’s words came back to him – words that had been clattering around in his head as he slept. Something she’d said about Dickon. Sweet little rose – that’s what he called me. Gisburne sat bolt upright in the dark room, and laughed, loud and deep. In the still of the night, it shook the rafters.

“I’m such a fool!” he said, only dimly aware that he had said it aloud. Then he leapt out of bed and hauled on his boots, hurrying past the chimney breast in a series of awkward hops until he had reached Galfrid’s chamber.

The drowsy squire stirred and propped himself up on one elbow.

“I’m such a fool!” laughed Gisburne, and clapped him heartily upon the shoulders. “The answer was right there!”

“Wha – ?” croaked Galfrid. But before he could articulate anything more, Gisburne, with another great guffaw, had grabbed the longbow from the corner of the room, taken up the quiver of arrows and – still in his nightshirt – was clumping away down the stairs.

 

 

GISBURNE STOOD IN the dark silence of the back yard, a bodkin point arrow resting upon the bow. He laughed to himself – then chuckled more at the impression he would have given anyone watching. They would have thought him a madman. But he did not care. So many nights he had sat awake striving to puzzle out the mystery, with no relish for the day to come. But tonight, he was eager for the dawn.

At the far end of the yard came a snuffling. Osekin’s pig was pushing its snout through the loose pickets of the fence, making a bid for Widow Fleet’s emerging turnip tops. Gisburne raised the bow, took aim, and began to draw. As if somehow aware, the pig fell suddenly silent and stood stock still, the white cross upon its back gleaming in the moonlight. Using all his strength, Gisburne drew the arrow to almost its full length. “Not today, Sir Pig,” he whispered, then turned and loosed the shaft into the drying post at the end of the yard.

It split the four-inch thick post asunder and continued into the night, the thunderclap of its impact sending Osekin’s pig scrambling for refuge and setting dogs barking all across London.