XLVI

 

 

The Tower of London

17 June, 1193

 

ONCE MORE, GISBURNE stood before Hood in his cell. This time, it was Gisburne who was laughing. “Dickon...” he said. “Dickon!”

That same look of fear flickered in Hood’s face.

“All this time I was searching for this phantom in the hope that he might in some way help me understand you,” said Gisburne, pacing and turning about the cell as if he were the one caged. “But he was you. You are Dickon!”

Hood merely looked confused, as if he was being spoken to by an idiot. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, old man...” But his fingers fidgeted with the necklace at his throat.

In a fury, Gisburne grabbed Hood’s shackled wrists and hauled him to his feet.

“Of course you do! You know it all. But your lies are catching up with you. And I vow to hasten them upon their course... Geoffrey of Lemsforde called upon you with two of his captains to recruit you for Henry’s secret service. But you declined. Why? Osanna said he seemed to recognise you. But where from? An army from which you deserted? Another life with which you grew bored – which you also left in flames? Not until later did Lemsforde recall where you had met. He came back alone to confront you. A fatal mistake – for him. You set afire the wagon, took your bow and arrows, and were gone.” Gisburne stood for a moment, his face inches from Hood’s. Hood’s eyes remained as empty of expression as a snake’s. Gisburne pushed him away in disgust. Hood fell back hard against the wall, then – chuckling quietly as if this were all part of some child’s game – slid down until he was sitting on the floor. Gisburne turned away, exasperated, and paced the cell. “And then what?” he muttered. “Who did you become next? Robert of Locksley? Or was there another before that – before we met in Syracuse?”

“Ah, Syracuse!” smiled Hood, and slapped his knee. “Those were good times, weren’t they? Do you remember that Scottish archer with the one eye that looked way off to the left?” He laughed at the memory, shaking his head. “I wonder whatever became of him?”

“He died, Robert,” said Gisburne. “Saving your neck. He scalped a Turcopole who was about to skewer your guts with his lance, then took one of our own incendiary arrows in his back. You left him burning.”

Hood frowned at Gisburne’s words, as if trying to recall a lost dream, and failing.

Gisburne sighed heavily. “Well, there’s no one to save your neck this time,” he said. “And you are the one who will burn.” For all that Hood had done – all the chaos and misery and false hope he had spread – it nonetheless tore at Gisburne. Hood had still been a friend, of sorts. Gisburne was not like him: he could hide his emotions, yes, but not turn them off. In a perverse way, the thought reassured him. “Your execution is now one week away. Your last chance to reveal the truth.”

Hood looked back at him with a vacant expression. “Truth?” he said. He uttered the word as if it were in an unknown tongue.

“What does it matter anyway?” said Gisburne in defeat. “It can’t change anything. Thessalonika. Hattin. Rose.”

Hood perked up at the name. “Rose? Is Rose coming? How wonderful!” He grinned at the prospect, rubbing his hands in glee, his chains rattling, then looked suddenly perturbed. “I really should tidy up in here...”

“She’s dead, too, Robert. You killed her. Don’t you even remember that? That poor whore in Jerusalem whose life you snuffed out? And I helped you bury her. Dear God...”

“No, no... Rose is coming. To see me. You really should meet her, Guy. You’d like her.”

And with that, he began to sing softly:

 

“There is no rose of such virtue

As is the rose that buried you

Alleluia!”

 

The song dissolved into another insane chuckle.

 

 

GISBURNE DID NOT believe Hood’s mad act – not for one minute. Finally, he was done with him. “No more...” he said, and turned to the door. “You’ll not see me again, Robert.”

But before he could reach it, from the gloom behind him came a peculiar, sing-song voice. “Mis-di-rection!”

Gisburne stopped in his tracks. He turned. “What did you say?”

Hood spread his hands. “Magic tricks. Remember those? I remember them. People always loved my magic tricks.”

“I’ve no time for your mindless riddles,” said Gisburne. He turned again and hammered his fist on the door. “Guard!”

“You see, the essence of a magic trick,” persisted Hood, wagging a raised finger, “is that the most important thing of all is happening while everyone is busy looking somewhere else.”

Then he cocked his head and looked Gisburne straight in the eye. His eyes were burning with a strange intensity. It was not madness, but a fierce and unfathomable intelligence. As it bored into him, Gisburne felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

“I’ve already wasted precious time looking in the wrong place,” he said. “And seen a life lost because of it. Why are you telling me this now?”

“Because I want to help you,” said Hood, his voice barely more than a whisper.

Gisburne stared at Hood for a moment. His gaze did not falter. In his eyes there was no madness. “How does this help me?”

“Because it’s what you most need to know.” He grinned. “The answers to your questions are far closer than you think.” And he tapped the side of his head.

Gisburne took a step towards him. “What do you mean?”

The thick iron bolt was shot back, and the door creaked open. Two helmeted and armoured guards stood framed within the space it left. Hood raised his eyebrows. “Goodbye, Guy,” he said.

“What does that mean,” demanded Gisburne, “‘closer than you think’?”

But Hood simply sat, and smiled, and bowed his head, and sang quietly to himself.