LVIII

 

 

THE SURVIVORS OF the Battle of the White Tower stood beneath the west wall of the keep, gazing at the shattered, ironclad body of the Red Hand. None spoke.

He was face up, his limbs neatly splayed, as if he had just laid down to rest. Fragments of his armour lay about him, flickering with the reflected flames of the fire ship and the torch that Gisburne held in his hand. The copper siphon upon his arm was now crushed beyond recognition – the sharp smell of fuel pervading the air, its slick sheen covering portions of his metal shell. Four yards away, his great hammer – which had tumbled after him – was embedded in the earth. His dragon helm had come loose in the fall and was lost in the night. The face was as so many had described – bearded and shaggy-haired – but it was not at all as Gisburne had imagined. Not the face of a monster, but of a young man. Features that in Gisburne’s mind had been brutal were soft and open, almost child-like. But for the smudge upon his cheek where Llewellyn’s black powder had left its mark, and a trickle of blood from his mouth, one could believe him in a peaceful slumber.

At the sight of it, Gisburne – utterly drained – dropped to his knees upon the damp earth. As he looked into that face – hauntingly familiar, though seen for the first time – he wondered why so many of his victories filled him with such bitter sorrow.

 

 

SOME DISTANCE AWAY, a small group of people was gathering, at least half of them Tower guards. All stared down in disbelief, paralysed by what they saw. A woman wailed and sobbed uncontrollably.

Gisburne stood and moved to join them. Galfrid and Mélisande followed his flame.

This body contrasted in every way with the other. It was face down – broken and contorted and covered in blood. Gisburne nudged the body with his foot and rolled it over, to a collective gasp of horror. As the head lolled back, the slashed neck wound yawned open like a lipless mouth. The woman’s sobs pierced the air.

Gisburne drew his torch closer to the face. As he did so, Galfrid frowned. Here were John’s clothes, John’s hair and complexion, John’s stature. Even, somewhere behind the terrible injuries, John’s face. Yet as they looked upon him now, in the full light, all began to understand.

It was not John.

“Behold, Edric, son of Ælfric,” said Gisburne. “A weaver from Pocklington who had the dubious honour of looking every inch like our noble Prince.” This was the man who had taken John’s place with his entourage on the journey from Nottingham, who had caused Gisburne and the real Prince to be kept waiting outside the Tower gates. As the truth was revealed, a murmur gradually rose. None now knew whether to rejoice or to continue mourning.

“Then where is Prince John?” said Galfrid.

“Hidden with Llewellyn in the bowels of the castle,” said Gisburne, “accompanied by the last two members of his bodyguard. It is a place none but a handful of people know. I had thought it prudent to consider additional precautions should our defences be breached.” He sighed heavily as he looked upon the battered body. “I gave him the choice. At least, I hope I did. He knew of the dangers. Yet he accepted the task without question.” This man – this humble weaver, who had cowered in his wagon from Nottingham to London – was, Gisburne thought, one of the bravest men he had ever met. He only wished he could have saved his life, instead of hastening its end.

“Misdirection...” he muttered, to no one but himself.

 

 

THE SPELL WAS broken by the jovial tones of Fitz Thomas, as he bustled over in a state of self-important jubilation, his hands held aloft in triumph. Behind him scuttled a hunched servant bearing a tray of cups and a flagon.

“A great day!” Fitz Thomas proclaimed, rubbing his hands in glee. “The fire is contained, the Red Hand vanquished and I hear now that the Prince yet lives! A great day indeed!”

“A great day?” said Gisburne, barely able to conceal his disgust. “Six men lay dead. One of them at your feet.”

“Ah, yes, of course,” huffed Fitz Thomas. “Very sad. Tragic. Yes.” He grinned once more, his token grieving completed. “But a victory! Still a victory! And so here...” Turning to the servant, he took up the flagon and filled a cup with wine. He thrust it into Gisburne’s hand, then proceeded to fill another. “I think you have earned this, my friend. So let us drink to success, and –”

Fitz Thomas never completed the sentence. When he looked back on it, Gisburne would recall a distinct sound which, had he not been distracted, he might have identified. But all he knew at the time was that sudden stop, and a weird look of surprise upon Fitz Thomas’s face. The flagon tipped in his hand, splattering wine upon the earth, then both flagon and cup were dropped. He staggered forward a step, blood appearing from nowhere on his white surcoat, and spreading from the centre of his breastbone. There were screams. His eyes bulged. His throat gurgled. More blood frothed and cascaded from his contorting mouth, and with a sickening crunch, the gory spike of a polearm burst from his chest.

The crowd scattered, but Gisburne stood rooted to the spot as Fitz Thomas’s body began to rise into the air before him, hoisted on the polearm’s point until it was flailing like a beetle on a pin. Behind him – roaring, now, with the effort – was the Red Hand, smashed, bloody, but alive, his eyes wild. How he lived – how he had survived such a fall – Gisburne could not comprehend, but before he could move, the body of Fitz Thomas was flung away, crumpling upon the ground like a doll, and the Red Hand lurched unsteadily towards him. He swatted Galfrid aside, grasping at Gisburne with outstretched hands.

Falling back, stumbling on uneven ground, Gisburne thrust at his attacker with the torch. Sparks flew at the impact – and the Red Hand burst into a fierce column of flame.

With a great howl he ran headlong, the heat near roasting Gisburne as he passed. Running blindly, he plunged off the steep edge of the half-constructed moat, and with great spray of water and a hiss of steam was sucked into its dark, weedy depths by the weight of his own armour.