LXI
THE STABLE STALL lay open and empty, the straw soaked with the blood of the dead.
Exhausted, beaten, his shoulder feeling like it had been wrenched from its socket, Gisburne contemplated the disaster. And in the face of it all – even in the presence of this slaughter – he found himself laughing. How could he have been so stupid? Every day the boy brings the bread and potage. Hood had said it to his face. And still, he had not seen it – how Hood had got information from outside. It was the boy. All along, it was the boy – the least regarded. He was just the lad who fetched and carried – and they had checked everything he fetched, everything he carried. For blades. For messages. But none had spared a thought for what the boy himself might whisper in those fleeting moments. The most important thing of all is happening while everyone is busy looking somewhere else. Hood himself had said it. The answers to your questions are far closer than you think...
As he stood there, a figure appeared in the doorway, silhouetted against the glow of the blazing ship. Gisburne half turned to face Prince John – the real Prince John. He gazed about in horror.
“What in God’s name...?”
“He’s gone,” said Gisburne.
“What?”
“Hood. Gone. Whilst we chased after our killer – as they knew we would – they took him. From here, where they had made sure he had been moved. And it was Marian who did it.” He laughed again. “Marian!”
“We must alert the guard!” cried John, turning for the door. Gisburne now saw that two of his own men – the very last remaining to him – were positioned outside.
“It’s too late,” he said.
“But if we move swiftly...”
“It’s too late!” snapped Gisburne. “He will have disappeared into the city as surely as if it were a forest. Another rat in a city of rats.”
“Surely we must try to...”
“No!” shouted Gisburne. “No more.”
John’s guards looked in on the stable, hands on their swords; the Prince signalled for them to leave. He and Gisburne stood in silence.
“Very well,” John nodded. “You are tired. I know that. These past months have taken their toll. But we must not let this setback defeat us.”
Gisburne stared at the ground, his jaw clenched, every bone in his body aching. “You knew...” he muttered. “About my father. About this...” He gestured towards the fire, the Tower, the swirling, green-black water into which the Red Hand had plunged. “What hope have we when our enemies work together, and we cannot?”
“I suspected,” said John, defensively. “I knew of the scandal, yes. Seen a possible connection. But I was trying to protect you from...”
Before he could finish, Gisburne had grabbed the Prince by fistfuls of his tunic and lifted him onto his toes. “You knew!” he roared, and flung him across the stable, sending him sprawling amongst the bodies and straw. What would come of it, Gisburne neither knew nor cared. He was done.
As he turned to leave the stable, a page from John’s entourage, breathless from running, careered into him, then pushed on past, fit to burst with the tidings he carried.
He stopped and stared in astonishment at finding his Prince sitting upon the ground with straw and blood in his hair – so much so, he forgot to bow.
“What is it, boy?” barked John, shaking his head. The boy looked at the lingering figure of Gisburne, then back to the Prince.
“Speak, boy, speak!” John roared, his face reddening.
“There is word from Queen Eleanor, my lord,” panted the boy. “King Richard is free of his prison. Even now he returns to England!”
John’s face turned ashen, and as Gisburne turned to walk away, he heard him mutter: “The Devil is loose...”