LVIII

 

 

GISBURNE WALKED SLOWLY back to the clearing, hearing the groans of the men in the pit as he approached. The dead deer – red raw where he’d hacked off one hind limb to stand in for part of the enginer – hung harmlessly on its length of rope, swaying gently as it turned back and forth. He had suspended it from a long, high bough that projected partway across the western edge of the clearing, and launched it from a cleft in the main trunk. He’d eat it later, if he still lived. He hoped for company at that meal.

In truth, it had never been close to actually hitting Tancred’s knights. But it didn’t need to. All that was required was the fleeting belief that it would – that brief moment of panic. The fact that it had spattered them with fresh blood as it swung added to the effect.

He heard de Gaillon’s voice in his head – the voice that was now always with him. “Overthrow the mind and the body will follow.” To which he sometimes would add: “The opposite is not always the case...” Gisburne had proved both points today. He had seen strong men give up the ghost and die when they felt there was no hope, and those with no breath in them rally by force of will. He had been one of those men.

He paused by the still-glowing remains of the fire, scooped up the earthenware bottle, released its cork and took a swig. The harsh, warming liquor flowed through him, making him shudder – a pleasant kind of pain.

He stepped forward to see what he had caught.

There were three men; more than he’d hoped. And Fulke was one of them. Well, that was something. It made the half-day it had taken to dig out the pit worthwhile.

Two were dead, or as good as – one impaled through the abdomen, another with terrible injuries to his face and a wooden stake driven clean through a thigh. But Fulke – who had more luck than he would ever deserve in life – had, by some miracle, managed to entirely avoid the stakes. He had toppled sideways, and was now wedged between three stakes, one of which had managed to pierce and pass under his mail. He hung now suspended, flailing uselessly like a beetle stuck in honey. His face was grazed and bloody; smears of fresh pitch marked his beard and face and stuck to his hands.

As Gisburne stared down at Fulke, the big man suddenly became aware of him. He struggled to free himself with renewed urgency, grunting furiously as he did so. It was no good. Gisburne waited until he had given up, red faced and panting, before addressing him.

“You look like you need a drink,” he said. And he poured the remains of the bottle of marc over the stranded knight. Fulke howled as the alcohol hit open wounds. Gisburne tossed the bottle away and left Fulke to huff and wail with his dead and dying fellows.

He walked towards the enginer, still tied to his tree, who had soiled his drawers. Gisburne could see the terror in the enginer’s eyes as he approached, could hear the whimper behind the gag. Stopping before him, he drew his shortsword. The man’s eyes widened, and his head shook.

“I’m sorry,” said Gisburne, then raised the weapon – and hacked at the bonds about the ancient trunk. The enginer collapsed onto the wet forest floor as the ropes gave, and stared up at his captor, amazed.

“Run away,” said Gisburne.

The man fled into the forest.

Gisburne stood for a moment, contemplating the destruction surrounding him. But he was not done yet. As he turned, a sound amongst the trees – as of something large, on the move – made him tense, and a black shape pushed out of the spiked bushes. Gisburne let his shortsword drop to his side, and his blackened face lit up in unrestrained delight.

“Nyght!” His horse came to him, and gave him a hard nudge with his nose, as if in reproach. Gisburne sheathed his shortsword and put his arms about his horse’s shimmering neck. “Don’t be angry,” he said. “I’ll take better care of you next time...” And he turned to head back to the path, Nyght following closely by his side.

As he walked back past the pit, a familiar voice rang out. “Listen!” It was Fulke, his voice suddenly conciliatory. “Friend!” From those lips the word sounded ridiculous – pathetic. “Listen! I have no love for Tancred. I can help... I have information. About your friend, and the woman. I can help you get inside. I know a way... One that no one else does...”

Gisburne paused by the pit, looked briefly at the smiling, crimson face of Fulke leering up at him, kicked the still-glowing embers of the fire into it with the toe of his boot, and walked away.

He heard the whoosh as the alcohol ignited. Then the crackle as the pitch caught. Nyght whinnied beside him, but stayed calm. At the same moment, Fulke let out a desperate shriek as he saw his fate, the flames already biting his clothing and beard. The men trapped around him cried out for help – from God, from man, from anyone – as their flesh, too, began to burn.

Gisburne plunged back into the forest, the roaring flames leaping higher from the pit behind him.

Tancred would also hear the screams of his men, and would know he had already lost.