LXVII

 

 

Nottingham Castle – January, 1192

 

GISBURNE STOOD IN silence before John.

The prince had been staring into the fire, his expression unreadable, for what seemed an eternity. Gisburne had said his piece, related the facts. That was a simple enough task, in principle. But even with all he had been through – all the hardships he had endured – this had been the hardest thing he had ever had to do. His very being seemed to rebel against it. He felt his throat tighten as he spoke, as if it physically recoiled from putting the calamity into words. It vividly recalled that time with de Gaillon. When the knight had discovered him doing wrong, and he had felt his whole life slipping from him. The feelings – those sick feelings, not of failure exactly, but of letting down the one person he most respected, of feeling unequal to their high expectations – had a horrible, unwelcome familiarity.

The chamber in which he now stood was the very one in which he had faced William de Wendenal a year before. The chamber he had entered as a pitiful wretch – a penniless criminal facing the noose – and had left a knight. Little had changed in that time – except for the addition of a small table, on which stood a wine jug and goblets, and a chessboard, part way through a game. In his numb, distracted state, Gisburne vaguely wondered who John’s adversary was.

The situation was now wholly reversed. This time, he should have entered in triumph. A hero. But instead, all was crashing about him in flames. How he would leave this place today, he could not guess.

Finally, John spoke. His words were steady, precise. “Tell me again what Hood said. About the skull. Word for word.”

Gisburne did so. Each word was like a tooth being drawn from his head.

John nodded slowly. When John finally turned back to him, Gisburne was shocked by the expression he wore.

He was smiling.

“Well, I think we should toast your achievement, don’t you?” he said. And, with a nonchalance that baffled Gisburne almost to the point of fury, he wandered over to the table and filled two silver goblets.

Gisburne stared at him, then at the goblet that the prince thrust into his hand. Was John mocking him? Was this his idea of a joke? If so...

“Oh, don’t look so miserable,” chided John, flapping a hand at him. “What was it you told me Gilbert de Gaillon said? About victory and defeat? I forget exactly how it went. But then, he said so many things...”

Gisburne remembered. The difference between victory and defeat. You’re more tired after a defeat – but both can kill you... De Gaillon had simply meant that sometimes they were not so easy to distinguish. That they were, in part, a state of mind. But losing the hard-won prize to Hood – that was no mere state of mind. That was real. An irrefutable catastrophe. A disastrous turn, just yards from the final goal.

“But I thought...”

“You thought you’d failed because you did not bring me the skull,” said John, and took a drink.

Gisburne could not see how it could be otherwise. But once again, John waved away his bewilderment.

“The skull... Well, it’s not really important.”

Gisburne gaped at him.

“I mean as a thing. An object,” added John. “Do you see?”

Gisburne did not. Not for one moment.

“I’ll not lie – its loss is a shame. I would like to have denied Hood that prize. And I do so like shiny things.” He spread his heavily ringed fingers before him, then dismissed them with a sigh of resignation. “But you have brought me something of far greater value. Evidence of a direct connection between King Philip and Hood.”

John paused to allow the point to sink in. Gisburne drank deep, blinking, still struggling to see through the fog.

“You see, I had begun to suspect that Philip was financing revolt in this land, but had no proof. Now, I do. Thanks to you.”

My God, thought Gisburne. He knew. He knew all along Hood meant to take it...

“Sometimes, Sir Guy, knowledge is more valuable than gold. And personally I’d rather rely on knowledge than faith.” He gave a sardonic smile. “I am, of course, aware that this puts me at odds with most of humanity. But certainly this is vital information to have in one’s arsenal. Especially now that I am in negotiations to form an alliance with Philip.”

Gisburne stopped, his goblet half way to his lips.

“Don’t look so shocked, Sir Guy,” protested John. “Victory, defeat, ally, enemy. In the real world, these things are so rarely clear cut. And, believe me, I have no illusions about Philip...” John toyed with the chess pieces as he spoke. “He is obsessed with reclaiming those territories in France that belong to the English crown. It has long been his hope that one day, England – embroiled in its own internal strife – would take its eye off Normandy, and Aquitaine, and all the others. Now we know he is not merely hoping, but working towards that end – by promoting chaos in the realm. He perhaps thinks me some kind of ally in this endeavour, since I hate my brother. But I will not see this nation fall.” He held the white king before him between thumb and forefinger. “Nevertheless, it pays to keep your enemies close...”

Gisburne suddenly recalled other words of de Gaillon’s. The ultimate enemy is not the one who stands opposite you on the field... It is the chaos that threatens to overrun us when our guard is down. Much as it troubled him – all this deception, all this ambiguity, all this dissembling – something now began to emerge, bright and clear, out of the murk. A guiding light. John was not like de Gaillon. But he had something in him that was indefatigable. And like de Gaillon, Gisburne now understood, he was not bound by rules – rules were inflexible, imposed from without, and therefore for the weak. He was bound – guided, rather – by principles. And who, in the whole of England, would have guessed that?

The words of Albertus also came to him now. It is said the skull has the power to bring down a tyrant. He did not believe in the magic powers of relics. He had marched behind the Holy Cross at Hattin and saw where that led. But perhaps, after all, the skull had laid bare the true tyrants – the agents of chaos. Perhaps it would also hasten their fall. And perhaps he, in his own small way, had helped.

“Do you play chess, Sir Guy?” John returned the white king to the board.

“A little,” said Gisburne. In truth, he hadn’t played for years – not since Hattin.

“It’s becoming very popular, I understand. Apparently, people see in it the confrontation between Saladin and Richard – the black king and the white. I see it rather differently. More broadly, if you like. The struggle between the dark and the light – between the forces of order and the forces of chaos. But then, in life, things are not so black and white. It is not so clear which is which. And sometimes they go in disguise.” What was this? Was John still trying to justify the deception over the Baptist’s skull?

“We are brought up to believe in evil as a pure and everpresent force, inspiring evildoers to evil deeds. That might work for a monk contemplating matters in a cell, but men like you and I know better. No one ever really believes themselves to be on the side of evil. But not everyone can be right. Of course, everyone thinks what they’re doing is for the best, but beware of people who say so. Who come clad in white, meaning to save you. That’s where the worst offences lie.” He turned from the board suddenly.

“I have heard from Glastonbury Abbey some news of a rather startling discovery there,” said John. “The monks were digging in the grounds and unearthed an ancient skeleton of great proportions, buried with his weapons in a log coffin. By his side was a woman, still bearing flowing blonde hair. A lead cross buried with the pair confirmed their identity: King Arthur and his queen, Guinevere.” He gazed into his wine, thoughtfully. “As you may imagine, this has caused quite a stir.”

Gisburne was uncertain what to make of the news. “Do you want me to look into it?” he asked. John waved dismissively as he sipped at his goblet.

“Oh, it’s beneath a man of your talents,” he said. “What is most significant about this ‘discovery’ is that it comes just when the good monks of Glastonbury find their pilgrim traffic is flagging. I’m sure they would claim some kind of holy miracle – of a prayer being answered just when they had need. Others – those of a cynical frame of mind – might offer a more prosaic explanation.” He smiled to himself, then turned to face Gisburne. “But it’s not the truth or otherwise of the story that concerns me. Let people believe whatever tripe they like. They probably will, anyway, whether you let them or not. No, it’s what lies behind it...” His expression had once again become dark. “Don’t you see? It comes in answer to a need. To the ghastly emptiness at the heart of the realm. How it reflects England’s hunger for a king?”

John turned away once again, continuing in strange, rather distant tones. “Richard will not return. That is my belief. My... hope.” Gisburne felt his mucles tense. These words were treason, even when spoken by a prince. “Even if he did...” He shrugged, his words trailing off. “If the people knew the truth about my brother, they would not want him back. But he remains the distant answer to their problems, and they will brook no alternative. Indeed, they turn him to a saint in his absence...” He laughed, mirthlessly. “A saint!” He fell silent for a moment. “Meanwhile, England is without a king – a realm ready to slide into chaos. And Hood – his supposed champion – is hastening its plunge into the abyss.” He turned and fixed Gisburne with an intense stare. “I honestly believe that only you and I fully understand this.”

Gisburne nodded slowly.

“There is another thing. One of the brothers of that Abbey – a monk named Took – recently spoke out in support of Hood.”

“A monk?”

“Took has radical notions about property – of the kind that monks tend to entertain from time to time.”

“But... supporting a thief?” That seemed beyond the pale, no matter how radical he was.

“He believes that Hood provides hope in a time of need, robbing from the rich to provide for the poor.”

Gisburne gave a dismissive, humourless laugh. “Hood cares nothing for the poor!”

“I told you – it’s not the truth or otherwise of the story that matters. Word of him spreads. It has its own life. He is becoming a legend. You know that it is already becoming common practice to call any outlaw a ‘Robin Hood’? Now, that is real power, when one becomes enshrined in language.”

“Just words,” said Gisburne dismissively. “A stolen name and a stolen reputation.”

“Words have the means to imprison a man,” said John. “Even a king.”

Quite suddenly, he turned his back on Gisburne.

“But... I have a dilemma. I admit I’ve been avoiding the matter, but recent events have brought it to a head. Clearly, if you continue doing... what you do... you are unlikely to remain a secret for very long. That is a problem.”

“To put it bluntly, it is no longer fitting for me to have a landless knight in my service. There is only one solution that I can see...” Gisburne had been half expecting it. His failure in the closing moments of his quest had made it seem inevitable. John’s reassurances had eased his mind, but he saw now that it was a momentary respite, to soften the blow. He watched in numb silence as John went to a small wooden chest, and removed something from inside. A final gift, he supposed. A parting gesture. Then once again, he would be a knight without allegiance. Without purpose. He did not blame John. The prince had treated him fairly in all things. Instead, he cursed his ill luck. It had dogged him his whole life, since the fall from grace of Gilbert de Gaillon. He thought he had found a master who was de Gaillon’s equal. He knew now that this would never be achieved.

“It’s not much,” said John. “Less than you deserve.” Gisburne was barely even aware of holding his hand out to take whatever trinket John was offering. There was simply the cold weight of metal on his upturned palm, and then his fingers closing about it – a half familiar shape. He frowned and held it up before him. It was a large, iron key.

“It’s no castle, I’m afraid,” John continued, his voice carrying a note of genuine apology. “But I must tread carefully, even now. Especially now.”

He turned and let his eyes roam across the chessboard. “The time will come for us to reveal our strategy,” he said. “But it is not yet. Richard has his white knight in Hood – the supposed saviour of the realm, about whom people publicly fawn. But you are this realm’s true protector. My black knight.” He picked up a piece from the board and turned it in his fingers. “It will be a hard road. The outside world will know nothing of what you do. You will receive little reward, and no adulation. You will be misunderstood, resented. Even hated. What is best for this realm is not what is best for the barons. They will misrepresent and distort you as they do me. I cannot promise that your story will be that of a hero; perhaps one day, but not yet. The truth doesn’t always come out. But that is why we fight. And you will be their champion. A knight of shadows.”

He turned to face Gisburne once more, his eyes gleaming with a strange intensity.

“Do you accept this?”

Gisburne gripped the key in his fist. “I do,” he said.

John breathed out, as though in relief. “I know this has been difficult for you. Being a thief. Being...” – he hesitated – “being like Hood. But it is different. We are fighting a war – fighting for a cause. What you do for me is different, just as killing in a war, for a just cause, is different from murder.”

Gisburne thought of Hood the thief. Hood the murderer. Yes, it was different. He would make sure it was.

John turned away, then, to the frost-crazed glass of the window, and gazed at the frozen world beyond.

“I do believe it is finally beginning to thaw,” he said distantly.

Gisburne breathed deeply, his body filling with renewed vigour – a hardened determination. This would be his mission. He felt muscles and sinews tighten, the spirit burn with a fierce heat, the will become tempered like steel.

And there was something else – a softer emotion. One he had not known for years. An almost overwhelming, child-like joy.

For the moment his eyes had settled upon the key, he had known exactly what it was.