Chapter 2: How about it Gisburne? Is this a flying visit or are we to benefit from your gracious presence a little longer?
The guards called him mockingly Sir Apocalypse when no one was present except for them and the prisoner. In other cases, he had to be satisfied with a 'Hey, you there!' or 'scoundrel' - the latter sounding almost appreciative by now. And yet this designation was completely ignored by the one for whom it was meant.
Most of the time, however, the guards did not speak to him at all, but simply led - or rather dragged - him without a word to where he was wanted. On some days they simply hauled him between them along the corridors, especially when, after an interrogation, he was brought back to the hole in which he resided and which was by now as familiar to him as his chamber in Nottingham Castle. But also just as hated as this.
On the days when he could no longer walk on his own two feet, he was usually also in a state where he could not even recall who he was, but also not where he was and for what reason he was here.
However, this never lasted for very long. If there was one trait he possessed in abundance, it was his will to endure, and it was this that brought him back to reality time and again, even if he would have been only too happy to avoid it. Moreover, when he was questioned, great care was taken not to cause him permanent damage, for the King had decreed that he must be able to proceed to his execution on his own. In any case, he should not give such an impression to anyone that the idea could arise to regard the last Knight of the Apocalypse - on English soil - with pity.
This was all very well for Gisburne, as the King's attitude enabled him to take his last walk with his head held high. Though he had been defeated by Hood and deprived of his freedom by John - not to mention that the Sheriff had once again laughed in his face - he had not been crushed. He just wished it would not take so damn long for him to finally meet his end. How this end would look, he did not really care.
As a knight - as a person of noble rank, albeit the lowest - it was actually his privilege to be allowed to lay his head on the executioner's block and wait for his axe to do its work. But he expected the King to strip him of his spurs and gold chain prior to his execution, and then it would be the rope for him. Even if he were to swing on the gallows like a common felon - as the outlaws from Sherwood were supposed to do - it would still be an end that - if he had anything to say in the matter - should come sooner rather than later. However, the King had not yet been able to bring himself to sit in judgment on him, even though he had threatened to do so many times. What might prevent him from doing so? Was he afraid that his Barons might be inspired by the example of the Order and rebel against him? Should this actually occur, then there was nothing - in Gisburne's opinion - that John could do about it. Above all, he should not dither any longer, for the knight could not bear the thought of having to linger any longer in this hole.
When the day of judgment finally arrived, the knight was aware of it even before the guards took him out of the stinking hole in which he had to spend the last part of his life - though he could not tell how much time had actually passed since he had fallen into the hands of the King - for he had dreamed of Loxley and the night of Samhain when he had bent the knee before the leader of the Wild Hunt and bowed his head while swearing his oath of allegiance to him.
As a matter of course, after returning to Nottingham, he had made every effort to forget the whole bloody incident - or at least pretended that he could not ascribe any significance to it. Then, as the years passed, he thought less and less about what seemed to have happened to him that night. Yes, he remembered to have sworn an oath, but what was the problem in not honoring it. After all, it would not be the first oath he was going to break, though perhaps the first of which he had no intention of honoring even a part of it. But why should he not act like that, since the other people were not keeping what they had promised him either.
Now that his dream had brought everything back to his mind, however, Gisburne realized that the oath he had given Loxley back then - even if he had never spoken the words aloud - would be the only one he intended to - and truly was going to - keep in its entirety. In doing so, he only hoped the other one - Hood, Herne's Son, a dead outlaw, the leader of the Wild Hunt, THE HUNTER - would hold up his end of the bargain as well. If the time of his greatest need and despair had not come now, it never would, so it was up to Loxley this time to claim what he had then called his own. The knight, though, had not the slightest idea how this could be done. He could not imagine, however, that the other would come charging into the castle to save him from the gallows.
So would he have to die to begin with? Probably yes. But he could accept that, for he was sure that the former Robin Hood - unlike King, Sheriff or Grand Master - would not renege on his word. Only now did he realize how much that meant to him.
Since he had been forewarned by his dream - or should he call it a recollection? - it was no surprise to him that this time there was no questioning when he was taken out of his cell. Instead, he was taken to the Great Hall of the castle, which the King had made his courtroom. John slouched on his throne like an impostor who had snuck in to impersonate the King, exuding the grace of a ... cockroach that really deserved nothing more than to be squashed. Once again, Gisburne could not help but notice that the ruler of all the English - there was not much more left of the realm, after all - had nothing of the presence of his brother Richard, nor of his self-confidence. The knight was not able to deny this, although Lionheart was no more agreeable to him than Lackland. In matters of power, Henry's brood did not differ from each other in the slightest.
John grimaced in disgust as the prisoner was led in, and Gisburne had to grin involuntarily, for he could well imagine that his appearance did not please the King. And his stench even less so. But the man, who was more lying on the throne than sitting on it, had just stuck his nose into a large - probably perfumed - kerchief and therefore did not notice how the knight - he was still allowed to call himself that - had reacted to him. Had it been otherwise, he might have had him killed on the spot. But Gisburne was not so lucky.
"Sir Guy of Gisburne, you are charged with high treason. You have conspired to kill your King and plunge the realm into chaos. For this you will pay with your life," John's shrill voice rang out rather abruptly, "for you are guilty without any doubt." Apparently, the sovereign did not intend to give the defendant a chance to answer to the charges.
But if Gisburne had been given the opportunity to testify, it would not have changed the outcome of the trial, in his opinion. Apart from the fact that he could not - or would not - deny having actually done what he was accused of. The Order had made no secret of their goals when they thought victory was theirs. With bitterness, the knight recalled how the Grand Master had dismissed his concerns regarding Hood as irrelevant and brushed them aside. For this arrogance they had all paid with their lives, the knight would follow the rest only a little later. And would not go to the same place as them. At least, that's what he assumed. But maybe the Wild Hunt was just a part of Hell.
"Guilty!" repeated John at that very moment. "For this you will go to your death, and you will die like the vile wretch you have turned out to be. You have forfeited the privilege of being called Sir Guy and dying by the executioner's axe. You will swing." The King paused for a moment and looked up at the window slits, beyond which, however, only darkness was to be seen. "This will be the last night of your miserable life, Traitor. You will not see another morning."
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"Must the execution be on this very day?" the former knight heard one of the guards mutter. The man who uttered these words was one of those who spoke with a strong Saxon accent when none of his superiors were around and who was happy about Gisburne's execution for different reasons than the Normans.
"But that's why it takes place before sunrise," replied another, who - as far as the prisoner could tell - was not of Saxon origin.
"But the darkness makes it worse," the first countered, his words carrying more than a little concern.
"What's the matter with ya?" a third now interjected. "Are ya scared of de night?"
"You ain't knowin' what you're sayin'." The Saxon was now definitely angry. "I couldn't care less 'bout this All Saints' Day. As far as I'm bother'd, there could be hundreds of executions takin' place. But this night ..." He fell silent.
The men had lowered their voices a bit, but they had not done this so that the prisoner would not overhear. He, in turn, was only able to suppress a grin, as it pained him to screw up his face in any way. This conversation had made him realize what day - or better - what night it was and he could only say - or rather think - that there was probably no better time for him to leave the world of the living.
He was aware that the King had intended it as another act of humiliation not to let him experience another dawn. Obviously, the sovereign shared the opinion of many of his subjects that the moment when the sun crossed the horizon was one of hope, although he believed in quite little else. But Gisburne had already noticed some years ago - even if he had long refused to admit it - that he took more comfort in the night, in the darkness that used to embrace him like a beloved person. He had no need for any further dawns.
He had already made up his mind some time ago not to cause any trouble for the guards on the day of his execution and when they took him out of his cell, he did not intend to change that. After all, he had resigned himself to being executed long before the verdict was passed. This fate had been looming over him like a storm cloud since the beginning of his service with de Rainault - and this did not refer to the Sheriff - even if he had not wanted to see it for a long time. In the meantime, this idea was already very familiar to him and no longer scared him in the slightest.
While the soldiers led him through the corridors, he had to stop himself one more time in order not to grin. Loxley had probably always believed that his foe was in dire need of a blessing, but in this respect he had been mistaken - Herne apparently not - for no blessing from any god could have saved Gisburne from his fate. Only he himself would have been able to do so. Even after his death, Hood had not understood this, or perhaps he himself looked at it in a wrong way? Perhaps he could hope for new insights after all. Who would have thought he would look forward to learning something after his death? This time he did not manage to avoid a grin and immediately his face turned into a grimace of pain. But no one cared, least of all himself.
When they finally reached the bailey - in the past, the corridors had never seemed so endless to him - he noticed that the King had done everything he could to make those in attendance forget that morning was still far away. Gisburne could not avoid wondering when he had started to bring in torches, so many had the English ruler ordered to be distributed. And yet no one could miss the night-black sky, where only a few stars twinkled between clouds, driven by a strong wind past the castle.
As the former knight looked at the silvery disc of the moon - which showed herself in gaps in the clouds to the west - it occurred to him that the last full moon could probably not even have been a week ago, for she had not yet lost very much of her splendor. But neither had she remained perfectly round. Nevertheless, every time she appeared, it was as if the numerous torches were extinguished for the blink of an eye, while at the same time the murmur of those in attendance fell silent for the instant of a breath, as if the people were listening fearfully into the dark night. Then, when another cloud obscured the light, everything went on as before.
Gisburne was aware, however, that the rest had not realized at all that they had fallen silent for a single moment. None of them had noticed the pauses caused by the appearance of the moon. None of them had any awareness of the night, not even the soldier who had earlier complained about the fact that the execution was to take place at that hour of all times. Probably he had still grown up with the old tales and had even internalized the concerns of his elders, but he no longer believed in them. It was all a sham.
The prisoner had to laugh and this time it was caught by someone.
"It is so typical of you to make a laughing stock of yourself, Gisburne," the Sheriff - who was just passing the group of soldiers with the prisoner - could not refrain from a remark.
Again Gisburne had to laugh and it took him a moment to be able to respond to the man's interjection. It did not escape him that de Rainault had stayed close to him, as if he did not want to miss the expected words in any case.
"In the old days, you would never have gotten up at such an early hour for my sake, de Rainault," he finally gave back.
"You will soon cease to laugh, Traitor," sneered the King, who had approached undetected by everyone out of the darkness, but his words could not worry Gisburne, for John made a rather agitated impression on that night. This was mainly due to the manner in which he glanced at the sky every few moments, as if he was afraid that an attack might come from there. Did he perhaps believe in the Wild Hunt? This was not as unlikely as it seemed at first, for the former knight had not forgotten how easily Edgar of Huntingdon had reeled John in with the tale of the witch back in the day. Not believing in the teachings of the Church was obviously not difficult for this repulsive man, but not believing at all was apparently not an option. Serves him right to be scared, since he had to set the time of the execution for that particular night.
After this short - and from Gisburne's point of view quite amusing - exchange of words, the prisoner now turned his gaze to the gallows, which had been erected at one side of the bailey. He was a little surprised to realize that the sight of it did not scare him, but this was probably due to the fact that his path had been leading him to this very spot for many years. In fact, he had already determined that he had had ample time to get used to this idea.
There was no way he would make a fool of himself in front of the King and de Rainault, nor would he be able to change anything by doing so. If he were to cause problems for the soldiers at this point, he would only make his situation more miserable, and he had no intention of doing that.
Instead, he climbed the few steps to the scaffold with a sure step, despite the shackles that restricted his movement - and regardless of the fact that his whole body ached, but pain has always been a faithful companion to him - and stopped just in front of the noose that would be pulled over his head in a few moments. For an instant he seriously considered whether now would be the right time to take a look at the King, but then he decided rather to gaze once more into the night sky and at the massive clouds, which were so dark that even now they were clearly discernible. A strong wind was hounding them from the North and only in the far West was the sky free of them, allowing the moon to look down on the people in the bailey without any obstruction.
Meanwhile, the executioner had also appeared on the platform. Gisburne snorted in amusement when he saw the man using a hood to hide his face. Did he think the prisoner would not know who was hidden under it? Gisburne had never had a problem telling who was under the hood of Herne's Son - or who was not. Now the former knight felt it somehow fitting that it was now again someone with a hood who threatened his life. But unlike Hood, this man would succeed.
Perhaps there was another reason why the man did not want to show his face, although everyone knew who filled this position. It was also possible that he wanted to protect himself in this way from being cursed by the condemned. Now the prisoner recalled that the executioner had once before expressed himself accordingly. Had he ever thought about what would enable a condemned man to do such a thing, unless he had practiced magic in the past? Or perhaps he believed that anyone would be able to cast a curse? Gisburne thought it was a pity that he had no more time to think more intensely about this, even if he himself considered this idea pointless. But if he was wrong, then the King and the Sheriff would have to be careful.
This thought gave him an idea and he turned his gaze to the dais on which the high-ranking onlookers were located. "You will not have done this in vain!" he exclaimed and had to stop himself from laughing out loud, for this would have ruined the desired effect. Promptly he was rewarded with the men flinching in fright. This then he could probably call a satisfactory finish.
But then he remembered something else and he turned to the executioner standing next to him. "I forgive you," he murmured to him and was again rewarded with having made someone wince, for the other person had clearly not expected these words. In any case, these confused him, for he paused for a moment, although he had already extended his hand to the noose.
The man remained standing motionless for another instant - his hand still in the air - but then he seemed to have decided to proceed. Again, however, he could not finish his movement, for he and all the others around - Gisburne included - were once again disturbed. This time it was an infernal noise, apparently coming from the direction of the stables. Before anyone had a chance to react to this intrusion, a loud neighing was heard, which the prisoner recognized immediately.
Fury.
He had believed that his stallion had long since been relocated somewhere else. He had assumed that the Sheriff had wanted to get rid of the beast as quickly as possible, for it had always seemed creepy to him. But obviously he had been wrong about that. And now his faithful companion was right there in front of the scaffold. This was a splendid parting gift.
"You had given me your word to have this devilish creature removed, de Rainault," the King hissed. Although he certainly had not intended this, his words were well understood, for at that very moment the bailey had become completely quiet. It was not surprising that the Sheriff refrained from answering under these circumstances, but perhaps something else was to blame for this. It was strange, though, for de Rainault was never one to be at a loss for words. Gisburne considered it another parting gift. Someone really meant well for him.
"Go on!" commanded an enraged King, causing the executioner to cringe again at these words.
Even though the man was certainly making an effort to finally get his work done, he was not going to get around to it now either, and this time it was not something as harmless as a stallion, even if it had been called fiendish many times in the past and had just forcibly freed itself from the stables.
All at once a strong gust of wind swept across the bailey and tore the noose off the beam. The wind even managed to push the executioner a few steps away from the condemned - the man was by no means a feeble dwarf - and it took with it the headdresses - and in some cases the cloaks - of the men who came to watch the execution from the dais.
But this was to be only the first - and only the least - of the horrors that would befall the castle during that night. The next one was heralded by a loud laugh that seemed to come from the top of the northern walls.
Gisburne knew immediately who had laughed, and from the reaction of the Sheriff - to whom he had looked just at that moment - he recognized that the latter also knew who it was, for he had turned as white as a freshly bleached sheet and his face now shone almost as bright as the moon herself. But that was not surprising, since he had for years believed that Loxley was dead. After all, he had seen with his own eyes that he had died. Now this laughter rang out, yet he obviously could not believe it. Even though the Baron de Belleme had already shown him that a deceased did not necessarily have to remain dead.
"How nice that you haven't forgotten me, Sheriff," the outlaw called out to de Rainault, and this time his voice no longer came from above. From one moment to the next, he suddenly was down in the bailey, as if he had leapt from the walls. Or rather, not him, but the creature he was sitting on, which bore a certain resemblance to a horse. To a black stallion, as Fury was one. But that was already the end of the similarities. And woe betide anyone who called his stallion devilish again, as his eyes did not glow red and his hooves did not throw sparks when hitting a stone. No smoke came out of his nostrils either.
"Your Majesty, we have not yet met," the former Son of Herne - or was he still? - now addressed the King. "If I may introduce myself, I am Robin of Loxley." He laughed again.
John, however, apparently knew exactly who Loxley was, for he was now turning pale as well. Or rather: he became even paler.
"But I'm not here for you, Your Majesty, so you don't have to piss your pants." He seemed to be having a good time. "And neither do you, Sheriff." He paused. "But I see my words come too late." The whole situation seemed to amuse him immensely. Gisburne could well relate to that.
However, he would also like to know what Loxley was up to now, having disrupted his execution in such a spectacular fashion. How was he going to proceed, what did he have planned? There was no question that he had a plan, for he had been very good at that in the past.
The dead outlaw made a casual gesture with his hand, but in doing so he kept his gaze - and his insolent grin - fixed on the onlookers, all of whom had probably pissed their pants by now.
With a loud thud, Gisburne's shackles fell onto the scaffold, causing those in attendance to flinch. However, the condemned had not expected this either.
Then a heavy dark cloud suddenly moved in front of the moon and another strong gust of wind extinguished all the torches in the bailey. From one moment to the next, the night had turned pitch black, and after the wind had subsided, it was now completely silent, except for a quiet sobbing that seemed to be coming from the King.
It did not stay quiet for very long, however, for suddenly an infernal howl came from the direction of the scaffold.
The clouds parted again and the moon shone down on the world with an unimaginably intense silvery light. And on the huge wolf, which was right there where the prisoner had just been standing. It was this wolf, which raised its muzzle to the sky and gave off this eerie howl, before it turned its bright - blue - eyes on those around and showed them its long, sharp fangs at the same time.
A number of the men then lost their senses, and some of them had the misfortune to fall from the dais, sustaining injuries, of course - one of them even broke his neck. The King was slumped on his throne, also unconscious, while the Sheriff was still conscious, but whether he was still in his right mind could not be determined beyond a doubt at that point. In any case, he had his eyes widened in terror at the creature into which his former deputy had been transformed. Perhaps de Rainault was just remembering that this time again he had denounced him. His mouth also stood wide open and he resembled a fish out of water. Otherwise, only his chest was still moving.
The wolf howled once more, Loxley laughed, and his steed let out a loud snort. Fury added his neigh. This promptly caused more people to faint. De Rainault, however, was not among them.
"At least we still have some people watching," the Hunter stated with a laugh that sounded no less eerie than the wolf's howling.
"And not just down here," he then noted, looking up at the walls.
The wolf that Gisburne had turned into - a shape he liked immensely - followed his gaze. And indeed, at the top of the battlements, he could make out a pale face. With one leap he went up there to see who it is.
Hood.
The second Son of Herne, although pressing himself against the wall and looking pale, was otherwise holding his own. And he was not alone, but his companion had managed not to be seen from below.
The Wolf eyed Loxley's successor curiously, for it had not escaped his notice that the outlaw had put an arrow to his bow. However, he aimed it neither at his predecessor nor at the Wolf. Gisburne wondered what the two men were doing here. Had they given in to the temptation to witness the execution of their foe. Or had they wanted to make sure that Gisburne actually met his death?
"You're doing them an injustice," rang out Loxley's voice, who - still perched on his infernal steed - was now back up here on the walls as well.
"It is true that the arrow was meant for you, Guy, but only since Hood wanted to spare you a long suffering," continued Herne's first son, and then turned to his successor. "But now you can choose another target for that arrow, Brother," he informed him.
Hood nodded. But before he found the strength and courage to reply, the other one had already turned to his companion. "Greetings, dear friend," were his words to Nasir, who made the calmest impression of all the people who had been confronted with this nocturnal terror here and now. He bowed to his former leader with a crisp movement, as if it was nothing special to hail him in this situation.
His demeanor had apparently made it obvious to Hood who he was actually dealing with here - if the words spoken earlier had not already alerted him to that fact. "So you are indeed Loxley and not an evil spirit, come to scare King and Sheriff on this night. Or should I say rather, you were once Loxley? For I am not sure who you are now, but certainly no longer Robin Hood."
Loxley laughed, but unlike just a moment ago, this just came out in a friendly manner. "Guy here could tell you exactly who I am now, but I don't think he's in a position to talk to you at the moment. But don't worry about your brother, Robin, for it has always been his fate to be a companion to the Hunter. And should you wonder if his current form is a punishment for his transgressions, I must tell you that this is between him and me."
'Brother,' Gisburne thought, only to discover that this realization did not really surprise him, for suddenly many things fell into place to form a more coherent picture. 'That's why you've often acted so strangely.' But actually, that was something he was not particularly interested in now.
And thinking about the other point Loxley had raised, the Wolf was sure he had been rewarded. Even if he did not know what he had done to deserve it.
"We will meet again, Brother," Loxley had just announced. "Your fate has also already been written, Hood. Until that time comes, however, I beg you to look after my brother. I'll take care of yours in return."
Then the Hunter turned once again to the Saracen. "And I beg you to keep an eye on Herne's Son. I don't want the same thing to happen to him as happened to me." Again Nasir answered only with a bow, but Loxley seemed to understand him anyway.
The Hunter did not wait to see if Robin Hood wanted to add anything, but instead spurred his steed on abruptly, which took off into the dark sky with a mighty leap. Gisburne did not think long about what he should do now, but simply followed him.
But he took another look back, for there was someone he wanted to say farewell to, and that was when he caught sight of something that filled his heart with immense joy.
Fury, in fact, had no problem keeping up with the Hunter and his Wolf.
The howl that the Wolf now emitted expressed all his joy at not having lost his faithful companion.
Gisburne did not know what he had done to deserve this fate, but for the first time in his life he was truly happy.
