Chapter Text
It was a Tuesday – which was to say, it was two days after Sunday, when Brother Hugh had come, to celebrate the Mass. So, it was Tuesday and Gisburne was a-horse, to Elvenham, to the Market there, to seek for Isaac Cutler, to buy some new spoons for Elizabeth and for the Grange.
“Good ones, mind,” she had chastised him: “None of the scarcely-covered lead that Guthlac tried to foist off on us.”
Gisburne had nodded, and made off. He didn’t mind going to Elvenham, but it was taking him away from the parts of Sherwood that needed looking after, in his other rôle as Herne’s Son, the Hooded Man. For one thing, there were still areas that needed careful attention after the giant boar’s incursion; for another, Gisburne had a nagging feeling that there were wolfsheads in the Forest again, even though none of his subtle enquiries in Nottingham had elicited any news of outlawries.
Still, it was a pleasant-enough day for the riding, and there was someone else he needed to see at Elvenham. Eredoc was a newcomer to Sherwood, having migrated from the fens of Norfolk, to escape being hanged for a killing he hadn’t carried out, but for which it was … expedient … his liege lord found a suitable scapegoat. Bridie o’Neresby had sent work of him to the Grange, and Gisburne wanted to find out whether Eredoc would accept service under the Hooded Man.
...
The Market at Elvenham was quiet – much quieter than usual. Only half the stall-space was being used and that by the traders who relied on the local business for their livelihood. Isaac Cutler wasn’t there, but Gisburne found him at his workshop, behind the Shambles.
“What’s happened ? It’s like – ”
“Men came,” Isaac said, brusquely: “Men from … I don’t know: somewhere North. They wanted to know if anyone’d seen a man – Duggie of Gloucester – and if so, where he was. And they weren’t keen on not getting the answers they sought. Most people got clear, an’ we aren’t goin’ back till they’ve gone away.”
Something had shifted at the back of Gisburne’s mind at the name: he didn’t know what – it didn’t feel like one of Herne’s sendings – but it called to him for attention.
He nodded, curtly, and moved straight into negotiation for the spoons.
“I don’t have any good enough right now,” Isaac told him: “Come back in a week – no, make it two – and I’ll craft sets for your lady and your self, my lord, and for your household. Did you want your coat on them ?”
Gisburne shook his head: it was something else De Rainault had defaulted on: having the heralds make him a warrant to bear his own arms. His father’s wouldn’t do – not so long as Uncle Malache still lived and kept the chateau in Normandy. And there hadn’t been any opportunity to implead this new King for the favour.
...
Riding home, the business of the name still nagged at him, but he still couldn’t recall where he had heard the name before, or why it should be “significant”.
He diverted to check out two of the places, nearest to the Grange, where he’d thought outlaws might be lairing, but saw nothing, and then, ten minutes from home, he ran across Maeve, emerging from hunting across the Oaken Common, which lay outside Forest jurisdiction, her longbow across her back, and three rabbits standing (or laying) as proof of her skill with it.
“Hail, my Lord,” she called; “A good day ?”
“I don’t know yet – but you clearly have had, mistress.”
“My work on the glebe was done, so I had time to seek out supper.”
“For three nights, I see.”
“Two,” she corrected. “One of these is for Mistress Michelle, who fell ill last night.”
“Thank you for telling me – Lady Elizabeth will want to send aid to her as well.”
...
He got home, to find Elizabeth and Laurence her steward waiting for him.
“There were men – five of them – dressed like a banneret’s escort. They were asking about … ”
“About Duggie of Gloucester,” Gisburne hazarded, and their faces confirmed his guess.
“They were at Elvenham yester-day,” he said. “People there are scared stiff.” Then a thought occurred to him: “Did they bear arms – a coat ?”
Elizabeth nodded: “But not one I recognised. Sable, three points argent and a gurge in chief – but it was gules over agent, not azure.”
Gisburne nodded. “A French coat, not a Norman – from somewhere towards Flanders or somewhat south. Someone at the Castle will know – I’ll ride there tomorrow and ask; see what they know of Gloucester’s sons.
But, in the morning light of the morrow, rather than his riding to Nottingham, it was Nottingham that came to the Grange.
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