Gisborne: Book of Pawns

by Prue Batten

  God, but I was naïve. I had thought there was a heart there, valour. But bring him to a pecuniary choice over a moral choice and his true colours showed. It reminded me of another man of whom I knew, one my mother had talked about. The fellow may have been a man she loved once, I do not know. But he did something shameful, untrustworthy and dishonest, placing his friends, his compatriots and my mother under threat. He had ended by taking his own life, jumping from the battlements of Cazenay. No wonder she had opted for my weakling father.

  But to return to Gisborne.

  He chose Halsham over me and I would never forget.

  I barely noticed the countryside changing. Monty carried me completely in his care. The reins hung loose and I rode in amongst the tangle of my thoughts. My main concern was what I would find at Moncrieff. Who was this Baron De Courcey? I wondered if my father had somehow managed to maintain a share in anything that would give me a roof over my head.

  There was a village, Hayrood, a few leagues away from the castle but part of the estate. I recalled an unassuming manorhouse that could suit the purpose; two levels of stone and daub and with a thatched roof and a modest component of chambers. But I could not see De Courcey being so beneficent.

  I thought of my mother’s things; her jewelry, her Book of Hours, her basket of embroidery threads, her frame and lute. Surely those were my inheritance. I wanted everything. Everything she had owned. Not for its monetary value but because everything was redolent of her spirit, her mind … her heart. Had my father no thought for what these things might mean to Alaïs’ daughter? This is what cut into my soul. His apparent disregard for me. This was my father and I hated him more with each step that Monty took.

  Every thought built on the previous one and my hands twisted on the pommel of the saddle as tightly as bands of muscle began to tighten around my head. We rode steadily until midday and I noticed not at all. Unaware that Monty had dark sweat stains on his shoulder or that Guy still rode stirrup to stirrup next to me. I would have continued on as all around me halted if Guy’s hand had not reached for my reins.

  Mary Mother, how many times has he done that in the last few weeks?

  I turned to him, I couldn’t help it, but I could read nothing there; a statement perhaps of things as they now were. As a penniless dependant, I was at best a tolerated responsibility, at worst a despised nuisance.

  ‘You are frequently a liability, Ysabel.’ I could hear his words so coolly delivered.

  No situation sat well with me and I preferred not to imagine in detail what it was to him. My state was repugnant and my headache strengthened accordingly.

  Dismounting for our midday break, bread and cheese again, I noticed we had reached the coastline and were tracking north along a coast road. The land fell over cliffs and below, waves crashed with rhythmic ferocity against the rocks.

  A whisper sounded close to my ear. ‘Don’t step too close, Lady.’

  I shivered. ‘Would that be a threat, Halsham?

  ‘Take it any way you like,’ Halsham replied. ‘I should hate to have to report your death to your father. Where would that leave Gisborne?’

  I looked about to see if anyone observed me speaking when I was supposed to be dumb. Reassured, I stared into those calculating eyes.

  ‘What happens to Gisborne is of little concern to me. More to you I would imagine. You and he seem to have tied yourselves to each other like a betrothed couple. As to my father … I doubt that he cares overmuch for me at all. You may do your worst.’

  ‘Halsham.’ Gisborne strode between us. ‘Do you look for me?’ He gave me a quick glance. ‘Go about your business. I would like some food before my stomach forgets what my mouth is for.’

  As I left I heard Halsham laugh. ‘No please or thank you? Why carry this little charade any further? Just hand the chit over to the merchants and let them see your Lady Ysabel to England?’

  I didn’t hear Gisborne’s reply but when I looked back I saw Halsham’s face creep into an expression of ridicule as he made some comment in response to whatever was said. They talked a little longer and then I saw Halsham offer his hand, as a knight might do. Gisborne stood immobile for a moment and then returned the clasp and for me, the thread between Gisborne and I stretched thin to breaking.

  The afternoon’s ride continued at the same pace. For some leagues we had seen the walls of Calais in the distance and it couldn’t approach quickly enough. Oh, I had vague plans that I could offload Gisborne and sail to England alone or if necessary, hire a guard. But I had relied on Gisborne to pay for everything till now, believing he used my father’s coin. I had nothing and my head felt cleft in two.

  Finally the company halted two by two beneath the gates, Richard’s colours fluttering in the seabreeze. Horses stretched their necks, snorted, skirted back and forth on the road. Harnesses jingled and men muttered with tiredness. The Watch hailed us, the gates opened and we moved slowly at a clinking, clattering walk until we merchants brought up the rear and the gates slammed behind us. The army continued on to their temporary quarters and Halsham’s troop, with the smug man at its head, wheeled to the right to I know not where. Nor did I care, wishing that he would drop off the face of the earth.

  Gisborne raised his arm to farewell the merchants, wishing them well and calling me to follow him. We walked in single file over narrow cobbled streets toward the smell of the sea, turning underneath an arch and into the rear yard of an inn. Monty halted and I heaved a sigh as I swung over to jump down. Gisborne’s legs had taken the strain of his dismount with no problems at all, but my knees folded and I stumbled against the horse as the ostler went to take him from me. I held the reins back. ‘No. I would do it myself. Thank you.’

  ‘You don’t have…’ Gisborne started to say.

  ‘But I do, sir. He has been loyal and caring. It is the least I can do. I owe him much.’

  ‘If you must.’ He followed me into the stalls and tied up his own horse, unsaddling and grabbing whatever he could to wipe away the sweat.

  The ostler watched us, bemused. I could see he was unused to merchants strapping their own mounts. But Monty deserved this and when he was dry and cooled, I made sure he had fresh water and hay and only then did I speak to Gisborne.

  ‘Where is my room. I wish to wash and replace my clothes and then I wish for you to inform me on which boat I am to travel. Other than that, I have nothing else to say.’

  I brushed past him and walked swiftly to the entrance of the inn where we were shown to our separate rooms, and as Gisborne moved to walk into my chamber behind me, I slammed the door in his face.

  Dirt stained the cloth that had been left for me. The water in the bowl looked as if it had been collected from a moat and I craved a warm scented bath, for my nails to be clean, for my hair to once again fall in a silky swathe. But it was not to be. I turned from the bowl to reach for clean clothes and of course there were none.

  A firm knock sounded at the door and Gisborne called. ‘Ysabel, open up.’

  I stayed quite still, wrapped in a rough towel provided by the innkeeper’s wife.

  ‘Ysabel, for God’s sake grow up and open the damned door.’

  Grow up? Grow up, you think?

  I grabbed a cover off the bed and threw it around me like a cloak and hauled the door open.

  ‘What? Damn you, Gisborne, what?’ My forehead tightened with tiredness and frustration.

  He pushed past me, slamming the door behind.

  ‘How dare you enter my chamber,’ I hissed. ‘What do you think the innkeeper will say?’

  ‘The innkeeper thinks you are my wife and that we have had a dispute because you asked to ride as a man on a man’s horse and that I was disgusted with your lack of wifely obedience. If he is listening, I dare say he is smiling. So you can rant and rave as much as you like but you will merely fuel his enjoyment.’

  ‘Your wife! God above!’

  ‘The idea is as unpalatable to me, Lady Ysabel.’ He threw a bundle on the bed. �
��Now that we have the pleasantries out of the way, we can deal with business. There are some clothes. The innkeeper has a meal for us. When you have completed your toilette, I shall await you down the stair.’

  ‘I am not hungry.’

  ‘God save me, Ysabel! We haven’t eaten a decent meal for days. It would serve you well to eat and then to sleep because our vessel departs at tide’s turn in the morning.’

  ‘All I require from you,’ I said as I tilted my chin up, ‘is the name of the ship on which I shall sail. Your responsibility to me ends with that.’

  ‘My responsibility ends when I hand you over to your father, his behaviour notwithstanding. Unfortunately for both of us that is still some time hence. Like it or not, it is the way of it.’

  Whether I wanted to or not, I looked at the man who stood before me and my stomach curled and rolled. His proximity unsettled me, turning me awry. He reached for the bundle on the bed and shook it out, holding a white linen chemise for my inspection. It was beautifully worked on the hems and must have cost much more than he had in his purse. I looked to the rest of the bundle and gasped. A midnight blue, finely woven bliaut draped like a shadow across the edge of the bed, its folds pooling on the floor. A cloak of the same shade but edged in black sable lay underneath and a boot fell to the floor, black kid, more than good enough for traveling.

  He pulled the other boot from underneath the bundle and I blushed as I reached for the chemise he offered. Our fingers touched, the slightest glide of one hand over the other. I would swear he left a searing burn behind and I looked up from the closely woven linen. Our eyes met and his were as dark as the bliaut, darkening more by the second until he moved and the spell broke.

  ‘I will leave you to dress, my lady.’

  He bowed his head as if we had just met and left, the door closing behind him.

  My equilibrium rippled and crashed around me.

  I had deceived myself.

  I wanted to hate Guy of Gisborne but it was far too late for that.

  All I could do now was hide my longing and I hated my naivety, my ignorance. Cazenay had not helped me grow at all. It had simply been a rarefied atmosphere whereby men and woman were thrown together to play games of love, games based on the rules of Eleanor’s courts – shallow rules, rules that grew like weeds from the words of troubadours’ songs and poems. There seemed nothing of reality in my previous life and I felt at sea, utterly.

  I grabbed the damp cloth and scrubbed my body again until it reddened, as I wished to be clean when that fine clothing slid over my skin. I placed one nail underneath the others, scraping until they were almost spotless.

  I would have loved some perfume, some floral extract … anything to take away the smell of horse and road and the never forgotten odour of death which had stalked alongside us these last weeks. But there was nothing … until I slipped on the first of the clothes and smelled lavender. Each garment had obviously been stored in a chest with bags of herbs and the fragrance was delicate, engendering a lifting of spirits.

  The soft wool of the bliaut fell from my breasts and as I reached for the ankle boots, I noticed an emerald and aqua girdle lying in a shy heap. Picking it up, I ran my fingers over goldwork that edged the peacock feather design. It was a glorious piece of Saracen needlework and against the midnight of the gown, it made a statement of wealth and privileged nobility.

  How did you manage it, Gisborne? More importantly, why?

  With the bowl and cloth, the innkeeper’s wife had left a wooden comb and I began to work through my hair, removing tangle after tangle. Oh, it was so dirty, itchy and oily after days on the road, the kind of hair a lady would never have been seen with in Cazenay. A final comb through and I plaited it, twisting the plait loosely atop, resurrecting whatever I could of a style that I remembered but had no looking glass to check.

  I would have liked my Cazenay goods, my small but loved collection of jewelry, even my own bone comb – but they were gone. Carried away by our attackers, by Wilf’s and Harry’s murderers. My stomach growled as I recalled that dreadful moment although less with grief than with emptiness. Time to eat, time to descend the stair.

  Time to confront whatever was coming my way.

  The gown wafted around my ankles, its folds heavy, flowing with each step. As I negotiated the stair, I grasped the bliaut so that I would not fall, progressing slowly, recalling from an ancient past the grace that I had learned at Cazenay. Gisborne stood at the bottom with his back to me but the stair creaked and he turned.

  I swear I did not imagine the glance that came scorching up the steps. He held out his hand and I laid my fingers in the palm. It should probably have felt cool against my own because the stair was breezy and dark but in fact a shocking touch vibrated up my arm. My breath sucked in and I held it as he bent his head, drawing my hand upward. The pressure of his lips on my fingers was like a butterfly wingbeat and when he spoke, his voice reached in and touched every secret part of me.

  If I was a castle wall, I had been well and truly breached.

  Chapter Six

  There are times in life when one just wants to forget about concerns and cares – ignore the shouted whisper of caution in the ear. To believe that nothing could ever be wrong and that every dream or fantasy one has ever had is about to be fulfilled. This was such a time.

  Gisborne drew me along a passage to a large room at the front of the inn. It glowed with light from cressets and a fire popped and cracked in a modest hearth. A few people sat at benches and trestles and the hubbub eased briefly as we entered - rising again as we sat. The innkeeper placed mugs and a flagon of ale in front of us and I watched Gisborne’s hand lift and pour. Even such a simple movement had its effect and part of me sighed with such sadness that we were destined for something other than what might have been. I was unable to speak and the silence between us grew longer and longer. He fiddled with the mug, looking around, never meeting my eyes.

  He had kissed my hand so why this apparent indifference?

  Ah but think, Ysabel. The kiss was like a butterfly wingbeat. Does that not mean so light as to be devoid of emotion?

  I closed my eyes, realizing that I had made something of nothing and to my own detriment. A serving wench placed a rough platter in front of me, filled with a meal from which the most delicate fragrance arose. On its edge sat chunks of steaming bread and the juices of the stew had begun to soak in, casting a fawn stain upon the dough. The sauce was thick and glossy and I could see parsley, onion, and succulent pieces of rabbit and my depression lifted as I took my first mouthful. It was a gift from God. My eyes closed as I chewed, tasting the flavour on my tongue, identifying garlic and thyme. When I opened them again after swallowing, I found Gisborne’s gaze upon me.

  ‘Good?’

  ‘Mary Mother, I had forgotten what well-cooked food tastes like.’ I sipped the ale, lifting the bread and tearing off a piece with my teeth. ‘I’m actually starving.’

  ‘I did tell you we needed feeding,’ he said as he tore at the bread himself, dragging it through the fine sauce.

  Be polite. Expect nothing.

  ‘I confess you are right.’ I said. ‘And I think I shall sleep the better because of it.’

  ‘You should have a good sleep tonight. I cannot guarantee our comfort on the boat and the weather does not look good. It may be rough.’

  ‘I’m not worried. I am used to sailing that stretch of water. I did it every year as a child.’

  He sipped the ale and topped up my mug. ‘And that was how many years ago?’

  ‘Eight.’

  ‘And you have not been aboard a boat since?’

  ‘No, but you are either seaworthy or not and fortuitously I am. It will not be an issue for me.’ I loved the sea and I couldn’t wait to prove it. ‘But Master Gisborne, I would that we talked for a moment on other things…’

  He had a habit of turning his head slightly to the side when he was perplexed or assessing a situation. His brows would crease a little.
It was that same glance that now met mine and I wondered if he disliked the title I gave him. But it was impossible for me to call him Guy. ‘Guy’ was a title reserved for a close friend. Whether he fascinated me and had fingers on my heart was immaterial; I could not call him my close friend because he had let Halsham go and it stood between us like giant hurdle. Nevertheless, there was a certain propriety to be observed, an etiquette.

  ‘I owe you thanks. My clothes are quite beautiful. Where did you get them.’

  ‘It is the charge laid upon me, Ysabel, to keep you safe and comfortable. Clothes are a part of that.’

  ‘But these are very expensive.’ I drew the fabric through my fingers, enjoying the softness of the wool, the fine weave. ‘How have you paid?’

  ‘I have funds.’

  His voice began to close down, a note to it that advised me to stop now, this instant. I could see if I pursued it I was going to drive a further wedge between us and that was not my purpose. I was tired. Tired of struggling with the depths of emotions that had stretched thin almost to breaking by circumstance these last weeks. In many ways I knew it was Gisborne who had kept me on an even keel on this dreadful journey of realisations. If I looked beyond his arrogance, his misplaced ambition, temper and moodiness, he had been there when I needed support. Which is why I did not pursue the issue of expense and tried another tack instead.

  ‘Well tell me then, where did you buy the clothes? For this is quality, the sort we would see in Aquitaine.’ I fingered the girdle. ‘This is Saracen-made and the gold thread work is very fine.’

  ‘You are astute. It is a Saracen piece. The goods all came from the merchants with whom we traveled. They have warehouses here in Calais from where they ship goods to England. Your girdle came from Acre as a matter of fact and the woolen fabric in the gown was woven and dyed in Bruges, the wool no doubt originally from England, the garment itself made here in Calais. As to the chemise and other things, I have no idea. It was a matter of moment to do business. You needed a change of clothes, I could provide them.’