by Prue Batten
‘Then it as I said, thank you.’
I spoke simply and pressed his hand unconsciously. He froze, looking at it, then at the empty jug. Removing my fingers, he picked the jug up and asked the wench for more ale. It wasn’t a rebuttal but it had a sense of removal and I blushed with the stupid spontaneity of my action. I suspect he sensed my discomfort because he immediately asked a question that diffused the moment.
‘How are you after the journey aboard Monty? Two days on a campaign horse…’
‘I know what you are going to say. That it is hard enough for a man let alone a woman. Well, truth? God but I am sore. I swear I thought I would fall down the stair. But Monty was reliable beyond words and I can only think that whomever acquires him will be a lucky man.’
‘You did well. None of the merchants suspected you were a woman. Indeed I would that you reverted to your disguise when we are on the boat and in England.’
He fiddled with his knife, the one he had taken from his belt when eating. It had a bone handle that was intricately carved. Irish, I thought.
I must ask…
But his words jumped out at me.
Disguise? Again?
I remembered he had said that once before, as if it were important.
‘Why? For what reason?’
My stomach began the slide that was becoming habitual. Gisborne shook his head slightly and I assumed he was not going to be explicit so I pushed.
‘Please. If this is something that can affect me, you must say. Tell me. Am I in danger?’
He sighed and shifted, his voice so low it rumbled.
‘Danger? Not like the forest where we lost Wilf and Harry. A different sort of danger.’
‘What then?’
I was going to England for God’s sake, to my home. What danger could there be? I had no inheritance to speak of and was worth nothing to anyone.
‘Halsham told me that De Courcey waits for you, Ysabel. From my point of view it’s best I get you to England and to your father unrecognized. After that, it is not my concern. But I will not let you fall into De Courcey’s hands. Not until you have seen your father.’
‘Halsham said? And you trust him?’ I scoffed.
The rapist? God help me.
‘In this instance, yes. He had nothing to gain from telling me of De Courcey. And even if it were doubtful intelligence, I would be a fool to ignore it. Your safety is at stake.’
I shivered. ‘You scare me.’
He reached across and touched my arm, a small squeeze that he withdrew as swiftly as it was offered.
‘I don’t mean to. Have you eaten enough? I think we should retire and rest while we can.’
‘Yes,’ I stood, anxiety beginning to bite. ‘But you need to tell me more. I need to know every single thing.’
He placed his hand under my elbow.
‘There is not a great deal more to tell.’
But I knew he told an untruth, almost as if he wished no one to hear us. I looked around the room. Men sat drinking, apparently uninterested in us and yet he seemed concerned that we would be overheard. He was an unnaturally cautious man, a characteristic no doubt birthed when he had been turned from his inheritance.
I gave him my hand and he led me from the chamber, up the stair and to my room. All the while my heart pattered as we walked close, our bodies side by side, his hand beneath mine. He pushed open the door and we passed through, he moving to a chair by the window, me taking a seat by the hearth. I pulled the folds of the gown from underneath my feet and fiddled with the hem.
‘What else have you to say? Why did you imply danger?’
He sat in the shadows by the window. I couldn’t see his expression, whereas I dare say he could see every mood flash across my own face.
‘De Courcey is a violent man, Ysabel. For some reason he wants you.’
‘How violent?’
‘The kind that as a young boy would probably have killed puppies. Ysabel, trust me. In this instance I do know best.’
He was just a dark voice in a corner of shadows.
‘Be specific, Gisborne. How violent?’
‘God damn you, Ysabel.’
‘No,’ I almost shouted as I stood up. ‘God damn you if you don’t tell me.’
He came toward me, a subtly clad figure whose face I would remember all the days of my life. ‘Ysabel…’
‘Tell me.’ This time I yelled.
He was so close and I let his arms slide around me as he pulled me toward his chest, buffering me from his next words. ‘He would rape you, Ysabel, if he wanted you. It is what he does. He would kill your father if he wanted to and then attend a banquet immediately after.’ I struggled against him but he held tight. ‘It - is - what - he - does.’
I sucked in my breath and a little sob followed but I had no tears as I reflected on how much my life had collapsed in a few weeks.
‘God…’
He eased me away from his chest. He was infinitely gentle, lifting my face so that I had to look at him, his hands either side of my jaw. The pain I felt as my ruined life rattled around me like a thunderstorm was stupendous, but he was there … as he had been every step of the way, and once again, I let him take the pain away. I lifted my right hand to his and covered it as it lay on my jaw.
There are times in life when one just wants to forget about concerns and cares. To ignore the shouted whisper of caution in the ear…
I tilted my head, closing my eyes. I want to feel every sensation and the intensity sharpened without sight. I said nothing because I was afraid sound would shatter the moment, would make him think twice about what he did.
I tried not to think at all.
His lips moved to my neck and I lifted my shoulder as the delicate touch stirred me. His stubble rubbed at my skin and it should have been uncomfortable but it was a sublime touch – rough and smooth. His hands slid to my shoulders and then down to my arms and I felt the pressure of his fingers as he pulled me harder against him. I turned my head and kissed his chin … only lightly as I was afraid of being too forward.
I need not have worried. He met me halfway, his hands retracing their journey, leaving a trail of echoes in their wake, cupping the rounded edges of my shoulders in his palms, his thumbs circling before easing away to I knew not where. My eyes remained closed and I could feel the proximity of his body to mine as for a moment there was no sound but for our breathing, the crack of the burning wood in the hearth and the softest creak of leather as Guy moved.
And then he spoke.
‘Ysabel,’ his voice stroked my backbone, the words so soft. ‘Ysabel.’
I dared to open my eyes and as I did, my fingers lifted and touched smooth muscle and bare, warm skin and I knew at once there was no going back.
The hours passed and I confess to not one feeling of profligacy. I would carry the memory of this night to my grave. He would leave me, of that there was no doubt and it was as it must be, but I meanwhile had a treasury of emotion and sensation to draw on whenever life looked as if it would bankrupt me.
As the moon passed across the heavens outside, the trees made intricate designs on the walls of the chamber and still we were silent, our breathing the only sign we were alive and aware. His fingers traced ancient patterns down to the well at the base of my spine and I tried to decipher them as if they were runes that spelled my future. Vaguely I remembered his Irish knife and his love of the Irish ballad and it all fitted together around me so that I stretched with languid ease as he slid over me.
They say the lovers’ knot has an unbroken shape in Ireland, that it simply winds in and out, over and under in perpetuity, and that is forever how I remember the intertwining shape of this night of nights as Guy of Gisborne and I, Ysabel of Moncrieff, made love.
Later, as we curled into each other’s bodies, I dared to speak. ‘I would ask only one thing, Sir Guy.’
‘I am not Sir Guy,’ his voice rumbled through his chest as I lay my head on it.
‘It is seman
tics,’ I replied. ‘Knightly behaviour can occur with or without a title. In any case, it’s a discussion for another time. But as I said,’ I rubbed my cheek against his damp skin. ‘I would ask only one thing.’ He said nothing and so I presumed he waited. I swallowed and left my head lying still as I did not want to look into his eyes. I was afraid of what I might see and so I launched into a simple plea. ‘Don’t regret this.’
Once again he did not speak, nothing in reply for so long that my stomach sank to my naked toes. But then his hand stroked the top of my head and all he said was ‘Ysabel…’ in a faintly chiding way.
I couldn’t ask for more. I had no right to. I was a willing participant.
Besides, I thought I knew which way the game would go.
Something warmed my back and as I stretched, my shoulder was gently shaken. Through sleepy lids I could see the sun streaming into the chamber. Guy’s voice spoke just loud enough to push the last threads of sleep from my consciousness.
‘Ysabel, wake you. It’s time to dress and break your fast. The boat leaves in an hour.’
I sat up quickly, dragging the covers over me. To be sure it hardly mattered because he had seen every part of me overnight. But something about daylight and the resumption of our journey made me more coy than I had been in hours past.
‘You should have woken me earlier,’ I said.
‘You were tired and needed to rest. I would that you had your wits about you.’
‘Meaning I haven’t till now? I am sure you jest.’
His mouth gave the smallest hint of a smile as he turned.
‘I shall leave you to dress and meet you down the stair.’
Dressing in men’s clothes is a quick business apart from the need to bind my breasts tightly. My hair, more sweat-filled than ever, smoothed easily into a tight knot that I thrust under the hood. I folded the coveted lady’s apparel into a neat bundle and placed it in a sack that slung from the shoulder, wrapping the cloak around me because the cold of concern had started to make itself felt and yet it seemed a fine spring morning beyond the walls. Heading for the stair, I clopped down as would any youth of my age. I had every intention of being anything but a woman.
Gisborne waited outside, passing me some bread and dried figs. ‘This’ll have to do. We need to get aboard the boat immediately.’
‘Why?’ I asked, noting the bread was fresh and that I was ragingly hungry after last night.
‘De Courcey’s men are in the town.’
Any lightness of heart disappeared in a moment and my predicament once again stood larger than life in front of me.
‘You say? How do you know?’
I stuffed the bread and figs into the small leather purse that hung from my waist and licked lips that had become dry in an instant.
‘Halsham.’
His reply was uncompromising and he looked away up the street, his eyes forever roaming shadowy corners as if danger lurked in every crevice. ‘He ate with De Courcey last night.’
There was so much I wanted to say about snakes, traitors and more but I desisted and followed hard on his heels as we sped down the darker alleys, winding in and out of shadow, twisting ourselves in amongst the ordinary folk of Calais.
The townspeople moved toward the wharves like water going down a drain, as if all the business of Calais was to be done by the sea. This was a town of trade, of diplomacy and secrets and patently it suited Gisborne, this ready-made camouflage of the populace as we fled to the waterside. I had no time to think, to rationalize and had to rely entirely on his assessment of the situation and as we sped around a corner, he grabbed me, pulling me into a doorway, shoving me behind his darkly clad body so that we were just a deeper shadow amongst many.
‘What…’
‘Don’t speak!’
He reached behind with one hand, grasping my arm, squeezing hard and I sneaked a look around him and saw a small squad of liveried men jog past in formation, following a man mounted on a chestnut gelding. They moved swiftly, too swiftly for me to see the face of the man that led them, but I recalled Halsham’s livery. Black with a blood red shield.
Halsham is De Courcey’s man.
‘Guy,’ I whispered, the unsuitability of using his name forgotten. ‘Is...’
‘De Courcey.’
My head flung round as I tried to glimpse more of this person who must surely be my nemesis. All I could see were broad shoulders and russet hair on a man who sat his horse well. All I could feel was the back of an enigmatic man who had loved me last night and whom I had loved back.
The troupe passed from sight, turning a corner, and Gisborne stepped from the shadows.
‘Quickly, we must get to the boat and away before he realizes you are gone. If I am right, he makes haste to our inn. Leave your sack behind.’
‘But it is the gown and girdle.’
‘Life matters more.’
The response was curt as he began to run and I puffed beside him.
‘Does it occur to you that Halsham has betrayed us, Guy?’
But he didn’t answer.
The wharf was less than two hundred yards down a steep, cobbled way.
‘The nef – the Marolingian,’ he pointed.
She was moored alongside the wharf, a mast poking into the midday sky like a marker and from its tip a white pennant fluttered as if to remind one that the breeze waited impatiently to propel the vessel through the water. The crowd had burgeoned even more; perhaps they enjoyed farewelling a departing vessel.
In so many ways the mass of people was much to our advantage. In so many others it signified nuisance as it slowed our escape from the alley. Gisborne set off again, running with speed, dipping and dodging as I sprinted to keep up.
I tried valiantly to tread in his footsteps but the swirling folk pushed and shoved as they went about their business. Soon he was out of sight and my heart hammered. All I could do was set my feet doggedly somewhere in the direction of the docks. Looking above the crowd, I could see the pennant and I swear it waved to me. As if the devil were behind, I shouldered and bullied, calling, ‘Let me through. Aside you. Out of the way.’
Sweaty and disheveled, folds of the cloak muddied at the hem, I finally stood quayside. Gisborne was on board scanning the crowd and as he went to yell again, his eyes met mine and I swear I saw relief. His eyes closed for less than a second, then he was shouting. ‘Come on!’
I flew up the plank, the captain grabbing me.
‘Here Mistress, hide in amongst the hogsheads with Master Guy. The baron’s men are approaching.’
He pushed me down amongst oaken hogs and a sail was pulled across.
‘Jack,’ he called. ‘Cast off! Piotr, cast the stern line. Ailric, pull up the plank. Ready oars.’
The oars were pushed out on the starboard side with a woody clatter.
‘Pull!’
The vessel juddered slightly as it moved away from the wharf. Then the larboard oars pulled to gain us distance from the wharf.
‘Ready all oars… and together, pull!’
The movement changed to a steadier forward motion and I whispered to Gisborne.
‘Are we safe?’
‘Ssh!’
He bent and looked underneath the sail and I joined him.
‘You there, Captain!’
De Courcey’s men lined the wharf in their death and blood colours and De Courcey himself stood in front, his chest puffed out as he called, expecting our captain to spring to his attention.
‘Aye?’ was the shouted reply.
‘Have you two passengers aboard? A man and a woman?’
‘Do I look as if I take paying passengers?’
The wily captain spat over the side of the vessel toward the wharf and one could be forgiven for thinking he spat at De Courcey.
‘But I see’d ‘em,’ he said craftily. ‘They come aboard a half hour back and asked for passage up the coast. Had to tell ‘em I was bound for England, not Bruges.’
De Courcey swore and
I made fists in silent exultation.
‘Hold the boat steady, men,’ the captain continued before directing his attention at De Courcey again. ‘I’ll tell you what I told ‘em.’
The boat drifted parallel with the quay but mercifully far enough away to prevent even the most intrepid of De Courcey’s men from jumping aboard. De Courcey paced along with us, keeping within earshot, pushing people out of the way. A young boy balanced on the edge of the wharf and but for kind hands that reached for him, would have pitched into the dark depths below.
‘I sent ‘em to the other wharf,’ said the captain lifting his shoulder to indicate a direction to the stern of the Marolingian. ‘There’s a boat there, a sister ship. She’s goin’ to Ter Streep and I told ‘em they could get a barge up the Zwynn to Bruges from there.’
De Courcey swore and Guy snorted softly.
I looked back from under the sail and saw the captain touch his forehead with two fingers. De Courcey had flushed red and turned on his heel. He was a good enough looking man in a ruddy, explosive way. His chin was strong and cleft and his hair, that curious wine shade, lifted in the seabreeze as he turned, his heavy cloak flapping about him. He wasn’t as tall as Gisborne but he had a breadth of shoulder that gave him an illusion of extraordinary power. Men backed away from him as he hurried back to his troupe and I would forever be reminded of a king in the making.
Or a kingmaker.
‘Oarsmen, pull!’ the captain roared and De Courcey looked back over his shoulder. We turned to larboard a little more and then the oarsmen pulled us out into the current and we floated swiftly on the tide, well out of view of the quay.
‘Right you two, we need the sail now, keep your heads down until we are well to sea.’
‘Thank you, Davey.’
Gisborne reached up and shook the captain’s hand.
‘Pleasure, Master Guy. Yer know I do it fer Lady Ghislaine. She were good to me when I were at Gisborne.’
