Doubtless this castle was a miracle of its age, and perhaps its master found some comfort in it with his running water and new-fangled sanitation and proximity to a fire and servants to stoke it throughout the night. But the blank cell in which Gisburne now found himself – set in the furthest, most windswept extremity of the mountain of stone – would give a flagellant pause. There was no curtain at the window, and certainly no such lavish commodity as glass – only a shutter with a bent latch, which rattled incessantly as the wind and sleet howled through the yawning gap. There was no privy – although the whole place smelt like one. There was no hearth for a fire – not even, in this God-forsaken corner, a nearby chimney flue from which some residual heat might be gained. Despite all the unwelcome ventilation, the walls ran with moisture, and the bed was so damp and cold that getting in between its covers seemed about as enticing as sliding naked into a freezing duckpond. Such a place might well keep out an army with all its ramparts and moats and murder holes and walls within walls – but there was more simple comfort to be had in a serf’s hovel.
He thought back over the excruciating experience of de Clere’s feast, and shuddered. His triumph there had been short-lived. A toast, another cheer, then all had begun to melt away again into a generic murmur, the moment passing away as quickly and completely as a warm breath in a gale. Or a spring bloom in winter.
He was glad of it, except that it also meant the passing of Marian. She had smiled warmly, and grasped his hand – the simple contact again making his heart pound against his chest – then moved away to converse with others with exactly equal warmth. Marian gave generously of her heart to everyone. And equally. He began to believe he would never have the greater share of it. She was now preparing for bed somewhere within these walls, watched over by her chaperone. He tried to push such thoughts out of his head, and began checking over his gear again, ready for the morning. It wasn’t neccessary, but it would keep his mind occupied, at least.
He realised it was inside that he was feeling unprepared. In spite of his recent training, he was tired; in spite of his recent good fortune, dispirited. His left shoulder ached. It always grew stiff in cold weather – had done so since the trials of the Holy Land – and the climb up the Tower wall had hardly helped matters. He reached for his sword – his father’s old blade – and drew it from its scabbard. It was solid, reassuring. It reminded him of his father. But there was something else, too. Without fail, every time Gisburne’s fingers closed around the grip of a sword, a vision of his old mentor flashed into his mind. He allowed himself a private smile. It was a very specific memory.
HE WAS TWELVE years old, and had just arrived in Normandy after the most awful experience of his life – his first sea voyage, during which he had vomited everything his stomach had to offer within minutes of leaving Dover, and then, in spite of that, had carried on vomiting for whole of the rest of the day.
His stomach muscles still ached and his legs still wobbled from the heave of the ship as he stood beneath the castle of Fontaine-La-Verte. The weather was bright and warm – late spring or early summer – and before him, on a wide expanse of grass, dozens of figures were shouting and laughing and milling about. Riders tilted at sacks suspended from ropes, or practised turning their mounts back and forth around barrels with their hands on their heads, using only the pressure of their knees; younger squires sparred with wooden swords and shields, while some older ones – not far off knights themselves – fought at the pell or duelled with blunted weapons in roped rings, attended by knights who sometimes took up swords, maces or axes against each other to demonstrate proper technique. Among them, boys of all ages ran about, fetching water or lances or leading horses for their masters, weaving in and out of the brightly coloured tents dotting the edges of the field. From one corner came the rousing sound of a pipe and drum, and in another a great pot steamed over a fire, from which a long trestle table lined with benches stretched into the patchy shade of the gently swaying oak trees.
Guy stood, entranced, his baggage still hanging off him – all his nerves and homesickness, for the moment, quite forgotten. He had been late coming to this world – most here would have been pages by the age of seven or eight – and he envied the ease with which these boys inhabited it, many much younger than he. Guy’s father – a poor knight, who, as he often pointed out with somewhat bitter humour, owned “less land than most yeomen” – had schooled the boy himself until he had found a knight-mentor for him. That was an old friend from past campaigns, who Guy had apparently once known as “uncle”. He loitered, with no clear memory of that man, and no means of recognising him.
A noisy flurry of activity caught his eye not far from where he stood. Two older squires, surrounded by perhaps a half dozen more, were engaged in a ferocious duel. Occasionally the combatants disappeared behind the spectators, the only sign of them the glinting blades flashing over their fellows’ heads. It became a kind of music: long phrases beaten out without pause, followed by a tantalising moment of respite, then the theme would be taken up again, with variations and shifts of tempo. Then they would again dance nimbly into view, side-stepping or parrying the relentless barrage of crashing blows with battered shields. The sheer danger of it thrilled and appalled him. He could feel every blow in his gut. He knew they would be fighting with practice or tournament blades – their edges filed flat so they could not cut – but a strike with one of these could still break a bone or crush a skull. And yet, with its movements and rhythms – swift, agile, fluid – the combat also possessed a curious, abstract beauty. One in particular – the taller, more slender of the two, in a yellow gambeson – whipped his sword around with such flow and grace that he made it appear weightless, a natural extension of his arm. He had an unusual grip – his forefinger hooked over the sword’s cross-guard. Compared to Guy’s own clumsy efforts with his father’s blade, such lightness of touch seemed miraculous.
The boy’s blade flashed. The other stumbled and fell, rhythm broken. Victorious, his fallen opponent at sword point, he threw off his helm to reveal a shock of sandy, sweat-streaked hair as those about him clapped and cheered. In that moment, Guy knew his one goal in life was to emulate this older boy.
“You are intrigued by his technique?” Guy turned to see a knight beside him – solidly built, hair cropped short, his expression serious. The man seemed ancient compared to the youths upon the field. Guy was not expecting to be spoken to by a knight, and uncertain of the correct form of address. To compound his confusion, the man had addressed him quite matter-of-factly, almost as if he were an equal. Guy nodded. He was sure that was wrong, in any company, but it was too late now for pleasantries. The old man nodded in return and grunted. He looked away again, as if scanning the clouds.
“I knew a knight by the name of Osbern who favoured that hold. He said it afforded better balance, and more control over the angle of the blade. A Flemish mercenary changed his mind at the battle of Alnwick.” Guy frowned at that. A knight take the advice of a common mercenary? The old man saw the question on the boy’s mind and allowed a flicker of smile to pass his lips. “The mercenary was with the opposing army. During the assault on the camp of William the Lion, his axe hit the knight’s blade, slid its length and instead of stopping against the cross-guard stopped against Sir Osbern’s forefinger. He lost the finger. Then his sword. Then his life. You will not be following his example.”
The old man – although he was, at the time, only 35 – then introduced himself as Gilbert de Gaillon. Gisburne would be under this man’s tutelage for the best part of the next ten years, first as page, then squire.
In those early days, Gisburne had known nothing of the battle de Gaillon had mentioned, nor that William the Lion was the rebellious king of the Scots. He later learned that the Scottish king had been successfully subjugated by Henry, imprisoned in the Conqueror’s old castle at Falaise in Normandy, and was made to sign over his kingdom. The treaty of Falaise had lasted until 1189 – when another royal Lion named Richard, hungry for
money to fund his crusade, had sold William back his castle, title and feudal rights in exchange for 10,000 silver marks. Richard had been unable to find a buyer for London. But he had, at least, managed to sell Scotland.
A RAP ON the door snapped Gisburne back to the present. His fingers tightened on the grip of his sword. It was not the tentative knock of a servant, nor the jaunty knock of a friend, or even the peremptory knock of an official. Two knocks of exactly equal force; indistinct, cryptic, unreadable.
He hauled the door open, sword still in his hand. Before him, and perhaps a foot shorter than he, stood a man several years older than himself, a flickering tallow candle between his fingers, his dress nondescript, his stubbly, half-lit face round and expressionless.
“I’m your new squire,” he said, matter-of-factly. Gisburne looked the curious figure up and down, uncertain for the moment quite how to respond. His instinct was to guffaw. Instead, he let a frown crease his brow.
“Aren’t you a little old for a squire?”
At that, the man’s facial expression subtly shifted from inscrutable to withering – as if Gisburne were something he had just stepped in, and the smell had just reached his nostrils. Gisburne sensed more was to come, but was in no mood for it.
“You’ve made a mistake,” he said. “I don’t need a squire.” And he swung the door back towards the man’s face before the other had time to speak. Its heavy oak stopped against the man’s boot, and was shoved back open again with surprising force.
The little man glared at him, drew his foot back from the door frame and flexed it with a wince. “I’d prefer it if you didn’t do that again. We have a long road ahead of us and I need both my feet.”
Gisburne, who’d already had more than he could take on this day – who felt he could well do with a whipping boy on whom to vent his frustration, even one as old as this – advanced on the man, sword still gripped in his fist. “Listen – I’ve no idea who you are, nor who put you up to this, but believe me, I’m in no mood for jokes. A knight chooses a squire, not the other way around. And the day I choose you is the day Saladin himself rides into Heaven on the back of a pig.” He attempted to slam the door again. It was stopped with a palm.
“It’s at the request of your employer,” hissed the little man through the gap. He reached inside his tunic and thrust a folded parchment at Gisburne’s chest. Gisburne did not need to read it. It bore the seal of Prince John. This was no mistake. Whether the strange creature before him was meant as a helping hand, or a challenge, or was simply some kind of cosmic curse, Gisburne could not yet say. But one thing was certain: John’s wishes trumped his own. A knight chose a squire – but only at his prince’s pleasure.
He stood in silence for a moment, absorbing the fact that he was stuck with this irritating little man. That every part of the journey ahead, as he had imagined it, would now be different. He hated partnerships – had hated them for a long time. Since the Holy Land. Since that. He worked alone. But he also trusted John. Though ill-served by those around him, he had more wisdom in his little finger than Richard had in his entire being. And infinitely more humanity. He would not have made such a decision lightly. Gisburne knew he must at least try to accept this – to have faith in his master’s judgement.
There was one irritation he found harder to put aside. It centred on a single word. Employer. Of all the words this squire – his supposed servant – could have chosen... as if he was no more than a common tradesman. But what pierced his pride most was that, for much of his life, this had been true. Until John had found him, he had fought for whoever would take him on, selling his muscle and sinew and basic craft to whoever would pay – no different from a blacksmith or carpenter. Except that when he had done his job, people were dead. In all that time, during the dark years when he had struggled daily to regain the respect that had been lost, he had rarely faced this simple fact. What had kept him going was the belief that he was a man on a quest. A knight expectant. A knight in the shadows. Now, the plain truth struck him almost as comical. He had been a labourer with a sword, earning his bread from day to day, drifting from place to place – no status, no prospects, no future. Against all the odds, that perseverance had paid off. But he was keenly aware that it had come about by no more than a stroke of fortune, and that fortune’s wheel had more often turned against him than in his favour. Everything he had hung by a thread.
He took a deep breath, and – as so often in his life – asked himself what de Gaillon would do. There was no question; he would work with what he had, and keep his complaints to himself. “Well then...” he said, softening his tone. “I suppose you have a name? Can you at least tell me that before we both die in this draught?”
“Galfrid,” said Galfrid.
“Galfrid...” repeated Gisburne with a slow nod, as if trying it out for size. He was about to announce something along the lines of “I accept you into my service out of respect for my lord” when Galfrid pre-empted him.
“The ship for Calais leaves on the morning tide,” he said, deadpan. “Have your accoutrements ready by first light.”
Gisburne stared in amazement, irritation swelling inside him once more. Shouldn’t hebe telling this Galfrid to do that?
“I’ll send two boys to help bring it down to the courtyard,” Galfrid added. Then, without another word, he turned on his heels and was swallowed up by the dark.
Gisburne slammed the door shut, and wondered how on earth he was going to make this work. Who would this man be taking orders from? His knight, or his prince? If Galfrid would not take orders from him, the challenging days and weeks to come were going to be impossible. Perhaps he should just tip him over the side somewhere between Dover and Calais.
Fully clothed, his horsehide coat wrapped about him, he climbed into bed, admiring as he did so the tenacity of the lice that managed to thrive within it. He lay for a long time, then, thinking of Marian and watching a drift of sleet forming beneath the window, the stink of piss in his nostrils.
IX
GISBURNE DID NOT need the servants. They stood idly by, watching in awkward silence as he loaded himself up, then headed down to the yard where his horse was waiting. It was largely habit. He was used to trusting no one, relying on no one. But also, today, it was partly pride – a note of defiance. That he should feel the need to defy a squire – that he had one at all – seemed absurd. But there it was.
When Gisburne arrived in the inner ward, weighed down with his gear, he found Galfrid already waiting. By him were two stable hands, and two horses – a pair of sturdy rounceys. As Gisburne neared, the snotty-nosed stable boy arrived with Nyght. A look of incomprehension crept over the youth’s face as he saw the assembled company. Panicky looks darted between the stable hands, as if some dreadful misunderstanding had occurred for which they would likely get the blame. Galfrid looked at Gisburne’s mount, back to his own, then to Gisburne.
“You’re not taking that with you...” He nodded at Nyght.
Gisburne held Galfrid’s gaze, uncertain for a moment whether the man meant it as a question or a command. The stony face gave no clue. He lowered the last of his baggage. The ground was icy, but too cold to be wet.
“It’s the latest thing,” said Gisburne. “It’s called a ‘horse’.” Galfrid’s eyes narrowed at that. “It’s a long way to Marseille. I don’t intend to walk.”
“I have already made provision...” began Galfrid.
“Well, I prefer mine,” snapped Gisburne.
“These are better over distance.”
“He’s a good horse.”
“I can see that,” said Galfrid with a nod. The conciliatory air withered as swiftly as it had bloomed. “As will everyone else. It won’t do.”
Nyght stamped and snorted and shook his head, as if taking personal offence at the comment. “Won’t do?” fumed Gisburne.
“He’s too good.”
Gisburne’s annoyance boiled over. “So, I’m to ride some nag now, am I?”
“W
hen did you last see a pilgrim riding a courser?”
“When the pilgrim was a knight.”
Galfrid fell silent. There was a logic to the response, though it was not logic that drove Gisburne. It was defiance. And pride. And perhaps something more. A knight – a chevalier – was not a knight without his horse. He’d sooner give up his sword.
Galfrid moved in close to Gisburne’s face, his manner suddenly impatient, his voice lowered to an irascible hiss below the hearing of the stable hands. “We are crossing the lands of the King of France. Enemy lands, in all but name. We do not especially wish to announce the fact that we are a knight. It prompts unwelcome questions. And please – spare me the ‘a knight’s not a knight without a horse’ speech...” He turned away, seemed to try to compose himself, but failed. “Or perhaps you would prefer me to blow a trumpet fanfare as we disembark at Calais and shout ‘Hurrah for England and bollocks to King Philip’?”
Gisburne felt a strange satisfaction at the outburst. The little man was human after all. “The horse stays,” he said flatly.
For a while they held each other’s gaze in silence, then Galfrid let out a deep sigh, seeming to deflate. “So be it,” he said. He came in close again. The earlier ire had quite gone, but a quiet intensity remained in his voice. “But know this: if we be captured, we can expect no protection – least of all from our master. We will be denied. Condemned, if necessary. We have only each other for protection now.”
“Nyght is also my protection,” said Gisburne. “And I his.” It was a moment, Gisburne could see, before Galfrid grasped that he was referring to the name of his mount. “He is not merely ‘a horse’. Nor ‘a knight’s horse’. He is my horse. And he has proven his worth. You have yet to do so.”
Galfrid stood in silence again, as if digesting Gisburne’s words, then nodded in resignation.
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