At first, as he and Galfrid had prepared their bonds – tying them back to back with their own rope – Gisburne had simply ignored it, as one ignores a spoilt child, hoping the fire would burn itself out. But Pig-Grease’s bile seemed to flow from an infinite resource. Rather than simply put up with the noise, Gisburne had taken instead to delivering a lecture on their attackers’ tactical shortcomings.
“You see, the first problem,” he said, “is that you put yourselves in your own trap.”
“I said this was a bad place for an ambush,” whined Rat-Face.
“Shut your head!” rasped Pig-Grease. It was the first coherent thing he had said in some time.
“Actually, it’s a good place for an ambush,” continued Gisburne. “If you were on those rocks up there” – here he pointed towards the ridge above with his knife – “you could have picked us off with a bow – even a boulder – and there wouldn’t have been a damn thing we could have done about it. But you were too afraid to kill us. With your own hands, anyway. You hoped the rope would do that work for you.”
Galfrid lifted Pig-Grease’s hands, which were tied in his lap before him. Pig-Grease struggled hard to pull them away, but the elderly squire held them in an iron grip, wrinkling his nose at the bloody stump where the forefinger used to be. “This won’t hurt,” he said, then sprinkled some brown powder onto the raw flesh from a small leather flask. Pig-Grease howled in agony. Expressionless, Galfrid turned away to tend their horses.
“Putting yourselves down here was the big mistake,” continued Gisburne. He shook his head, and tutted. “Rocks on either side. Nowhere to run. And you have no horses. Even if you shot one of us, the other could ride you down. Trample you into the frozen ground.” He shook his head again in dismay, and pulled the bonds tight about the pair. As he leaned in closer, Pig-Grease spat. The stringy phlegm stuck to Gisburne’s shoulder.
“I’m a fair man,” he said. “But you’re seriously trying my patience.” He stalked away and plucked the paramerion from its outline in the snow. Rat-Face wailed with anguish as Gisburne advanced towards them, closing his eyes and hunching into his shoulders as if somehow believing he could make himself disappear. But Gisburne strode straight past, thrusting its blade into the hard ground some thirty paces from where the two sat. “If you can crawl this far, you can cut your bonds before your arses freeze,” he said. “By which time, we’ll be long gone. If you can’t, well... You’ll have plenty of time to think on your errors.”
Pig-Grease roared at him – spitting words that were either in another language entirely, or so warped with rage that they were rendered unintelligible. But there was little doubting the intent.
“Be thankful,” said Gisburne, heaving himself into his saddle. “Others will come. Worse than us. They may not be content for you to simply lose a finger. So, if you want to live, I suggest you pick a new profession.” Then, just before finally turning away, he added: “And sell the sword. It’s worth more than all of us are carrying.”
“Why did you spare them?” said Galfrid as they rode away.
“Because they were weak idiots,” said Gisburne.
“But they still might prey on someone weaker. Some poor pilgrim.”
Gisburne shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not.”
“My God,” said Galfrid. “You actually think one or other of them has a chance. That they might reform their ways...”
“There’s a possibility,” said Gisburne.
“You’re an optimist!” Galfrid chuckled. Then guffawed. It was the first time Gisburne had seen him laugh. It might have been a good thing, had it not been at his expense. “You believe men are good!” He hooted with laughter again.
“No,” snapped Gisburne. “But everyone deserves the chance to be so. What of it?”
“Somehow, I never had you down as the type.”
“I make no apology for not wishing to kill those weaker than me. I’m a knight. Not an executioner.”
Galfrid pondered that for a moment, his laughter subsiding. “Don’t you always kill those weaker than you? Those you have managed to defeat or subdue? I mean, in practice, don’t they have to be weaker, in order...”
“Enough!” said Gisburne. “If I want a philosophical debate, I’ll ask.”
He almost found himself adding “I don’t debate with squires,” but he bit the words back. That, he realised, would have made him sound like the kind of knight he hated. He salved his conscience with the thought that this squire would try the patience of a saint.
They rode in silence for a moment before Galfrid spoke again. “I notice you weren’t so protective of my existence.” There was a pinched tone to his voice as he repeated Gisburne’s words. “‘Kill him, then’...”
Ah, so that was it. Feeling hard done by. Gisburne was damned if he was going to be made to feel guilty about that. “He was never going to loose that arrow,” he protested. “It’s like I said. If he’d meant it, he’d have pinned us from up there in the rocks. You saw his eyes. He was no killer.”
“That’s an optimist’s view,” said Galfrid matter-of-factly.
“I’m not an optimist,” said Gisburne. “I’m a realist.”
Galfrid sighed and shrugged. “Perhaps I’m no great loss.”
On that, however, Gisburne refused to be drawn.
“Do us one favour,” said Galfrid, eventually. “Put that bloody box in a sack.” Then he geed his horse into a gallop.
XV
Paris – 29 November, 1191
THEY COULD SMELL Paris before they could see it.
At least three times the size of London, the infectious, burgeoning sprawl of humanity, with its crooked roofs and spires thrusting into the grey fog of woodsmoke hanging above, was an awe-inspiring sight to the approaching pilgrims. But the reek of its clustered humanity had been growing in their nostrils all the previous day.
The day had proven hard going – the weather dry, but with a bitterly cold wind blowing in their faces. It was not by the gusting wind that the stink of the city had first announced itself, however, but the Seine. Their approach had seemed to involve endless crossings back and forth across the meandering river, using ferries of ever more perilous construction piloted by ferrymen of dubious reliability.
One vessel, whose rope bindings were coming adrift, listed so alarmingly as it plied its treacherous course that Gisburne was convinced, half way across, that they and their horses were doomed to be pitched into the icy, open sewer. Another benefited from an operator who flatly refused to to move until more passengers came along, forcing them to huddle in the bitter wind for hours until this became the case. Without exception, they grew increasingly decrepit and more ridiculously overpriced as the distance from Paris diminished.
Soon, the long-threatened snow had begun to fall and darkness enveloped them, and – when literally close enough to smell the French capital – they had finally been forced to seek lodgings several miles short of their goal.
They had limped into a ragged gathering of huddled dwellings just off the thoroughfare. Gisburne, having expected to dine well that night in one of the world’s greatest cities, had expressed the gloomy opinion that their chances of a decent meal now looked slim. “I’d eat mud if it was hot,” Galfrid had said. Gisburne thought he had also attempted to smile, but that his face was simply too frozen to adequately express anything other than cold.
They sought lodgings at a low, hump-backed building with a flag outside that indicated pilgrims were welcome. Inside, the welcome was rather less evident. The fire was meagre, and around the cramped interior sat a few gloomy, exhausted-looking patrons who looked upon the new arrivals with an expression that seemed part pity, part plea for rescue. Too tired to argue, Gisburne and Galfrid sought out the patron to secure shelter for the night. Reassuringly rotund, with gap teeth and sunken, piggy eyes, he turned out to be a jolly fellow indeed, greeting them like long-lost friends and promising them the finest food and lodging for miles around. When it came, however, the ale was
watery, the bread as hard as wood, and the grey, greasy stew that accompanied it barely edible. It had evidently seen meat of some kind, though of that there was now no visible sign. Beneath the sour tang of onions that had begun to rot was another strangely rank aftertaste, like dead fish. Gisburne did not want to think about why that was.
“About that mud...” said Galfrid, with a despondent air. Gisburne shot back a look that was half smile, half grimace, and forced down another spoonful of the filthy, lukewarm concoction.
Gisburne had been trying to be more conciliatory to Galfrid since Amiens, three days earlier. Whilst there, Galfrid had insisted – actually insisted – that they visit the cathedral. Gisburne had refused. His preferred plan was to keep to the outskirts and not touch the centre of the city at all.
“But it’s what pilgrims do,” Galfrid had said, making no attempt to hide his frustration.
“It’s not what we do,” Gisburne had replied.
“And do you want everyone to know that?”
Gisburne had not been convinced. “Galfrid – no one knows. No one cares. We travel. We rest. That’s all. Our destination is a long way off, and I aim to get there before spring.”
Galfrid had sulked for the rest of the day, gazing elegiacally at the cathedral’s distant towers as they passed, and making Gisburne – much to his own annoyance – feel like a father who had been forced to discipline a demanding child. He also felt guilty. That annoyed him, too. It was too late to back down; it had been a point of principle, and his reasoning was perfectly sound. But perhaps he had grown too used to his own company in the past few years, too used to pleasing only himself and doing things his way. He had never asked for help, never wanted this companion on his journey. But now he had him, like it or not. And, while this strange little man seemed to adopt a gloomy air as a matter of course, Galfrid had never actually complained, but for this one point. He had done everything that was needed and more, and matched his master’s pace in terrible conditions without batting an eye. Gisburne wondered if he had pegged Galfrid all wrong. Perhaps this man he thought to be a cynic was pious after all, and he had offended his religious sensibilities. He didn’t think so.
Gisburne pushed away the remains of the putrid stew and looked around furtively. He was tired to the bone, but there was a niggling sense of frustration that wouldn’t let him rest just yet.
“Do you suppose there’s anywhere around here where we can at least get a decent drink?” he said.
“There are always those bottles of yours,” replied Galfrid.
Gisburne simply smiled, and shook his head, as Galfrid knew full well he would. Then, without another word, both stood and prepared to plunge out into the night.
There were times when Gisburne was surprised by his own optimism. The prospect of anything out in this bleak, freezing night seemed slim, and as they trudged on past the few dwellings, the wind and snow lashing their wrapped faces, even he was on the verge of giving up and heading back to the paltry hospitality they had just left. It was better than nothing – better than being out in this. But some impulse drove him to follow the turn in the road ahead, to at least satisfy himself that there was nothing beyond it.
The few dwellings having been left behind, the way was now flanked by dark, dense trees which seemed to promise nothing but mile upon mile of disordered nature. As they rounded the bend, however, they saw not the expected expanse of forest, but another clearing, and more buildings, and among them, not far ahead, a long, low roof beneath which an encouraging light glowed. From it, as if in response to their wish, and gusting on the merciless wind, came the sound of raucous, drink-fuelled singing. Gisburne and Galfrid looked at each other and actually laughed.
The inn was the Heaven to the Hell of their own bleak lodgings. The fire blazed, beer, cider and wine flowed, and hot bodies crammed every corner. The air was thick with the smell of sweat and the damp fur of the dogs that cavorted about the straw-strewn floor, tempered with the sharp, yeasty tang of spilt ale, and the aromas of seared meat, warm spices and woodsmoke. In one corner, about a crude, circular table of absurdly large proportions, sat almost a dozen knights, and about and between them, a similar number of fresh-faced lads of various ages – squires – who the knights were evidently trying to get drunk. This company, Gisburne was sure, had been the source of the singing. The song had now abated, but someone – Gisburne could not see who – was playing a jaunty tune on a whistle-pipe. Hands beat time on the table tops, joining the clamour of talk and laughter.
Both looked around in wonder, pulling off their wrappings and squeezing in to find a space about a barrel, with upended logs serving as stools. By the fire, Gisburne now saw, spiced wine was steaming in a pot. They had two cups and a jug brought to them, and supped and smiled stupidly as the warm, sweet brew flowed through them. The irony of the situation was not lost on the pair. Not only had they stopped short of their goal by only a few miles, they had fallen short of this, far more generous accommodation by mere yards. Not that it mattered now.
Gisburne eyed the party about the big table. He was wary of groups of knights away from the duties of service or war. Too often, they seemed to feel a lack when these things were not present, and sought to fill it in ways that were troublesome. And he had seen even good men – who, when encountered alone, were as gentle and honourable as one could wish – turn oafish and rowdy in the company of others.
He had been wondering if such was the case with this group, and had resolved this night to remain as unobtrusive as possible, just in case, when a cheery shout went up amongst them. They clapped and roared words of encouragement, and up onto the table was hoisted a gangly lad – a squire who could not have had more than eleven summers on him. His face was flushed and embarrassed. But there was no fear in it. He took a deep breath. The knights fell suddenly silent, and the boy raised his clear voice in song.
It was a tune Gisburne had heard many times before, one he knew only as Por mon coraige; an old song favoured by knights. It told of one leaving all he loved to fight in other lands. The beautiful, simple melodic lines unfolded, piercing the din of the tavern, and as it reached their ears, each within fell silent, one by one, until the only sounds were the pure notes rising and falling, the crack of the fire, and the wind that buffeted the rooftop. Around the table, the knights – men who had undoubtedly survived unspeakable horrors and hardships – stared into their drinks, lost in memory of all they had won and lost, tears coursing down their faces. When he finished, and let his head drop, there was a moment of silence when even the wind seemed to abate. The cheer that followed shook the rafters.
After their return, Gisburne and Galfrid settled down for the night on pallets in a cramped, dank room that played host that evening to three other travellers. Gisburne lay a long time in the dark, listening to the grunting and farting of his fellow pilgrims, the sharp, sickly tang of dead mice in his nostrils. The smell – perhaps spurred on by the presence of the knights in the inn – had evoked a powerful memory. He rubbed the scar on his brow – the flesh had begun to itch, as if itself remembering.
THEY REACHED PARIS a day – or, at least, part of a day – later than Gisburne had wished. The advantage to their late arrival in the city was that they had arrived in daylight. Galfrid had been dismissive from the start. “It’s like London,” he’d said, “but more cramped, more filthy and with worse food.”
Gisburne’s first impressions were of a city at once brand new and in a state of advanced decay. The wind was gusting from the southeast that day, and carried before it the full stink of the hectic, noisy, heaving hive of grandiose squalor. But, as they approached from the northwest, it seemed that that there was no corner where some building was not taking place. Around the entire metropolis, as far as the eye could see, were massive, half-built walls, punctuated by piles of sand or gravel and heaps of stones. The snow was trampled and tracked by hundreds of hooves and wheels that constantly came and went. Around every edifice, teetering scaffolds crawled with m
en who toiled ceaselessly with chisel and hammer while, about their heads, wooden cranes and windlasses swung and creaked under the weight of fresh masonry. Before the walls, to the south, as they approached Porte St Honoré, the landscape had been scoured and scraped of every living thing for miles around, and from this barren patch of bare, frozen earth, grit and icy puddles – broken and heaped and dug with vast ditches – rose massive, round towers and more thick walls of stone. A fortress fit for giants. Galfrid – who seemed to know everything about everything – informed Gisburne that this was the king’s new palace and royal arsenal. He had always envied London its Tower, and now meant to raise something even more grotesque. Gisburne asked if the palace had a name. Galfrid, with a snort of what may have been contempt at the French powers of imagination, said they simply called it “L’Oeuvre” – “the work”.
Philip, it seemed, was a fanatical builder. Gisburne knew – because it was the one part of Paris for which Galfrid showed any enthusiasm – that in the heart of the city, on the Île de la Cité, the great cathedral of Notre-Dame was also being raised. Philip had paved the main streets that crossed the city from north to south and from east to west, too, and built vast new markets at Halles Champeaux. Another of his innovations was the gallows of Montfaucon north of Paris. The criminals who were hanged there were left to rot as a warning to others, and in deference to the status of the dead, the place had become a public dumping ground for all other foul and stinking waste that the river could not carry away.
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