They said nothing. But they did not laugh, either.
“Take them,” said Gisburne, and lunged forward.
“It’s all right for you,” said Galfrid. “All I have is a stick!” But it was no time for arguments. He whirled it around his head in a great arc, and charged at the other.
Gisburne’s opponent was wily. He appeared to stand firm, only side-stepping at the last moment. Gisburne, sword raised for the attack, found himself charging empty air, and began to fall. It was a simple but effective move – the knight would now swing around and strike Gisburne full force in the back or neck, killing or crippling him instantly.
But Gisburne knew the training. He had fought countless battles, and he had read the move. As he fell, he twisted his body, letting his blade swing out and up. It connected as the knight’s own sword was flashing towards its target, striking his hand with the mid-point of the blade and sending the Templar’s sword flying into the startled audience. As Gisburne hit the ground, he heard the Templar howl and saw him leap about, clutching his right hand. It was mail clad, but he wouldn’t be playing the lute any time soon.
Galfrid, meanwhile, had succeeded only in keeping his opponent at bay. His whistling, whirling staff was far longer than the knight’s sword. The knight – who swore under his breath in some Germanic tongue – couldn’t get close enough to strike, and edged backwards, occasionally hacking at the stick in an attempt to parry and dislodge it.
He was waiting for Galfrid to tire. Gisburne could see that unless a decisive move was made against him, the Templar would succeed in disarming Galfrid in moments. He also realised that the knight, moving gradually closer to where he now lay, was entirely oblivious to him lying on the ground. So Gisburne drew his eating knife from his belt and stabbed the man in the foot.
When Gisburne regained his feet, the knight was hopping comically. With one push, he toppled him over. There were a few laughs from the audience. Someone clapped.
Gisburne and Galfrid looked about at the circle of amazed faces, their dazed and wounded opponents already beginning to stir.
“I suggest we run away,” said Galfrid.
“Agreed,” said Gisburne, snatching up his hat. And they barged their way into the crowd and headed back towards the maze of streets.
“So much for not drawing attention,” said Galfrid as they ran. “Thanks to you, I didn’t get to see the cathedral!”
“It’s only half a cathedral anyway,” said Gisburne. “Come back when you’re eighty. They might even have the front door finished by then.”
And so they made their way up the Rue St Denis and disappeared into its anonymous side streets, both unaware that their progress was being followed by the green eyes of Mélisande de Champagne.
XVI
Auxerre – 4 December, 1191
BEFORE THEY HAD reached Courances, Gisburne knew that Nyght would go no further.
The past few days – and especially their eventful flight from Paris – had taken it out of the poor beast. And it wasn’t just his horse that Gisburne was thinking of. Galfrid had been right; Nyght’s gait was not suited to long distance travel, and now his master’s arsebones were suffering.
As they sat in yet another inn on yet another endless road, he thought of his poor raven-black courser, now many miles behind them, and of his poor arsebones. They were recovering now, thanks to the chestnut palfrey he had been riding. But those pains were as nothing to the pangs of guilt he now suffered – and the looks of “I told you so” from his squire. That horse had saved his life. Both of their lives. And how had he thanked him?
A platter was slammed on the table top. The gruff old woman – half Gisburne’s size – glared at them both. “Ham,” she said, and stalked off.
The place had felt unpromising from the the start: an otherwise empty and seemingly little-frequented place on the outskirts of Auxerre with a hatchet-faced patroness who slapped the bowls and platters upon the table top as if personally insulted. But they were in no mood to be choosy. The previous night they had been forced to camp in the woods, and it was something Gisburne wished not to repeat. They had managed a fire, but it had seemed every bit as reluctant to be there as they, and it had felt to Gisburne that he spent more time nursing the damp, smouldering branches than actually sleeping.
He had also had an uncanny feeling that they were being watched. On one occasion, he swore he could see a shadow moving among the trees. A vertical shadow. He knew every kind of beast that lived in the forests, but there was only one that walked on two legs. It was not until the next day, when he had finally confided in Galfrid, that the squire confessed that he, too, had thought there was something – or someone – watching them.
But tonight, at least, they had a bed and a hot meal. The food, when it came, far exceeded the expectations inspired by their surroundings. The bean soup, thickened with bread, was flavourful and deeply satisfying, the ham smoky and delicious. There were pickled vegetables too, and although there was no wine – that was too grand for this humble place – the ale was good. Gisburne took another slice of ham with his eating knife. It was the very same one with which he’d stabbed the Templar. He’d killed a man with it once – through necessity rather than choice. It was a fact that slid through his mind every time he used it to cut meat. But he would not change it. This knife was hard won. It had been with him since he was a boy – since that time with de Gaillon. The time when everything changed. He stabbed a chunk of ham and raised it to his mouth, glad now they had the place to themselves.
Just five days before, they had been sitting in a very different inn somewhere in Paris. It had been a bustling, jolly place run by Greeks who practically accosted people on the streets – pilgrims, mainly – and hustled them inside. The perfect place to lose themselves after the fight with the Templars.
Once inside, however, Galfrid had mostly complained about having to pay tourist prices. Gisburne could tell he had been rattled by the encounter, and he had learned in recent days that a grumpy Galfrid was a difficult thing to deal with.
“Can’t you just be happy to be alive?” Gisburne had said, and knocked back his drink. The wine was fair, the bread and cheese decent enough. And he was famished. The fact that they’d paid over the odds was of little consequence.
“What I’m not happy about,” he said, “is that we were almost dead.” Galfrid looked at his plate, sulkily. “You might at least have told me about the staff.”
Gisburne shrugged and hacked at the bread with his eating knife. “Now you know.”
“That was one of Llewellyn’s, I suppose?”
“You know of Llewellyn?” Once again, Galfrid had managed to surprise him.
“I know of a lot of people,” he said. “But that’s not going to be a lot of use if you keep getting us into fights. We can’t keep trusting to luck.”
Gisburne narrowed his eyes. He didn’t get them into any fight. And it wasn’t luck that saved them. But he decided to let it go.
“Templars aren’t what they used to be,” he said. “Not if they’re taking the likes of that red-bearded cur.”
“Fulke,” said Galfrid. “He is Tancred’s red right hand.”
Gisburne drank deeply from his cup and stared at Galfrid, amazed once again. “Is there anyone in Christendom you don’t know?” he said.
Despite his good humour, he cursed the ill luck that had caused them to blunder into their foe. He especially did not like the fact that Fulke now knew what they looked like.
His fears were realised as they were leaving Paris the next day.
They had set out early that morning, heading south, out of the city. It had turned colder, and fresh pinpricks of snow were falling. Snow was not so bad – at least, not when it was like this, with flakes too small and too compact to stick to their clothes. What he did not want was rain. Their thick woollen cloaks would hold it off for a time, but no matter how they wrapped themselves against it, they would eventually get soaked through. As long as they were moving
, and their bodies generating heat, they would get by. But if they stopped for any length of time, they would freeze.
These were the thoughts occupying his mind when Galfrid jolted him out of his reverie.
In the road ahead were five mounted men.
All were in full armour, helms upon their heads, three with maces and poleaxes, two with couched lances. Gisburne did not immediately recognise the one at their centre without his Templar surcoat. But as they neared, he saw that it was their red-headed friend from the Grand Pont. At first, he supposed the other four must be his Templar comrades. But gradually he realised – from their build, from their grim demeanour – that they were not. They were mercenaries, hired by Fulke for this act of revenge. Perhaps he had not wished to involve his fellow knights. Perhaps they had some greater sense of honour than he. But it was this that told Gisburne they meant to kill him. Plus, of course, the fact that Fulke had put off his Templar colours – an act forbidden by the Temple, which insisted its knights wear the cross at all times. As Gisburne knew well, one did not go in disguise unless one was going to commit a crime.
So much for the Templar’s sworn duty to protect the pilgrim, he thought.
“What now?” said Galfrid. Gisburne, who had happily taken on such odds on foot, and would do so again, knew that to do so with knights on horseback was suicide.
“Evade them. Outrun them,” he said. “That’s our only chance.”
“But they’re blocking the road,” said Galfrid. The men were now drawing their horses into a line. “And I think they’re preparing to charge.”
“They are,” said Gisburne.
“So what do we do?”
“What they don’t expect,” said Gisburne. “We charge first.” And with that, Nyght leapt to the gallop at the point of Gisburne’s spurs. Galfrid’s normally placid horse reared in alarm, and with a great cry he charged after his master.
Gisburne had drawn not his sword, but his pilgrim staff, which he whirled around his head, its five foot length roaring in great arcs as he thundered towards the mounted men. He knew Nyght would not willingly career into another horse. He trusted their mounts to have the same wisdom – but the men would try to put everything in his way.
What happened next was a blur in Gisburne’s memory. There was a clash. Something glanced off the pommel of his saddle. The staff connected jarringly with metal. He realised that he had got past the riders without being struck, and that one of them was unhorsed by his blow. Now all they had to do was ride for their lives.
Then he saw Galfrid’s horse, riderless. He wheeled around. Galfrid was alive, and running, but a moment away from being ridden down by one of their attackers – and now Fulke and one of his hired killers were heading for Gisburne.
Galfrid darted left, into the trees. Clever move, thought Gisburne. Amongst the trees, the man on foot had the advantage. An idea struck him. He turned his horse and, flattening himself against Nyght’s back, plunged into the forest.
One of his pursuers – not Fulke – tried to follow and immediately struck a branch. Gisburne heard him fall heavily. He tried to turn Nyght about, looking for Galfrid, but could see nothing of him. Then there was a whistle from somewhere above. Gisburne rode towards it. Down from a tree swung Galfrid, dropping onto Nyght behind Gisburne.
He did not wait. Spurring his horse, he wove his way through the trees back to the highway, and rode for his life.
XVII
GALFRID HAD SAT for what seemed like hours by the foot of the cross. He was frozen to the bone, and certain Gisburne must be dead.
After their encounter on the road, Gisburne had finally stopped at the roadside calvary, the sound of other hooves having long since faded. Galfrid had slithered off Nyght’s back, pale, exhausted, and struggled to straighten himself. By some miracle he was uninjured, but the ride had nearly killed him. Gisburne, however, had shown no signs of dismounting.
“Wait here,” said Gisburne.
“Wha–?” Galfrid was not even able to articulate a complete question before Gisburne turned his horse and rode back the way he had come. Wait here. For what? For how long? For a few moments? Or until Gisburne had ridden to Marseille and completed his quest? The man had given him no clue. As the morning had crept past and Galfrid’s arse had become indistinguishable from the frozen rock upon which he was perched, he began to wonder if Gisburne had gone back for his horse or his gear. It made a kind of sense. But only an idiot...
As he had thought it, he had heard the sound of hooves. A single horse. He hid himself – then saw Gisburne astride Nyght, his flanks packed with additional gear. His gear.
“I got lucky,” said Gisburne. He dismounted, hauled Galfrid’s rescued gear off Nyght’s steaming back and dumped it in the snow at his squire’s feet. “But no horse. And I’m afraid we lost the Greek Fire.”
Galfrid frowned deeply. “The Greek Fi–?” His eyes suddenly widened. “The earthenware bottles...”
“One of Fulke’s men must’ve tried to open them,” said Gisburne.
“I was carrying Greek Fire?” stammered Galfrid.
Gisburne nodded. “Only enough to destroy a ship.”
“And all these past seven days this was sloshing back and forth just inches from my privates?”
“Inches wouldn’t make any difference,” said Gisburne matter-of-factly. “You’d need to be thirty feet back at least. But don’t worry. It was perfectly safe.”
“So I see,” Galfrid slumped back down on the cold rock, the risk of piles suddenly forgotten, shaking his head in disbelief. “And how did our Templar friends find it, safety-wise?”
“Two were burnt to smouldering heaps where they stood,” said Gisburne. “One lay wailing on the ground, thrusting a smoking stump into the snow. He offered little resistance. Of our red-headed friend there was no sign.”
“Most likely he fled,” said Galfrid, “believing it the work of the Devil...”
Gisburne shrugged, continuing to sort through their gear.
“...and who’s to say he isn’t right?” added Galfrid under his breath.
“They weren’t the only casualties, I’m afraid,” said Gisburne, holding up a pair of Galfrid’s breeches with the seat entirely burnt away. “But most of it seems intact.”
“It could’ve been worse,” admitted Galfrid, kneeling amongst the salvaged remains and carrying out a rapid stocktake. Several items were scorched – some severely enough to abandon. There was no sign at all of his leather flask, nor of the pouch of provisions. He thought of his flint and steel – then realised they were still upon his belt. What else was missing, he was at a loss to say. It would become clear over the next few days. But his sword was here, and his mail, and his collection of knives. Even the pigskin pouch – sold to him by a Spanish merchant who had claimed it made him immune to the thievery of Saracens – still containing its hoard of silver English pennies. With these things, he could make his way in almost any circumstances.
“The loss of the Greek Fire is bad...” said Gisburne gravely. “It will affect our plans.”
“Our plans?” said Galfrid with a raised eyebrow. “You never actually shared this plan with me. And how come it only becomes our plan when it’s going wrong?”
Gisburne ignored him.
Galfrid chuckled to himself, surveying the strewn accoutrements, mentally calculating the most efficient means of packing them onto one animal. In spite of everything, seeing the gear spread out, he now felt oddly touched that Gisburne had gone back. His master may have stowed bottles of Greek Fire between his legs, but nothing could take away from the fact that he had risked his life for Galfrid’s sword, some silver pennies and a pair of his burned breeches.
“Well, we are alive,” he said brightly. “We still have our weapons. And our wits. And” – he patted Nyght – “this finest of horses.” He allowed himself a look of genuine affection, then hastily extinguished it.
“So, are you going to tell him he has to carry this lot, or am I?”
&
nbsp; XVIII
THEY HAD LIMPED on for a few more miles before Gisburne had found a solution to their problems.
Their saviour was named Boussard – a blacksmith with a red face and curly hair as black as pitch. As Nyght had staggered into the village, his energies clearly spent, they had seen Boussard by his forge, stripped to the waist but for a leather apron in spite of the freezing temperatures. It was always summer at Boussard’s forge.
Their need was clear. Boussard said he had horses, but they were his own, and he could not be persuaded to part with them at any price. Nevertheless, he promised to send his eldest boy to a neighbour who he knew could provide them with what they needed – excellent animals, from a farmer he trusted. Gisburne, impressed by Boussard’s love for his own horses, offered him a large sum of silver there and then to take care of Nyght until their return. Boussard was taken aback, and at first reluctant to accept, but Gisburne was insistent. Finally the blacksmith relented. And so it was agreed. In the back of his mind, Gisburne considered the possibility that they would never come back. If that were to happen, Nyght would at least have found a good home.
Two more days passed before they were able to ride away on a pair of good palfreys. During that time, Boussard had proved himself the most naturally generous of men, seeming happy to keep plying them with his own food and drink as long as they regaled him with tales. His kindness moved Gisburne. These were plain folk, whose lives were hard. They had nothing to gain from their generosity, and every reason for witholding it. Thus, when it came, it meant more than the most lavish gift from a prince.
Gisburne thought of this as he watched the gruff old woman remove the remains of the ham joint, and shuffle back to the table with a wooden bowl of dried fruits. Doubtless there would be those who found her ways coarse. But there was love in the food she set before them.
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