Knight of Shadows

by Toby Venables

  Richard sheathed his sword. “We move on,” he said, his voice expressionless. And with that, the noble knights had departed, leaving blood and chaos in their wake.

  When Gisburne had gone to de Gaillon after that encounter, something seemed to have changed in him. He was sullen, silent. Gisburne could not immediately place the mood that hung over his master. Then he knew; he had the air of a condemned man. Finally, he had looked at Gisburne with a gloomy, glittering intensity in his eyes. “If anything happens to me,” he had said, his tone urgent, “look to your own safety first.” Gisburne had started to protest. De Gaillon had put his hands on Gisburne’s shoulders, his face suddenly pained, suddenly old. “This is no time for sentimentality. Though it goes against everything you know, if need arises, you must put yourself at a great distance from me. This is the loyalty I ask. Tell me you will do it.” Bemused, Gisburne could do no more than nod. Then de Gaillon had looked as if a great weight was lifted, and sank again into a long silence.

  IT WAS THIS that slid through Gisburne’s mind as the latest horrors were being perpetrated, the screams of the women shredding his nerve-ends. This and something else de Gaillon had once said to him, which came unbidden into his mind. “You must understand,” he said, “that war is a brutal business. A terrible business. There is no war that is not a disaster. It is necessary, perhaps, but a disaster nonethless. Some become hardened to its brutality. It sticks to them like dirt – is carried with them from the battlefield. They fail to shake it off; they no longer even notice it. Soon, it becomes a part of them. Others get swept up by the actions of these men, believing them bold – so much so that they forget to ask themselves why. You must understand that these things are so. And you must resist them as fiercely as any enemy.”

  And it seemed then that something changed in him, as what he saw now mingled with his memories. His shame became resentment. His resentment, anger. In spite of all de Gaillon had said, he wished no further part of this thing he saw before him, no matter what.

  And so he turned and walked away.

  XXI

  THE NEXT MORNING, they were roused early. The news Richard hoped for had come. The rebel knight and a dozen of his men – desperate, starving and half done, by all accounts – were hiding out in the forest to the north. This was their land. They knew how to use it to their advantage, and would fight to the end. But that end was now within Richard’s grasp. A company of forty knights, serjeants and squires rode out to hasten them to their doom.

  The ride through the forest was tense, the mood expectant. Smoke had been seen rising from the woodland ahead. They even fancied, at times, that they heard the distant whinny of a horse. There was no other sign of men. But instinct told them they were close.

  At the edge of the trees, Richard called them to a halt. Ahead of them, beyond the clearing, was a small, wooded ravine, where the road narrowed and the banks rose sharply on either side. The Duke advanced his horse two steps, narrowed his eyes, and scanned the dark cleft and the foliage framing it as if somehow able to penetrate its depths. Satisfied, he drew his horse back.

  “De Gaillon,” he said, matter-of-factly, and pointed towards the shadowy path. “Ride ahead there and check the lie of the land.”

  De Gaillon followed the gesture, and gave a snort of derision. “If anything in this land lies, it’s that ravine.” A handful of the knights stifled laughs at the comment. Even Gisburne could see it was the perfect place for an ambush. But Richard’s expression remained stony.

  “Then go and wrest the truth from it.” De Gaillon’s half smile faded. It was no joke. The Duke meant it. He held Richard’s hard gaze for a moment, then nodded curtly.

  “My lord...” He pulled his horse around, gesturing silently to several of his fellows.

  “No,” said Richard, stopping him with a raised hand. “Alone.”

  De Gaillon stared at Richard, not quite comprehending the request. Then realisation dawned. He looked bleakly from face to face, and several of the other knights avoided his gaze. Richard lowered his hand, and turned it in a gesture towards the ravine. “Well?”

  De Gaillon frowned, his horse stamping impatiently. “Alone...” he said.

  “What is it?” said Richard calmly. “Are you afraid?” Gisburne saw de Gaillon’s teeth clench at the suggestion.

  This was madness. Richard meant for him to ride alone, unsupported, into that place. Why would Richard do something so stupid? Gisburne looked about him, waiting for someone to speak up, to point out the folly of this action, but none did. De Gaillon caught Gisburne’s eye for a fleeting moment. Something like an apology seemed to pass across his face – then Gisburne, with a rush of horror that churned his insides to mud, realised what was happening. What was about to happen. But it was too late. De Gaillon had turned his horse and was riding for the ravine. Gisburne, his eyes smarting, went to follow – he belonged at his master’s side, no matter what – but a knight’s hand on his horse’s bridle stopped him.

  None spoke as de Gaillon was swallowed up by the shadows. A strange silence followed. Then a shout. A clash of metal against metal. A shriek of pain. Gisburne looked from the Duke to his knights and back in panic and disbelief. But Richard, staring ahead, did not move. There was another cry – a different voice, this time. Then further clashes. Then silence.

  “Come,” said Richard. “Sir Gilbert needs our aid.” And he spurred his horse. The entire company thundered into the ravine, then, weapons drawn. All but Gisburne. He sat – breathless, paralysed, impotent, his horse stamping in frustration – listening to the sounds of slaughter as Richard’s knights destroyed the rebels.

  De Gaillon had not called out, but Gisburne knew before the charge that he was already dead. His heart turned to stone in his chest. So often he had imagined this moment – the loss of his master in battle. It was an everpresent possibility, one he had rehearsed over and over in his mind. But for it to happen like this... He felt desperately unprepared. Sick. Bereaved. Betrayed.

  In a daze, he watched Richard and his knights return. They parted, rode around him. Then Gisburne rode alone into the ravine to recover his master’s body, his own life seeming to slide into the abyss.

  No one ever said he was outcast. But back in the camp, all shunned him. No eyes met his. He felt as if a ghost. Any hope that a new master would take him on to allow the completion of his journey to knighthood – a journey which only that morning had still seemed tantalisingly close to its end – was extinguished. The knights – even those de Gaillon had called friend – turned their backs. The other squires avoided his gaze, and dropped their heads guiltily when he was near. When food was prepared, one younger squire – who liked and admired Gisburne, and had perhaps thought him a fine example to follow – forgot himself, and brought him a bowl of soup. Before he reached the place where Gisburne sat, well away from the others, a knight gripped his arm, took the bowl from him, and tipped its steaming contents onto the earth.

  The atrocity was not acknowledged. There was no mourning. And this, perhaps, was the worst of it. To die – that was bad enough. But for your death to go unremarked, to mean nothing... It felt like a dream – one in which his mentor of so many years had never existed. One from which he could not wake. The disconnection from the world was brutal and complete. De Gaillon was gone. He was a knight expectant no longer. Without a knight as master, he was no longer even a squire. He was nothing. No one.

  It was a squire’s duty to arrange proper burial for his knight. But he could not hope to return him to his home in distant Normandy. Not on his own. He knew no wife now waited there, and no children. And there were no other relatives or lovers, as far as he knew. Of his friends he knew nothing, save those with whom he served – and they had abandoned him. This was the lot of the dedicated soldier, then – to end his days alone, unloved. For a day Gisburne sat with the slashed and beaten corpse propped against a tree, his head in his hands, weeping.

  He toiled all the following night, burying de Gaillon in a se
cluded glade. The only other attendees at the graveside were the bats that flitted silently about Gisburne’s head.

  He marked the place with rough stones, then rode off into the north, no longer knowing where his road would lead.

  XXII

  Vézelay – 6 December, 1191

  THE GREAT ABBEY church of St. Mary Magdalene rose out of the mist like a white finger pointing at the heavens. It was a welcome sight – a glorious, uplifting vision that seemed to justify all the trials that had preceded it. It seemed to have come upon them suddenly, as if appearing from nowhere, the hill on which it sat rising dramatically from the rolling Burgundian landscape as if the earth itself was striving to be closer to God.

  Galfrid was happy. The snow had turned to freezing rain, the wind battered them, whipping their sodden, icy cloaks in their faces, and the pace since Auxerre had been punishing. But Galfrid was happy.

  It had not been so when Gisburne had first revealed his intention to divert westwards. It was worse still when he outlined the reason: to effect a meeting with an old friend, since they would be within a few days’ striking distance. Galfrid became impossible. Nothing Gisburne could say would pacify him. The diversion was a waste of time, he said. They had already lost two days before Courances. This trip – this “social call” – would put unnecessary strain on their fresh horses. They should continue straight to Pouilly-en-Auxois with all possible speed, then due south for Lyon – especially now they knew they had a shadowy rival. Gisburne – sorely tempted to say that this was his mission, and to Hell with what a squire thought about it – had instead painstakingly explained the need. This old friend – from Gisburne’s days in Normandy, his days with de Gaillon – was someone with whom he had to consult. He had knowledge essential to their success. Galfrid had dismissed the necessity out of hand. Knowledge, he said, would be of little use if they missed the ship.

  Then he had found out where Gisburne intended for them to go, and he was transformed. His objections melted away; he picked up his pace. Gisburne didn’t think he had seen him in such high spirits, not ever.

  Vézelay. The word had worked like magic on him. Here, on this imposing hilltop, were housed the holy relics of Mary Magdalene, making it perhaps the most significant site of pilgrimage in all of France – a starting point for pilgrims on the Way of St. James to Santiago de Compostela. Here, too, Bernard of Clairvaux had preached the Second Crusade in 1146. And here it was, in 1189, that the newly crowned King Richard and King Philip of France had chosen to meet, bringing together the English and French armies before departing for the Holy Land on the Third Crusade.

  Why the so-called “eternal hill” exerted such a fascination for Galfrid, Gisburne could not guess. For Gisburne, however, Vézelay meant only one thing: Albertus.

  Albertus was a scholar and physician who had seemed old even when Gisburne was a boy. Then, Albertus had been part of the community of Fontaine-La-Verte, tending the wounds of the many knights and squires who trained there – until he was drawn into Richard’s wars. Disillusioned, worn down by the needless bloodshed, the cruelties and the endless lust after destruction, he had retreated to the abbey at Vézelay and taken the Benedictine vows of poverty, chastity and obedience.

  Gisburne suspected that a key factor in Albertus’s disillusionment had been the fate of Gilbert de Gaillon.

  When de Gaillon had been betrayed by Richard, and Gisburne made an outcast, it was to Albertus he had turned. Albertus was the only one who understood. The only one with the backbone to stand by him. Not that there was much Albertus could do. But for Gisburne, understanding was enough. When all around had suddenly ceased to acknowledge him, it was as if he had stopped existing. As if it was he who died that day, in that shadowy ravine, and now walked the earth as a phantom beyond their reach – invisible, insubstantial, incorporeal. So disconnected was he that he had, in the days and weeks that followed, felt his grip on his own sanity loosen. But Albertus saved him. It did not require much – perhaps Albertus was unaware quite how important his role was – but it had restored some sense of reality, and provided Gisburne with catharsis – a means to mourn. Gisburne had no words to describe the relief he felt upon finding someone with whom he could talk about his mentor. Talk he did, all day and through the night, laughing, crying – by the end, all emotions were spent. But he was back in the world. He was real. De Gaillon was real. And his death was no longer a dream. His sense of desolation had transformed into something more fruitful: anger, and thirst for justice. Looking back, Gisburne now understood this was something Albertus had tried to warn him about. That impulse had led better men than he astray. Gisburne had not listened – but came to an understanding on his own.

  He had returned to England to find his mother Ælfwyn had died two months prior. Instead of welcoming him, his father had berated him for lingering with Albertus in Normandy. Then a vicious argument had erupted about the death of de Gaillon and its aftermath. The perpetrators of the terrible betrayal had been quick to spread their version of the story. So powerful was it, that it seemed even his own father had been infected. His faith in his old friend had been shaken, his confidence in his son’s valour almost destroyed. As the accusations flew and the words grew sharp, he had called Guy a coward. Without further word, Guy turned on his heel and walked out, intending never to return. Penniless, bitter and hungry to vent his rage, he joined a band of mercenaries headed south. That road had led him far further than he had ever wished to go – to the brink of utter destruction, and to the gates of Hell.

  “Wait here,” he said to Galfrid as they dismounted before the basilica. Galfrid, who clearly was not listening, simply gazed up in wonder at the towering grey-white west facade.

  He flagged down one old monk, who went to fetch another, and finally a cadaverous young brother with thick black eyebrows appeared, his face a picture of indignation.

  “What is this?” he said. Gisburne judged his accent to be Spanish.

  “I’m Guy of Gisburne. I wish to see Albertus,” he said.

  The monk raised his large eyebrows. “Indeed! I was not aware you were expected...”

  They were not expected. Gisburne had not had the opportunity to send any message ahead. Knowing little of monastic ways, he had rashly assumed that since this was Albertus’s home, he could receive them when he chose. But, as the officious Spanish monk insisted on telling them, in tremendous and unnecessary detail, such was not the case. There were strict routines which could not be interrupted. The abbot ruled absolutely, and his rule was strict. Probably they would have to wait. They might be sent away altogether. He made sure, too, that they were absolutely aware of the annoyance and inconvenience their visit was personally causing him.

  “What if I were ill?” said Gisburne. “Seriously ill?”

  The Spanish monk frowned, his manner softening somewhat. “Then as physician, Brother Albertus would come to your aid.”

  “I’m ill,” said Gisburne. “Seriously.”

  The monk stared at him blankly, having no idea how to take it. Choosing to ignore it rather than try to assimilate it into his narrow view of the world, he finally spoke again.

  “I shall enquire. Meantime, you may spend time in quiet contemplation in the basilica.” And off he scurried.

  Gisburne found Galfrid already inside, awe and delight on his face. It was a look that had begun to appear even as they had approached the abbey by the long, sloping road up to the peak of the hill. It was the expression of a wonderstruck child. And now, finally, Gisburne understood. The desire to see the cathedral at Amiens. The frustration of not getting to see Notre-Dame. His sudden change when he heard that this was their destination.

  This cynical, world weary squire just loved cathedrals.

  Gisburne stood by him in silence for a moment, allowing his eyes to wander about the huge enclosed space, across its high, curved ceiling, the soaring, rounded arches on either side atop the rows of columns in alternating bands of white and coloured limestone, each with its
own biblical scene – some elegant, some humorous, some gloriously grotesque – carved into the capital. Then on to the high windows above the altar, where the relics of Mary Magdalene were kept. Through these daylight now streamed, illuminating the translucent tiers of arched white stone, layered one upon the other, with such a glow that they appeared carved from ice.

  Gisburne felt a stillness descend as he did so. He had never lingered in such places. He had never been a religious man. But now, he felt humbled.

  “Do you... believe, Galfrid?” he said.

  “I believe in places such as this,” came the hushed reply. Gisburne nodded, feeling he understood. Galfrid looked at him. “You?”

  He shrugged. “I’ve sent prayers up from time to time. In my youth, mostly. But it always felt like yelling into a void. I knew not to expect an answer. In time I came realise it was merely an affectation.” Gisburne wondered why he was suddenly telling this man such things – sharing thoughts he had shared with no one before. He only hoped they weren’t offending whatever religious sensibilities his companion might have, aware that they could sound cynical – even heretical. But when he glanced across, he saw Galfrid nodding slowly in agreement.

  “That’s a sound philosophy. A soldier’s philosophy.”

  Gisburne looked back to the cathedral ceiling, wondering what battles Galfrid had seen in his life. Perhaps he had something in common with this man after all. “I don’t doubt there is a God in Heaven. But I am not arrogant enough to believe that He makes time to listen to my pleas. Nor that He should be relied upon to effect change. Chaos threatens all around. It is up to us to create from it some order.” His eyes roved around the interior of this impossible structure, the work of generations, whose toil and determination had somehow transmuted dead stone into a weightless, soaring wonder – a work raised not by God, but by ordinary men. “I believe we can do it. No, I know it. That is what I feel here. I look at this, and know we can do it.”