“God must’ve gave us free will for a reason,” shrugged Galfrid, and flashed the briefest of smiles. He turned his eyes heavenwards again, becoming momentarily lost in the same vision. “It always seemed to me... He’s like a father. Nurturing us when young and stupid, then, gradually, letting us have our head. Make our mistakes. And there comes a time when we can no longer run to Him, but must rely on our own strengths. When He can help us no more. All children must be let go at some point.” Gisburne looked at Galfrid in quiet amazement. It was the longest speech he had ever heard him make.
“Why did you never become a knight, Galfrid?” said Gisburne. “You’re twice the man of many knights I’ve known.” For the first time, almost to his surprise, he found himself addressing his squire in unguarded tones.
“Couldn’t afford it,” he said. “Then I realised I simply preferred being a squire. So a squire I resolved to stay. I’m arma patrina,” he said. “I offer my service and lend assistance where I can, to whatever masters may benefit from it. And those Prince John chooses. So far, I have been lucky.”
“How am I shaping up?” said Gisburne. He found, to his surprise, that he wanted to know. Somehow, what Galfrid thought of him had begun to matter.
“We’ll see,” said Galfrid, a faint smile on his lips.
XXIII
ALBERTUS GREETED GISBURNE with a cackling laugh and a hearty hug. He had not changed in the slightest – he was as thin and wiry as ever, with the same stoop, his lean face still as wrinkled as a dried apple, his eyes as keen. He was completely bald but for a kind of haze of white fluff that still clung to his head – but his steel-grey eyebrows and nasal hair were luxuriant. “My boy! My boy!” he cried as Gisburne’s arms wrapped around his almost nonexistent frame, and asked a seemingly endless round of questions aimed at establishing all the facts of Gisburne’s current life.
His cell was not the sparse chamber Gisburne had expected of a monk – every space was crammed with manuscripts, scrolls and piles of parchments. “I’m not supposed to own anything,” said Albertus, somewhat guiltily. “So I call this a library and myself its keeper. Now, what brings you out this way?”
“John the Baptist,” said Gisburne.
“St John the Baptist?” Albertus looked back at Gisburne in some astonishment. “You know of the solar alignment?”
Gisburne looked at Galfrid, then back again. “I’m afraid not...”
“Ah!” Albertus laughed. “Excuse me jumping ahead – or trying to. Not many know of it. It was a secret trick of the masons who constructed the basilica. At noon on midsummer’s day, the sun beams through the southern clerestory windows at such an angle that it creates a path of light the full length of the nave.” He chuckled. “It’s quite a thing! Midsummer’s day is the Baptist’s feast day, you see. But this is not what you wish to ask me?”
Gisburne and Galfrid exchanged looks again. “My enquiry is more concerned with holy relics... The skull of John the Baptist.”
“Ah...” Albertus’s expression darkened somewhat. He nodded slowly. “Of course, of course... Silly of me.”
“I need to see it,” said Gisburne. “Or an image of it, at least. To be able to recognise it. It is of utmost importance to me...”
“Well...” Albertus turned to a pile of books and parchments next to his pallet, and plucked one from the very top. “I suppose you mean the one from Antioch...?” He placed the manuscript on Gisburne’s lap. It was already open at the right page.
Gisburne looked. There was a coloured illustration of startling detail and strange beauty – parts were gilded, the gems picked out in red, blue and green, indicating the astonishing craftsmanship of the piece, but at the heart of it, staring back up at Gisburne with its long-dead eyes, was a human skull. Across the domed forehead, apparently etched into the bone, was a short phrase in Latin – Ecce Agnus Dei – andbeneath the illustration, in a lavish hand, the words: SANCTUS IOHANNES BAPTISTA.
“It is decorated all about with gold and precious stones,” explained Albertus. “There are gilded rays encrusted with rubies and garnets about the neck, symbolising the Baptist’s blood.”
“There are others? Like this?”
“Oh, there are always others,” said Albertus. “One Baptist. Several skulls. You know how it is... But none, I think, quite like this.”
“And this is completely accurate?”
“Completely. Drawn from life by an Armenian monk.”
“So I would be able to identify it from this, were I to see it?”
Albertus raised a bushy eyebrow. “Will you see it?”
Gisburne smiled. “That is my hope. I wish to be sure it is... the right one. What with all these skulls about.”
Albertus nodded sagely, looking as if he wished to ask further questions, but did not wish to press Gisburne to supply the answers. Gisburne sensed it. But Albertus deserved at least some explanation. He trusted him with his life.
“It is being sent by the Templars to the King of France,” he said. “A gift. A diplomatic gesture. It is my task to... To...”
Albertus held up a hand, and smiled. “Say no more.”
A question formed in Gisburne’s mind, then – one that, thus far, he had not thought to ask even himself. “This skull... Could it be genuine?”
Albertus, nodded slowly, and cocked his head. “It could. But if it is, why would such pious and acquisitive men as the Templars be content to part with it?”
“I have heard,” said Gisburne, tentatively, “that it is payment, and nothing more.”
“Maybe,” said Albertus. “Its value is great.” He frowned. “But let me venture another thought... In ancient times, Herod Antipas, who executed the Baptist, suffered a terrible defeat at the hands of Aretas of Nabatea, and afterwards died in exile. According to Josephus, his ill luck was brought upon him by the ill-judged execution of the saint. It is said the skull – this skull” – he tapped the page – “has the power to bring down a tyrant. A more cynical man than I – a more political man – might suggest that this gift is also meant as a warning. A reminder to the King of France to remember his place, and that he, too, can fall.”
Gisburne sat forward, a frown creasing his brow. “Another question... Might there be interest in such a skull from... Saracen quarters?”
Now it was Albertus’s turn to frown. “Saracen? Do you believe there to be such interest?”
Gisburne and Galfrid looked at each other. “Perhaps. Might it be possible that agents of Saladin would wish to take it?”
“Or destroy it?” added Galfrid. “To deny it to Christendom?”
Albertus shook his head – a gesture more of dismissal than disagreement. “John is honoured as a prophet by Muslims. I do not believe they would wish it destroyed. And if they wanted to take it for themselves, why not when it was at Antioch all those years?”
Gisburne nodded slowly.
“Guy, forgive me,” said Albertus. “Are you saying there are agents of the Sultan here, in France?”
“I can’t be certain,” he replied with a shrug. “It’s possible.”
Albertus went as if to say something more, hesitated, then continued. “Maybe I should not ask this,” he said, “but perhaps you can enlighten me as to why there is so much interest in skulls of the Baptist of late? You are the second in the past two days to come asking about it.”
Gisburne’s blood ran cold.
“Who?” he said, sitting forward.
“Of course, I did not tell them quite as much as...”
“Who?” interrupted Gisburne. “His name... Can you describe him?”
Albertus began to laugh. “Him?” he chuckled. “It was the daughter of the Count of Boulogne. Mélisande de Champagne.”
XXIV
Marseille – December, 1191
THEY WERE NO longer in France.
The principal port of Provence, Marseille was a hectic collision of cultures – influenced by the French, ruled by a Catalan count, a fiefdom of the Germanic Holy Roman E
mpire, and crammed with representatives of every nationality, every race and every creed. It had always been trade that brought them – the drive that overruled all other considerations. Of late, however, it had been war. Crusade. Richard’s crusade.
Gisburne had worn his mail hauberk since Vézelay. Above all else, he meant to be prepared. There were a few too many unknowns. A rebel Templar. A shadowy assassin. And now a scheming countess. The odds were no longer such that he wished to put his faith in a wide-brimmed hat. His pilgrim staff – the fine piece of work by Llewellyn – he had given to Galfrid, who received it with great delight.
Now, out of the jurisdiction of the French King, Gisburne was fully a knight once again, the detested pretence dropped. Galfrid, nonetheless, appealed to Gisburne not to draw attention, and there was clear wisdom in his words. Gisburne kept his armour concealed beneath his riding cloak, and swore he would not.
The promise lasted less than two hours.
The ride south from Vézelay had been hard. The day they had departed, the temperature fell. The wet, partially melted snow froze to a hard crust. Where it was compacted, it turned to solid ice. Then a fine dust of powdery snow fell upon it, making it more treacherous still. The going made their horses hesitant and jittery; the sky above – resolutely flat and grey with the continuing threat of snow – oppressed their mood. One morning they awoke to find the sky had emptied, covering the land in a thick coat of white. It cheered Gisburne. Fresh snow meant better traction, and the skies were clear and bright. They set out that day in good spirits, the virgin snow glittering about them, dazzling white in the sun. So changed was the mood that Gisburne merely laughed when he saw Galfrid wrap a length of transparent black muslin about his head to shade his eyes, and took no heed of his squire’s advice to do the same. He joked that Galfrid looked like a Bedouin, and that he had mistaken the snow for desert. Within an hour, his head was splitting from the glare, his eyes swimming with dancing swirls and dots. Galfrid wrapped Gisburne’s head as he had his own, and said he would buy him a camel.
It was several hours before Gisburne stopped feeling like he had a poleaxe in his skull. He had taken to closing his eyes for short periods, riding behind Galfrid, knowing his horse would follow. It was while he was doing this – perhaps because the loss of one sense made the others sharper – that he detected a curious odour. It was familiar, but oddly out of place – and it seemed to be following them about. It seemed, in fact, to be coming from him.
“What’s that smell?” he said, sniffing about, and shifted in his saddle.
Galfrid gave him that “Can you be more specific?” look.
“Sharp. Like...”
“Vinegar,” said Galfrid.
Gisburne sniffed at his mail. It seemed to be coming from that. From the metal itself.
“Vinegar?”
“It’s good for cleaning the links,” said Galfrid. “The mail had grown a sheen of rust in this weather. So I took the liberty. As your squire.”
Gisburne had served with a man who swore that he had only avoided dysentery on campaign by virtue of the fact that he washed his hands in vinegar on a regular basis. The fresh, sharp smell, he said, cleansed the air of miasmatic vapours and kept at bay other foul, disease-laden odours. It seemed to work. He was never ill. He stank permanently of vinegar, however, and earned himself the nickname “Pickle.”
Against the odds, they had made the journey in eight days. They arrived in the city mid-afternoon, dishevelled and exhausted, their horses in a state of collapse. But they were ahead of the skull’s arrival. They found lodgings, stabled their animals, then ate and washed and headed to the harbour. They would scout their surroundings for an hour or so, keeping their eyes and ears open, then head back to sleep. That, at least, was the plan.
The harbour was crammed with vessels: Scandinavian knarrs, Byzantine galleys, English cogs, French hulks, Italian galeas, Templar tarides, fishing vessels of every shape and size. Most were for trade, but some were for war – for it was from here that Richard had departed with his army. Invigorated by the recent crusader traffic, the harbourside and packed streets all around were abuzz with activity – much of it illegal, immoral or lethally dangerous.
At first sight of the sea, Gisburne had upped his pace. “There’s something I have to do,” he said. Galfrid had to break into a run to keep up, hurrying along beside as Gisburne walked right up to the harbourside, took his pilgrim hat in one hand and flung it, spinning, far out into the the water. “I hate that fucking hat,” he said.
While he was still staring out to sea, Galfrid tugged at his sleeve.
“Don’t look now,” said the squire. But Gisburne did look.
“Well, well...”
On the harbourside, less than thirty yards distant, stood three Templars. And about the arm of each was the red ribbon of Tancred de Mercheval. A growl escaped Gisburne’s throat.
“You’ve got to get past your hatred of Templars,” said Galfrid.
“I don’t hate Templars,” said Gisburne. “I just hate those Templars.” And he began to work his way closer to them.
The knights were deep in conversation with a family of pilgrims – husband, wife and young daughter – but from the look of things, it was one-sided. One of the knights had in his hand a bag that looked to contain coins, which the father of the group – angry, but also clearly terrified of these men who were twice his size – was trying to grab. The knight whipped it out of his reach, and the others laughed. The father raised his voice.
“This is unacceptable!” he said, shakily.
“What do you mean?” said the first Templar, with faux innocence.
“We were seeking passage to the Holy Land,” said the father, his voice desperate. “A ship.”
“You wanted to hire a vessel,” said the knight. “And we gave you a vessel.” He gestured into the water below, where, Gisburne now saw, a leaky rowing boat – its timbers green and half rotted – sat moored. The other Templars stifled laughs.
“Please,” said the father, “that’s all we have...” And he reached for the bag again – to no avail. His hand caught the side of the Templar’s face. The Templar shoved him.
“That’s it...” said Gisburne.
“You’re not going to–” began Galfrid. But it was too late. Gisburne was striding towards Tancred’s men. “Here we go again,” muttered Galfrid.
Gisburne waded in between the Templar and his prey and poked the man in the shoulder.
“Give the man his money back.”
The Templar stared at him in amazement, and then he and his fellows burst out laughing. “What’s this?” he said, looking Gisburne up and down. “Perhaps we’ll just toss you in the harbour, and you can all swim to the Holy Land.”
Gisburne threw off his cloak and drew his sword. “Try it,” he said, put his blade at the knight’s throat, and relieved him of the bag of coins. His comrades drew their own blades. They were not laughing now. The first Templar leapt back suddenly and went to draw his own weapon. Before it was eight inches out of its scabbard, Gisburne kicked him in the balls, grabbed him by the surcoat and hauled him forward. The knight went sailing past Gisburne as he stepped deftly aside, flew off the dock, crashed through the rotten hull of the flimsy boat and sank like a stone in the scummy water.
The second man went for him. Gisburne parried the descending blow with his sword, their blades biting notches out of each other as they connected with a jarring impact. Gisburne pushed, whipped his blade hard about, forced his enemy’s sword point down to the ground and then put his foot on it.
The knight had two choices – and only a moment to decide. He could watch as his blade was snapped in two, or he could let go of his weapon entirely, save the blade, but render himself defenceless. He chose the latter. As he stood gawping at Gisburne, waiting impotently for his adversary’s next move, his eyes swung to the right.
Gisburne turned to find the third Templar was almost on him. But before he could land a blow, there was a shar
p crack, the mother of the pilgrim family shrieked, and the Templar pitched forward onto his face and lay still. Behind him, pilgrim staff in both hands, stood Galfrid.
“I lend assistance where I can,” he said. Gisburne grinned.
The second Templar had already regained his weapon and had it poised above his head when something made him stop. His face paled, the fight draining from it. He froze, and stared, as if suddenly petrified.
The third, who had already stirred and was climbing to his feet, did the same, terror in his eyes.
Gisburne turned, following their gaze, and saw Tancred de Mercheval. He strode towards them from the rows of market stalls, a second grim-visaged knight at his shoulder. Galfrid had said Gisburne would know him when he saw him. He was right. Gisburne almost recoiled at the sight of him.
He was tall, his head and chin roughly shaved, the skull coated with a greying stubble. Though he might have been considered fine featured in his youth – even handsome – the face that Gisburne imagined plump and rosy before being aged by a decade of war and penitence now appeared grey and gaunt, its cheeks hollow, its taut complexion more reptilian than human, its cold eyes as devoid of emotion as those of a dead crow. But it was not any of these things that struck Gisburne through with horror. It was the narrow, pale scar that ran diagonally across his face, from his left brow to a point on his chin, just beyond the right corner of his mouth. De Mercheval had, at some time in his life, suffered a terrible wound – evidently from the blade of a sword or other edged weapon striking him in the face. The blade had cut the flesh cleanly, taking away a portion of his nostril and part of the tip of his nose and – as Gisburne now saw when Tancred grimaced at the sight of this debacle – knocking out one tooth on the right side of his upper jaw. The flesh had healed, leaving little more than a thin white scar. But it had done so in such a way that the two halves of his face no longer met quite as they should. They had slid out of alignment along the neat, perfectly straight axis, and stuck that way, the overall effect one of weird distortion, as if his face were half underwater, or glimpsed in a cracked glass.
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