That he had survived at all was a miracle. Perhaps Templar skulls really were tougher, thought Gisburne.
Tancred looked at the cowering pilgrims, then at Gisburne, then at his own men. “Who instigated this?” His voice was like ice. Gisburne could have sworn he saw the knights trembling. The second of them spoke up, stuttering. “It was meant only as a joke. It’s a misunder...”
Without hesitation, Tancred drew a dagger and stabbed the man in the eye. It was carefully judged. Not a wild or impulsive strike. Just enough to blind, but not enough to kill. His knight howled in agony, blood and vitreous fluid streaming from the wound. The pilgrim’s child screamed.
“Now you will always remember your mistake,” said Tancred. He turned. “Ulrich?”
The large, shaven-headed knight at his side stepped forward.
“Get him to a physician.”
Ulrich nodded, gripped the gibbering knight’s arm and dragged him away.
Tancred turned his cold eyes on Gisburne. “Bloodshed in a holy cause has the Lord’s blessing. Go in peace, Sir Knight.”
Gisburne, horrified by what he had seen, looked for a moment as if he was set to take the matter further. Before he could do so, Galfrid intervened, taking the money pouch from Gisburne’s hand, putting it back into that of the whimpering pilgrim, and dragging Gisburne swiftly away.
XXV
THEY SAT IN a packed inn, a jug of wine between them, drinking in silence. Outside, the light was beginning to fail.
“Well, now you know,” Galfrid had said.
“Yes,” Gisburne had replied. “Now I know. The White Devil...” And he nodded slowly, deep in thought.
That had almost been the extent of the conversation when an overly coiffured herald entered the establishment, scanned the room, and wound his way towards them through the throng. Gisburne, the edge of his good manners – and his patience – knocked off by drink, looked the effete fellow up and down.
“Before you ask,” he said. “I don’t dance.”
The herald’s face flushed with displeasure, but he chose to ignore the comment. “A noble lady wishes to grant you an audience,” he said. Gisburne exchanged glances with Galfrid. The herald looked from one to the other, then added, pointedly: “Alone.”
He did not say which noble lady, but Gisburne would have known even if the man had not been wearing the green livery of Mélisande de Champagne. What she wanted with him on this night was anyone’s guess. But what was certain, he realised with sinking heart, was that she, too, now knew his purpose.
“I go with my squire, or not at all,” he said.
For a moment, the herald looked bereft. He had not prepared for this eventuality.
“Don’t be an idiot,” said Galfrid with a sigh, and pulled the jug of wine towards him. “I’ll be here if you need me.”
The herald did not speak as they walked. Without looking back, he led Gisburne through an endless succession of crowded streets – past roaring drunks, toiling fishermen, and bad minstrels, running the gauntlet of whores plying their trade and religious fanatics plying theirs. But the expected gravitation towards some more grand or fashionable end of the city did not take place. Instead, little by little, the crowds thinned and the buildings shrank, grew shabbier and less numerous, until finally they dwindled altogether. They passed outside the walls of the city, and beyond its tattered edge, street gave way to road, and road to track.
As they walked, Gisburne again felt his heart beat faster. Not at the mission ahead, he realised, but at the prospect of meeting Mélisande. It would be no hardship to look upon that face again. She excited him. But in that, there was also danger. He was so close to his goal now. It could not be jeopardised – not for anything.
He had begun to feel a sense of unease as they moved on into the hills, the city and its glimmer of lights now entirely at his back. As they progressed along a winding, gritty path that seemed to lead nowhere, his hand went instinctively to the pommel of his sword. If he were arranging an ambush, this would be as good a place as any.
Then he saw it. A camp of several tents and wagons around a central fire – a mobile, makeshift village, bustling with life and activity, aromatic with the smell of woodsmoke, spices and roasting meat. The herald led him straight to the largest of the tents, opened the flap, and gestured for him to enter.
There, on a bed strewn with cushions, in green silk with a white wimple, leaning upon one slender arm, was Mélisande de Champagne.
The interior of the tent was opulent, the influence of the Holy Land everywhere evident. In its centre, a brazier maintained a steady warm temperature, while upon a thick Arabian rug, food was set out on silver platters – fresh bread, dried fruits and nuts, spiced eggs, poached fish, cheese, pickles and preserves and hot roast goose. Two male servants were in attendance, one of whom was filling the hostess’s cup with wine as Gisburne approached.
She stood as she saw him, fingers clasped, smiling sweetly. “Welcome, Sir Knight.”
She was even more beautiful than he remembered. It was not, he now realised, the beauty of bland perfection. Her nose was perhaps a little too long, her green eyes perhaps a little too large, her chin perhaps a little more pointed than a sculptor would deem fit. But, taken all together, animated now by a living spirit he at once recognised as equally imperfect, equally captivating, they far surpassed any piddling work of art. She stepped forward, extending a slender hand. A dim memory of courtly behaviour stirred in Gisburne’s head. He bowed, dropped to one knee, took the countess’s proffered hand and kissed its back. As he did so – mere inches from the close-fitting, fine silk of her gown, her warm skin scented with orange, spice and rosewater – he was keenly aware of the shabbiness of his own dress, of the rough stubble on his face against the smooth white of her flesh. She did not let it linger.
“I’m so glad you could come,” she said brightly, as if it were a perfectly ordinary social occasion. He smiled unconvincingly as he stood. “Pray, be seated,” she said. Gisburne did so, in the only place available – on the edge of the large, low bed. A cup was placed in his hand and filled with wine, a silver platter arranged with morsels of food introduced into the other. He felt his stomach rumble, and hoped she did not notice. She raised her cup. He raised his in turn, and they drank. “Now,” she said. “You must tell me all about yourself. About all those brave battles you have fought, and the fair maidens’ hearts you have won...” Her eyes glittered as she said it.
Gisburne stared, momentarily dumbstruck. The situation felt unreal. She seemed unreal. And if there was one thing he was absolutely sure of, it was that this delicate creature did not want to know the realities of either the battles or the women.
“There is little to tell,” he said, awkwardly. Then added: “...that is fitting for a lady.” She smiled. Her large eyes narrowed and slid sideways. And, with a gesture that Gisburne barely registered, the servants were dismissed.
She watched until they were quite gone, than gave a great sigh, pulled the veil and wimple from her head and flung them to the floor, shaking her gold tresses loose. “God, I hate those things,” she said.
She evidently saw the surprise upon Gisburne’s face. “Sorry, does my informality shock you?”
It was not, in fact, the informality that shocked him. It was the change. Somehow it seemed, in the removal of her headgear, that this wan, fey creature had torn off a disguise and revealed a quite different being beneath. Even her voice had lost its breathy sibilance, and was now something far plainer, far richer, far more complex. “As a child, my father let me run wild in the woods and fields,” she continued. “I’m still that same girl at heart. But they do not approve.” She gestured vaguely towards the entrance of the tent. He supposed she meant the servants. Though why the thoughts of a servant should matter to her was beyond him. And if they were meant to be her chaperones, then it was a pretty poor job, leaving her alone in a tent with a rough-looking knight.
She sighed, sipped her wine, slumped a little on t
he bed, kicked one foot.
Gisburne cleared his throat. “I am curious...” he began.
“Yes,” she said with a smile. “You are.”
He pressed on, unperturbed. “Curious... as to why I am here.”
She lounged back languidly, pulling idly at her hair, her chemise parting to reveal the curve of her breasts. “I wished to meet you.” She shrugged.
So, that was the game. He could play that. But he wasn’t about to do so by her rules.
“Perhaps you should call back your servants,” he said, nodding at the small handbell by her left side. She looked suddenly crestfallen. He smiled politely. “I wouldn’t wish for there to be accusations of anything... improper.”
She sat back up, a different kind of smile on her lips. For a moment, the spoilt girl was quite gone. In her place, yet another persona. Something tougher, more formidable. A knowing woman.
“What else of worth is there to do on a winter’s night,” she said, “but something improper?”
Her being, and her voice, had subtly changed again. Gisburne felt in the presence of an adversary, and a worthy one, at that. An equal. But whether this was the real Mélisande de Champagne – if indeed she was ever to be revealed to him – remained to be seen.
“Well, since decorum is cast aside,” he said, “let’s speak plainly. Why am I here?”
She sat up, her eyes not moving from him. “You have no idea?”
“None.” It was a lie. He knew it had something to do with the skull. But he did not wish her to know that he knew. Not yet.
“I saw a knight come to the defence of some poor pilgrims,” she said. “And I admired it.”
“Then you are one of the rare few. What exactly was it you admired?”
“Are you fishing for compliments now, Sir Guy?”
“I never fish,” he said. “I prefer hunting.”
She raised an eyebrow. “A man after my own heart.” She put down her cup, plucked a sliver of roast goose from her platter with nimble fingers and popped it into her mouth. “I admire fortitude. Strength of will. Strength of purpose. It’s something I look for in people. All of those who serve me have such qualities.”
Gisburne cocked his head to one side. “Is that a job offer? Or a proposition?”
Her smile faded. “You are very forthright for a supposed gentleman.”
“As you are for a lady.”
Her eyes narrowed this time. But there was something playful in them – a hint of the wild girl. “Perhaps you are not a gentleman at all.” Her tone was gently chiding, but also inviting. Suggestive.
Gisburne thought to say something, but bit his tongue.
“Aha...” She smiled, as if in triumph. “I see you are a gentleman after all.”
“Your offer is most kind. But I have a noble master to whom I am loyal.”
It was here that anyone else might have asked who that master was, but Mélisande did not take the bait. She knows, thought Gisburne.
“A pity,” she said, putting another shred of goose flesh in her mouth and licking her fingertips delicately. “I believe you would have fitted in rather well.”
He could see what she was doing now. Anyone could. Resisting it was another matter. He’d had a good quantity of wine before coming here, and while his mind was sharp, his resistance was weak. In spite of himself, all this flirting and game-playing was starting to get the better of him. To Hell with the skull. To Hell with John. Why should he not jump into this countess’s bed, whether she means it or not? In his head, he laughed. The impulse passed. It was wild fancy, no more than a pleasant image to toy with. But with it – with its denial – came impatience.
“I suggested we speak plainly,” he said. It was his turn to sound chiding this time. “But I do not believe you are doing so.”
“You do not think me plain?”
“Very far from it.”
“Well, if plain is your preference...” She looked away, as if in appalled disappointment, and sipped at her wine.
“Stop playing games,” he snapped.
She turned and stared at him in silence for a moment.
“Am I playing a game?”
“You know it. We both are.”
Something flashed in her eyes. Perhaps panic. Whatever it was, it was swiftly conquered. “And the object of this game?”
“There is only ever one object with a game,” he said. “To win.”
There was a long hesitation before she spoke again. “And the prize?”
It was time, now, to put pretence aside. “A skull,” he said. “Set about with gold and encrusted with jewels. Such as the one you saw represented in a manuscript at Vézelay not ten days ago. Such as the one that arrives here within the week.”
She stared at him, searching his eyes, for once lost for words. He could see her calculating, plotting, weighing up – suddenly realising she had not the advantage in this game that she had thought, desperate to make a move that would somehow re-establish it.
He did not give her the chance. “Who do you work for?” he said.
“Work?” She said it as if it was a dirty word.
“I have a master and so do you. Who is it?”
Outraged, she reached for the bell. “How dare...”
Before she could touch it, Gisburne’s hand enclosed her wrist. He held it firm, his face close to hers.
“Not entirely a gentleman, then?” she said.
“It depends,” he replied.
“On what?” There was challenge in her tone. He released his grip. She looked away, affectation suddenly gone from her face. “I have heard of such a skull. The head of John the Baptist, lately out of Antioch. En route now to the King of France, brought there by the knights of the Temple.”
“You would know that, of course,” said Gisburne, “having been at his court not three weeks ago.”
A frown flickered across her forehead and was gone. “And how would you know it?”
“Perhaps I read it in your face.”
“And what else do you see there?”
“Your father is Count of Boulogne, loyal to King Philip, and an ardent supporter of the Templar cause. You would therefore wish the skull to reach its destination safely.” He shrugged. “Or that is my guess. Faces can be deceptive.”
Her eyes studied him intently, seeming to grow in confidence once again. “As a loyal subject, and a dutiful daughter, perhaps that is indeed what I would wish. But children can rebel against parents. And subjects may move against their king.”
The words stung Gisburne. He thought of Richard rebelling against his father, of John’s wish to see Richard fall.
“But let’s suppose you are correct,” she continued. “And suppose, too, that the Templar entrusted with its transportation through France was, shall we say, unreliable...”
“Tancred?” She did not reply. “What is your part in all this?”
“My part?” She pressed her open hand to her breast in mock humility, a gesture of almost absurd theatricality. “I am a mere woman. And a woman’s part is never her own. It is always in the hands of another.”
Gisburne stared. Then broke into a laugh. Oh, she’s good. She’s very, very good. He raised his cup. She gave a sly smile, and raised hers.
“To John,” she said, sweetly. Then, after a pause, added: “The Baptist.”
She stood suddenly. “Now, we are done. I must to bed. And, sadly, you must leave.” With that, she rang the bell. Immediately, her servants appeared. Gisburne stood, bowed, and turned to leave.
“Beware of Tancred,” she said, her back to him. “He is not what he seems.”
And then he walked out of the warmth of that charmed tent and back into the cold night.
XXVI
THERE WAS SOMEONE waiting at the city gate.
When Gisburne had left the tent, he had caught the eye of the herald who had delivered him here. He expected, he supposed, that he might also be required to show him back, and in truth Gisburne – his brain tired and
fogged by drink – would not have minded some guidance through that maze of streets. But the herald did not stir. Evidently, he would have to find his own way.
He had been contemplating Mélisande’s words as his feet crunched in steady rhythm along the stony path, trying to fathom her purpose. But what had seemed merely curious when he had left her tent became more vexing and raised more questions the longer he thought about it. He decided to dismiss it from his mind, at least for tonight. It was still early, but he just wanted sleep. He was pondering this, and the fact that he would likely have to bribe the porter, when he saw the three cloaked figures ahead, lurking in the gloom some distance from the gate, their heads bowed.
He knew at once it was trouble. As he neared, and the tallest of them stepped up to him, he saw why. The man had a bloody bandage across one eye, and through the slit in his cloak Gisburne glimpsed the surcoat of a Templar. It was the knight he had fought at the quayside. The knight Tancred had half blinded. It seemed he wished to settle the account, and had brought two friends to ensure the bill was paid.
Gisburne was in no mood to pussyfoot. “Your master told me to go in peace.”
One-Eye looked at him with unadulterated hatred. “He would not have done so had he known you went disguised as a pilgrim.”
That, Gisburne supposed, was a fair point. How One-Eye knew it was another matter. Unless he had been comparing notes with Fulke, and drawing his own conclusions. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” he said. “Now, let me pass.”
The knight blocked his way, his companions – serjeants – stepping up beside him. “Don’t think me such a fool. I have a good idea what you are and why you are here, even if my master does not.”
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