Knight of Shadows

by Toby Venables

  “I find that hard to believe,” said Gisburne. “That you had a good idea, I mean.”

  The knight growled – almost comically – and drew his sword.

  Gisburne, exausted, tried to stifle a yawn, and failed. “Please,” he said, one hand raised in apology. “Can’t this wait until tomorrow?”

  One-eye stepped forward, his face contorted with rage. “Tomorrow?” He laughed. “Tomorrow will be too late for you. The skull will be in our hands. And you will be dead!” And with a roar he went for him.

  Gisburne, his reactions slowed, drew his sword just fast enough to parry the knight’s first blow. But as he did so, One-Eye’s head jerked convulsively. His eyes seemed to drift in different directions. And instead of drawing away to strike again, he kept coming – his whole body pushing towards Gisburne, falling onto him. Gisburne stepped back instinctively – defensively – and to his amazement One-Eye fell face down onto the ground, limp and lifeless, an arrow in his temple. Gisburne stared at him in astonishment, then back up at his companions, their expressions incredulous.

  Fssssst. Something zipped through the night air. The serjeant to Gisburne’s right convulsed and fell to his knees, an arrow in his chest. The second serjeant looked about in panic, his eyes scanning the distant trees. He was already backing away.

  Gisburne looked him in the eye. “Better run,” he said. The serjeant did so.

  Gisburne turned just in time to see, some hundred yards distant among the shrubby trees, a small, dark figure, its face covered, leap upon a black horse and make off into the night.

  XXVII

  “SO,” SAID GALFRID. “Our shadowy assassin strikes again.”

  To Gisburne’s amazement, he had still been sat at the same place in the same tavern. But he was glad of it. The encounter had woken him up, and the information it provided fired him with a new sense of urgency, and a need to talk.

  “As long as he’s on our side, I don’t mind,” said Gisburne. “Whoever he is, he saved my skin.” Gisburne’s manner was dismissive, but he knew this was a lie. He was not only being watched; he was being protected. And he had no idea by whom, nor their purpose. Question continued to pile upon question.

  “And you say the Templar also knew? About your interest in the skull?”

  “A shrewd guess. Perhaps I have been a little too... obvious... in my actions.” He looked guiltily, almost sheepishly at Galfrid. “I’ll work on it. But the man said he was no fool, and he was right. Though still foolish enough to let slip one other important piece of information.” That fact he had yet to impart to Galfrid. He wasn’t sure how. It somehow seemed too big, too momentous. He felt his heart race at the thought. But Galfrid would now ask; he had opened that door to him.

  But Galfrid, for once missing his cue, did no such thing. “And Mélisande... How much does she know?” asked Galfrid.

  “Everything. Or so we must assume.”

  Galfrid sighed. “This is fast becoming the worst kept secret in Christendom. Why did she want to see you anyway?”

  Gisburne spread his hands. “To sound out a rival. To get a look up close.” But, in truth, this, too, remained a mystery. If her goal was simply to safeguard the skull, and protect French interests, why not simply kill him? And why feed him information? The whole business made him uneasy. “She warned me not to trust Tancred.”

  “Were you likely to do that?”

  “Hardly.”

  Galfrid nodded. “Our plan?”

  “The plan has changed,” Gisburne said. “The loss of the Greek Fire saw to that.”

  Galfrid leaned forward. “You know, you never actually told me what that plan was. But if I were you, right now I’d be considering intercepting the ship before it even reached Marseille.”

  Impressive, thought Gisburne. He nodded slowly. “The ship will hug the coast, put in where it can – especially in winter, and especially overnight. If we know where, we can get to it whilst it’s at anchor.”

  “If we know where, and when,” said Galfrid, somewhat gloomily.

  “Tonight,” said Gisburne. Galfrid almost choked on his drink. “The Templar. He told me. Tomorrow it arrives in Marseille. Which means tonight it makes its last stop on the coast.”

  Galfrid stared at him, struggling to take the information in. “It’s early. Ahead of schedule. Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely. This is our one chance, Galfrid. After today, it passes into Tancred’s hands.”

  “And you say the Templar told you? Why? Why would someone do that?”

  “Because it’s the sort of idiotic thing a man says when he thinks he’s about to kill you,” said Gisburne impatiently. He leaned forward, his eyes afire, his voice hushed. “This is it, Galfrid. This is what we came for.” It had been six weeks since he stood before John at the Tower of London and received his orders. Six hard weeks, during which this had seemed a distant dream. But now, suddenly, it was upon them. He felt a strange thrill – one he had not felt in years. The thrill – and trepidation – that one felt before a battle.

  Galfrid swallowed hard. “Do we know where?”

  “We can find out,” said Gisburne. “There’s someone I need to see. Mamdour. An old friend. He trades here now. If anyone knows, he will.”

  Galfrid’s eyes narrowed. “Would I be right in thinking Mr Mamdour is a foreign gentleman? A... Saracen gentleman?”

  “Nubian, actually,” said Gisburne. “And I trust him.”

  Galfrid thought a moment, then nodded.

  Gisburne tensed his muscles, felt his heart pounding.

  “Prepare the horses,” he said.

  XXVIII

  The coast of Provence – December, 1191

  THE TEMPLAR SHIP was already lying at anchor when they arrived. “A business associate tells me two Templars came asking for good wine and fresh meat,” Mamdour had said. “It was to be taken to a bay along the coast, to arrive before tomorrow night. They call the place the Bay of the Cross. It is a day’s sailing from here, at least. Two days by wagon. But a determined man with a good horse, he could get there in a few hours. A man determined like you.” He had smiled knowingly as he’d said it. Gisburne had tried to reward him for his help, but at that, Mamdour had looked mortally offended. “Stay alive,” he had said, and, grinning widely, had thrown his arms around Gisburne and clapped his hands on his friend’s back.

  Gisburne and Galfrid had ridden southeast, cutting across country in a wide arc before doubling back to the cove. The final approach they had made on foot, and now – huddled among the rocks of the cliff – looked down upon the small but bustling encampment on the white stretch of beach. A fire blazed at its heart, casting long, shifting shadows beyond the neat row of tents set back from the ocean’s edge. Gisburne counted six horses, and perhaps two dozen men milling about, most of them armed knights. Distant sounds of laughter and the rasping drone and mournful melody of a hurdy gurdy drifted on the air. And there, in the still waters of the small, sheltered bay, with the moon and stars of the clear night sky reflected all about, sat the vessel – small, high-sided and shallow of draught. A fine, new ship – swift and manoeuvrable – but not one for a heavy sea.

  “Do you see any guards aboard?” said Galfrid, squinting into the gloom.

  “I see no one at all.” There was a note of surprise in Gisburne’s voice. Clearly the Templars were confident in their abilities – they had every right to be – but he had not expected them to be so complacent. He could hardly believe his luck.

  “And you’re certain the skull will be on the ship?”

  Gisburne scanned the beach again, looking for signs of something under guard. But there were no clusters of men. No tent that had more security than any of its fellows. The ship itself clearly made the best strongroom.

  “I’d stake my life on it.”

  Galfrid looked like he was going to say something, but stopped himself. Galfrid hardly ever stopped himself – but Gisburne knew what its gist would have been. He was staking his life on it. If he
was wrong, their quest would likely end here.

  Gisburne had dressed lightly, his mail hauberk stowed in a bag upon Galfrid’s horse, and now, creeping back from the cliff edge, he began to throw off the remainder of his clothes. Stripping down to his hose, he slung a bag across his chest, tucked a slim crowbar in his belt and slung his shortsword across the small of his back. He shuddered as the cold metal touched his skin. Temperatures here were nothing like those they had left behind in the north, but it was cold enough when half naked. The sea would be colder still.

  “You’re only taking the shortsword?’ said Galfrid.

  “Have you ever tried swimming with a broadsword?”

  Galfrid clearly had not. He looked as if he thought swimming of any kind an abomination.

  “Bring the horses up as close as you can,” said Gisburne. He gestured to his pile of clothes. “And pack everything on them.” He took a deep breath – a last look at the relative safety of this bleak crag. “When I return, we’ll need to get away fast.”

  “How will I know when you’re clear?”

  “You’ll know.” And with that, crouching low, he stalked eastward along the clifftop, finally disappearing from Galfrid’s view through a cleft in the rocks.

  The climb down to the cove was treacherous. To avoid being seen, Gisburne had headed east of the beach to pick his way down through the rocks on the headland. Here, Mamdour had assured him, was a path – although it proved a path fit only for a mountain goat. There were great gaps, and drops of six feet or more, and occasionally jagged shadows into which he was forced to slither, with little idea how deep they went. In one place, he disturbed a huddle of birds that screeched and flapped and flew at his face. He clung to the rock a long time after they had fled, sprawled, motionless, the birds’ fishy stink in his nostrils, certain he had given himself away. But there were no shouts from down below. No sudden mobilisation. No signs of alarm. The same breeze that carried their sounds to him carried his away from them. Finally he dared to move again, feeling the crust of birdshit crumbling beneath his fingers.

  A sailor had once told him that the Mediterranean waters in the winter were warmer than the seas of England in summer. Gisburne focused hard on this thought as he slipped from the barnacle encrusted rock into the freezing, weedy water. From above, the sea had looked as smooth as black glass. Down here, less so. He flexed his left shoulder to relieve the stiffness in it, then, suppressing a shiver, he pushed himself off.

  Gisburne had been a strong swimmer since childhood. But it had been months since he’d swum last, years since he had done so in the open sea. Even then, it had not been through choice. Now, the salty swell lapped in his face. The bag and his hose dragged, and the sword felt like it would pull him under. But he relaxed into the swim, and found his rhythm. The lapping waves gave way to a deeper swell. The shiver passed. There were some pockets of almost tepid water, and some that were ice cold. But he felt the warmth of the exertion flow through him. And so, in the moonlight, he advanced slowly, steadily towards the twin torches that glimmered like eyes upon the ship’s high stern.

  He had no formed no plan for getting aboard. He had neither grapple nor rope. There was, in any case, no means of throwing them from the water, nor any crossbow here capable of projecting them. Lacking any other method, he had resigned himself to a painful climb up one of the anchor ropes. Now, he saw that they were not ropes, but thick chains. The Templars had spared no expense. As the dark timbers loomed like a creaking, heaving wall silhouetted against the moon, the dipping chains spreading from the hull like a spider’s legs, the climb seemed impossible.

  Then he heard a sound he knew. The hollow thunk of wet timber knocking against wet timber in a steady rhythm. As he drew nearer still, his eyes penetrating the deep shadow at the stern, he saw it. A small boat bobbing in the water, tethered to the ship, and above it – as if left for his convenience – a rope ladder stretching up to the deck. There was no one to see Gisburne’s smile. He swam between the ship and the boat, gripped the rope, then began to haul himself up out of the water.

  XXIX

  HE HAD ADVANCED no more than two paces on the ship when he realised he was not alone. He froze, dripping on the deck, bare feet tensed against the boards. The snort sounded again, from his left, louder this time. He took another tentative step, and there he saw him. A Knight of the Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ and of the Temple of Solomon, fully armed and mail clad, ready for battle – slumped, drunk and asleep. On one side of him, an opened earthenware bottle; on the other, a gnawed animal bone stripped of meat. The gentle purring rhythm of his snoring was broken by another snort and a splutter. He shifted, nudging the bottle, which toppled and rolled across the gently swaying deck. Gisburne stopped it with his foot, and righted it. Then he drew his shortsword and advanced towards the sleeping guardian.

  In the flickering light of the flambeau upon the gunwale, he could see the man’s face. He looked as peaceful as a babe, a glistening trail of drool upon his short beard. Gisburne raised his weapon, and prodded the man firmly with its point. He spluttered and shifted again, but did not stir from sleep. Gisburne doubted whether the man would have been roused if a whole company had leapt aboard on horseback. He left him to his dreams.

  The night air felt strangely warm now, the effect of emerging from the cold water. It would pass. He hoped to be back in the water by then. But there was one small thing to be achieved first.

  Looking along the length of the deck, he spied a square hatch standing proud of the planking, some three-quarters of the way between him and the mast. On a ship of this size, there would be a hundred nooks to secrete the skull. But his gut told him – with the certainty of knowledge – that this was the place. He knew he was close – could smell it, taste it. Feel it in his bones. All these weeks of travel and hardship, and now, just yards away... Muscles tight, a strange thrill rising in his belly, he made towards it.

  A shadow loomed suddenly before him: another knight, tall, armoured, sword drawn – not sleeping, not drunk. They stared at each other in silent amazement for a fleeting moment – but Gisburne was the more prepared. His blade swung and flashed in the firelight, the blunt back edge striking the man hard across the temple. He grunted, staggered, stumbled into the gunwale on the starboard side – and tipped right over the edge. There was a dull plash as his body hit the water.

  Gisburne again stood tense, motionless, looking nervously to the still slumbering guard, then back at the shore. The knight had plunged overboard on the side facing shore. Even if they had not heard, anyone looking from the beach in that moment would have seen it.

  But there were no voices raised. No sudden movements. The breeze brought only the familiar sounds of laughter, and the plaintive whine of the hurdy gurdy.

  Gisburne hurried to the hatch. It appeared to have no lock. Llelwellyn’s words came back to him – warnings about the Templars’ ingenuity. Sheathing his shortsword, he gripped the edge and raised it, slowly, tentatively. It offered no resistance. He felt around its rim. There were no catches or wires. Nothing out of the ordinary. Could it really be they had simply put it in the hold of a ship, like a sack of flour or a barrel of salt pork?

  He lifted the hatch completely. The impenetrable black of the hold’s interior stared back at him. Creeping to the port side, he released a flambeau from its bracket and again peered into the gloom.

  The space was large, and but for one object, appeared entirely empty. Some twelve feet immediately below the opening, sitting in glorious isolation at the centre of the hold, was a solitary wooden chest, of the right proportions to contain a human head.

  His flame glinted on its hasp and hinges. Gisburne felt his heart beat faster in his chest.

  There was no ladder, no stair, no rope. No indication at all of any means of access. Could it be entered elsewhere, below the deck? There wasn’t time to find out. He freed one end of a line from the mast – the thickest he could find that wouldn’t bring the yard crashing down upon his head �
�� and was about to lower it in to the gloom when something made him stop. At first, he thought it was a trick of the light – an illusion concocted by his straining eyes. He held the flambeau lower, and moved it from side to side. There was something in the air down there. Something between him and the box, barely reflecting in the light. Lines, or something, like...

  A hand grabbed his hair and yanked him back from the opening. He sprawled. The flambeau skittered across the deck, its shadows jumping weirdly. Towering over him – still drunk, but fired up for the fight – was the slumbering guard, a heavy, spiked mace raised and ready to plunge down into Gisburne’s skull.

  Gisburne launched himself head first and with all his weight at the knight’s unprotected midriff; the Templar gave a great wheeze as the impact knocked the wind out of him. He collided with the mast behind him, and then vomited several pints of hot, sour smelling liquid over Gisburne’s back. In a fury, Gisburne grabbed the knight by the surcoat and hauled him away from the mast. The material ripped, but the knight, still winded and now overbalanced, staggered awkwardly, fell to one knee then pitched forward right into the open hold.

  The guard had made one fatal misjudgement, opting to take on Gisburne before raising the alarm. But it was not this that occupied Gisburne’s mind in those moments: it was the cry the knight had uttered as he fell – a cry not of pain, but of fear. And also the other, stranger sounds that had accompanied his plunge – a flurry of bursts within the hold, one after another, like a flapping or hissing, before the body hit the timbers with a bone-cracking thud.

  Silence followed.

  Gathering himself, Gisburne recovered the still-lit flambeau and crept towards the hatch. Then, he understood. Far below, curled around the box, lay the knight’s body, stone dead. It was bristling with crossbow bolts, and all about it, criss-crossing, caught up in his flailing limbs, was a tangle of fine threads – triggers for the deadly trap into which Gisburne had almost lowered himself.