Fulke, meanwhile, had been so tightly hemmed in by his fellows that he could do nothing to repel the first charge, and sat impotent whilst those about him – those who he thought guaranteed his safety – were battered and unhorsed. The lesson he had not learned – that he should have learned – was something that de Gaillon had already drummed into Gisburne by the age of thirteen: “a good general never attacks his enemy the same way twice.”
Galfrid and Gisburne now wheeled around for a second pass.
Fulke roared and waved his sword – a gesture that revealed the terror it was meant to mask. They closed in around him. Gisburne parried a sword blow. Galfrid struck the Templar hard in the stomach, driving the wind out of him like a bellows. Gisburne struck again, sending Fulke’s sword spinning through the air. Fulke scrabbled for the mace at his saddle, knowing he would not – could not – be quick enough.
Something grabbed at Gisburne’s saddle. The knight with the crushed faceplate had wrestled his helm off his head, and now – one eye half closed, the cheek swollen like a rosy apple – was yanking the box free. It came loose, swung around and smashed Galfrid in the back, knocking the staff from his hand and him out of his saddle. His horse panicked and kicked. Galfrid kept his grip just long enough to slither to the ground.
The tables had turned. It was now two mounted men against Gisburne – and they already had the reliquary box in their possession. Galfrid snatched up the staff, caught the reins of his horse and tried to bring him back under control. But, unlike Nyght, the horse was not used to battle.
The mêlée was messy and confused. Gisburne dodged a swipe of Fulke’s mace as their horses barged against each other. He had no helm on his head – the great helm still hung upon his saddle. If just one blow connected with his skull, he was done for. He swung his sword in retaliation, but Fulke parried it. They remained locked for a moment, each struggling until Fulke grabbed Gisburne’s sword blade with his gauntleted left hand and held it fast. Gisburne pulled at it, suddenly aware that the knight with the swollen face was advancing behind him, battleaxe raised above his head. Gisburne could not get free, could not move or turn, and Galfrid was still yards distant.
Without warning, the other knight uttered a bizarre choking cry and fell, an arrow in his back. The axe clattered to the ground, and the box – still clutched in his other hand – slid from his grasp. Fulke looked on in astonishment, and Gisburne now saw that a black-clad rider on a dark horse was hurtling towards them, head and face completely obscured by black wrappings, bow in hand – a Saracen bow, short and compact. Gisburne took advantage of the distraction, hauling hard on his sword. It slid from Fulke’s grasp, slicing through the leather grip of his gauntlet. He howled in agony, his horse rearing.
The black rider – the same slight figure Gisburne had seen invade their room in Auxerre – leapt from his horse almost before it had stopped, flung down the bow and snatched up the fallen reliquary. Fulke, meanwhile, disliking the new odds, turned his horse about. Gisburne swiped at him as he fled. But the black rider was already back in the saddle, turning away to the north, the box gripped under one arm.
Gisburne looked around urgently, and saw Galfrid – alive and well.
“Go!” shouted the squire. “Don’t wait for me!” Gisburne nodded and made off after the departing black rider, already a good half-furlong distant.
Watching Fulke receding along the other fork, Galfrid stooped, tore the arrow from the stricken knight’s back, nocked it on the discarded Saracen bow, and took aim.
“Have a souvenir from England,” he muttered, letting the arrow fly.
The arrow clipped Fulke’s left shoulder. He recoiled, swayed, and fell.
Galfrid shouldered the bow, climbed into his saddle and galloped away after his master.
XXXVI
GISBURNE HAD RARELY seen anyone ride with such skill, or with such fury. Like its rider, the horse was slender and small of stature, but long-limbed and powerful and impossibly swift. Gisburne thought he recognised the distinctive shape of an Arabian horse. If that were the case, his palfrey’s chances of catching or outlasting such a beast were zero.
Some two hundred yards along the dry dirt road, the black rider had darted off into the trees. Gisburne followed. The trees were not closely packed, but they were small, and their branches low, and riding between them at speed was hazardous in the extreme. Gisburne’s quarry seemed to negotiate them with an almost supernatural ability, ducking and dodging between the boughs with the instinctual grace of a deer. Only by following an identical path did Gisburne manage to stay in the saddle, and even then he found himself lashed by twigs and branches. It struck him, then, that the pursuit was futile. He could only gain the advantage by doing the one thing he knew he was unable to do – breaking away and somehow cutting the thief off. To follow doggedly in the same hoofprints might work if he were astride a fresher, faster beast, but his mount was already flagging, already at the limit of its endurance. He was certain, too, that the black rider’s horse was well within his – that he was idling, toying with him, saving his energy.
Then, as he was giving up hope, something happened that he could not have predicted. The black rider slowed, drew up amongst some young oaks, and dismounted. So, he wished to fight. Well, that was something Gisburne was better equipped to deal with, at least. He dropped down from his horse and faced his adversary at some dozen yards distance. The dark figure stood, the box still tucked under his arm, one hip pushed slightly out. Gisburne could see now that the fellow had no sword upon his belt – though weapons of various kinds were tucked about his saddle. What he did have was a matching pair of curved knives the likes of which Gisburne had never seen, their black and silver grips protruding from broad, black scabbards. But so far, he had drawn no weapon, and showed no obvious sign of doing so.
Without warning, he started towards Gisburne. Gisburne’s hand went to his sword hilt. The black rider paused, then continued; Gisburne drew the blade, took a step forward. The figure seemed to drop, then spin, and a foot whipped around and kicked the weapon from his hand. Gisburne’s hand went for his knife. The foot whipped around again – but this time Gisburne was ready. He caught it, and lifted it, throwing his attacker off balance. The box tumbled away. The black rider landed heavily on his back, was momentarily stunned – and Gisburne was on him. He sat astride the fellow’s stomach, denying him the knives in his belt. His foe struggled hard, but, fast as he was, he could not match Gisburne in weight or strength. Then Gisburne grabbed at the wrappings about his captive’s face. He would know at last who this was, who kept their face covered and crept about in the night.
Gisburne pulled. The material unwound. “Time for you to show your face, you miserable cow–”
The word coward stopped in Gisburne’s throat. He sat back in shock. The face of Mélisande de Champagne glared back at him, her eyes fiery, her hair full and wild.
“‘Miserable cow’...?” she said. Then a black-clad foot hooked around his neck and flipped him backwards. Gisburne fell heavily, rolled once and leapt to his feet, clutching his bruised throat, his eating knife drawn. But Mélisande was already up, a blade in each hand. They stared at each other for a moment, the only sound their panting breaths – eyes locked, muscles tense. Galfrid drew up sharply some twenty yards distant, and looked in baffled astonishment.
“Do you want to live?” she said.
Gisburne stared at her, frowning, still in shock.
“Yes,” he coughed, his windpipe still smarting.
She sheathed both knives in one swift move. “Then follow me.”
And she turned and whistled for her horse.
XXXVII
AS THEY RODE through the sparse, open forest, Mélisande leading the way, Gisburne found himself going over the events of past weeks. The first sighting in Paris. The intruder in their room. The meeting on the outskirts of Marseille. The dark assassin in the streets. Everything now seemed to take on a different hue.
“We share a commo
n goal with regard to the skull,” she had said before they had mounted up to follow her. “Trust me.” And for some reason, he did. She had let him catch up with her in the woods, when she could so easily have made her escape. She’d had the chance to kill them, as they slept, and had not taken it. She had, in fact, saved their lives – his, more than once. She had also taken the box, he now realised, only when it was threatened with capture by Tancred’s men. He didn’t doubt she could take it from them again if she chose to do so. She was determined and capable enough.
He looked at her, several yards ahead now, her coils of golden hair tumbling down her back. The girl who had run wild in the woods and fields. She might well be that same girl at heart, but her methods had clearly moved on. Where had she learned those skills, and acquired those weapons – both of which seemed to point to the empire of Salah al-Din? And to whom, or what, was she now loyal?
The spell was broken by Galfrid sighing deeply beside him.
“Typical woman,” he said.
Gisburne stared at him, screwing up his eyes as if the better to comprehend this strange, random statement.
“Typical woman?” he repeated, with incredulity and not a little irritation. He looked back to the slender figure ahead of them. “One who dresses as a man, creeps about like an assassin in the night and steals holy relics from Templars? I don’t know what kind of women you’re used to mixing with, Galfrid, but this is a first for me.”
“I just meant...” said Galfrid, looking as if he already regretted saying it, “that it’s typical of a woman to be the very last thing she appears to be.”
Gisburne huffed at that. “I’ve met plenty of women who are exactly what they appear to be. Disappointingly so. Believe me, this one is far from typical.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Galfrid give a wry smile. Gisburne chose not pursue it.
Something else was taking his attention now. Something he had not expected, and was at a loss to explain. In the hard riding and fierce fight, his body and mail had heated up considerably, and now, it seemed to him, a distinct odour was rising from it.
Gisburne sniffed at his mail again. Not vinegar. But not exactly pleasant. Thick, this time. Meaty. Slightly rank. Something half recognised, but so incongruous it was impossible to place.
“Galfrid...?”
Galfrid looked across at him.
“This latest thing I am smelling. From my hauberk...”
“Lard,” said Galfrid, matter-of-factly. “Good for proofing the links against rust. I took the liberty before we left Marseille.”
“Lard. Of course. Stupid of me.” Gisburne nodded, resignedly. “So, I am to smell like a side of bacon now...”
Galfrid gave a smirk. “She won’t mind,” he said.
Gisburne chose not to grace that with a response.
“We’re here,” said Mélisande at last, slowing. She put her fingers to her mouth and whistled, and a whistle answered. Up ahead, Gisburne saw the trees thin out into a clearing, from one edge of which led a wide path. And in the clearing was a large encampment – the very same as Gisburne had seen that night in Marseille. The three wagons were drawn into a horseshoe, and among them were pitched several tents about a central fire. Liveried servants cleaned, groomed horses and served food, while a half dozen knights – in surcoats of green, each emblazoned with a yellow sun – sat eating and tending their weapons. Several had evidently jumped to their feet at her approach, and on catching sight of Gisburne and Galfrid, three went for their weapons. Mélisande stayed them with a hand. “Make ready to leave!” she called. Immediately, activities were curtailed. The fire was extinguished, the horses prepared. All set about striking camp and packing the wagons with well-practised efficiency. “Welcome to my home,” she said to Gisburne.
As her people bustled about her, Mélisande squatted by the glowing remains of the fire. Without a word, a servant handed her some meat and a cup of ale – two more servants thrust the same into the hands of Gisburne and Galfrid.
“Eat,” said Mélisande. “We leave as soon as the wagons are ready.”
Gisburne did so. Judging by the intensity of the activity, that moment would come soon.
“This is the second time we have shared a meal,” said Gisburne. “Perhaps this time we can speak more plainly.”
“Perhaps.” She almost smiled.
Gisburne studied her intently.
“You’ve acquired some Saracen ways,” he said. “Some Saracen skills.”
“I spent some time there,” she said dismissively. “In the so-called Holy Land. I learned a great deal.”
“Such as..?”
“Such as, it is not all so holy.” She laughed. “Why? Do you think me perhaps an agent of the Sultan?”
“I think you are a loyal servant to King Philip,” said Gisburne. Mélisande said nothing, her face neither confirming nor denying it. “I saw you in Paris. Weeks ago. Leaving the Îsle de la Cité via the Grand Pont.” Those were the certain facts. But Gisburne decided it was time to add some conjectural flesh to their bones. “You were at his palace. Preparing for this venture, as Tancred was.” He shrugged, and drank. “I’ve encountered no other agent of the French crown upon my travels, but it is absurd to think the King would not have someone keeping an eye on things. It might as well be you.”
“What a nice way to put it.” Mélisande smiled sweetly – a smile that somehow seemed to combine perfect innocence with impish mischief, and gave away absolutely nothing. “I also saw you in Paris,” she said. “Fighting with Templars. If you wish to continue in this line of work, you really must learn to be more discreet.”
Galfrid stifled a snigger.
Gisburne sat forward. “You claimed we shared a common goal,” he said. “That goal is to keep the skull out of the untrustworthy hands of this rebel Templar. Correct?”
This time, he saw in her eyes that he was.
“Tancred strays further from the fold every day,” she said. “He no longer feels bound by the authority of his own order. His view is that the skull should never have been given up. That it has a power. And perhaps... yes, perhaps he means to take it for himself.”
He smiled. “Then as long as the skull is in France, it would seem we are indeed of one mind, and one heart.” He thought she almost blushed at that. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, he added: “But what about after that?”
She looked into his eyes for what seemed a long time, then stood suddenly.
“You will travel with us from here,” she said. “It’s best.”
“But the wagons are slow,” protested Gisburne. “If we are to prevent Tancred getting ahead of us, then men on horseback...”
“...will be easily spotted and swiftly hunted down,” she interrupted. “Tancred is already ahead of you. And these wagons are faster than you think.”
Gisburne looked at them sceptically.
She sighed, growing impatient. “I am the daughter of the Count of Boulogne. No one will suspect you are travelling with me. And even Tancred would not dare cross a nobleman’s family in his own land. It will afford you greater protection.”
“Whilst allowing you to keep closer to your prize,” said Gisburne.
She smiled at that. “You are good,” she said. “But don’t flatter yourself.”
Gisburne hesitated, and Mélisande took a step towards him, her manner suddenly sincere. “You’re exhausted. Tancred’s men are looking for you, and they know your faces. With us, you pass unnoticed. You can travel in one of the wagons, out of sight – even sleep, if you need to. And I won’t be offended if you take turns. To keep watch on your box.”
Gisburne knew perfectly well that she could have taken it for herself by now. That she still could, given the men at her disposal. He wondered at it – could not entirely fathom it. And what would happen once they reached Paris, and Gisburne and Galfrid went to break away with the skull, heading for England? That was a mystery. But, Gisburne found, it was a mystery to which he very much wished to know
the answer.
“The first wagon is mine,” said Mélisande, pulling off her jerkin and throwing it in the back. “The second will be yours. It has space enough for you to be comfortable.”
“You know they’ll be watching the roads,” Gisburne said, as he tethered his horse to the wagon.
“Not these roads,” said Mélisande. “And if they’re still with us past Lyon, we’ll lose them in the Morvan.”
Galfrid looked startled. “No one in their right mind chooses to go through the Morvan in winter.”
Mélisande smiled, stepped forward and brought a hand up to the squire’s face. “And that is precisely why we do it.” She turned, removed her belt and knives and hurled them into the wagon. “And now, I am going to make myself a woman again.” She pulled herself aboard her carriage. “I suggest you rest. Au revoir, gentlemen.” The flaps of the canvas tilt were pulled tight shut and the convoy began to move.
Galfrid stared after her as if in a trance.
“Typical, eh?” said Gisburne, and hauled himself into the back of their wagon.
XXXVIII
The Morvan – December, 1191
BY THE THIRD day, they could see them. Loping along the treeline, their shaggy heads hung low, they wove in and out of the trees at the forest’s edge, sometimes disappearing from view, sometimes in plain sight, but always keeping pace, their ice-blue eyes fixed on the travellers.
Galfrid watched them nervously as his horse plodded though the deep snow, the wagons creaking and labouring behind them. “What are they doing?” he said. “Why don’t they just attack?”
“They’re not stupid,” said Mélisande.
Gisburne pulled back his hood and squinted at the trees. “They’re waiting for us to die,” he said.
“And if we don’t?” asked Galfrid.
No one answered the squire’s question.
Mélisande had not shrunk from her promise to take them through the Morvan mountains. When her scouts had returned and reported Templars on all the main routes through Burgundy, she had turned the wagons towards the snowy plateau. It was, thought Gisburne, an ideal place for outlaws to hide out. Once someone determined to hide up here, not even an army would root them out. In turn, of course, his hypothetical outlaws would have no passing traffic to rob. This had started in Gisburne’s mind as an abstract thought – a mere fanciful train of thought – but as they progressed it began to trouble him, and he started to keep an eye on the trees. Who knew what was up here?
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