Knight of Shadows

by Toby Venables

  Very soon they realised their only company went on four legs.

  They heard the howls on the very first day. The snow was heavy and untouched, the going painfully slow. None challenged Mélisande’s decision, but she began to look pained and drawn, as if it weighed heavily upon her. Gisburne understood, somewhere within, that those who travelled with her were more than servants and retainers. They were family, just as the wagons and the tents they contained were home.

  The wolves brought a new level of anxiety. At first, it was the merely the sound that pulled and shredded their nerves. The long, mournful cries – sporadic that first night, but incessant by the second day – oppressed them. The horses, already unnerved by the deep snow and struggling with the extreme cold, were twitchy and apprehensive. Their fear would also tire them more quickly; Gisburne hoped against hope that the baying would dwindle and fade into the distance when the wolves finally gave up. He had no argument with the beasts; he was happy to leave them be. He hoped they felt the same.

  Bit by bit, the howling drew closer. The creatures were tenacious, and were tracking them. By the end of that second day – a day which seemed to last forever – Gisburne knew that some kind of conflict was inevitable.

  It was almost a relief when they finally saw them. They were disembodied sounds no longer – not distant, imagined phantoms, but flesh and blood. But that brought new worries. They were real, now; flesh and blood that regarded them as prey.

  Gisburne had seen wolves many times, but not like this. These creatures were bigger, leaner, more rangy than anything he had encountered before. The fur that hung about their bony frames was dark and matted, their eyes wild and piercing, each one of them panting in great smoky breaths. He didn’t like the state of their coats. It showed they were malnourished; and that meant they were hungry.

  Then one of the horses at the back of the convoy, tethered to the last of the wagons, was attacked. Mélisande’s knights fought them off, but the horse – its throat and back leg ripped – had to be put down where it lay. They left it, in the hope the hunters would be satisfied.

  Perhaps it was the taste of fresh blood that emboldened them. Some time around midday, a shout went up from the head of the convoy. Gisburne and Mélisande rode forward, and saw, up ahead, a half-dozen wolves spread out before them in a great arc. Gisburne watched as one – the largest – crept forward of the rest. The leader. The others moved only when he did, never pushing, never challenging, but all the while shifting formation, as if in response to invisible, inaudible signals. The wolves were now spread across the whole of the valley ahead of them like the jaws of a trap, and the convoy was moving into its maw.

  Gisburne suddenly had a vivid memory of Hattin. Of the Christian army marching to its doom, into the jaws of Salah al-Din’s trap.

  “There’s only one way to end this,” he said.

  Mélisande and Galfrid armed themselves with bows and advanced ahead of the convoy several paces behind Gisburne. “Shoot anything that moves,” he said. He had armed himself with a spear. It was meant for just one wolf: the leader. He meant to draw it out. But it would be difficult; the creature was canny to have survived this long in such conditions.

  Gisburne stepped forward of the others, vulnerable now. The pack shifted, closed. He spied the leader. Then it dropped flat. He trudged forward, further still from his fellows.

  Something dashed out from the right. Galfrid’s arrow flew, but failed to hit home. While they were distracted by the right flank, those on the left suddenly closed in. Mélisande felled one with her bow, and on the other side, Galfrid hit another. It collapsed into the snow and lay whimpering. When Gisburne turned to the front, the leader was just yards away, its body low, its steely eyes on him, teeth curled back, drool dripping from its jaws. It was already imagining him as food.

  “Come on, then!” he cried, thrusting the spear forward.

  The wolf flew at him. Others would try to join him, support him in the kill – but that was where Mélisande and Galfrid came in. At the edge of his vision, Gisburne was dimly aware of the furred creatures closing in, of arrows flying, of yelps as they made contact. Ahead of him, the lead wolf leapt. Gisburne dropped, raising his spear as he did so, the point driving into the wolf’s chest as it came down on it with all its weight. It made a terrible screech, thrashing as Gisburne fell back into the snow, lifting the animal up and over his head on the end of the spear. He heard it crash down behind him, felt his spear shake loose.

  But it was not yet done. Gisburne turned. In a fury, as if its injuries were no more than a wasp sting, it snarled and leapt at him again. As it did so, he had a vision of Mélisande, a look of horror on her face, the arrow on her bow aimed directly at the wolf leader – and at him. He knew she could not – would not – shoot. The beast’s teeth closed around his arm; he wrestled, swung at it, and both fell to the ground.

  When he scrambled to his feet, the wolf lay lifeless in a red-stained depression in the snow, his eating knife in its neck. The rest of the pack had stopped. They ducked and padded the ground uncertainly, some whimpering. Gisburne drew out his knife, and advanced toward the nearest of them.

  “Go!” he shouted, waving his arms at it. “There’s no meal for you here today...” To his amazement, the creature lowered its head, and backed away. The rest followed, melting away into the trees. There was a cheer from the convoy.

  Mélisande ran to him. “Are you all right?” Still panting in great, foggy clouds, he confirmed that he was. She advanced towards the bloody animal. “We should eat it,” she said. It was a moment before Gisburne realised she was not joking. “Our food supplies are running low. We don’t know what game is to be found ahead.” And with that she crouched, and with drawn knife cut the hind legs and haunches off the animal with a practised efficiency Gisburne had seen only on the hunt. She wrapped them about with cloth and tied them tight.

  “Don’t you want to make a waistcoat of the skin too?” said Galfrid.

  “Grey’s hardly my colour,” she said, as if Galfrid’s suggestion were utterly preposterous, and went back to her horse with the bloody packages, as if eating wolf leg were the most normal thing in the world.

  XXXIX

  UP AHEAD, DISTANTLY, through a break in the mountains, Gisburne could see the land fall away, the terrain soften.

  “We’re through,” he said. “Traverse this last pass and we descend to low valleys once more.” Beyond, now, lay Auxerre. Then Montargis, then Courances. And Nyght. He would reclaim his horse, and they would strike out for Boulogne, and the coast. Before that, of course, was Paris. He meant to miss out Paris. What Mélisande would think of that, and how they would be reconciled, he was yet to find out. But for now, it did not matter. He felt only relief, and joy.

  The members of the party were in high spirits as they descended from the plateau. Even the horses, which had endured the worst hardships of all, seemed to sense better times ahead. The sky was clear, the sun shone, and the snow was thinning. The mountain road directly ahead was completely clear but for a few drifts. Gisburne guessed it was the high winds on this side that had kept the rocks bare – but now, he also saw, the snow was beginning to thaw. He rejoiced at the thought. No more snow. No more ice. He didn’t care if it rained from now until Doomsday. They would have rocks and stones and earth beneath their feet once more.

  As they descended, laughing and joking, Galfrid shocked all by breaking out in song, in a fine tenor voice. They clapped along as he trilled about summer coming in, even affecting a comic falsetto for the chorus.

  Another sound – distant, but distinct, at odds with the merriment – made Gisburne turn. He scanned the mountainside, the horizon, but saw nothing unusual. He raised a hand. Galfrid saw the concern upon his master’s face, and his song faltered and died. Gisburne strained to hear against the wind.

  The sound rose up again, gusting with the breeze – familiar and unfamiliar.

  It was howling. Or rather, it was an approximation of howling.
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  “Wolves? Again?” said Galfrid.

  “Worse,” said Mélisande. “Men.”

  As she said it, one of her outriders came back up the road towards them at full gallop.

  “Templars,” he said, pointing ahead. “A large party. Heavily armed.”

  “How many?” said Gisburne.

  “Fifteen at least,” he panted.

  “Did you see red ribbons upon their arms?” demanded Mélisande.

  “I don’t know,” he said, his face flushed. He shook his head. “Possibly...”

  “Think!”

  “Who else would it be?” said Gisburne grimly.

  “Hide in the wagon,” said Mélisande. “They won’t search them. They wouldn’t dare.”

  With great reluctance, Gisburne and Galfrid followed her advice.

  XL

  THEY LAY IN darkness beneath the awning of a furled tent, feeling the wagon pitch and rumble on the stony track. Gisburne had insisted they have their horses saddled and packed and tethered to the rear of the wagon; if the need for a quick getaway arose, he did not wish to be caught unprepared. But the reliquary box had stayed inside, out of sight, and now nestled between their heads. Mélisande, sat at the front of the wagon, occasionally called back, relating what she could see. There was indeed a large group, spread across the road. They were Tancred’s men, and Tancred was among them. Then her commentary went silent, and Gisburne knew they were close.

  Gisburne heard a voice howling in imitation of a wolf, then breaking into laughter. He swore it was Fulke. Galfrid cursed under his breath at the sound; his arrow had struck home, but the bastard wasn’t dead. There were shouts, commands, other voices raised in protest. The wagon drew to a halt. Mélisande’s voice – clear and strong, with no hint of anger – rose above all others, greeting Tancred respectfully and requesting that they be allowed to pass. Gisburne did not hear the response – only the low hiss as he spoke. Mélisande’s voice sounded once more, asserting their right to do so, and reminding Tancred whose daughter she was. Then he did hear Tancred’s words. They ignored Mélisande entirely, and instead addressed his own men. They were to look for a box – wooden, locked with a key, and little bigger than a man’s head. If Tancred had not known about the reliquary before, he certainly did now.

  Then there were other shouts – evidently as Tancred’s men attempted to search the wagons, and were prevented by Mélisande’s own knights. Words uttered in anger. Outrage, dishonour. Insult. Then a thud, a crash. A scream from one of the female servants. The sound of metal against metal. Mélisande cried out in appeal – but a moment later the air was thick with the sound of clashing weapons.

  Against the backdrop of bitter fighting, Gisburne felt someone enter the wagon. He threw off the awning, sword in hand. Mélisande looked back at him, her face distraught. Gisburne looked at Galfrid. “Do you think there’s any point hiding now?” he said.

  “None,” replied Galfrid.

  “Stay here,” Gisburne said to Mélisande. Without waiting for a response he took her head in his free hand, kissed her on the brow, and he and Galfrid flung open the wagon’s tilt.

  The convoy was in chaos. Women screamed and tried to take refuge in the other wagons, whilst Mélisande’s mounted knights hacked and stabbed at the surrounding Templars. It had begun as an attempt to prevent them searching the wagons, but had become a confused and bloody pitched battle. The horses of one wagon were starting to panic and looked as if they might break loose – or break their legs trying. Several of Mélisande’s men had already fallen, and one look told Gisburne that they were going to lose this fight.

  “Let’s try to even these odds,” he said, as he untethered his horse from the back of the wagon and leapt onto it. Galfrid followed suit. Gisburne could see neither Tancred nor Fulke in the mêlée, but no matter – there were plenty more heads to swing his sword at. As he looked back, he saw Mélisande, framed by the wagon’s tilt, loosing an arrow and preparing another. He smiled to himself, then turned to face the foe.

  Gisburne had already struck down two of them when it happened.

  Something must have struck one of the wagon’s horses. A sword blade or lance. The beast gave a piercing whinny, the wagon lurched violently, then the horse next to it spooked into a blind panic. The creaking contraption lurched again. The brake snapped. Then the wagon rumbled forward.

  “The box!” cried Galfrid. “It’s in the wagon.”

  Gisburne turned just in time to see it move off – and Mélisande, still in the back of the wagon, realise with sudden shock that she was now entirely at the mercy of the stampeding animals. It gathered pace rapidly as it headed down the hill. Soon it would not be able to stop, even if the horses wished it to. Gisburne turned his horse about and raced after it, the wind whipping his face, Galfrid close behind. As he did so, he heard an icy voice – Tancred’s – bark a command from somewhere far behind him. “After them! Stop the wagon!”

  He glanced back – and saw no fewer than six of Tancred’s knights in pursuit. But that was not his concern now. As it hurtled down the rough track, out of control, the wagon veered dangerously close to the suddenly precipitous left-hand edge of the road, its canopy flapping wildly in the wind. He could no longer see Mélisande. But just then, one of the fastenings broke free, and the gusting wind caught under the wagon’s covering and lifted it clean off. The huge expanse of canvas – as big as a sail – flew high in the air. Its bottom edge brushed Gisburne’s head as he rode beneath, missed Galfrid entirely, then, as it fell, wrapped around one of the Templars riding full tilt after them. The horse stumbled, the rider cried out, and both careered off the edge of the road, tumbling over and over down the mountainside, the great awning still wrapped about them.

  Now, in the body of the wagon, Gisburne could see Mélisande, clinging on for dear life and working her way to the front. A horse thundered by on his right side. Somehow, one of the Templars had got past him, and was now drawing level with the wagon. As he watched in astonishment, the rider – as foolhardy as he was fearless – leapt from his galloping horse and into the back of the wagon.

  He fell heavily. Mélisande heard, turned and took up a whip, lashing the knight mercilessly about the head and neck as the wagon jumped and pitched from side to side. But this one had a fanatical determination. He crept towards her, through the blows, drawing a blade as he did so.

  Gisburne urged his horse on, drawing up between the side of the wagon and the sheer rock face towering to his right. One shift in the wagon’s trajectory and he might be crushed, but he did not intend to stay long enough for that. He freed his foot from the stirrup, braced it against the saddle, gripped the pommel with both hands, and jumped.

  He rolled into the back of the wagon behind the Templar. The knight turned just in time to see a tent pole swinging towards his head. It knocked him flat, sending his blade spinning out and over the precipice. Gisburne leapt on him, hauled him up by his surcoat, and hurled him from the back of the wagon, straight under the crashing hooves of his comrades.

  Mélisande had taken the reins – which by some miracle had not come adrift – but the horses were not stopping. Gripping the side of the wagon as he went, thrown from side to side as the wheels rumbled horribly close to the road’s edge, Gisburne crawled up to the seat beside her and hauled on the reins as hard as he could. The effort counted for nothing. The wagon’s momentum down the incline was driving the horses on. Nothing was going to stop it now.

  Up ahead, the road curved sharply to the right, around the mountain; with sinking heart, Gisburne realised the wagon would not make the turn.

  A hand grabbed him from behind, and heaved him backwards. He struck out, blindly, as the wagon bumped and lurched, knocking his assailant off him. The Templar cracked his head on the reliquary box and was out cold – but already two more had climbed aboard, and another, at the gallop, was drawing up alongside.

  Gisburne looked at the diminishing road, looked back at the advancing Templars, then pulled Méli
sande towards him. “Stay close!” he roared against the din of the wagon. The last of the Templars flung himself from his saddle into the wagon – only to watch in amazement as Gisburne leapt from the wagon and into the saddle the Templar had just vacated. Gisburne hauled Mélisande onto the horse behind him, and with only moments to spare, she leaned over and grabbed the reliquary box.

  Their horse veered away, following the road. But the wagon did not. The last thing they saw was the look of horror on the faces of the Templars as – too late – they saw the fate hurtling towards them. Then the wagon, its horses and its ill-fated passengers plunged screaming over the cliff edge.

  As they draw to a halt and dismounted – panting, exhausted – Galfrid caught up with both of their horses.

  They looked back, but could see nothing and no one. The Templars were spent, or had given up. Mélisande’s retinue was scattered and left far behind. Gisburne gazed into the empty distance, worrying at their fate. Mélisande looked up into his face, and read the thoughts there.

  “They know what to do,” she said, placing a hand on his shoulder. “They’ll regroup, make their way back home. But we’ll see no more of them this trip.”

  “Better for them,” said Gisburne. He was suddenly all too aware of the destruction he brought in his wake.

  “Just the three of us, then,” said Galfrid, with his usual air of gloomy fatality. “Our gear is all here. Every bit. But I’m sorry to say we have no food beyond a hunk of bread and a morsel of cheese that have both been a week in my satchel.”