“We must find something,” said Gisburne. “We’ve a long road ahead, and no time to linger. Tancred will know where it is we’re heading.” He eyed Mélisande as he spoke the words, but she was deep in thought.
“Wait!” she said suddenly, and she went to her horse. She delved in her saddlebag and returned triumphant with a brown, bloody package.
That night they dined on wolf leg stew.
XLI
Forêt de Boulogne – December, 1191
MÉLISANDE HAD SAID nothing as they bypassed Paris. There was no struggle, no protest, not even a sideways glance. Gisburne wondered at it – wondered what her royal master would make of this, what her reasons now were for sticking with them when her task was done – or, rather, undone. Perhaps there was yet some other agenda, known only to her. Gisburne couldn’t think about that too much – the politics of it made his head spin. The fact was she was now one of them, part of their little unit, seemingly dedicated to the same task as they. And he was glad of it. Not because he had wished to avoid a fight over their destination, but because he did not wish to say goodbye. Not yet. But her easy acquiescence, welcome though it was, had sparked another unexpected emotion in him.
Disappointment.
Even though it was better for their mission, better for him and Galfrid – better, in fact, in every way – he had felt dismay when they came to Paris, and she had offered no fight at all. Her defiance was what he admired about her. What he loved. And he wondered at its absence.
It felt strange, this backdrop of gloom, when they had taken on so much and emerged triumphant. But the further north they travelled, the more her mood – their mood – had taken on an oppressed air. He fought against it. They were almost home. The trials they had faced so far were surely the greatest they would encounter on this trip. They should be glad, not doom-laden. But the truth was, even though he did not believe such things, he, too, could not shake the feeling he was moving towards something dreadful, but inevitable – some fateful and cataclysmic encounter.
The one truly cheering episode had been his reunion with Nyght. He had not been prepared for the emotion of it. It had seemed years, not weeks, since he had seen his beloved horse, and it was not until they turned down the road towards Boussard’s smithy that the full significance of the moment struck him. He had been through so much, travelled so far, been so close to death, that the idea he would ever actually see Nyght again had seemed a fantasy. But he had not understood this until it was close to being realised. As they neared, and heard the sounds of Boussard’s hammer clanging in his forge, a welter of emotions boiled up in him. Joy at the prospect of what was about to happen. Fear that something would yet prevent it – that something terrible had happened to the animal.
But nothing had. He looked better than ever. And when Gisburne saw him, he had to turn away from his fellows, embarrassed at the tears in his eyes. It was ridiculous, sentimental. But he almost felt that this moment, and the enthusiasm of Nyght’s greeting, justified everything else that he had gone through.
He patted Nyght’s black, shimmering neck for the thousandth time that week as they rode through the still snowy forests of Boulogne. The going was good, the ice had melted, the roads were mostly clear. Even the sun was shining. The road stretching away before them curved around to the left up ahead, and just before the curve loomed a great oak – or what was left of one. It had, Gisburne supposed, been struck by lightning in years past, and now stood like a strange sentinel – its top half and all its branches quite gone, the thick trunk split down the middle, each half leaning in a different direction, one of them burnt black.
Mélisande suddenly stopped.
She frowned, looked around, taking in her surroundings, sizing them up – recognising them. Only then did Gisburne recall that these were her father’s lands. The land of her childhood.
“We are close,” she said.
“Close?”
“The Saracens have a saying ‘The greatest perils are those closest to home’. I know you feel your journey’s nearly done, but I fear the most dangerous part lies ahead.”
She raised a finger, pointing along the road. “Before us, past this bend, lies a crossroads. Right is for Calais. Left for Boulogne. And straight on for Castel Mercheval. Tancred’s castle.”
“Well,” said Galfrid. “We’d best make sure we take the right one.”
She looked at Gisburne. “You know I cannot come with you to England,” she said. Her expression seemed one of deep sadness. Gisburne hoped he understood why, but there was something in her – something inaccessible, unfathomable – that left him uncertain. He nodded, nonetheless.
“You know, you could leave now,” he said. “Go home. Be safe. You don’t need to pursue this any further.” The words did not come easily – except for the wish that she stay safe. And that desire, he found, overrode all others.
“I cannot,” she said. Gisburne waited for more – some explanation, perhaps – but she said nothing. Instead, she geed her horse gently, and they moved off again.
No sooner had they done so than the road turned, and the crossroads came into view. And there, waiting upon it, was a group of mounted men.
Templars. Six of them. Fully armoured – painted helms upon their heads, shields on their arms, couched lances held aloft. Their belts bristled with weapons. Their surcoats shone blinding white against the dark trees. Their horses snorted and stamped in the cold air.
“But of course,” said Galfrid. “Bunch of Templars on a road. About time we had that again.” He sighed. “If I survive this and live to be a hundred, I’m going to have nightmares ever after about a bunch of Templars on a sodding road.”
“It’s Tancred,” said Mélisande. Gisburne screwed up his eyes. She was right. Not just Tancred’s men. Tancred himself – the faceplate of his helm pushed up, his horrid visage staring out from beneath it. And next to him, he now saw, was another familiar figure, his full, red beard flapping in the wind.
“Fulke, too,” said Gisburne.
“I wish I’d poisoned that bloody arrow,” said Galfrid.
It had taken weeks for Gisburne to come around to appreciating Galfrid’s bleak humour, but this time, he was not laughing. These were not any knights. Not any Templars. Not just Fulke’s bully boys. This was Tancred de Mercheval himself. Tancred, who had defied both the Temple and the King of France, who had deduced the nature of the box and the man who carried it, who had tracked him relentlessly across hundreds of miles, through snows and mountain roads – and who knew he would be here, today, at this crossroads. When it came to it, Gisburne realised he actually knew very little about Tancred. About who he was, or where he was from. But he understood one thing: for all his fierce intelligence and fanatical zeal, Tancred was simple. He had no fear. He had no doubt. And he would never give up.
“So, I suppose we charge at them full tilt as usual?” said Galfrid.
“No,” said Gisburne. “We’ll die.”
Galfrid grunted. “Best not do that, then.”
“No.”
“Give me the box,” said Galfrid.
“What?”
“Give me the box. I’ve got an idea.”
“Are you mad?”
“Possibly. But that’ll be your fault. I was fine before this whole skull thing. So, are you going to give it to me?”
“Of course I’m not.”
“Well then...” And he reached down, yanked the box from Gisburne’s saddle and spurred his horse.
“No!” cried Gisburne.
“Keep them busy,” Galfrid called as he galloped across country toward the Calais road.
“Galfrid! No!” But it was too late. Gisburne watched as two of the knights peeled off in pursuit.
“Well, it’s an idea,” said Mélisande, and with a sudden Ya! she spurred her own horse forward. “Divide and conquer!” she cried, thundering off in the opposite direction, towards Boulogne. A second pair of knights took up the chase, and all were swallowed up by the tre
e-lined road.
Only Tancred and Fulke remained.
Gisburne saw some words pass from Tancred to Fulke. Fulke nodded to his master, and walked his horse forward.
His progress was slow, deliberate. This was not an attack, that much was clear. But what it was, Gisburne was at a loss to say. He was close now; close enough that Gisburne could see his left hand was bandaged, and his left shoulder padded with something beneath his mail. It looked, now, as if Fulke wished to parley. Was it possible? Could it be that Tancred, after all, wished to strike some kind of bargain with him?
Fulke stopped ten yards away, lowered his lance, turned it point down, gripped it like a spear and drove it into the earth. He scowled at Gisburne, turned his horse and cantered back.
Tancred lowered his faceplate. Then his lance. And finally Gisburne understood. Fulke’s lance was put there for him. Tancred meant to joust.
Gisburne had never fought in a tournament. He had supported Gilbert de Gaillon many times, had seen how it was done, had trained in the art. But the lance was not his weapon.
He rode up to it, pulled it from the ground, and hefted it under his arm. It felt awkward, alien. He glanced down at the great helm hanging from his saddle – apart from his mail, the only protection he had. But he did not put it on. He had no shield, either.
Tancred began to move – his horse trotted, cantered, broke into a gallop, its hooves pounding towards Gisburne, the lance pointed straight at his heart. He had only moments. Then something struck him, something liberating. He would not play Tancred’s game by Tancred’s rules. He threw the lance away.
If Tancred was bemused at Gisburne’s behaviour, he did not show it. Nor did he show any mercy. He thundered on as Gisburne drew his sword, then spurred Nyght on, straight towards Tancred’s rushing lance point.
It was something Gisburne had seen done only once – and not in a tournament, but in battle. At full gallop, he transferred his sword to his left hand, and with his right, pulled a mace from his saddle. He fixed his eye on Tancred’s lance point, sword raised, mace ready, guiding Nyght only with his knees. If the lance struck any part of him, he was dead. So his goal would be to ensure that it did not.
At the last moment, he dropped flat against his horse and swung his sword upward. It struck Tancred’s lance, caught it between blade and crossguard, and forced it up and away, sliding against the blade with a horrible sound. As Tancred passed, Gisburne sprang up, swung around and lashed at the Templar’s back with his mace, making ringing contact with Tancred’s helm. Braced for an impact which never came, and hit from behind, Tancred sprawled forward and crashed off his horse, leaving his lance sticking out of the ground at a ridiculous angle.
But Gisburne had miscalculated. Flinging himself around, he had overbalanced. He let go his weapons, grabbing for the reins, Nyght’s mane – anything – but to no avail. Nyght slowed, and Gisburne toppled, fell, and rolled along the ground.
His weapons were lost in the snow. And now Fulke was making a charge. He was not so concerned about chivalry. He was not about to offer Gisburne a lance, or wait for him to mount his horse, or even for him to find a weapon. He just wanted to kill him. To stick him like a wild boar.
Gisburne looked around wildly, vulnerable and defenceless. His eyes settled on Tancred’s lance. He sprinted for it, wrestled it from the ground, and turned as Fulke was almost on him. Crouched low, he raised the point, the butt of the lance braced against the earth. Fulke’s lance sailed past him, uselessly, while Gisburne’s shattered on Fulke’s shield. Fulke reeled in his saddle, his buckled shield falling, but righted himself, drew his sword and rounded on Gisburne once again. Gisburne did not hesitate. He swung the remaining part of the lance, smashing Fulke in the chest. This time, the big man was unhorsed. He fell with a great thump in the snow, and did not move.
Gisburne turned to see Tancred, his eyes blazing with a cold fire, advancing upon him with sword and mace. He looked around desperately for his sword, for Fulke’s, for anything – but it was too late. Tancred, teeth clenched, lips drawn back, whirled his sword at him. Gisburne parried with the broken lance. The sword flew again in a great swooping arc, smashing against the lance, forcing Gisburne back. Tancred spun, swinging the blade round and up, almost taking off the top of Gisburne’s head. He had seen nothing like this – no fighting style to compare.
Then he saw the grip. Tancred was holding his sword with the forefinger hooked over the crossguard, which had a loop of steel to protect it. Realisation dawned. He was wrong. He had seen that style before. He looked into Tancred’s cold features and saw, somewhere deep within them, the face of a sandy-haired boy – a boy who once inspired him on his first day at the practice ground.
“It’s you,” he said, his eyes wide.
Tancred hesitated.
“The boy at Fontaine-La-Verte. It’s you!”
“That boy is dead,” hissed Tancred.
He flew at Gisburne again with a furious barrage. The mace caught him a glancing blow on the temple, sending him spinning. He staggered, tried to regain his feet as Tancred came at him again. Gisburne leapt back this time, and Tancred’s blade struck the earth just inches from his feet. Gisburne slammed his foot on it. The blade snapped, sending Tancred reeling back with a roar – then Gisburne swung the broken lance and cracked it across Tancred’s skull.
Dazed, weaponless, with blood coursing down his face, Gisburne scrambled away towards the trees.
When he looked back, he saw Tancred following – relentlessly, like a man possessed. Gisburne staggered on, dimly aware of a sound ahead of him – rushing, gurgling. A stream. He stumbled and clawed over rocks, blinking hard, trying to focus, to stay conscious – then stopped suddenly, swaying. He was at the very edge of a cliff, his toes over the precipice. Forty feet below, in a straight drop, the tumbling waters of the stream crashed.
He lurched backwards, but Tancred was on him again. He wrestled Gisburne to the ground, battering him with his bare hands like a demon. Gisburne felt Tancred’s bony fingers grasp his hair, then lift his head and smash it against rock. His arm reached out, grasped something: a stone. He swung it as hard as he could at Tancred’s head, then got his foot under the Templar’s chest and heaved him off. He heard Tancred crash to the ground yards away. Then silence. He lay for a moment, listening to his own rasping breath, barely holding on to consciousness.
A large figure loomed suddenly over him. Gisburne stared up through swollen, blurry eyes.
“Pilgrim...” it growled. Fulke, bloodied and bruised, grinned down at him. “You look like you need a drink...” he continued. And he kicked Gisburne in the ribs, in the head, over and over, edging him closer to the cliff until his crushed body slid over the precipice.
Gisburne felt momentarily weightless. Limbs flailed. Earth and sky spun past. Then he plunged into freezing, tumbling water, with a heart-stopping shock. Some distant, receding part of him realised that his mail was dragging him down. It enveloped him, paralysed him. Rocks battered him as he was carried away by the swift water. He gasped, felt a rush of ice into his lungs. Pain flashed like bright light.
Then all was black.
XLII
HE KNEW HE was in a desert. The absolute conviction came long before he was able to properly comprehend what he saw. As the wide, dazzling plain grew gradually clearer before his eyes, it was confirmed as fact. A vast expanse of fine, near-white sand, almost blinding in the intense sun, rippled into low, regular dunes, its surface ceaselessly shifting, blurring, swirling like a smoky haze all the way to the indistinct horizon. He knew, with equal certainty, that this was the desert west of Lake Tiberias, although it resembled a desolate part of the Judaean desert he had once passed through, near the Dead Sea.
But it possessed a strange purity more extreme even than that. There were no trees. No signs of life. Not even rocks under which hard-shelled creatures might hide, or stunted plants gain purchase with their meagre roots. Nothing to disturb the indistinct surface of the sighing, shifti
ng sea of sand. Nothing except him.
He was walking.
His walk was laboured, as if he were climbing a hill, as if his feet and legs were lead, and the sand displaced with each weighty footfall parted and slid away uselessly beneath him. There was no slope. Just endless, gently rippling dunes.
He knew that Acre lay somewhere ahead, and that he had to reach it. The urgency was almost a physical pain. There was a ship there. A ship that would not wait – his one chance to reach home. As he laboured, seeming to get nowhere – unable to judge his progress in this landscape even if he was – he felt the awful scale of the task weighing down upon him, asserting its impossibility with every step. In his chest he felt a kind of tight panic. It began as a simple fear that he was not moving fast enough, that his feet and legs would not obey his commands – that when he tried to apply more speed, they seemed sapped of strength. But over time – he could not tell how much – it grew and changed, mutating into something more terrible.
He began to doubt his sense of direction. Everything, everywhere he looked, was the same. The sun – directly above, making one tiny pool of his shadow beneath his feet – told him nothing. He did not now know any longer whether he was heading towards Acre, or away from it – if he had, in fact, been putting even greater distance between himself and it since he had begun. He could not remember when that was. He felt the creeping, gnawing terror of the unknowable, the ungraspable, the indefinable – of himself slipping further and further adrift from the world, from his place in it, from anything that could fix him in time or space. From his own sanity. It was the dread of chaos.
The horrors of Hattin suddenly returned to him. In his mind, he knew them to be distant. Yet the sprawl and stench of death left in its wake, and the shouts of the terror-stricken and the dying, seemed all at once to assault him – and with them the horrid possibility that he was, of his own free will, walking back into their midst. That, somehow, they had become an inseparable part of him, and could never be left behind.
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