GISBURNE AWOKE IN darkness at the click of the latch.
“Don’t move,” she said, closing the door behind her. “Go back to sleep.”
Gisburne had no inclination to move, but he had never intended to sleep. He had flung himself down on the bed fully clothed, and had lain there listening to the sigh of the sea and the shrill cries of gulls, intending for that delicious repose to last only a few minutes. That had been the previous afternoon.
“Where have you been?” he croaked, still barely awake.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said, and began organising her gear. “It’ll keep till morning.” Gisburne let his head fall back, but lay resolutely awake.
They had got some strange looks when they had first arrived here. It was hardly surprising. Gisburne – desperately tired and now unsteady on his feet – had almost fallen through the door. It had crashed open, the wind blowing rain and dead leaves about the interior. A startling enough figure in his rough horsehide coat and rusted mail, he was now also bruised and bloody, his clothes stinking, muddy and scorched. As they had walked in, the landlord almost choked on his beer. Three other people, supping quietly by the fire, had left immediately. Gisburne would have had a wry smile at that had he not been so exhausted. Why they were afraid of a man who had so clearly been beaten, slashed and burned to within an inch of his life and now stood ready to crumple with near terminal fatigue, he could not guess. Perhaps they simply thought certain kinds of people brought trouble in their wake. They might be right about that. But if there was one thing he didn’t want just now, it was a fight.
“We want lodgings,” said Gisburne. “For tonight, at least. Maybe longer. A room of our own.” He leaned in towards the landlord. “No animals.”
The landlord – a thin man with thin hair plastered over his pink shiny scalp – nodded slowly. He had managed to calm himself after the initial shock of their dramatic entrance. Gisburne guessed that he’d seen a lot in his life. The man looked from Gisburne to Mélisande and back again. She was dressed in the same clothes she had worn since her capture at Castel Mercheval, but now with a hooded tunic of Gisburne’s – far too big for her – thrown over the top and belted at the waist. Whereas before, in her own clothes, she had easily passed as male, the addition of the oversized tunic somehow had the effect of accentuating her femininity, and the landlord kept peering at her, dipping a little at the knees to better see under her hood.
“My squire,” said Gisburne. “All right?” He slapped two coins on the table top.
The landlord simply shrugged and nodded. He wasn’t about to argue. Not with a man who looked like this, and not with business the way it was. He looked like he didn’t care whether Gisburne had a goat dressed in a cassock and called it his wife, just as long as he could pay.
Wissant had been Mélisande’s suggestion. The town was only a few miles from Calais, but the contrast could not have been greater. Once a great port, it was now in steady decline; Calais’s gain had been Wissant’s loss. But it had its advantages. Neither the Templars nor anyone else would expect them to be heading here. And the accommodation was cheap, with few questions asked.
He heaved himself up on the bed and watched Mélisande’s shadowy figure moving about in the darkness. It was warm – the room had no fire, but was against the chimney breast, which filled the small, low-ceilinged chamber with radiant heat – and he was feeling drowsy. He knew his body was close to collapse from the extremes it had endured; it would take days of sleep to recover. But not now, not here. Not with her. He wondered what she was doing. It looked like she was packing again. Why was it she always seemed to be packing?
She glanced at him. “I told you to sleep,” she said. “It’s the middle of the night.”
He shook his head. He wanted to tell her it was a waste, but he wasn’t sure how. He wasn’t even sure himself what he meant by it.
She raised one eyebrow at him. “You don’t need to keep watch on me. If I meant to rob you, I’d have done it by now.”
A smile stirred in him, but never quite formed on his lips. “It’s not that,” he said.
She smiled sweetly, then sat on the bed by him, dumping her leather bag next to her. “There is a ship bound for England in the harbour,” she said, “ready to sail on the morning tide. It’s all arranged. You need only be on it, and you will be home again.”
“And you?”
She smiled a sad smile, her head to one side, but said nothing.
So, it really was over. He sighed and let his head fall – a great sigh of gratitude and relief. And yet it was tinged with sadness. Sadness at having lost Galfrid. Sadness, too, at the realisation that he would soon be losing Mélisande. This part, he did not wish to end. Not yet. Mélisande was still an enigma. Still intriguing. Still exasperating. Still fascinating. She had helped him, at the risk of her own life. Was still helping him. Why would she do such a thing, if she was indeed in the service of King Philip? Unless, of course... But no, he did not dare think that.
She knelt on the bed and pulled a package of cloth from her bag, and unfolded it on the covers. Gisburne stared at the contents in amazement. “Roast goose,” she said, then produced a flask and two wooden cups. “And wine. The good stuff.” It had not quite the opulence of their first meeting, but he felt a pleasing warmth at the memory it evoked. It touched him that she had gone to the trouble.
“How did you..?” he began. But she just gave him that look – Don’t ask, and I won’t have to lie... “You seem to have made a habit of bringing me food.” It was a habit, he knew, that would end today.
She filled the two cups. “You know what today is?” she said with a smile.
He frowned. What did she mean? What could today “be”? Cold? Long? A Wednesday?
“It’s Christmas,” she said with a laugh, and knocked her cup against his. “Merry Christmas, Guy of Gisburne.”
He smiled, drank the good wine, and hungrily began to eat.
“So,” she said suddenly. “You never did tell me...” He sensed what was coming. “The skull...” She didn’t need to say any more. But he felt it was time. And she had earned this.
Gisburne shoved a piece of goose breast in his mouth, then, without taking his eyes off hers, reached down and hauled his great helm onto the bed. She looked at him in bemusement. He upended it, and out tumbled something bundled in black leather. Its wrappings fell open as it rolled. Mélisande’s eyes widened in amazement, her face lighting up with the glint of gold.
“It was never in the reliquary,” said Gisburne, still chewing. “It was always here.” He shrugged. “What better place to put a skull for protection?”
Mélisande put her hand to her mouth, began to laugh, then raised the skull before her, gazing into its bejewelled eyes with her own. “But the box...”
“Misdirection,” he said. “I learned it from someone I knew in Jerusalem. Someone who was good at conjuring tricks.”
Mélisande laughed, pulled a face at the fixed expression of the Baptist and laughed harder still. Gisburne – grim-faced, serious Gisburne, his resistance quite gone – found himself sniggering, then laughing, and finally giving in to a wholehearted guffaw, until both laughed so hard it seemed they might never stop.
With tears rolling down their cheeks, almost incapacitated with mirth, she slapped him on the chest as if somehow this might stop it before she expired. He gave her a good natured shove. She slapped his chest again – harder this time – then roughly grabbed the back of his neck and pulled his lips to hers.
The laughter stopped. They kissed long and deep before she finally pulled away.
“Well, Sir Guy,” she said in a hoarse whisper. “Is there still enough about you to properly celebrate Christmas? Or are you all spent...?”
In response, he pulled her to him and kissed her hard on the mouth, his hands sliding around her warm, lithe body. She moaned, returning his kisses, pressing herself against him, wrapping him with her limbs. He felt all restraint slip away. He was done with
denial – with duty. The mission was finished. By some miracle he was alive. And tomorrow, she would be gone. Only now did he realise how little he relished that parting. Only now did he realise he wanted nothing more than to forget the past and the future, and lose himself in this moment – in her.
She drew away suddenly and sat astride his lap, her hands upon his chest. Gazing down into his eyes she gave a husky laugh, and rotated her hips slowly. “I see,” she said, with a raised eyebrow. “There is life yet...”
And with that she peeled her tunic over her head, and threw it over the Baptist’s watching eyes.
LXV
WHEN HE STIRRED next morning, she was gone.
Gisburne – half awake, his head pounding – sat bolt upright.
Her gear was missing. His was still stacked neatly by the wall – a gap where hers once stood. For a moment, he felt a deep sadness. Then panic gripped him. He leapt out of bed, naked, and snatched up the great helm. Empty. He flung it down in frustration, searched agitatedly through his gear, his discarded clothes, the thick bedding. Finally, he slumped down on the bed, clutching his head in disbelief. As he did so, his heel knocked against something heavy, which rocked against the floorboards. Bending down, he peered beneath the bed, and there, staring back at him from the shadows with an unblinking gaze, was the skull. With a snort of a laugh, he hauled it out, hefted it in one hand, and sat contemplating it for a moment. The gold and jewels glinted in the morning light.
She had not taken it, although she’d had every chance. He had been dead to the world that night. Mélisande could have ridden out of the room on a bull, holding the skull aloft and singing Veni Creator Spiritus and he probably would have known nothing about it. But she hadn’t. Why not? He looked into the skull’s ancient eyes, and gave a deep frown. Why not?
Perhaps he would never know.
There had been no goodbyes. She had left exactly as she first came to him – as a silent shadow in the night. He looked around the room. Now there was no hint of her left – just the empty space in the bed, and the fast-fading scent of her upon him. The task was done. His mission all but over. But all he felt was a curious sense of desolation.
“You’ve caused an awful lot of trouble, John,” he said, addressing the yellowed bones. “I just hope it’s all been worth it.”
Minutes later he was stepping out into the fresh, bright morning towards the ship bound for home.
LXVI
Sherwood Forest – January, 1192
THE SNOW HAD never quite left northern England.
For several days, the going had been hard, but as his horse plodded on, Gisburne thought of his final goal – now barely a day distant. By tomorrow, he would be rid of it at last. He would relish the relief it brought.
The forest was vast and deep, its silent trunks – ghostly with frost and ice – like the pillars of some limitless cathedral. He knew this place. But a fresh fall sat heavy in the trees, wrapping everything with a magical unfamiliarity. Now and then, it slipped and slumped to earth somewhere between the trees, or crackling ice fell and splintered with a sharp tinkling. Somewhere, a crow called, its harsh cry muffled by snow – the only other sign of life in this brooding, vaulted expanse.
Entering Sherwood again had evoked strong memories. Of his father, hunting with King Henry one summer, long ago. And him, as a young boy, being permitted to ride with him. It had been thrilling at the time, and a little terrifying. He had been told tales of wild boar and how vicious they could be – more dangerous than a bear, some said. He had never faced one, and wasn’t sure he wanted to. But, at the same time, he hungered for the challenge. Looking back, it seemed an idyllic memory.
There had been a boy there, younger than he, about whom there was much fuss. The King himself clapped the lad on the shoulder and ruffled his hair and gave him tips on how to ride with the hunt. Guy had seen King Henry several times before and found him a gruff and forbidding figure. Never had he seen him show affection.
“That,” his father had said, “is Prince John. Go up and say hello. Like I taught you.”
Guy did so. Under the watchful eyes of all, he walked his pony up to John, gave an awkward bow in the saddle, and said: “My lord.”
“Hello,” said the prince, “I’m John. Who are you?”
“Guy,” said Guy nervously.
“We can be friends if you like,” the boy had said. “I’m probably not going to be king.”
Henry had given a hearty but sardonic laugh at that. Only later did Gisburne’s father have the chance to explain why. “It is hard for kings to have friends,” he said. It seemed it was not so easy for princes, either. After the meeting, John was whisked away, and but for glimpses at a distance, Guy never saw or spoke to the prince again. Not, that is, until another eighteen years had passed.
It was John to whom he now journeyed.
The prince had been much occupied in the north, of late. Here, in his lands, John was struggling to maintain order, to bring unruly barons into line. Gisburne did not know precisely who – his interest in politics was basic, and pragmatic – but he had little doubt that many were the very same men who had smiled down upon the young prince that day, and sworn undying support to the crown.
It was always the same. When there was unrest, out came the petty grievances, the secret ambitions. At any one time, Gisburne calculated, there were at least a dozen nobles who thought they had more right to be king than the King himself – or who simply wanted to have a crack at it, right or not. And there were hundreds who felt they were owed something more, or who would take it anyway if the opportunity arose. Often, they would hide behind supposedly honourable motives. Most would change sides at the drop of a hat. He did not envy John the task of containing this nest of wasps.
What had made things significantly worse, of late, was a growing feeling of defiance against all authority. It was always tougher in the north, where a spirit of independence prevailed. But it had been fuelled to furnace heat by the actions of Hood. Some resented him. Many admired him – even professed to love him. Some even called him a saint. But all, in some small way, felt spurred on by his example. Spurred on to pursue what many vaguely termed “freedom”, but which was in reality merely mischief, and disorder. As he rode through the vast swathe of forest, Gisburne was keenly aware that this was now Hood’s domain. He sighed deeply, then turned and spat to rid himself of the taste in his mouth.
A cry up ahead made him start. It was an odd cry – human, but hoarse and hard to place, oddly dulled by the surrounding snowfall. Then he saw. Up ahead, on the path, was a distinctive shape, dark against the white – a small figure, hunched, head covered, thin arms waving in the air in despair. An old woman.
“Thieves! Outlaws!” she wailed. “Robbed! Oh, ’elp me!”
Gisburne drew his sword, and picked up the pace. As he neared and watched her – seemingly oblivious to his approach, clasping her head in despair – he began to wonder how she came to be out here, in the middle of nowhere, with no sign of wagon or horse. Had this old crone really walked miles through the snow from the nearest hamlet? Or was she just some old witch who lived in the woods? Somehow, neither seemed possible.
As if in response to his questions, she cried out again. “My ass! My poor ass! Taken!” Then, with another cry – rough as a crow’s – she collapsed in the snow.
Gisburne drew up, and leapt off his horse. But as he did so, a sense of unease suddenly gripped him. There had been no tracks on the road he had travelled. And now, he saw there were no tracks beyond where she lay. Just a single line of footprints leading from the trees. Gripping his sword firmly, he knelt by her. “Oh, ’elp!” she wailed. Then he turned her over, and the toothless, stubbly face of a man grinned up from her cowl. “My poor ass!” it said gruffly, laughing.
Gisburne leapt back – but all around, the forest seemed to come alive. From every shadow, every opening, every crook and crevice in the thicket, figures emerged – rough-clad, grim-faced, armed with everything f
rom rusty pitchforks to longbows.
Outlaws. Thieves.
Gisburne judged there to be no fewer than forty. And at least a dozen arrows aimed at his heart. He took a step towards his horse, and every bow tensed. Gisburne’s homely feelings of familiarity for his surroundings distorted, became something uncanny. He felt the rush of deja vu. The steady creep of inevitability.
Then, somewhere deep in the forest, he heard a crash. A crackling of twigs. Hooves. They pounded closer. Gisburne stared into the dirty faces of the men. They were smiling, and he already knew why.
The “old woman” rose to his feet. “’E’s comin’ fer ya!” he cackled, pinching Gisburne’s cheek with his grimy fingers.
Then, from the forest’s edge, burst a horse and its rider. Snow flew from its feet as it stopped and reared, its hooves biting the frozen earth. The horse – a mare – was as white as Gisburne’s was black, and from its back a familiar figure beamed down.
Hood’s appearance had changed. His beard was darker and more full, his hair longer. Somehow he had acquired the bearing of an aristocrat. But it was his attire that struck Gisburne.
He was clothed in garments entirely of green: a two-thirds length tunic, tight at the waist, with flowing cloak on top, fashioned with lining of the finest fur – all of one piece – the matching hood lying back from his locks and laid upon his shoulders. His hose were of the same green hue, caught at the calf, with jangling spurs of gold beneath.
Gisburne gazed up at the otherworldy vision in horrid amazement. So, this is how it ends, he thought.
Hood regarded him with no hint of surprise. It was as if they had parted company yesterday.
“Hello, old man. Well, here we are again.” He gestured dramatically with a broad, white toothed grin. “How do you like my merry men?”
Gisburne looked about him. The sea of grim faces cheered and guffawed their sly, gap-toothed guffaws, shaking their swords and scythes. It was raucous. It was leering. But not what he’d call “merry”.
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