Then the whole world collapsed around him.
In the dying light of the fire, watching him, half-dressed as if just risen from his bed, was Gilbert de Gaillon. Gisburne’s limbs froze, his face suddenly burning hot. His mind spun, seeking excuses. Explanations. But there were none. He was utterly exposed. De Gaillon’s eyes, glinting in the firelight, dropped to the knife in the boy’s hand, then came back up to his face, the unrelenting gaze boring into him as he stood, mute and useless. Gisburne expected some dreadful retribution – a beating, a barrage of unbearable admonishments, total humiliation before all his peers, perhaps even to be sent packing back home, a miserable failure. An exposed thief. But none of these things happened. What did happen was worse than all of them. De Gaillon narrowed his eyes for a moment, then, without a word, turned and walked away.
Gisburne stood, suddenly powerless, for what seemed an age. He was shocked and sickened – more horribly alone than he had ever felt in his life, although what had caused it was just this: that he was never alone. There were always others’ needs, others’ feelings, others’ judgements. He had always pushed them to one side – disregarded them, been impervious to them. He had believed himself somehow indestructible. Now, he felt like Adam, suddenly aware of his nakedness, his weakness, his sin. For a moment he hated de Gaillon for forcing this self-knowledge upon him, wanted to rail against him, beat his fists against his chest. But somewhere beneath it, even then, he knew he would only be railing against himself, and that it was part of himself that he hated. To have disappointed his master – to have failed him... It was its own punishment. The worst feeling in the world.
Biting his lip to hold back the tears, he crept back into Nicolas’s tent and placed the knife exactly as he had found it. Then, wretched and shamed, he crawled into his bed and sobbed himself into a fitful sleep.
Gisburne walked on eggshells the whole of the next day. He felt sick. His hands shook. His bowels couldn’t keep a grip on anything. He had restored the object to its proper place – but nothing could put things back as they were. Nothing could undo the knowledge of the crime. So, he busied himself around his master, not daring to look him in the eye, waiting for the moment when the subject would be raised. But de Gaillon said nothing of the incident that day. Nor the day after that. Nor any day that week, that month, that year. He simply carried on as if nothing had changed, and Gisburne – trepidation gradually turning to relief, and then being forgotten – did the same.
But everything had changed. It was years before Gisburne fully understood the wisdom of his master’s actions that night, but when he finally did, he loved him all the more for it. For trusting him to find his own way forward. For understanding that defeats are often better teachers than triumphs. For believing in him, and making him realise that mistakes do not have to define a man. Gisburne’s attitude towards stealing – and towards himself – changed forever that night. No one hates thieves like a reformed thief.
There was an unexpected coda to the story, two days after the abandoned theft. Gisburne was scrubbing the tack for his master’s horses when a voice behind spoke his name. He turned, and felt his heart drop out of his chest. It was Nicolas. In his hand, he clutched the sheathed, black-handled knife.
Nicolas had never spoken to Gisburne directly before, except to cut him down to size in front of the others. Gisburne was about to confess all and throw himself on the other’s mercy when he realised that Nicolas – who could be a bluff and boastful sort when with his fellows – had not a look of anger or hatred, but a sort of embarrassed, sheepish smile. “I know you always liked this knife,” he said. “And now I have two...” He thrust the knife towards Gisburne. Gisburne, stunned and silent, took it from him. Then Nicolas laughed, and ruffled Gisburne’s hair roughly, and was gone.
For a time, he had considered throwing the knife into the river Eure. Denying himself this thing, of which he was so unworthy. Then he thought what his master would do. De Gaillon detested self-flagellation, and would probably just think it a waste of a good knife. And so, the knife had stayed.
AS NYGHT SLOWED to a trot, Gisburne let his fingers go to its haft. The knife had served as a constant reminder of those times. Of that night, and of a gift freely given. But it was something else – something less tangible – that had helped keep him true. Ever since, whenever he had been faced with a harsh decision or moral dilemma, he had found himself wondering what de Gaillon would think – had asked himself how the old man would judge his actions. De Gaillon had become a constant guiding presence in Gisburne’s eventful existence – even more so in death than he had been in life. He had become his conscience. Gisburne did not know if there was some realm from which de Gaillon now looked down upon him. But that mattered little. His mentor lived on in him. De Gaillon had, in a sense, made him. It was, he now realised, perhaps the closest thing to a personal God he was ever likely to get.
Gisburne threw himself down off his horse and tied the reins to the bar above the stone trough – the place he had tied so many horses as a child, and from where he had once attempted to steal one. As Nyght drank noisily, he stood before the low, wide door, hardly daring to move.
Through the waxed linen of the downstairs windows, a dim light glowed. Smoke curled from the chimney, and the smell of roasting beef and onions wafted on the air. Someone was here. Either John had also laid on servants, or... For a moment, it crossed Gisburne’s mind that the whole thing was an elaborate joke. But no. He could not believe that.
As he approached the door with tentative steps, key in hand, sounds of movement came from within. The clank of a pot. The jangle of a knife or spoon being set on a wooden table. He stopped by the door, wondering why he was at such pains to move silently on what was supposed to be his property. As if to assert his ownership of the place – to confirm that the key, and by extension he, did indeed belong here – he went to put it into the lock. Before key and lock could meet, the door opened.
“You took your time,” said a familiar voice.
Gisburne stared, wide-eyed, at Galfrid. The little man stood, bedecked in a slightly stained apron, ladle in one hand, savoury aromas flooding past him on the warm air, expression as inscrutable as ever. He gestured back towards the interior with the ladle.
“There’s a stew on the go if you’re hungry. I couldn’t get any...” But there he was stopped. Gisburne flung his arms around the little man and clutched him to his chest. “You’re not dead!” Gisburne laughed, and slapped both hands on his squire’s back, overcome with joy and relief. Galfrid, dumbfounded, simply stood, arms stuck out either side of him like a scarecrow – ladle in one, fresh air in the other – not having the first idea to do with himself.
Finally Gisburne released Galfrid from the rough embrace and stood back, still clutching him by the shoulders, still laughing. “You’re not dead!” he repeated, giving his squire a gentle shake as he did so. He could hardly remember a time in his life when he was more glad to see anyone.
Gisburne looked him up and down. Galfrid’s face had a couple of new scars, but otherwise he appeared whole – none the worse for their trials. The vigour of Gisburne’s greeting had clearly taken him completely by surprise, however. He looked stunned – and, Gisburne thought, maybe even emotional behind that implacable front. “You’re all right...” he said. Then, more cautiously. “You are all right?”
A pained expression passed across Galfrid’s face for an instant, as if recalling a memory that would rather remained buried. Gisburne thought of what he must have suffered at Castel Mercheval, considered asking him more directly, but then rejected the idea. Galfrid’s face changed again, and he nodded, almost casually. It would take time, thought Gisburne. Let him come to it when he’s ready. And he smiled, and let his hands drop.
“Well, er... You’d best come in then,” said Galfrid awkwardly, clearing his throat. “You must be hungry.” And with that, he disappeared inside. Gisburne followed, dipping his head under the lintel as he went.
The low
stone doorway opened straight onto a wide hall. At one end, a familiar fireplace was hung with pots, about which Galfrid now bustled like an old woman.
“There’s wine here – not Prince John’s, the good stuff, mind. Or ale if you prefer. I paid over the odds for that. He could see I wanted it in a hurry. Tricky bunch, these locals – the awkward bugger nearly didn’t sell it to me at all. But an Englishman’s house isn’t a home without ale. Anyway, I’ve cleaned up a bit, as best I can – it was left in a bit of a state. Hopefully it’s as you would wish it.” He thought for a moment. “As you remember it.”
It was exactly as Gisburne remembered it. A little smaller, maybe. But that was a trick of age. Even the few sticks of furniture his parents had owned – both had had simple tastes – were still here. Gisburne went over to the heavy wooden table that dominated the centre of the room, sat at the bench, and ran his finger over a crudely carved letter “G” on one corner of the thick tabletop – still visible despite years of use and polish. His father had given him a hiding for doing that. How old must he have been then? Fifteen? Fourteen? No – he was already in Normandy then, under de Gaillon’s tutelage. He could only have been twelve, at the most. It seemed inconceivable to him that so fragile a relic could still exist from all those years ago – years that had seen him traverse so much of the earth that his childhood had seemed another world. But here it was.
A frown knotted his brow. “Galfrid, I...”
“It’s all right.” Galfrid held up a hand in protest. “You did what you had to do. And much more besides.” For perhaps the second time since Gisburne had known him, there was no trace of irony or cynicism in his tone. “I knew the skull was never in that box.” Galfrid looked him in the eye. “You had it all along, didn’t you?”
Gisburne nodded, felt oddly ashamed at the deception. But Galfrid waved the thought away. “You came back for us. At Castel Mercheval. That you did not have to do.” He shrugged, turned back to his stew, perhaps embarrassed at his own words. “Admittedly, you may have come back more for the wealthy, feisty, beautiful, unmarried Countess, but still...”
Gisburne smiled to himself. Memories of Mélisande flooded his mind. Every time he thought of her – and it had been often – something tugged at his innards. She had deceived him. But then, he had deceived her. It was a fair exchange, he supposed. A normal part of his new life as Prince John’s agent. But she had also saved him – had also, surely, done more than she’d had to. And there was certainly no deception that last night together. She had wanted him. And, whatever deceptions surrounded them – and there were plenty – there was something more honest in that one encounter than any he’d known before. For a time, he had attempted to rationalise it – told himself she had merely been a surrogate for Marian, as had many women before. He had felt guilt over some of those liaisons. Guilt at misleading them, guilt at misusing his feelings for Marian. He had felt a pang of guilt over Mélisande, too – but for entirely opposite reasons. He felt guilty because, that night, Marian had not entered his thoughts once. He had not wanted her, nor a dismal substitute for her. He had wanted only Mélisande. For herself.
Never before had he encountered a woman who knew his world – who really understood it, had experienced it. The possibility had never crossed his mind. There were so many things that he could never begin to explain to Marian, that he wished to speak of, but could not – things that Mélisande could simply read in his face, without a word being spoken. To be able to share one’s life to that extent... But could a woman such as she – one who went her own way, and would not be owned – ever belong to just one man? How and when their paths might cross again, he did not know. But cross they would. And the mere thought made his heart beat faster.
A jug clunked down before him on the tabletop, brimming with beer. “You look like you need a drink.” Galfrid placed two silver-rimmed horn cups side by side and filled them both. “Let’s start with the ale.”
Gisburne smiled. He knocked his cup against Galfrid’s, and drank. Perhaps it was the homeliness of the surroundings, or the relief at seeing his friend alive – Gisburne didn’t really care. He only knew, as the foaming, malty brew hit his throat like a blessing, that this beer was the best he’d ever tasted.
“Hmm,” said Galfrid, smacking his lips critically, the ridge of his nose wrinkling in a frown. “It’ll do. Could be better. Especially for that bloody price.”
Gisburne’s eyes narrowed. “The locals... You said they were ‘tricky’?” He vaguely wondered if any of the locals he had terrorised as a child were still alive.
Galfrid grunted in assent. “They’ve been keeping their distance, mostly.”
“But why? They all loved my father. My mother, too. Do they know who it is who has taken possession of the place?”
“They do know, yes...” Galfrid shifted on his feet awkwardly. “It is...” He looked as if he did not wish to continue, but pushed on, regardless. “It is because of Gilbert de Gaillon. His reputation.”
Gisburne felt a sudden fury rise in him – had an urge to fling his cup into the fire. But he’d had enough of that anger. He’d had it for years now. It was time to throw it off. He drank again, until the cup was drained, then slapped it down and sighed deeply.
“If I have to fight for a hundred years – if I have to defy King Richard the Lionheart himself – I will not rest until the name of Gilbert de Gaillon is restored. That is my sole quest.”
“Our quest,” said Galfrid. “There are no sole quests any more.” He held out his cup. They knocked brims. “Which means we only have to fight for fifty years apiece.”
Gisburne gave a snort of laughter and shook his head. “You really are the most extraordinary fellow, Galfrid.” Galfrid shrugged, and gulped his ale. Gisburne studied him with a kind of wonder – the strange, impossible little man. “You haven’t yet told me how you escaped Castel Mercheval.”
Galfrid’s eyebrows raised. “In order to learn that secret,” he said, “you will have to get me very, very drunk indeed.” He held up a finger. “But I warn you – if you think you can drink me under the table...”
“I have seen the underside of this table often enough to develop a keen strategy in that regard,” said Gisburne. And he filled up Galfrid’s cup until it overflowed.
“One thing...” he said, as Galfrid was raising the cup to his lips. “Tancred?” It was a question that had been on his mind since that day.
Galfrid’s grave expression gave him his answer before the squire even spoke. “He was burned,” he said. “By flames. By quicklime. It near took the flesh off his face.” Gisburne thought he saw Galfrid shudder as he spoke the words. “But it appears he is not yet done with this world. Either that, or the hereafter refuses to have him. He lives. Against all odds.” He paused and drank. “The Templars have disowned him. He goes his own way now. I hear his strength returns, and his will is stronger than ever. But as for his sanity...”
Galfrid didn’t need to say more. Gisburne nodded slowly. “Well, it would appear that rather than rid the world of a pestilential evil, I have in fact turned it into something far worse – a hideous, twisted monster now bent on my utter destruction.”
“I’ll drink to that,” said Galfrid, resignedly. They knocked cups once again. Gisburne drank, and stared into the fire. He thought of the pieces now in play. John. Richard. Mélisande. Philip. The Templars. And now Tancred. Especially Tancred. He had surely not seen the last of him.
And yet somehow, deep in his bones, he knew that whatever might pass in what remained of his life, his ultimate fate lay not with the crazed Templar, but somewhere in the great forests to the south.
One day, when the circle closed upon his nemesis, he would become a hunter of Sherwood again – but this time, with a far more deadly prey.
For Mum and Dad
I
THE COMING
APOCALYPSE
I
Jerusalem
March, 1193
ASIF AL-DIN IBN Salah wat
ched the rat lope along the dark tunnel ahead of the flickering light from his torch.
It was a big rat. A fat rat. As big as the cats that darted about the alleys off the Malquisinat. Those mewling, wide-eyed creatures scavenged a fair living off the so-called ‘street of bad cooking’ – but they were puny specimens next to this hunched monster. Asif shuddered at the sight of it. For a moment it paused and waved its wet snout in the air like a dog picking up a scent. How such a thing were possible in this foul place, Asif could not guess. The mere thought of the thick stench that lapped about him – and the horrid sheen of the rat’s slimy, matted fur – made a sour wave of nausea rise from the pit of his stomach.
He shook it off. Asif needed his wits about him, down here. If the reports were to be believed, there were far worse things than rats.
Intelligence on what had been going on in the forgotten tunnels was garbled – fragmentary at best, and in its details, often bizarre. People had spoken of whole cartloads of provisions – dozens of barrels – disappearing near the sewer’s entry points, as if some huge thing had emerged from the subterranean labyrinth under cover of night and swallowed them up. One account – from a terrified Greek merchant who found himself alone one night near the Pool of Siloam – spoke of a man with the blank, expressionless face of a doll rising from under the ground. Another, of a walking statue of a dead Templar. More than once, Asif had heard the claim that the effigy of the Leper King had got up and walked, and was lurking beneath the city, ready to drag unwary Muslims into the depths. One old Jewish scholar muttered a word whose significance Asif had not fully understood, and which all flatly refused to explain to him: go-lem.
There was one common feature: Christian knights. What interest Christian knights might have in Jerusalem’s sewers was baffling. Asif – who had been resident in the city for most of his adult life, and helped to keep the peace under Christian rule before he entered the service of the Sultan – knew this city as well as anyone alive. Yet even he was perplexed. Jerusalem was a city of many mysteries – it was, Asif often joked, harder to get to know than a woman. Perhaps, after all, it was nothing. But since the city’s recapture by Salah al-Din and the hapless ‘crusade’ that followed, any Christian military presence here had to be regarded with utmost suspicion.
Guy of Gisburne- The Omnibus Page 40
