“Thank you, Widow Fleet,” interrupted Gisburne. He took a step toward her. She took two steps back.
“If there is anything you require in the meantime...”
“My squire shall see to it, madam,” said Gisburne, and continued herding her towards the stair.
Finally getting the message, she bowed and scurried away. She was part way down the stairs when her head appeared once again through the doorway.
“And if anything should fail to please, then...”
“Then I will tell Prince John,” said Gisburne. “Who will convey it to his brother the King.”
The Widow turned scarlet, looked as if she were about to faint, then rallied and, with a muttered exclamation of “God’s teeth,” disappeared back around the chimney breast.
“Wait,” said Gisburne, before she had even reached the stair. “There is one thing, after all...”
The Widow’s face re-emerged, a picture of expectation.
“There is?” said Galfrid.
“Something you might fetch before we get settled...”
Bit by bit, she crept back into the room, like a small creature wary of a predator.
“Well,” Galfrid patted his stomach. “Now you come to mention it...”
“Whitewash,” said Gisburne.
“Whitewash?” said Galfrid. “I was thinking more of bread and ale...”
“I think this interior could do with a little freshening up. Widow Fleet? What say you?”
“I shall organise it sir! At the first opportunity!”
“Sooner,” said Gisburne. “We’re going out to get some food.” He patted Galfrid’s stomach. “Given the ready availability of goods and services in this great city, there’s no reason why the painting could not be done by the time we return, is there?”
The Widow looked suddenly flustered again, as if failure to deliver such a service would result in a national scandal. “At such short notice, I...”
“I’ll pay double the going rate.”
She swallowed hard. “Well, there is Master Birkenschawe, but...”
“Excellent! Then it’s decided. Thank you, Widow Fleet.”
With an even greater sense of urgency, she picked up her skirts and hurried away. Gisburne heard her retreating down the creaky stair, breathlessly muttering “Whitewash... Whitewash...” over and over.
He turned to his squire. “I have no idea how you found this place,” he said with a smile. “But well done, Galfrid. Well done.”
Galfrid looked at his master in amazement, as if such words of encouragement were entirely foreign to him. But they were heartfelt. For days, Gisburne had been focused on one immediate goal – the delivery of the Prince to the Tower. The successful completion of that task had – thanks largely to the residents of the royal palace, and the nature of London itself – proved oddly anticlimactic. It had left him drained and frustrated, his brain overloaded. But on this bright new morning, with new rooms secured, he felt, at last, that the real work could begin. It seemed strangely paradoxical, given the grim nature of the task ahead – and of their adversary. Even inappropriate. But he could not deny the heady excitement that now gripped him – a feeling, he only now realised, that had been absent so long, he had ceased even to miss it. For the first time in months – since Jerusalem, in fact – he felt vital, and alive.
“WHITEWASH..?” SAID GALFRID as they stepped out onto Eastchepe.
“That’s only half the story. To complete it, I need something else.” He looked about him. “Although where to find it in this endless sprawl...”
“I may have an answer,” said Galfrid. He took Gisburne’s shoulder, and turned him towards the opposite side of the street. “You asked me how I found this place.” He pointed. “That’s how.”
Squatting against a wall, taking in the sun, his eyes flicking left and right as if constantly vigilant, was a young boy of little more than eleven or twelve. His clothes were mostly rags, but amongst his apparel were signs of enterprise. His belt was of new Italian leather and he had slung upon it a fine, sheathed knife. On his head – though too large for it – was a fine wool brimmed cap, and on his feet boots that would cost half a page’s annual wage.
“His name is Hamon,” said Galfrid. “I spied him on Love Lane trying to relieve a country farmer of a cow without his knowledge. Clearly he was an individual of resource, so I thought I’d put it to constructive use. I’ll wager he knows these streets better than anyone.”
Gisburne smiled. “Well, let’s see what he can do.”
“Hamon?” called Galfrid. The boy immediately jumped to his feet. Galfrid tossed him a silver penny. Hamon caught it, bit it, and shoved it into his hose. “You said you could get me anything... Did you mean that?”
“Anyfing sir,” said Hamon. “Mirrors. Lemmins. A monkey.”
“How about some sticks of charcoal?” said Gisburne.
Hamon grinned like one who had just found the bean in the Christmas cake, then without another word, clutching his cap tight upon his head, pelted off westward along Eastchepe and disappeared into the crowd opposite Crooked Lane.
“I think we may assume that’s a ‘yes,’” said Gisburne.
XXVII
Eastchepe
24 May, 1193
EXACTLY ONE MONTH before the day of Hood’s execution, Hamon brought news that proved his worth beyond a whole stack of pennies.
For the first four days at Widow Fleet’s they had done nothing. Of the Red Hand there was no sign. John remained at the Tower; Hood, in his cell. Gisburne and Galfrid simply ate, slept, and grew accustomed to London life.
Thanks to the transformative efforts of Master Birkenschawe – who was still finishing up when Galfrid and Gisburne had returned that day – the place almost glowed. Apparently well used to Widow Fleet’s fussing, Master Birkenschawe tolerated it with infinite patience, and just once, when her back was turned, he rolled his eyes at Galfrid and Gisburne. All three smiled as if party to some silent pact.
Though Widow Fleet did not yet know it, this miraculous transformation was to be as short-lived as Gisburne’s bright mood. Even as she had regarded the fresh white walls on that first day – smiling and clapping her hands, the paint still glistening wet – Gisburne had taken delivery of a small, dirty sack, which he had placed in the front corner, just past his bed, and beyond Widow Fleet’s inquisitive gaze. Then he had ushered her out, with a gentle reminder about the privacy he had bought for his extra shilling.
For some time after, she had remained as good as her word.
Those were strange days. An odd period of peace in this most hectic of climes. It might almost have been a holiday, but neither could relax. Galfrid had the sense that any respite was momentary – merely the calm before the storm. And by only the second day, the combination of enforced leisure and the restless turmoil of London had begun to grate upon his master. And so they waited. For what, neither dared say.
Gisburne was not used to the cerebral life. De Gaillon had always warned of the dangers of action without thought, but thought without action – without the possibility of action as a consequence of it – that ground his spirit, leaving him irritable and exhausted.
As if in confirmation of an impending tempest, the days grew thick and airless. Every movement raised a sweat. Nights became unbearably hot. Gisburne took to having the shutters flung open despite the noise of the street, and when sleep eluded him altogether would sit in semi-darkness looking out over London, still waiting, the plaintive sound of his hurdy gurdy drifting on the still, sultry air. Galfrid – too hot and tired either to complain or to bother finding material to stuff his ears – would lay and listen, resigned to it, and once or twice, quite against expectation, found himself lulled into sleep.
On the afternoon of the fifth day, Galfrid returned to their rooms to find Widow Fleet in a flap. As he pushed the front door open, juggling the latch and a weighty sack of comestibles, she was on him like a wasp on jam.
“He’s gone mad!” she
shrieked, plucking at his sleeve.
“Please, please – calm yourself, Widow Fleet,” said Galfrid, sensing even as he said it that his advice was probably arriving thirty years too late.
“Calm myself?” she cried. “How can I calm myself? He’s making a mess all over my lovely white walls!”
He had always known that, eventually, she would discover it – and had warned the dismissive Gisburne to that effect. “Oh, hardly a mess...” said Galfrid, sliding past her and backing towards the foot of the stairs. “A few scribblings, that’s all... It’s just his way.”
The charcoal and whitewash, Galfrid had soon discovered, were the means by which Gisburne meant to record key facts pertaining to the Red Hand – numbers, dates, names. Galfrid wondered if it had been inspired by the Red Hand himself, and the marks upon the wall of Bardulf’s castle.
It was, without doubt, a perfectly practical solution. Even if Gisburne awoke at night, with some small fragment of information bouncing around in his head, he could immediately add it to one of his lists – no quills, no ink, no scrabbling for parchment. By this method, the wall by his bed had been transformed into a blurry aide mémoire. During the day, and in a mood where he sometimes would not speak for hours, Gisburne would occasionally sit and stare at it, as if doing so for long enough might unlock its secrets.
None of this, of course, meant anything to Widow Fleet.
“A few scribblings?” she hooted. “It’s everywhere! Numbers and runes and dancing men and heaven alone knows what!”
Galfrid stifled a chuckle. “Dancing men? I hardly think –”
But she leaned in close to him, eyes as wide as meat platters. “I tell you I’m a-feared of what he’s doing up there, Squire Galfrid. It’s sorcery, that’s what it is...” She threw up her hands. “I’ll not have sorcery in this house! I never have, and I never will!”
“Widow Fleet,” sighed Galfrid, by now backing up the stairs. “I can assure you it is not sorcery. Just a few marks to help him remember. He’s not used to the refinements of city life.”
“You tell him,” she said, pointing a finger. “I’ll not have it!”
Nodding and smiling pleasantly as he ascended, clutching the sack from which a cheese was threatening to escape, Galfrid pushed against the door at the top to find it shut and bolted. Securing the cheese under his chin, he booted the door several times by way of a knock. Almost immediately, it flew open.
“What now?” barked Gisburne, his face like thunder. “Oh, it’s you...” He pulled the door wide to admit his squire – and both saw the Widow Fleet launching a fresh assault up the narrow stair.
“You tell him, Squire Galfrid,” she yelped. “It won’t do!”
“Yes, thank you, goodbye,” snapped Gisburne, and attempted to push the door closed before Galfrid was entirely through it. As the squire squeezed by, Galfrid noticed that the fingers of both Gisburne’s hands were as black as Nyght’s mane.
“You tell him!” said Widow Fleet, trying to force her tiny frame through the door. “My lovely new paint!”
“My new paint,” corrected Gisburne. “Your walls. My paint. Goodbye.” And he slammed the door in her face.
Galfrid opened his mouth to speak, but Gisburne’s hand silenced him. For a moment, he looked as if about to speak, but then moved off into the larger of the two rooms that he had claimed as his own, and stood, framed beside the chimney breast, brow knotted, staring intently at the expanse of wall before him.
“She’s just a harmless old woman,” he said. “And it is her house...”
“You haven’t had her squawking in your ear all day...” And with that, he withdrew further into his chamber, and out of sight.
Galfrid stepped forward from the door and dumped the sack on the table, then followed his master. “Well, anyway,” he said. “I got us more cheese and a good smoked ham. And wine. And the poulterer on the corner said...” His words stopped dead. He stared. As he had passed around the chimney breast, a ball of cheese still clutched in his hand, the source of Widow Fleet’s consternation had been revealed.
Where once had been a few rough scribblings, occupying a small section of the wall, there was now an army of black figures spreading like vermin across the entire expanse. The few simple records had grown and multiplied into a baffling array of spidery figures – words and numbers, lists and scraps of poetry, measurements and passages from the Bible. Some parts had already been struck through, or wiped away entirely to leave a dark smear – the backdrop to a fresh notation. Others had been circumscribed within heavily drawn frames of black, as if to emphasise them. A few were writ straight, but most were askew, or veering at angles as if threatening to slide off the wall altogether.
Most bizarre, however, was – between the words and numbers and smudged fingermarks and handprints – a succession of crude, often half-finished images. Faces. Bits of armour. Weapons of various kinds. Maps. Plans of castles. Animals both real and imaginary. Disembodied heads. A dragon. Sketches of devices, including some kind of siphon. And there, too, were Widow Fleet’s “dancing men” – a row of over a dozen small figures, which seemed to process across the foot of the sooty slope. From the heads of perhaps half of these, flying up at an angle like banners, were scrawled names. Among them were the names of the dead, alongside several more that Galfrid did not recognise. One had above it only a single letter: ‘G.’
He stared at the apocalyptic frieze. No longer was this simply a record of a few scraps of information – it was more, even, than a chronicle of the Red Hand’s crimes, and the clues that might ultimately reveal his identity. It somehow encompassed everything they had encountered on their journey to this point, every thought that had formed in Gisburne’s waking head – and perhaps his nightmares as well. And, as with a nightmare, much of it appeared utterly unfathomable.
“Christ’s boots...” muttered Galfrid.
“It’s my mosaic,” said Gisburne, awkwardly, stick of charcoal in hand. “My Monreale. What do you think?”
Galfrid stared, open mouthed. “She was right,” said Galfrid. “You have gone mad.”
“If I have,” said Gisburne, irritably, “then the Widow is to blame...” He gave a brief, dismissive laugh – almost, Galfrid thought, in a kind of embarrassment, as if suddenly aware that he had revealed too much of himself. “I had to do something. To form some kind of picture.”
“A picture of what, though?” said Galfrid. He could discern no coherence in this crazed disorder.
Gisburne screwed up his eyes. “Something will come. It has to. A pattern of some sort.” Galfrid recalled his master saying that Gilbert de Gaillon had been a great one for visualising battle plans. If you can’t see your victory clearly in here, he would say, tapping his head, then you’ll never take the right steps to achieving it.
There had been no fresh information with which to work, and there would be no sight of the Milford Roll for another couple of days at least. They had been waiting – and, although neither wished to say it, that meant another death. But now, Galfrid began to wonder about the unknown names upon the wall – other members of John’s retinue in Ireland, he supposed, who, presumably, were also still alive. If that was the case, could not steps have been taken with regard to them?
“Dammit!” said Gisburne, and he hurled the stick of charcoal across the room.It struck the open shutter and broke apart, half of it flying out of the window. From the marks on the shutters and elsewhere, it appeared that a good amount of the stuff may have gone a similar way. Not that its loss mattered much – Hamon had brought enough of the stuff to last years. It had apparently come from an armourer’s at the northern end of Coleman Street, though how he had secured it, Gisburne and Galfrid had not asked.
It was as Galfrid stood there, contemplating the frenzied mural with its mystery names, that a new altercation erupted on the street below. “God, what now?” said Gisburne, and moved to the window. Two voices were raised in violent dispute, and getting more heated by the minute: one, a
boy’s, making insistent entreaties, the other, ever shriller and more outraged, Widow Fleet’s.
“That damned woman really does mean to send me mad,” said Gisburne, and leaned out of the window to see what was happening below. A second later, he was back. “It’s Hamon,” he said, his expression concerned. “Were you expecting him?”
“No,” said Galfrid. “Not unless...”
Both suddenly made a move for the door.
As Galfrid opened it, Gisburne peered down towards the front door. Widow Fleet was wrestling with the boy, who was insistently – desperately – trying to gain entry, ducking the Widow’s swipes.
“Widow Fleet!” yelled Gisburne. “Let the boy in.”
“In?” She looked horrified. “This thieving scapegrace?”
“I telled ’er it’s urgent!” shouted Hamon.
“Immediately,” insisted Gisburne. “He has a message for me.”
She harumphed and turned back to the boy. “The gentlemen is letting you in this once,” she said. “But you keep your pilfering fingers to yourself!”
“Not this once, Widow Fleet,” corrected Gisburne, descending the stairs, with Galfrid close behind, “but always. He’s in our employ. And there may be others like him in coming days. I tell you this so you may gird your loins accordingly.”
Hamon gave the Widow a smirk of victory and slithered past. She flung up her arms in exasperation and bustled off, hands over her face. Hamon was red-faced; he had clearly been running for all he was worth.
“Well?” said Gisburne, squatting down to Hamon’s level, his eyes ablaze. He hardly dared to articulate the question they had been waiting a week to ask. “Have you seen him?”
Guy of Gisburne- The Omnibus Page 62
