She was dressed in green, the colour she so often favoured. The silk gown was fitted closely to her slender form, with pendant sleeves that hung almost to the floor, the hems embroidered with fine gold wire. The gossamer-fine veil and wimple were of pure white, topped with a plain circlet of gold, and from the edge of her wimple, a single tendril of red-gold hair fell, just as it had that first time. Then, he had thought it a happy accident. It was, he now realised, a statement.
As she drew closer, he saw that the double belt about her slim waist was in fact a chain of gold, ending in delicate golden tassels. Other than this and the simple circlet upon her head, there were no adornments. No rings, no jewels – not even the sun pendant that she had perpetually worn during their days together. None were necessary.
“Good evening, Sir Guy. What a pleasant surprise to find you here.” Her eyes met his, and as they did so he fancied she allowed a playful smile to flicker across her lips, just for him.
“You know each other?” said de Rosseley before Gisburne could gather his wits to reply, then muttered to his old friend: “Now I understand why they call you the Dark Horse Man!”
But Gisburne was barely even aware of de Rosseley’s words. His brain had turned to mud. He was unaccountably hot, his heart thumping so hard in his chest he began to believe those about him might actually hear it.
“We have met,” said Mélisande. “Briefly. In Marseille, some eighteen months ago.” Her eyes again met Gisburne’s, but betrayed nothing of the adventure that had followed that meeting – the flight across France with a stolen relic, capture in the forests of Boulogne, the horrors of Castel Mercheval, and its subsequent ruin. “But perhaps Sir Guy does not remember...?” As she spoke, she offered a shapely white hand – a languorous gesture that barely made it above waist height.
“On the contrary,” said Gisburne, his throat dry, “I recall every moment.” And, dropping to one knee, he took her hand in his and bowed his head to kiss it. It was not the done thing to make actual contact. But against convention, against common sense, against anything anyone cared to put before him, Gisburne pressed his lips to it anyway, and – quite involuntarily – found he squeezed her smooth palm as he did so. Her skin smelled of rose petals. It made his head swim, memories rioting in his head.
“You look a little flushed, Sir Guy” said Mélisande. “Perhaps it is rather warm in here...?”
“Probably that ridiculous coat or whatever it is...” said de Rosseley. “What is that anyway? Horsehide?”
“It is the skin of my father’s destrier,” said Gisburne.
“Well, I hope it looked better on the horse,” muttered de Rosseley. Mélisande stifled a snigger.
Gisburne stood, staring at the ground, impassive. “Thirty months ago, that horse was all I had in the world,” he said. “All I had left of my father. Hood maimed it, left me to finish the beast off myself. This” – he tugged at the front of his coat – “reminds me of that. The day I lost everything, and gained everything. It was also the day I met Prince John and by him was dubbed a knight. A chevalier.”
De Rosseley bowed his head and nodded in acknowledgement, and silent apology. He had been a good friend to the old man. At the utterance of the word chevalier, Gisburne’s mind strayed to the legend of the Dark Horseman – the man who was him and not him, who was named, he supposed, not only for the black horse he rode, but the curious black coat that he wore. To those who knew only the legend – if such it was – it was a costume. An affectation. Something designed to inspire fear. They would never truly understand that it had not been made with any purpose meant for them. He felt the futility of his own quest – his attempts to understand the Red Hand from no more than an approximate image. He knew what he looked like, well enough, but who could say what any of it meant?
Gisburne found himself looking into Mélisande’s face – those impossibly deep eyes – and saw she too was staring at the ground, apparently miles away, her gaze unfocused. She looked pale – paler than he remembered. For a moment, he even thought she swayed a little. Perhaps de Rosseley’s good wine had flowed a little too freely this evening. She inhaled sharply, as if shocked out of her reverie. Gisburne saw her left hand twitch and then tighten into a fist. Then she looked up, an odd smile upon her face.
“I came to ask if you would accompany me on a walk about the battlements, Sir John,” she said. “To take the air. But since you are still indisposed from your exertions, perhaps you will not object if I ask Sir Guy to do so in your stead?”
Gisburne could see now that her breathing was uneven, and that she fought to hide it. There were beads of sweat on her smooth brow, and her left hand, still clenched, was shaking.
De Rosseley, who had not seen these things, eyed Gisburne with a look of one who had just been bettered upon the field. “It should be me touring my own castle with my own guest.” He sighed, smiled and extended his hand in defeat. “But tonight I must defer to Gisburne, in both capacities. There’s no better man in England – though it pains me to say so...”
“Then I bid you good night, Sir John,” said Mélisande, looped her arm through Gisburne’s and without further ceremony began to usher him to the door. The steward – still waiting, Mélisande’s dour servant bolt upright by his side – bowed at her approach and held the door open. “Your chamber is the next along this passage, Sir Guy,” he said, with yet another bow. “Your baggage is already within.”
Gisburne paused, and turned back to de Rosseley. “See you on the lists,” he said. Gisburne had never set foot in the joustyard as a competitor, and was unlikely ever to do so. But the banter had become its own ritual.
“Not if I see you first,” said de Rosseley.
XXX
“SIR JOHN’S CASTLE really is a wonder,” said Mélisande as they walked along the dim passage, her servant padding silently behind them. “Above the kitchens, guardhouse, service rooms and undercroft there are four separate chambers besides the great hall, each with its own fireplace and privy.” Gisburne found himself nodding dumbly at her inconsequential chatter. She made a vague gesture. “It is not connected one room to another, but has a continuous corridor built into the circular wall. That means any chamber may be secured or defended independently, without impeding access to the rest. Also, that guests are permitted their own private quarters, and may come and go without disturbing others. My chamber is the furthest along this passage. Sir John chose it for me; it gets the morning sun.”
Gisburne had thought that, once alone, they would revert to the close familiarity they had developed in their time together. Somehow, that had not happened. She was, nevertheless, making sure she he knew where her chamber was – or was he reading too much into that? Was it even possible to read too much into Mélisande de Champagne? She was leaning more heavily against him with every step. It felt good – he could not deny that. But it concerned him. Her progress was slow and unsteady. She looked ill.
Suddenly, he saw her face contort in agony. Her eyes rolled back in her head – her body fell limp. Gisburne caught her in his arms. Her servant rushed forward.
“What the Hell is this?” said Gisburne.
“She is... unwell, sire,” said the servant. He extended his hands as if to take her from him. His hands were shaking.
“I know that much. But is she injured? Tell me quickly.”
The servant hesitated.
“Last night, against the intruder,” hissed Gisburne. “Come on, I know what she is...”
It seemed, then, that the servant finally let his steely façade drop. “She took a blow to her left side. Severe. The skin is not broken, but...” he shrugged, then gave a shuddering sigh. Hours of anxiety seemed to show on his face.
Gisburne gently lifted one of her eyelids. Her pupils were large, her skin clammy. “Has she taken anything?” he said. “For the pain?”
“Henbane,” said the servant. “And a preparation from her travels in the East. What the Arabs call afyun – the tears of the poppy. But its effect
s are waning.”
“Help me get her to her chamber,” said Gisburne, glancing back towards de Rosseley’s door. “I may know what she is, but Sir John does not – nor the rest of the world, for that matter...”
ONCE SAFELY BEHIND the closed door, Gisburne’s mind became pragmatic, efficient. Focused. He was calm. This, at least, he understood.
Placing her upon the bed, he pulled away her veil and wimple. Red-gold hair tumbled free. Her head was hot, her mouth dry. “Pray God it’s not a fever,” he said as the servant hovered nervously by.
“Should I fetch her maidservants?” he said, wringing his hands.
“No time for that,” said Gisburne, unhooking her precious belt and discarding it on the floor. He turned her onto her right side. Upon her dress was an even row of tight lacing stretching the full length of her spine, from her neck to the small of her back. It was baffling to his eyes – providing no clue as to how or where it had been tied. For the first time in his life, he was keenly aware that he was a soldier and not a lady’s maid. He hooked his finger through and tugged at it.
“Sire...” the servant grasped Gisburne’s wrist. The tone of his voice was firm, his grip surprisingly strong. Gisburne had no doubt he would fight to protect his lady’s honour – Mélisande was not one to tolerate milksops.
“It’s necessary if she’s to breathe,” said Gisburne. The grip did not loosen. “Dammit, man,” he snapped, “it’s not as if I haven’t seen her naked before.”
The servant gazed again at his mistress, and relented. There was love in his eyes. Gisburne set about the laces again. “What’s your name?” he said. It was a moment before the servant realised he was being addressed.
“Bertran, sire.”
“You’re a good man, Bertran,” said Gisburne. Not knowing quite how to respond, Bertran simply gave an embarrassed nod.
Suddenly Mélisande jerked and came to, her breathing coming in short, wheezing gasps. Gisburne pulled again at the lacing, but it resisted him.
“We must cut this,” he said. “Hold her still.” Bertran did so. Gisburne drew his eating knife, slid the blade behind the lacing and sliced it through. Then again. And a third time. When it was slit almost from waist to shoulder blade, her breathing faltered. He did not trouble with a final cut, but grasped the material and ripped the last of the lacings apart. She gasped as the bindings about her chest were released, shuddered violently, then her eyes swam and she again slumped into Bertran’s arms, the full sinuous length of her bare back framed between crumpled hems of green. There was no underdress. Perhaps her injury had made it impossible for her to put it on over her head. Or perhaps it was just Mélisande being Mélisande.
“My lady requested the gown be laced tightly,” said Bertran. There was almost apology in his voice. “She said it helped to reduce the pain.”
Gisburne nodded. Many a time he’d seen knights strap up their sides and get straight back in the saddle. “But it will not help the wound to heal,” he said. “She must breathe freely now.” And keep on breathing, he thought. Only minutes ago had he found her, and already he was faced with the possibility of losing her all over again. He grasped her shoulders and laid her gently back upon the bed. “Fetch water,” he said.
Bertran hurried away to the far end of the chamber as Gisburne peeled the closely fitted silk from her pale body and revealed the wound. The bruise upon her left side stretched all the way from the bottom of her ribs, past her left breast to her underarm. It was edged with purplish red, but at its heart was almost black – a horrid contrast to the pale, perfect flesh that surrounded it. The skin was entirely unbroken, but it was badly swollen. It suddenly struck Gisburne how absurd it was that one of England’s greatest knights had been excused his duties as host by a woman who carried a near-identical injury.
“Bones may be broken,” said Gisburne as Bertran returned with a dish of water and a cloth.
“What will that mean?” said Bertran.
“Pain. Perhaps for weeks. But she may be lucky.” What was on his mind, however, was what other damage had been done and could not be seen. He chose not to speak of it yet. There was little Bertran could do, anyway.
“Surely, given the life your mistress leads,” said Gisburne, “you must have seen other situations such as this?”
Bertran cocked his head to one side. “There have been... moments. But she has a talent for inflicting injury rather than suffering it.” Gisburne smiled at that. “On the occasions when she has, she has usually insisted on dealing with it herself.” Gisburne could imagine the door slamming in Bertran’s face. Mélisande was nothing if not independent.
“Not this time,” he said. “Lift her feet.”
Bertran did so. Gisburne slid the dress entirely from under her and tossed it away, then folded the linen bedsheet over her naked body to preserve at least some dignity, and sat by her.
Bertran proffered the bowl. As Gisburne dipped the cloth into the water, he noted Bertran had strewn dried rose petals into it. He wrung it out, then mopped her brow, and then wrung and mopped again. After the third time, she awoke into a fit of coughing. Her eyes bulged and streamed with tears, purely from the pain. Pain was to be expected, but if it grew worse rather than better, or if she struggled to breathe, or started to run a fever – and especially if she coughed blood – then things would not be so simple. Then, her life would be hanging in the balance. Only the next few hours would tell.
As the coughing ceased, he held her face firmly between his palms and looked into her eyes. They were red and wild, but seemed clear, more focused – if a little indignant. All positive signs. “Can you hear me?” he said. He felt, rather than saw, her nod. “Spit,” he said, and held out his palm next to her face. She frowned at the suggestion. “Spit into my hand.”
“Not for twenty thousand crowns,” she croaked.
She coughed again, and almost doubled up. “Just do it!” he said. Reluctantly, she spat, and slumped back. He spread the saliva across his palm. No blood. That was good.
“Water,” she said. “Please...” He put the sopping cloth on her brow again, but she flung it off. “To drink!” she gasped. Bertran was already by her side with a cup and jug. She gulped down three cupfuls in succession before slumping onto the bed once more.
The water seemed to revive her. “Gisburne...” she said with a smile, as if seeing him for the first time. She put a hand on his face. “Have you rescued me again?”
“Hardly,” said Gisburne. “From what I’ve heard, it’s you who rescued Sir John.”
She let her hand fall back upon the linen sheet that covered her. As her palm brushed across her breast, realisation dawned, and she lifted the sheet to peer beneath.
“I appear to be naked,” she said. She looked back again. “Did you do this?”
“It’s how I remember you best,” said Gisburne.
Mélisande scowled at him. “I only regret that on this occasion I made it easy for you.”
Gisburne raised his eyebrows. “Easy?” He mopped her brow again. “When was anything about you ever easy? Last time I saw you like this, I woke up next morning to find you gone.”
Mélisande gave a kind of half-shrug, and a smile. “Sorry about that. You know I would love to have stayed. But anyway... Here we both are again.”
Gisburne sighed. “And then it turned out you’d helped me get back to England only so Hood could rob me of the stolen relic.”
Mélisande reddened, and the smile faded. “Not only,” she said. She looked up at Bertran, still loitering awkwardly by, and indicated that he could go. He hesitated.
“I’ll stay,” said Gisburne. Bertran looked to his mistress.
“Get some sleep, Bertan,” she said. “One of us needs to be at full strength when we leave tomorrow.”
Bertran bowed, and left them.
“You leave tomorrow?” said Gisburne.
“I must,” said Mélisande. Gisburne waited for her to expand upon the answer, but she did not.
; “You’re lucky to be alive,” he said at length. “You know the Red Hand has slaughtered three of England’s greatest knights, and threatens to kill more?”
“Red Hand?”
“The mystery raider from last night.”
“So, is he the reason you’re here?” said Mélisande, feigning disappointment. “Not because of me?”
“Sorry to say, I had no idea you were within these walls.”
“And if you had...? Would that have brought you all the quicker, or kept you away?”
Gisburne looked at the stone floor. “What are you doing here?” he said.
“I’m just a noble lady seeking a husband.”
“So... Are we to expect a betrothal announcement soon?”
Mélisande narrowed her limpid eyes and studied him for a long moment. “Not just yet.”
Gisburne struggled once again to conceal his feelings – of joy and relief, this time. “Not your type?”
“Oh, he’s definitely my type...” said Mélisande with a sly smile. “If a little... overeager.” The smile vanished. “My father thinks it time I gave up my unseemly, wandering ways.”
Gisburne nodded blandly. “Does your father know what it is you do?”
“He knows not to ask too many questions,” she shot back. It sounded almost like a rebuke – but both knew Gisburne was already too deeply immersed in her secret world for it to have any meaning. She gave a sigh, shuddering as she did so – another twinge of pain, he guessed. Yes, he knew many of her secrets. But there was still much she kept concealed. From him. From everyone. She smiled. “Actually, I think he believes I am having an affair with King Philip. All those trips to court...”
“And are you?”
She gave a snort of derision which ended in a tiny cry of pain. “Now, he really isn’t my type. Awful teeth.” She frowned up at him. “Do you know Philip?”
Guy of Gisburne- The Omnibus Page 65
