Gisburne shook his head. “I do not.”
“A remarkable man, in many ways. An individual of ferocious energies. But horribly impatient. And fiercely envious. Like a spoilt child, at times.”
Gisburne smiled. “That sounds familiar. It could almost describe the Lionheart.”
“They always were a little too similar for their crusade to proceed smoothly.”
“It seems Richard lost no opportunity to make Philip feel inadequate. Little wonder Philip hates him.”
“Hates him?” chuckled Mélisande. “God, no! He loves him! Richard epitomises the warrior king he aspires to be, and has all the things he feels he lacks. Strength, stature, leadership...”
“Normandy. Aquitaine...”
“Yes, those too... Of course, Philip already has all of those qualities in abundance, compared with most men.”
“Next to Richard, most people feel inadequate,” said Gisburne. Then, after a moment’s thought added: “Most men.”
She narrowed her eyes at him again. “Except, perhaps, those who value brains above all else.”
He held her gaze for a moment, then tore his eyes away, uncertain if she had meant the words as a compliment. “Richard doesn’t lack intelligence,” he said. “Good God, you should see him on the battlefield. He’s just... Not complicated. He doesn’t overthink. Nothing troubles him at night.”
“Not even the company of women, I’ve heard,” said Mélisande.
“Not women. Not men. Nothing. It’s simply rest before the next day’s conquests.” Gisburne was convinced that simplicity was the key to Richard’s success. People liked their heroes to be simple.
“Well, there we have the difference,” said Mélisande. “Philip overthinks everything. He imagines invasions, intrigues, plots to kill him. Everything that might get in his way, everything that could go wrong.”
Gisburne nodded slowly and gazed off into some imagined distance, beyond the confines of the stone walls. “You know the best and worst thing one can take into battle?”
Mélisande shook her head.
“An imagination. Best, because you can imagine what might happen next. And worst, because you can imagine what might happen next... Gilbert de Gaillon told me that. Before I discovered it for myself.”
“De Gaillon told you so many damn things...” said Mélisande. “He must have been quite a talker.”
Gisburne smiled. “Quite the opposite. A man of few words.”
“Fewer than you?”
“Even fewer than that.”
“Do you have any idea how often you mentioned him in the short time we were together?”
Gisburne nodded and shrugged, sheepishly. “He changed the way I think. Made me what I am.”
“At the time you were practically dead in a freezing cave in the Forêt de Boulogne...” she said. “But you even mentioned him in your sleep as I nursed you through that fever.”
“And now that situation is reversed...” said Gisburne with a smile, and mopped her brow again. “So I suppose that at least makes us even.”
“No. It doesn’t.” Mélisande’s eyes suddenly filled with pain – not physical, this time. “I thought you were going to die in that wretched place.”
Gisburne held her sad gaze for a moment, then looked away, dipping the cloth into the water bowl. He could not let her know that he had exactly the same fear.
“So, what exactly is he, this Red Hand?” she said.
“Perhaps the more intriguing question,” said Gisburne, “is how you managed to stand up to him when knights of such ability failed...”
“You really need to ask?”
Gisburne smiled. “Not really,” he said. “De Rosseley gave me a blow-by-blow account.”
“Well then. Why don’t you tell me how I did it?”
Gisburne thought for a moment. “You know those strapping great horses young and foolish knights think are best?”
Mélisande smiled. “All too well.”
“That is what the Red Hand is.”
“But, as an experienced knight, the horse you choose to ride is different...”
“The horse I choose,” said Gisburne, “is strong and fast, but also agile. With spirit and stamina, but also patience. Something suited to the widest range of possible encounters.”
“And is that me?”
“That is the Shadow.”
She smiled. “You haven’t changed,” she said.
“Nor you. Except for that new scar on your right thigh.” He put his fingertip on the place. “A dagger point, I’d say.”
She glared at him again. “A Cordoban monk took it into his head to open my innards with a coustille.”
“What did you do to cause such offence?”
“He’s lying at the bottom of the Corilha Ravine,” she replied. “Perhaps you could ask him.” She smiled sweetly. “But what of you?”
He shrugged as if to say “nothing new”.
“Nyght?” she said.
“He’s well.”
“And Galfrid?”
“Also well.” He smiled. “I note the order in which you asked those questions. And I approve.” She drank more water from the cup. He refilled it.
“So tell me,” he said, “did you just happen to be dressed as the Shadow that night, or did you stop to change whilst the Red Hand rampaged?”
Mélisande narrowed her eyes. “Are you teasing me, or testing me?”
“Come on. You had no more idea the Red Hand was coming than anyone else. But you were ready. What were you doing that night? Heading out on some secret foray, or coming back from one?”
“Coming back.”
“From...?”
“It’s sweet that you ask me that,” said Mélisande, and stroked his cheek. “But you must know that I can’t possibly tell you.”
“Are you sure you couldn’t be persuaded?”
“I might. If you told me what you were doing in Jerusalem two months ago dressed as a troubadour.”
Gisburne felt his face redden, as if he were standing before her in that ridiculous garb. “You heard about that?”
“Some,” she said. “But a girl always likes to hear more. From the horse’s mouth, as it were.”
“Sadly, I too must decline...”
“Are you sure you couldn’t be persuaded?” She put her hand to his face again. “I know you, Gisburne. I’m willing to bet that I could have it out of you just like that.” She snapped her fingers by his ear. The motion of her arm as she did so made her wince with pain. Her face paled and she gripped her side.
“That’s a wager I might well let you win,” said Gisburne. “But not tonight...”
He lay her back again, and mopped her brow.
“You have known Sir John a long time?” she said, as if conversation might dull the pain. “You seem on familiar terms.”
“My father knew him before I,” said Gisburne. “They had both served King Henry, though were of quite different generations. Ross – Sir John – was barely five years older than me, but had already forged a formidable reputation.” He laughed. “De Gaillon never got to meet him. Not sure he’d have approved. But Ross came to my father’s house once when I was returned from Limousin, visiting my parents. I can’t have been more than seventeen and still raw from my first battles under Richard. It was a difficult time – away from the demands of conflict and the steady hand of de Gaillon, I wasn’t at all sure I’d taken the right course in life. But Ross put me back on track. He didn’t set out to, of course. He was just... him. Clear, focused, positive. We talked, rode horses... He was easy company. We’ve only met a few times since, often with years in between. But on each occasion it’s as if no time has passed.”
“Such connections are rare. One should make the most of them.”
He studied her for a moment, sensing she was talking about something else. Guilt suddenly tumbled in. He sighed and looked away.
“What is it?” she said.
Gisburne felt ashamed. “I could have war
ned him.”
Mélisande frowned. “You knew?”
“I knew he was a potential victim, yes,” said Gisburne, his eyes downcast. “And yet I said nothing. I just stood back and waited. Because I wanted to solve the riddle myself...”
Mélisande nodded, beginning to understand. “You did what needed to be done,” she said. “And nobody died. What more could he have done anyway, even if he had known?”
Gisburne looked at her, lying there, beaten half to death, then looked away again, unable to meet her gaze.
“But what kind of friend am I to do that?” he said. “What kind of man?”
“Come on...” she said, and took his hand. “It’s what I’d have done. Probably Ross, too. Kept a distance so as not to scare the prey. The man catches nothing who keeps returning to the trap.”
It sounded like the kind of advice de Gaillon would have given. For that reason alone – never mind the fact that it now issued from Mélisande’s lips – it ought to have pacified him. But it did not. He shook his head. “I was a fool,” he said. Hood’s words were still ringing in his ears, accusing him: You’re far more like me than anyone realises... Perhaps he was. But that was not what he wanted to be. “If anything had happened to Ross because of my inaction...” He trailed off, shaking his head.
“Sounds like you should be the one marrying him,” said Mélisande.
“Even less could I have lived with myself if I had brought disaster down upon you.” This time, Mélisande was the one to look away. It suddenly struck him that she was the only one with whom he felt able to share such secrets. And she an agent of the King of France...
“Do you think there’s a chance he’ll come back? Try again?”
Gisburne shrugged his shoulders. “Nothing has stopped him until now. We don’t know how he will react to failure, what it will drive him to do.” He sighed heavily. “But, honestly, I’d be guessing, whatever I say. This one is” – he struggled to find the words – “is unlike anything I’ve seen before.”
Mélisande nodded slowly. He knew without having to ask that she had nothing to hide – on this subject, at least. “Sir John has doubled the guard about the castle,” she said. “He has them patrolling now – making regular checks of the perimeter. They’ll not make the same mistakes again.”
“De Rosseley was just one of the opening moves,” said Gisburne. “The joust before the mêlée. Ultimately, the Red Hand has bigger fish to fry.” Here, he expected the obvious question. None came. But she already knew what master he served – and perhaps much more besides. She lifted herself shakily upon one elbow to bring her face closer to his, her other hand clutching the sheet to her breast. For a moment, she simply looked into his face, as if studying him. She traced one fingertip along his left eyebrow, past the thin scar that split it, then on down the side of his cheek.
“So, what troubles you at night, Guy of Gisburne?” she said. “Aside from obsessive thoughts of the Red Hand, I mean. What is it you have thought of these past eighteen months when sleep has eluded you?” He looked into her eyes. He could not account for why, but they seemed suddenly to change, to admit him completely. More than that; to reach out. “Anything?” The last word was little more than a whisper – barely a breath on her parted lips. The room around him seemed to shift, to become unstable. Gisburne felt himself growing dizzy, as if falling.
Her harsh cry jolted him back. She stiffened. Clutched her side. The cry was cut short. What little colour remained in her face suddenly drained from it, and she slumped into unconsciousness.
Gisburne dipped the damp cloth once more and pressed it against her brow. Her breathing was agitated – pained – but still strong. If she could get through the night, she would live. Then – as he gently mopped her beautiful, pale forehead, droplets of water running into the tendrils of her hair – he addressed her question. For one thing had always been there, like a shadow in the background, even when the Red Hand and Hood and Tancred had seemed to dominate his every waking thought. Something he had not even admitted to himself – until now.
“You,” he said.
XXXI
King Stormont Castle
25 May, 1193
GISBURNE AWOKE FACE down on the Persian rug, his face hot and itchy against its prickly, dusty fibres.
The sun was high in the sky. He sat up hurriedly, sensing it was late. Far later than he had meant to rise. A blanket slid off him as he did so; someone had covered him as he slept.
Everything had changed. Mélisande’s bed was now empty, her belongings entirely gone. He felt a sense of panic – which common sense managed to suppress. But the feeling of empty desolation that followed was not so easily subdued.
He struggled to his feet, gripped by a sudden sense of urgency, and mortified at the thought of being discovered in the lady’s bedchamber. As he turned, his foot knocked against something. Water slopped and spilled upon the rug. Near where his head had lain was the bowl and cloth, and next to them, tied in a knot, was a scarf of fine green silk.
He felt his heart thump at the sight of it. Snatching it up, without thinking, he brought it to his face. It carried her sweet scent. He drew it away, embarrassed by the impulse despite being completely alone in the chamber.
Perhaps she had left it by mistake. Perhaps she was still here, and it could yet be returned to her. Perhaps he could see her one more time. He gathered himself and hurried to the door, opening it a crack and peering out.
Two things occurred to him as he did so. The knot told him, as clearly as if she had said it herself, that her leaving of it was no accident. And that said that she was well. Both facts filled him with joy.
His wider predicament, however, did not.
He was too late. She had gone. Why did it always have to end like this? Why had she not woken him? The strength of his anger startled him. He had no claims over her – he wasn’t sure anyone did, if they even could – but the thought did little to console him.
Feeling like an adulterer – and indignant at the injustice of the feeling – he stole along the curved stone corridor to his own chamber. Behind its door, he disordered the bed and made hasty, token adjustments to his appearance.
Moments later, he was striding into the sunlit courtyard. It was now almost empty – just the ruts to show where Mélisande’s entourage had been. A handful of the castle’s own servants – plainer by far than Mélisande’s – went about their daily business, acknowledging Gisburne with a courteous nod as they did so.
“Guy!” called a voice. Gisburne turned and spied de Rosseley upon the eastern battlements, his raised arm silhouetted by the sun.
Gisburne waved, and headed for the stone stair.
“You look like shit,” said de Rosseley as his friend approached.
“Good morning to you too, Ross.”
“Well, it’s true. You’ve got a face like a boar’s ball sack and you look like you slept in your clothes.”
“Says the man who resembles a corpse run over by a dozen ox-carts.”
“Maybe so,” said de Rosseley. “But I’m still the best dressed corpse west of Constantinople.”
It was true. He had dressed to make an impression. His tunic was of red with black velvet trim, all embroidered with gold thread. Worn over it, in spite of the heat of the day, was a dazzlingly blue cloak, clasped about the throat with gold. He stood upon the battlement like a heroic captain at the prow of his ship, his hair and his cloak making languid movements in the gentle breeze.
Gisburne followed his gaze out beyond the bailey to the entourage of Mélisande de Champagne, now winding its steady way along the forest road.
“Well, what do you think of her?” said de Rosseley.
Gisburne pondered for a moment, making a mental inventory of Mélisande’s qualities. There were too many to count. “Before I answer that,” he said, “I have a question for you.”
“Yes?”
“Ireland. John’s campaign.”
“Ah. That. Not exactly a crowning ach
ievement.”
“That’s almost exactly what Prince John said.”
“As well he might,” said de Rosseley. “He was the one whose crown was not achieved, after all.”
“He characterised it as mainly causing offence to a large number of people.”
“That was the one thing we excelled at.” It seemed de Rosseley almost blushed at the memory. “Needless to say, your father didn’t approve. He was right not to. We were young fools. Did John say that too?”
Gisburne nodded.
“Well, at least he’s kept his honesty,” sighed de Rosseley. “Though there are times when he might do well to use it more sparingly – especially these days. People see the worst in him as it is. The last thing most of them want is to be told the truth.”
“Do you recall anything – anything at all – that may have inspired a grudge?” said Gisburne. “Some particular slight or injustice?”
“That John inflicted? Personally?” De Rosseley puffed out his cheeks. “To be honest, the less contact he had with the locals the better he liked it. He wasn’t the sociable, outgoing fellow you see today.” A frown crept across his face. “There was one thing,” he said. “It wasn’t to do with John. Not really. But it was an odd business. An Irish noble – I forget his name – got some mad idea in his head. Ranulph Le Fort caught him creeping in to where we slept, knife in his hand. He challenged him, and the Irishman resisted. Ranulph killed him outright in the fight – those who survived an entanglement with Ranulph were few – but he lost two fingers from his left hand in the process. Poor bastard. The other Irish nobles were keen to smooth the whole thing over. Whether secretly sympathetic or not, they wanted no part of it. Ranulph himself would know more. He kept safe many of the records of that trip. We used to jokingly refer to him as ‘the clerk.’”
He sniggered. “Anyone less like a clerk it is hard to imagine. You know, when he lost those fingers, he said the most annoying thing was that he could no longer write. Wrote with his left, you see – didn’t care what anyone said about bad luck or the Devil. He’d give them the Devil for saying so! Do you know how awkward it is to write across a page with your left hand? Well, Ranulph did not merely cope with it; he had mastered it. That was the sort of man he was. Then he had to adapt to his right hand anyway.” He shook his head. “Your father took over his scribing duties for a time, since he had some experience in that department.”
Guy of Gisburne- The Omnibus Page 66
