“The Milford Roll,” said Gisburne.
“You know of that?” said de Rosseley.
“I hope to have my hands on it soon. But why did my father draw it up, and not Ranulph?”
De Rosseley chuckled to himself. “Ranulph, Thomas of Baylesford and a chap called Fitz Osbert were the very last to arrive at Milford. It was not at all certain they would make it; Ranulph and Baylesford caroused together a great deal in those days, and had evidently led young Fitz Osbert astray. But they did, by the skin of their teeth – and mightily hungover. So, it’s thanks to drink that their names appear last on that list.”
Gisburne pondered de Rosseley’s account. “So what drove this Irish noble to attempt murder?”
De Rosseley shrugged. “Never did find out. It was a bad business, though. Cut your father to the quick. I think he’d come to trust them. He always was the sort to win people over, to give them the benefit of the doubt. I’d wager he was the only one who didn’t make an enemy there.”
Gisburne looked into the distance. “You know, until recent weeks I didn’t even know that my father had been a member of that expedition.”
“He didn’t tell you?”
Gisburne shook his head.
De Rosseley shrugged. “He was a natural choice. He knew Ireland. He’d been there before – one of the few of us who had.”
Suddenly, things began to make a kind of sense. “He never spoke of that trip either,” said Gisburne. “But I guessed all the same.”
“That one really was meant to be secret. He took such responsibilities seriously.”
“But what was its purpose?”
De Rosseley made a show of looking over his shoulder. “I think it’s safe to tell you now...” he said. “Richard de Clare, Earl of Striguil and occasionally of Pembroke. Also known as ‘Strongbow.’ He was building a fine little kingdom for himself in Ireland years ago. Your father was sent to bring him round to King Henry’s point of view.” He shrugged again. “Didn’t work. But it’s hardly surprising. De Clare was a hothead. How did you guess, anyway?”
“Before he went away, he would talk of events in Ireland often,” said Gisburne. “Then after, not at all.” He thought of the image of his father as an agent on a secret mission, and smiled at it. The revelation that they had this in common made him feel closer to the old man than he had in years.
“So,” said de Rosseley. “Your turn.”
“My turn to what?”
“To answer the question,” said de Rosseley. Then, as if addressing someone profoundly deaf, added: “What do you think of the lady Mélisande?”
Knowing he could put it off no longer, Gisburne nodded slowly. “You really want to know?”
“Of course I do. There’s no one whose opinion I value more. Except on the subject of clothes.” He looked his guest up and down. “You can keep those disturbing thoughts to yourself.”
Gisburne looked out across the rolling landscape, images of Mélisande flickering through his mind. His first sight of her in the wintry streets of Paris – like the miracle of a spring bloom in all that grim, filthy chaos. Their first meeting at her encampment outside Marseille, and her complex game of feigned coyness and coquetry. Unmasking her in a forest in France, her eyes fiery, her hair full and wild. The sad, strong look on her face as she had surrendered herself to Tancred – to save Gisburne’s life. That last night in Wissant, knowing they had won, and were alive. Yes, especially that.
He took a deep breath. “I think she’s arrogant. Controlling, self-absorbed, impulsive, and unreliable. And probably prohibitively expensive to keep.”
De Rosseley stared at him for a moment. “Don’t hold back or anything, will you?” He said. “If I didn’t know better I’d think you fancied her yourself.” De Rosseley always did have a knack for hitting the nail on the head without realising it. Gisburne supposed it was this instinct – or some aspect of it – that had kept him alive all these years.
“You want to know what I think?” said de Rosseley. Gisburne was not at all sure he did. His friend stared out over the trees, towards the hazy cloud of dust raised by the entourage of Mélisande de Champagne. Gisburne was certain there was longing in his eyes.
“I think you’re absolutely, totally right.”
Gisburne’s felt his heart leap in his chest.
“There was something just not right there. Some” – de Rosseley struggled to find the words – “some lack of connection.”
“Why, Ross – I never knew you were such a sentimentalist.”
“It’s like you were talking to her and not talking to her. Like there was someone else in there, hidden behind that façade. Half the time she was in my company, she just looked like she was in pain.”
My God, Ross, thought Gisburne. If you only knew...
De Rosseley sighed. “I just don’t want all that complication, you know?”
“Is this where you tell me you’d rather women were more like horses?” said Gisburne. Last time they’d met, that had almost been de Rosseley’s entire opinion on the matter.
“I will say this...” continued de Rosseley. “Grand as this place is – and it is grand, let’s not deny the fact – at the end of the day there’s only room for one arrogant, controlling, impulsive, self-absorbed person in it.”
“You missed out unreliable.”
De Rosseley waved the rebuke away, then planted both hands on the stone parapet. “I can’t say it doesn’t sadden me, though,” he said. “I mean – great arse.”
Gisburne felt his fists clench. “As I said,” he muttered, fighting to keep the indignation out of his voice, “such a sentimentalist.”
De Rosseley gave a snort of a laugh and slapped Gisburne on the back, then winced as his own battered bones protested.
“Well, thank you, Guy, for your honesty and plain speaking. You have confirmed what my gut was already telling me, and may well have saved me a lifetime of pain.” Gisburne felt a pang of guilt at de Rosseley words, but could not help but be amused that they came from the mouth of one who invited more pain into his life than anyone he knew. “Much as I love being tested to my limits by some worthy opponent – live for it, really – a fellow needs some respite. Not sure I want to fight battles at home as well.”
Gisburne smiled to himself. What de Gaillon would think of this small victory, he had no idea. But it was a victory, nonetheless. In his head he uttered a brief apology to the Count of Boulogne’s daughter, then looked once more at the train of wagons slowly receding into the distance, wondering when he would see her again. “You’d lose,” he said.
XXXII
Eastchepe
25 May, 1193
THE PAGE WAS running. It was one of Hamon’s boys who spotted him first; Galfrid saw him nudge his captain in the ribs and nod across the crowd. Galfrid followed the boys’ gaze along Eastchepe towards Tower Street, at first seeing nothing beyond a slight disturbance in the throng: sudden movements, hands thrown up, some accompanied by gruff exclamations.
Then he saw the flash of scarlet. Another shove, and it became the red livery of the Prince, almost glowing in the low, early evening sun. Another shout, and from the packed knot of people – through whom he pressed with fearless resolve – the boy emerged, his face as red as his tunic.
His name was Osbert – one of John’s messengers. He was ginger haired and ridiculously fresh faced; had his mother given him up as a babe, she would surely still recognise him now. Anyone could see he didn’t belong – none more so than the ring of ragged urchins gathered outside the door of Widow Fleet’s. As Osbert caught sight of Galfrid and made a determined beeline for him, they eyed him up and down like predators considering their next meal.
“Squire Galfrid!” said the boy, squeezing past the raggedy lads and kneeling in front of their master. He soiled his pristine knee on a scraping of horse dung, and a few of the boys sniggered. Hamon silenced them with a glare.
“What is it, boy?” said Galfrid. Unfazed by either the state of h
is hose or the half-dozen ragamuffins who now surrounded him, he stood, and – never once taking his eyes off his object – proffered a tiny, even square of white at the end of a poker-straight arm.
“Message for you, sire,” he said, in a clear, strong voice. The boy clearly took his duties seriously. Galfrid was sure he would go far.
“For me?” he said with a frown. He took the flimsy scrap – moist from the boy’s hot palm – and unfolded it.
It was in English – the language of King Alfred, Harold, and everyone in England below the rank of knight. Yet Galfrid, himself of pure Saxon stock, knew almost no one who wrote in it. A few clerks and poets, perhaps. A handful of monks maintaining age-old chronicles set in motion before the conquest. But, as a rule, those for whom it was their native tongue could neither read nor write and had little use for either skill, and those who could, wrote in Latin or French.
In a close, neat hand it said: Find me at the Red Dragon. Nothing else. No name, no other mark of any kind. It offered no clue as to whether this was meant as a code, a riddle, or some veiled reference to their elusive quarry. One quality, nonetheless, rendered it entirely distinct, and told Galfrid all he needed to know – a thing that had nothing whatever to do with the words.
It was written on paper.
Galfrid had not seen paper since Acre, and knew of only one person who used it.
“Hamon,” said Galfrid. “Where would I find the Red Dragon?”
“You mean the inn?” said Hamon. “There’s a few of ’em. But the closest is dahn there,” he pointed east. “On the right, in ’Arp lane.”
“Good,” said Galfrid. He crumpled the note in his fist and looked down at Osbert, whose intensely serious baby face was still staring up at him. “You get yourself back to the Tower fast as you can,” he said. Osbert nodded, and was off like a hare pursued by greyhounds, plunging once more into the bustling crowd.
“The rest of you lads know what you’re looking for,” said Galfrid as he strode off. “Now hop to it!” Not to be outdone, Hamon’s boys dispersed in all directions like wasps from a fallen nest.
THE HEAVING INTERIOR of the Red Dragon was thick with the warm, yeasty smell of stale drink and damp floorboards.
Scanning the room, Galfrid immediately spied a familiar figure sat alone at a rickety table in the far corner, nursing a mug of ale with a dour expression. With a private smile he wove his way through the sweaty patrons and plonked himself down opposite.
“I thought you couldn’t come out in daylight,” said Galfrid.
Llewellyn of Newport harumphed and scowled at the squire. “Believe me, if I could avoid coming out in the open, I would. It’s not good for the business I am in.” He sucked at his ale and wiped the back of his hand across his grizzled beard. “But we are a diminishing band at the Tower, so needs must...”
“Diminishing?”
Llewellyn held up his hands. “Don’t ask. Suffice to say, Fitz Thomas seeks to gain favour with the King’s men by making Prince John’s life as difficult as possible.” He huffed in irritation. “But at least when he stabs him in the back he does so with a smile on his face, eh?”
Without further comment, he reached down by his side and his hand reappeared grasping a rough-edged scroll tied with a faded ribbon which he slapped upon the table top. The parchment was wrapped about a bar of honey-coloured wood and went down with such a thwack it made Galfrid jump.
“What’s that?” he said.
“It’s the thing you’ve been waiting for,” said Llewellyn. Then, when Galfrid failed to offer a response, he leaned forward and added: “Take a look.”
Galfrid, who knew perfectly well what the scroll was, looked about him at the chattering men packed between the inn’s uneven walls.
“Here?”
Llewellyn sighed. “You think any of these imbeciles knows what it is, or what use to make of it?” He did not bother to lower his voice. No one reacted. “How many d’you think can even read it?”
It was a fair point. With a shrug, Galfrid pulled the ribbon free, unrolled the document and spread it flat upon the table.
The Milford Roll was not long – the parchment barely warranted being rolled at all. The majority of it was taken up by a list of a few dozen names written in a small, neat hand across three columns, but at the top, in a distinctly separate section headed by a lofty proclamation in Latin that Galfrid did not bother to read, was a handful of names in much larger and more ostentatious characters. Several, he recognised: Bardulf, Wendenal, de Rosseley – and Gisburne. He raised his eyebrows at that. But of course... ‘G.’ Gisburne’s own father had been one of those dancing men all this time. But the question was, had his master left the name unwritten for the sake of brevity, or did he not wish Galfrid to know? His secrecy had already proved a sore point.
“Well, there it is,” said Llewellyn, sitting back. “The Milford Roll – whatever good it may do you.”
“We are searching for one large rat in a city of twenty thousand rats,” said Galfrid. “Anything that may help transform that quest from the impossible to the merely tortuous is most welcome.”
“This rat has a habit of announcing himself,” said Llewellyn. His voice seemed suddenly to have lost its edge of gruff, world-weary humour. “It’s the other reason I am here. There is news that could not be trusted to a messenger...” He leaned in close, his expression grave, his voice lowered to a husky whisper, only just audible above the din. “You see this name?” He placed a finger to the scroll.
“Jocelyn de Gaillard...” read Galfrid.
“Not three hours ago he was brutally slain in a manner identical to the others – to the north-east, in Stibenhede, and on property belonging to the Knights Hospitallers, no less. He was of their order. Needless to say, this will not please them.” He paused to allow this information to sink in. “I arrived here ahead of the news. It is not yet public, but word moves fast in London – faster than anywhere on earth. It will overtake me – is perhaps doing so as we sit. And already there are wider rumblings. Whispers are abroad of the attack at King Stormont, and rumours of other bizarre killings up and down the land are flying thick and fast. The superstitious speak of devils and monsters – of portents, with worse to follow. The rest sense something is afoot – though whether invasion or rebellion or the judgement of God, none can say. So, the old rivalries and enmities that are constantly on the simmer in this cauldron of a city bubble up to fill the void. Normans blame Saxons. Saxons blame Jews. Jews blame the Hansa merchants. The Hansas blame the worthies of the commune – and the commune blames the crown – or the next nearest thing...”
“John?” said Galfrid.
Llewellyn nodded. “He always was easy to blame, and they know he is here...”
Galfrid shook his head and gave an empty laugh. “What they saw wasn’t even him.”
“It makes no difference now,” said Llewellyn. “It takes little to stir unrest in this city. And believe me, tensions are brewing. You must look to the other names on this list, while some still live...”
Even as he was listening to these words, Galfrid had become dimly aware that the perpetual noise out in the street had grown into a greater commotion. And now, among the shouts, he heard a cry of “murder”. Heads in the inn turned. Conversations ceased. Several began to spill out into the street, their drinks abandoned. Galfrid stood, rolling up the scroll and stuffing it into his bag. Llewellyn knocked back his ale and both headed for the door.
Outside, day was turning to night, and the milling crowd – no longer flowing along the street, but surging dangerously this way and that – had begun to turn with it, from dog to wolf. The word “murder” sounded again like a howl, was taken up and repeated until it became a kind of barbaric chant, punctuated by shaken fists. It was uttered with fury, with horror, and with an eager violence. Galfrid could feel the menace beating off the crowd, like heat from a blaze. Within this seething mass arguments were already raging. Fights threatened to break out. Immediately before hi
m, a dark-skinned woman – a Jew, Galfrid thought – was grabbed and pulled to the ground, apparently by a random stranger. No sooner had he done so than he was set upon by two others, and the terrified woman scrambled away, never to be seen again.
Galfrid clutched his bag closer to him. “I think your news has arrived,” he said.
XXXIII
SOMETHING WAS HAPPENING south of Eastchepe. Unfamiliar though he was with the ways of cities, Gisburne knew enough of people to recognise a mob when he saw one.
When he had arrived back to the sweltering streets of London, he had found the crowds along Gracechurch Street and Eastchepe already thick, their mood uneasy. There was shouting, mostly incoherent. Some spoke in urgent whispers. Several of those without pressing business had coagulated into groups and shifted edgily, as if looking for trouble, or in fear of it. It happened from time to time, he supposed, when so many souls were stuffed into one place. He had seen it in armies – the mood turning, like milk in the summer sun. What started it was often a mystery – a shift in the weather, stale food, bad news. Sometimes it only took one drop to sour the lot.
Nyght had ridden through it all without flinching. He had seen far worse than this in his time. Threats and shouts meant nothing to him. Weapons, precious little – even fire would not always turn his head. There was only one thing guaranteed to spook him, no matter what the circumstances: the flapping of a chicken. Gisburne had kept this fact close to him. Had his enemies only known to come at him wielding fowl, his career might have been considerably shorter.
When he returned from stabling his horse and found Galfrid not at home, Gisburne stepped back out into the street. This time, he sensed real trouble – not mere restlessness, but true hostility. The crowd’s movement had changed. It was now flowing westward, where he could see it joining with others pressing south down Gracechurch Street and on into Bridge Street. This, now, was a rabble with a distinct purpose. They looked angry. Vengeful.
Guy of Gisburne- The Omnibus Page 67
