“Jocelyn de Gaillard. Why?”
Gisburne saw the name. But that was not all he saw. “We have work to do,” said Gisburne, rolling it hastily. “Through the night, if we have to. And then we must go to John without delay.”
XXXIV
The Tower of London
26 May, 1193
“THERE ARE FEWER names than I thought,” said Gisburne.
“Still more than I remembered...” said John.
There were sixteen names at the top of the Milford Roll – the sixteen who formed the core of Prince John’s party in Ireland. Of these, five had lately been brutally slain.
“Galfrid and I have been asking around,” said Gisburne. “Trying to establish who among these sixteen are here, now, in London. Based on what we have gleaned – with the addition of information we’ve had from de Rosseley and Llewellyn – we now have a fair idea. But there are gaps...”
“I’ll help where I can,” said John. He looked suddenly drawn – as if lacking sleep. Though he fought to maintain normality, his manner was agitated, and anxious.
Gisburne was bone-tired, and he knew Galfrid could not be feeling much better. Half the night they had spent pursuing trails and scraps of information, quizzing Hamon and his boys and sending them on fresh quests, traipsing around endless streets to call upon the sixteen’s friends and friends of friends – some of whom, having since changed allegiance, gave them short shrift. Others refused to come to their doors altogether, or had closed their shutters against them. Gisburne was not surprised. London was in an uneasy mood. The hysteria had abated as the crowd dispersed, but strange tensions lingered on the streets. It appeared that many had taken to the perceived safety of their homes a little earlier tonight – while others stalked them far later, and with questionable intent. Gisburne had seen groups of men – one heavily armed, several the worse for drink – roaming the streets like hungry wolves, looking for something upon which to vent their frustration. Later that night, one of Hamon’s boys had been brought back beaten to a bloody pulp. The lad, more shaken that he would admit, had dismissed his own injuries, and insisted upon returning to his task. Gisburne forbade it, and sent him to his home – wherever or whatever that was. Hamon took the episode in his stride. It happened, he said.
When it was finally beyond the hour when any could be persuaded to answer their doors, Gisburne and Galfrid had dragged themselves back to Eastchepe. Sleep had not come for Gisburne. His mind had been racing, but for the first time in days, he didn’t care. Even the tiresome ritual at the gates of the Tower had not fazed him – despite the guards at first refusing to accept the signed and sealed letter of admission supplied by Prince John. He was exhausted, yes – but he was also, at last, on the scent.
“Taking them in the order they appear on the Roll, then...” said Gisburne, his finger upon the parchment. “Walter Bardulf is our first victim.” His finger slid down to the next name. “Eustace Fitz Warren we believe to have been dead some years.”
“Correct,” said John. “Soon after Ireland. Riding accident. Very sad.”
Gisburne struck the name through with a stick of charcoal.
“William de Wendenal – the second victim. Raymond of Colton,” Gisburne rubbed his chin. “Of him we could find nothing.”
“He took holy orders, I believe,” said John. “Holed up in a monastery somewhere in Wales.”
“Then we can assume he is safe – at least for now.” Gisburne struck him out, too.
“Hugh de Mortville was our third victim. Then we have William Fitz Robert, and Robert Fitz William.”
“Fitz Robert died at Hattin,” said John. Gisburne crossed off the name.
“And I have it on good authority Robert Fitz William also went to the Holy Land,” said Galfrid. “Now settled and with a family in Acre.”
He, too, was crossed off.
“John de Rosseley we know about. Jocelyn de Gaillard – he was our fifth victim. Baldwin of Melville...”
“In Cornwall,” said Galfrid.
“So, he can also be discounted.” Gisburne struck the name through. “Alan Fitz Bruce is, as near as we can tell, in a prison in France.”
“Unfortunately, that doesn’t come as a surprise,” said John.
“Out of harm’s way, anyway,” said Galfrid. Gisburne struck out the name.
“Mortimer de Vere was victim number six. Robert of Gisburne...” For a moment, Gisburne’s hand hesitated. There seemed something terribly wrong about obliterating his own father’s name. He forced his hand across the page. “That leaves just three names: Ranulph Le Fort, Thomas of Baylesford and Richard Fitz Osbert.” These last three were written in a subtly different hand – evidently added after their late arrival.
“Fitz Osbert died early this year,” said Galfrid. “So Llewellyn said. But of the circumstances, he was vague.”
“Vague?” said Gisburne.
“The circumstances may not be divulged,” interjected John. “He was working for me. Definitely dead, anyway. I can vouch for that.”
Gisburne nodded slowly. “On Ranulph Le Fort, I regret we have failed to turn up a single thing.”
“I know he fell on hard times,” said John. “He always was plagued by ill luck. Last I heard he was in London, but that was nearly a year ago, in connection with Baylesford. They were good friends. Baylesford had given up courtly life altogether and become a merchant, and I seem to recall he put some opportunities Ranulph’s way.”
“I believe Baylesford to be in London,” said Galfrid. “He’s not easy to pin down. Always on the move, often at sea. But he owns a house here, by all accounts, and has been seen in the past few weeks. He has a ship at the wharves, too. We’ll keep pairs of eyes on them, and if he’s here, we’ll find him.”
“Well, now we have a clearer picture, at least,” Gisburne said, his eyes scanning the dwindling list.
“So many of them dead...” said John, shaking his head. “I begin to feel old.”
“It’s not the number that should concern you,” said Gisburne. “It’s the rate. Four died in the course of eight years, but in the past two months, that total has risen to nine. And there will be more – unless we stop him.”
John sighed and shook his head, as if overwhelmed by the task ahead. He reached for a cup of wine and took a drink. Gisburne saw his hand shaking.
“Are you all right?” Gisburne said.
“Don’t worry about me,” said John. If it was meant to be reassuring, it failed. He sounded tetchy and anxious – uncharacteristically so. “It’s nothing,” he added, moderating his tone. “Really.”
“There’s something else,” said Gisburne. He turned the Roll towards the Prince. “Look at the names of the victims – in particular those who have been attacked in or around London. What do you notice?”
“My God,” said John. His eyes widened.
Gisburne tapped his finger upon the parchment, following the rhythm of his words. “They were attacked in the precise order their names appear on this list.”
Realisation dawned upon the Prince’s face. “But that would mean...”
Gisburne nodded. “That the Red Hand has a copy of the Milford Roll.”
“But how is that possible?” said John. “A royal document in the hands of a lowly tinker?”
“I don’t know,” said Gisburne. “He is not what he appears – we know that much. But we also know he plans meticulously, and that orderly mind of his may yet be his undoing.” He thought of de Rosseley’s words – One must always look for the advantage – of the method Mélisande had used to fell the Red Hand. And – as always – he recalled the wisdom of Gilbert de Gaillon: Your enemy’s strength may become his weakness if it can be turned against him.
“Now we know where he will strike next,” said Gisburne. “Or, at least, who.” He placed his finger on the next name to appear on the list: Ranulph Le Fort.
John threw up his hands in exasperation. “But Ranulph is the one man we cannot locate.”
�
��He was last heard of in London,” said Gisburne. “We have a network established on these streets, and if he is here, we will find him. If that proves impossible – if he is already dead – then we know the Red Hand will turn his attention to Thomas of Baylesford. Either way, our next task is clear. I will track down Ranulph. Galfrid will seek out Baylesford.” He thrust his finger at the table top. “Then, by God, we will have him...”
XXXV
“SO, WHAT DO you want of me?” said Llewellyn, his hands spread wide.
For once, Gisburne did not know. Every other time he had brought himself before England’s greatest and least-well-known enginer, he had come with a specific need. To shoot a grapple over a ninety-foot rampart. To hurl fire in the form of a ball. To stop a sword blade without use of a shield.
But today... What was it he wanted?
“Well?” prompted Llewellyn.
Gisburne shuffled on the barrel that served as his seat. “Answers,” he said.
Llewellyn stared at him. “Answers... Can you be more specific?”
Gisburne sighed, frustrated by his own lack of clarity – by the words he knew he was about to utter. “Answers to the problem of the Red Hand.”
“I’m an enginer,” said Llewellyn, “not a mystic. If you want answers, I need questions.”
But Gisburne did not know the questions. If he did, they were either too numerous, or too vague to be of use. “The time will come when I must face him,” said Gisburne, “either in the streets, or within these walls. It is inevitable. But I must have a strategy – some means of dealing with him. And – though it pains me to say it – I have none.” He sighed and rubbed his brow. “We tell ourselves John is now safe within this fortress. But all of us know that even the Tower is not safe against a resourceful man. And this man is resourceful. If we do not intercept him first, then I believe he will come here. I even believe I know when. Somehow, he will gain entry. What happens next – what I must do to stop him – should be straightforward enough. Just like Clippestone. A sufficient number of armed men, correctly deployed. The right bait. Ways left open to admit him. A perimeter that can be rapidly secured. And yet... it is not like Clippestone.”
He leaned forward on his seat. “Control the battlefield. You know de Gaillon’s old adage. Well, I can make all the preparations, set all the traps. That, I know. But this Red Hand is so self-contained, so untouchable, so separated from his surroundings... He walks through all we set before him. He makes his own battlefield – one he brings with him. One we cannot control. I need something to even the field. Something I can use. A sure way to bring him down.” He stopped, almost out of breath from his monologue.
Llewellyn nodded slowly. “I see,” he said. “You mean weapons. Well, why didn’t you just say so?” He placed his hands upon his knees. “I have been considering all that you have told me of him. With regard to this fire siphon of his... Now, that is interesting! We have seen such things in use amongst the Byzantines, but making it operable with one hand only – that is something new. I believe that he may be using the tension of a spring or perhaps even a small bow to exert pressure on the plunger of the siphon. It would not need to be strong or large to achieve this. We know the siphon is attached to his left forearm, and we may imagine that there is a trigger that he can operate with a movement of his hand. It may even be that when he releases pressure on this trigger, the mechanism locks again, leaving some tension in the bow. That would explain how he is able to discharge it several times.” He chuckled to himself. “Quite ingenious!”
Gisburne was not entirely sure whether Llewellyn was referring to the Red Hand, or himself. Fascinating though this was, he was not sure how it would help him. “I just need to know how he can be killed,” he said. “Or at least, how to avoid being killed myself. De Rosseley’s view is that in a sustained fight the Red Hand would tire, but his opponent needs to live long enough to achieve victory. And there is the problem. Crossbows have proved ineffective. His fire prevents anyone from getting close. Even if they do, every weapon is swept aside by his hammer, and no shield or armour can provide adequate protection against it.”
“There may be other ways,” said Llewellyn, rubbing his beard. “If we think differently. Beyond weapons.”
“Beyond weapons?”
“Water will drown him. With that weight of armour, he’d sink like a stone.”
Gisburne nodded. “Advantage becomes disadvantage...”
“Exactly.”
“But then we have to get him to water...”
Llewellyn shrugged. “Fire will burn him. Those metal plates will deflect a short burst of flame, but set him ablaze and that shell of his would become an oven.”
“De Rosseley had that idea, too. Oil and a flame. But they could not apply it in time.”
“That is the challenge. To have the means of bringing those elements together quickly. Throwing oil or pitch over him is simple enough – but having it ready, in the right place, at the right time...”
“Greek Fire?” ventured Gisburne. It had worked in the past.
Llewellyn shrugged again. “Possible. But the type I have here must be kept from the air, and thrown in a sealed vessel. Such vessels are too robust to break against a human body – even an armoured one. They’re simply not meant for that. They will smash upon the ground, of course, but if he is moving at speed, as all describe him doing...” He shrugged.
“Thinner vessels, then? More fragile?
Llewellyn sighed. “But make them sufficiently fragile and they are no longer safe to carry. One knock and it’d be you going up in flames.”
“What about replicating the siphon device he uses?”
“It might be done, if I only had more time, and less limited resources...”
“Am I to have nothing?” said Gisburne throwing up his hands. He had never known Llewellyn to be so defeatist.
“I have only what is here,” said Llewellyn irritably. “Take it or leave it.”
Gisburne moderated his tone. “I’ll take whatever you can give,” he said. “Oil, pitch, Greek fire. Anything. We must start somewhere.”
Llewellyn nodded, and calmed himself; for a moment, Gisburne thought the old man was going to apologise. Something seemed to occur to him then. He turned towards his impossibly cluttered shelves. “I had been trying to develop a vessel that would burst of its own accord, after a precise interval of time – even in mid-air.” He shook his head. “One day, maybe... But there was something I had been experimenting with in that regard. No use to me at the moment – too approximate – though I hope to unlock the secret of their composition.”
He delved into a large, lidded, jar and pulled out a fistful of what Gisburne first thought were small candles, a little bigger than a finger, and dull grey in colour. When Llewellyn turned back into the light, Gisburne saw that they appeared to be composed of some papery material, such as wasps used to make their nests, each one twisted into a point at the top.
“I don’t know how you might employ them,” said Llewellyn, offering one to Gisburne. “A distraction, perhaps. A little surprise.” He chuckled. “They will at least be something he does not expect.”
Gisburne took it from him. “What are they?”
Llewellyn wandered to the bench and picked up a small earthenware bottle. “They were wrapped with a consignment of silk from the Far East. It came with a Radhanite trader – one of the last of that breed. In the land they were made, so he said, they are regarded as a child’s toy.”
Gisburne turned the tube over in his fingers, still baffled. Did it make a noise? Did one break it open? Or blow down it?
Llewellyn placed the bottle upon the anvil in the furthest corner of the room, used a candle to light the twisted tip of one of the grey tubes, then dropped it inside the bottle. He turned back to Gisburne. “You may wish to cover your...”
Before he could finish the sentence, the bottle exploded with a deafening thundercrack. Gisburne ducked involuntarily, shards of pottery whizzing past
his head, bouncing off jars, ironwork, barrels, and the walls themselves – their strange music mingling with the ringing in his shocked ears.
“That was always the problem,” coughed Llewellyn, wafting away the choking, acrid smoke that now filled the room. “Timing.”
As Gisburne straightened, he found his hands and knees shaking from the shock. “I’ll take them,” he said.
Llewellyn stuffed them unceremoniously in Gisburne’s bag, as if glad to be shot of them.
Then he cleared his throat, and averted his eyes from Gisburne’s as if somehow embarrassed at what he was about to say. “I regret there is one other obstacle,” he said. “A more considerable one. As if you do not already have enough...”
Gisburne could not imagine what it could be that he had not already considered. Llewellyn planted himself on a barrel and placed his hands on his knees again, all the while staring at the floor.
“You speak of preparations within the Tower,” he said. “Of traps, and armed men. But these walls are not Prince John’s. There was a time he could act as its master – was its master, to all intents and purposes – but no longer. His guard is dismissed. The Tower’s garrison does not answer to his command – and their own commander is not of a mind to co-operate.”
“Fitz Thomas...” muttered Gisburne.
Llewellyn nodded. “The balance has shifted,” he said. “Oh, it’s all done with a smile, of course, as if he is everyone’s friend and doing us all favour. And what is so galling is that they all believe it. He has the full trust of de Coutances – and therefore the King. His men worship him. He even has a succession of adoring young ladies visit him here – nobility, every one – who, I can assure you, do not experience the difficulty in gaining access you do.”
Gisburne raised his eyebrows. “Adoring young ladies...?”
“It’s nothing like that. At least, not in deed. They feel safe in his company. So they fawn and flirt as he regales them with his wit in that eccentric, fatherly way he affects, all the while pretending he is not picturing them naked and debauched. God, give me good honest whoring any day.” He huffed in disgust. “But make no mistake – he means only to feather his own nest – rubbing up against the high and mighty, worming his way into their affections and boosting his own sense of self-importance by manipulating those more important than he wherever he can do so without redress. Without tarnishing his image. Just yesterday he booted half of John’s retinue out of the Tower precincts. Didn’t even ask. Just did it. They’re out there now, I suppose, camped on some scrap of ground. God knows where. When challenged, he smiled and said, in that reasonable way he has, that there was little point duplicating services that already existed within the Tower. ‘An unnecessary strain upon resources and bad for security,’ he said.”
Guy of Gisburne- The Omnibus Page 69
