There was an indistinct shout from inside the tavern. Galfrid smiled weakly – torn between joy at seeing her and a desperate urge to get her as far from this place as possible. “Indeed...” he said. “But... You should leave, my lady. This is not a good place to be.”
Mélisande looked askance at him, then gave a laugh. “If you’re in London and seeking passage on a ship to France, I’d say it was the perfect place to be...”
Galfrid glanced nervously towards the tavern door, his hands gripping the reins tighter. “You misunderstand... Please. You should get away. As fast as you can. The streets... They’re not safe.” To his own surprise, he found himself trying to shoo the litter-bearers as he spoke the words.
“What’s the matter, Galfrid?” she said with an amused smile. “D’you think I can’t handle myself?”
Few people in Galfrid’s wide experience could handle themselves quite as well as Mélisande de Champagne. But she had no idea what she was walking into. Above the raucous buzz of the tavern’s interior came a sudden crash. Galfrid started and turned at the sound.
“Is Sir Guy with you?” she said, hopefully. Then she followed his gaze back to the tavern. From within came raised voices – harsh, Germanic oaths. Something smashed against the door, almost shaking it off its hinges.
The door was hauled open roughly. Shouting, and heat, and the smell of burnt fat, stale beer and sweat erupted – and with them came Gisburne, flung bodily into the street. He rolled to a halt at Galfrid’s feet, as an angry rabble of cursing, Teutonic roughs swarmed into the narrow thoroughfare, armed with every kind of implement: knives, stools, an earthenware jug dripping beer, a poker still smoking from the fire.
They flowed about them – more than he could have imagined the place could hold – the litter swaying and tipping like a ship in a storm as it was swept out of sight by the angry throng. Before Galfrid knew it, he, Gisburne and their horses were staring at a solid wall of scowling, grim faces upon every side. For a moment, nobody moved.
“So,” said Galfrid as his master struggled to his feet. “How did that go for you?”
“Not so well. You?”
“I’m still here. Did you get your precious knife?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that’s something. What was it you said again – that we absolutely must not allow to happen?”
“Forget that.”
“So what’s the plan now?”
“Not dying.”
It was then that the crowd parted, and Günther von Köln stepped into the arena. At his shoulder staggered the hulking figure of Otto – now, somewhat inexplicably, with a two-headed eagle imprinted on his forehead.
Günther looked Gisburne up and down, shook his head, then began to laugh. “You are either one of the bravest men I ever met, or one of the most stupid.”
“Opinions differ on that score,” said Gisburne, glancing at Galfrid.
“The question is,” said Günther, “what to do with you now.” His eye moved to Nyght. He looked the stallion up and down admiringly. “Yours?”
Gisburne nodded, and Günther stepped closer. “Your legendary black charger!” he said. “Quite beautiful.” Nyght shook his head and stamped. “Well, I am a merchant. So here is my proposition to you: your life, in exchange for this fine horse.” He put an arm about Nyght’s neck and patted it.
Galfrid saw Gisburne tense. His fists clenched. Then he heard him mutter under his breath. “Remember Carcassonne?”
“Of course,” said Galfrid. “High up. Lots of walls.”
“I mean the donkey.”
“The don – ? No... You mean?”
“Yes. Get ready.”
Galfrid gripped his trusty pilgrim staff tighter.
“When you ladies are quite finished...” said Günther irritably. “Do we have a deal? Or do I let Otto loose on you?” Otto growled.
Then Gisburne leaned forward, bared his teeth, and snapped his jaw together three times.
Günther stared in bemusement. “What in Hell is that suppo –” He was cut short by Nyght’s teeth clamping onto Günther’s right ear, and tossing his head so hard that the German was almost pulled off his feet. Gisburne drew both sword and seax and booted Otto in the stomach, sending him staggering backwards and taking two more with him. “Heads!” shouted Galfrid, and Gisburne dropped to his knee as the squire swung his staff about him in great swooping arcs, cracking a new head with each revolution. One after another, its victims fell at their comrades’ feet.
A trio of mariners, thinking taking a prize better than fighting – or perhaps to deny their enemy a means of escape – went to grab the horses. Nyght broke the leader’s jaw with a flying hoof, then bucked and kicked two more behind him, sending them hurtling backwards into their comrades. No one troubled the horses after that.
Gisburne, meanwhile – crouched low beneath the booming staff – was also kept busy. Those behind the decimated front rank, frustrated at being denied the fight, had begun to hurl a barrage of objects at the pair: ale mugs, parts of a chair, plates, a boot, a heaved-up cobble. A wooden bowl caught Galfrid a glancing blow on the temple. An earthenware jug smacked into Gisburne’s chest and smashed on the cobbles, spraying the squire with beer. Gisburne batted them aside with both blades as if it were some frenzied childhood game. In each lull he struck out, cracking a knee of one with the back of his seax, lashing another across the face with the flat of his sword. Out of nowhere, between two bodies, a polearm was thrust at him. Gisburne dodged it, knocked it down with his sword and stepped on the shaft, pitching its owner into the arena on all fours, his face just inches from Gisburne’s. The pommel of Gisburne’s sword put him down for the remainder of the fight.
Galfrid realised that the Germans’ one advantage – greater numbers – had been almost neutralised when they’d surrounded their opponents. He even began to see the real possibility of escape. Then, in his moment of greatest hope, the staff stopped against a bar mace with a jarring crack. He stumbled, and before he could recover, they closed in like a pack of wolves.
The fight was messy. There was grabbing, scratching, smashing of fists. Galfrid and Gisburne gave as good as they got, but sheer numbers were going to get the better of them.
Suddenly, there came a shout from beyond the fray. Then another. Men cried in pain, and surprise. Günther’s men turned in shock. Someone was coming to the Englishmen’s aid. Grabbing what advantage they could, Gisburne and Galfrid felled those nearest them with a series of ferocious blows. Their attackers stepped back, suddenly unsure what they were facing. A space cleared – and a huge German was sent skidding across the muddy street towards Gisburne and Galfrid.
All stopped dead, and Günther – lost in the fray once the mêlée had begun – was once again revealed. He and his men stared in amazement. Standing in the space, sword in one hand and mace in the other, her hair wild, was Mélisande, bloodied men sprawled all about her.
“Well, there goes the secret identity,” muttered Galfrid.
GISBURNE LOOKED ON in wonderment and horror, his heart thumping in his chest. This was the best and worst thing he could have imagined.
By now he had imagined her to be hundreds of miles distant. He told himself that if he could transport her there with a wish, he would. Yet when he looked on her face, burning with fearless and irresistible passion, all selfless resolve faltered.
“Good to see you,” he called.
“You too,” responded Mélisande, eyes fixed on her wary opponents.
“What brings you here?”
“I was just passing through.”
“To where?”
“France.”
Günther, meanwhile, burst into astonished laughter, shaking his head in disbelief. “You two know each other?” Half his ear was now missing, blood coursing down the side of his head, yet his face registered a curious kind of joy. He clapped his hands as he guffawed. “Well, this just got more interesting than even I could have imagined...” He put his hand across his
breast, and bowed. “Madam, I am no slave to custom. I embrace new ideas and bold endeavours of all kinds. And so I must salute the manner in which you have overcome the disadvantage of your sex.”
“Disadvantage?” said Mélisande. At that, she whipped around and buried the point of her right boot in the nearest German’s groin. The whole assembled company winced at the impact. Incapable of exclamation, the man crumpled, a sound like a broken bellows issuing from him as he hit the ground. She glared back at Günther. “What disadvantage?”
Günther chuckled in delight and turned to address his men, arms spread wide. “You see? This is why I love London! Just when you think you’ve seen it all, up pops something you could not possibly have expected.” Some laughed gruffly with him.
He turned back to her. “My lady, you are truly a revelation, if a short-lived one...” His laughter suddenly faded. “But it is time to move on from this play-acting.”
“Play-acting? You think I do this for entertainment?”
Günther looked Mélisande up and down, then turned his gaze upon Gisburne, a sly smile upon his lips. “I think, perhaps, yes...” Then the smile also dwindled. “But I have no argument with you. This business is between me and Sir Guy. Be on your way. Back to your woman’s things.”
Gisburne had noted no signal, no instruction, yet as Günther had been speaking, his men had begun to shift and reconfigure. Bit by bit, he now realised, the Germans were surrounding them once again. He could see Mélisande sensed it too.
“Go,” he breathed. “Go quickly...”
She looked at him, and flashed a sweet smile. Then turning back to Günther, she raised her sword point. “If you fight Gisburne, you fight me.”
Günther’s eyes remained fixed upon Gisburne, his voice like cold steel on stone. “My lady... You have only to walk away. I suggest you do so. Consider this my last warning.”
Gisburne looked at Mélisande, his eyes pleading for her to do so.
“And you listen to my warning,” she said through clenched teeth. “No one has yet died today. Until now, each side has spared the other the blade. But if you think I will hold back once you take this next step, you are mistaken. If you fight me, you will have to kill me.”
Gisburne winced at the words. They were meant as an ultimatum, to force Günther to back down. But in the few minutes he had known Günther, he had learned that such a tactic was folly. He also knew that in the month that had passed since her encounter with the Red Hand her wounds would not have completely healed, that her strength would be reduced, her responses slowed, her movements restricted. And yet here she was, about to throw herself into the wolf pit.
The German shrugged. “Have it your way.” And he turned to signal to his men. Gisburne tightened his grip on sword and seax. Galfrid released the hidden blade from his staff.
“Do you have any idea what that will bring down upon your head?” she said, now with a note of desperation in her voice.
“But of course. How silly of me.” Günther’s tone was harsh, mocking. He had tired of this amusement. “Your father is the Count of Boulogne. And that is supposed to intimidate me, is it not? Well, my lady, a new age is coming. In twenty years we’ll own him – along with the Holy Roman Emperor and the King of England.” He nodded to his men to close in for the kill.
“Enough!”
The voice boomed from outside the circle. An English voice. Yet at its sound, Günther held his men back.
For the third time, the rabble parted, and into the ring stepped a hooded figure. He was lean-faced, a thin scar across one eye, with the manner and physique of a soldier. And from his left hand were missing the first two fingers.
“Ranulph Le Fort...” muttered Gisburne.
Ranulph stepped forward to face Gisburne. He had no trace of fear about him.
“You say this man’s name is Gisburne?” he said. He addressed Günther as an equal.
Günther frowned. “It is. What of it?”
Ranulph frowned, and studied Gisburne’s face. “I knew his father. And he has been striving to prevent my death these past few weeks, as he tried to prevent Baylesford’s.” His voice dropped. “And all the others...” There was pain behind his eyes. “He has done this with little thought for his own safety, as you see plainly.”
Günther looked about at the carnage. “You are saying I should spare him? After all this?”
“It’s what Baylesford would have wished,” said Ranulph.
That struck home. Günther looked hard at Gisburne. “You are using up your many lives with amazing rapidity, my friend. You should take more care.” He turned to his men, and his icy demeanour suddenly shifted to that of an affable host. “Well, then – we have no more business to discuss. Perhaps, after all, the world is more interesting with Guy of Gisburne still in it.” He turned to Mélisande with a bow. “And you, too, my lady. My apologies for inconveniencing you. And my best regards to your father.” And with that, he and his men melted away.
The trio were left standing in a deserted street, Ranulph facing Gisburne.
“Well, here we all are, then,” said Galfrid.
“It’s time we talked, you and I,” said Ranulph. “Alone.”
L
Eastchepe
22 June, 1193
WIDOW FLEET HARDLY knew what to do with herself. As they had crashed through the front door, she had beetled out in her nightdress, her hair awry, eyes like muddy puddles, fully prepared to berate her tenants for bursting in upon the house so late with no thought for those already abed. Doubtless she had expected to find Gisburne and Galfrid the worse for drink, and ripe for moral censure. What she actually saw in the light of her flickering candle, however, threw her into total confusion: the two men muddy, beaten and bruised, and with them – in a no less disordered state – a lady of noble bearing. As the trio fell into the hall and towards the stairs, she gaped, open-mouthed.
“It’s all right, madam,” Galfrid had said. “We’re all right. Just cuts and bruises and trampled English pride.”
Then she had looked from her gentlemen tenants to the fine but dishevelled lady who now stood in the hall – her hall – and back once again to Gisburne and Galfrid. When neither spoke, Mélisande herself took the initiative.
“I am Mélisande de Champagne,” she said. “A pleasure to meet you.”
“Lady Mélisande is the daughter of the Count of Boulogne,” added Galfrid. At this, Widow Fleet gave an intake of breath, then flushed, passed the candle from hand to hand, then bowed, then ran out of things to do entirely.
“I must apologise for disturbing you at this late hour,” said Mélisande. “Some trouble upon the streets, as you can plainly see.”
“Oh, my lady, it has been terrible these past days!” The Widow looked upon Gisburne and Galfrid with infinite admiration. “And these good gentlemen came to your aid?”
“Something like that,” said Mélisande with a wry smile. “But all is well. And we must to our beds. Ready for the morrow.” She caught Gisburne’s eye, her smile fading.
“It is late to venture again into these troubled streets,” said a troubled Widow Fleet. “One of these gentlemen must see you safely back, or...”
“Or I could just stay here,” said Mélisande sweetly, her hands spread apart. She turned to Gisburne. “If you’ll have me.”
Widow Fleet, who had never seen or heard the like in all her born days, stood like a shrunken effigy of a woman, impossibly torn between scandalised outrage and overwhelming pride at having such a person under her roof. She finally gave in entirely to the latter, and broke into embarrassed laughter like a madwoman.
“Well, it’s decided, then,” said Mélisande, smiling warmly, and grasped her hand. “You are most kind.”
Widow Fleet blushed scarlet. Then as they turned toward the cramped stair, their long shadows cast before them, she bowed again, and laughed, and put her hand over her face, then, still tittering like a hysteric, scuttled away back to her bed.
“I DIDN�
�T THINK to see you again so soon,” said Gisburne. He stroked his fingers down her cheek, along the length of her slender neck and across her naked shoulder, sweeping aside the cascade of red-gold hair as he did so.
Mélisande shifted in the bed, propped her head upon her right hand, and made a show of scowling at him.“You know, those are the first actual words you have spoken since we got here?”
“Sorry about that,” said Gisburne. “But I am glad to see you.”
Mélisande’s scowl turned once again to a smile. “I could tell.”
He reached his hand behind her head, and kissed her upon her lips. She tasted of roses and spiced wine.
“I’ve missed you,” he said.
She looked around at the crazed inscriptions covering every inch of wall. “I could tell that too.” She turned her gaze back to him. “Not just because of the drawings.” And suddenly, she was not smiling – her expression instead turned to something deeper, strangely sad – something that made Gisburne wish to clasp her to him as tight as he knew how.
All at once, a loud snort made them start. It was Galfrid, in the neighbouring room, snoring. Gisburne and Mélisande simultaneously broke into stifled, adolescent giggles. The moment they had reached the top of the stairs, Galfrid had yawned very deliberately and immediately made himself scarce – an act, for which Gisburne would be eternally grateful.
“Well, at least we didn’t keep the poor fellow awake,” she said.
His hand traced a line across her breast, and down further still to where her waist dipped. The skin across her ribs was still discoloured from her injury. It looked grey in the moonlight. He stroked his fingers across it. “Does it hurt?”
“Only when I breathe deeply,” she said. “Or fast. Or when I exert myself.”
“Ah,” said Gisburne. “Sorry again.”
She touched his cheek. “Stop apologising. I said it hurt; I didn’t say I minded. But what about you? Are you hurting?”
“Just a few cuts and bruises,” he said. “An average night.”
Guy of Gisburne- The Omnibus Page 79
