Guy of Gisburne- The Omnibus

by Toby Venables

  “Welcome to France,” De Rosseley said, “where they have the good sense to allow the Conflictus Gallicus.” He clanked his cup against Gisburne’s, and both drank. It was the finest wine Gisburne had tasted in months.

  “Fear not,” said Gisburne. “The tournament will return to England when Richard does.”

  “If he does,” sighed de Rosseley, and drank again.

  Gisburne was just about to follow this with some enigmatic comment when a raucous laugh from a party of knights nearby made de Rosseley turn, he regarded them with contempt.

  “Look at these bastards,” he said, thrusting his drink in their direction. “Every time, they do this...”

  Gisburne looked, but all he could see was a group of well-to-do, unarmoured men enjoying some wine.

  “They sit out the preliminaries as if they’ve no intention of taking part in the mêlée. They avoid injuries, size up the fighters, look for weaknesses. They watch them wear themselves out in the joust and single combat. Then on the day of the melée, these trundle-tails suddenly declare their intent and pick off all who they know to be weak or injured.” He shook his head and snorted in disgust. “Vultures! It should be outlawed. In the joust they call lance-dodging ‘failure to present.’ You get thrown out for it. Ridiculed! But how is this any better?” He held out his cup. It was immediately refilled.

  “Well, you know my thoughts on the tournament...” said Gisburne.

  De Rosseley drank again—more irritably, this time—wiped his mouth and narrowed his eyes. “I’ll be honest, it’s making me uneasy seeing you here. Like bumping into a nun in a whorehouse.”

  “Do you speak from experience?”

  “Just a figure of speech, old boy. Well, come on, out with it... I know you didn’t set foot on a ship just to watch me joust. And you look like a man who’s ready to leave before you’ve even properly arrived.”

  Gisburne’s eyes flicked to the aloof squire and he lowered his voice. “I have come to ask if you would join me on a quest. A very important quest.”

  “What is it this time? The Ark of the Covenant?”

  “There is a wolf in the forest that must be put down,” said Gisburne. Then, realising he was talking in riddles, added, “An outlaw of my acquaintance.”

  “An outlaw?” said de Rosseley with a quizzical frown, “or the outlaw?

  “Yes. That one.”

  De Rosseley nodded slowly. “So, you’ve decided to finish business?”

  “Let’s just say it was decided for me.” Gisburne drew closer. “Listen Ross, I must be honest with you. This is not ritual combat; not a glorious contest. It is war, and our enemy is to be hunted down and put to death by any means necessary. I dare say there will be little honour in it, and I know that is not to your taste. But I need good fighters. Those I can rely on. It will be a hard fight, too. If we all come through unscathed, I may be forced to believe in miracles again...”

  “Why, you make it sound so enticing.”

  “Once done, it will rid England of its most vile pest—and earn more gold than a dozen tournaments, if you’ve a taste for it.” Gisburne drew a gold coin from his poke and held it out to him. “See here.”

  At that, de Rosseley’s face fell. He turned to the squire. “Go.” The squire scampered swiftly away.

  De Rosseley reached out to the coin—and closed Gisburne’s fist back around it. “What the Hell are you thinking?”

  Gisburne frowned. “I only meant...”

  “A knight does not fight for pay. That’s not how it goes.”

  “Think of it as a gift. Compensation, expenses. Whatever you like.” Gisburne laughed, then gestured around him. “Come on, Ross, you spend your whole life fighting for money!”

  “The tournament is different. You don’t understand these things. You never took part. This is what a knight does. It’s accepted. But fighting others’ battles for gold, like a common mercenary...” He reddened slightly, then softened. “I’m sorry, Guy. I meant no offence. I cast no judgement on you, or...”

  Gisburne raised a conciliatory hand. “I know, I know.” He snorted and shook his head. “But we also both know that nearly every knight here has been bought by some lord or other. They call it loyalty, or service, or duty, but don’t try telling me there’s no pay in it. No silver, no horses, no fine swords. Food and shelter...”

  De Rosseley looked about him nervously and drew in closer. “Yes, we do know this. And yes, there may well be a fine line between certain knights and mere pay-swords. But you cross that line at your peril; you step out of one class and into another. You know this better than most, my friend.”

  “It’s all pretence,” said Gisburne. “Deception. At least when I fought for pay, I did it honestly.”

  “I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve tried to explain this, but you remain as bloody-minded as ever. Let me put it in purely pragmatic terms. Pretence it may be; hypocrisy, even. But if you ever wish to win them over, you have to let them believe in it. You can’t fight everyone, Guy. Not all at once. De Gaillon taught you that much.”

  Gisburne nodded, reluctantly. “He did.”

  “He also, I hope, taught you that there are some for whom the knightly virtues are very real...”

  Gisburne smiled. “Yes, that, too.”

  De Rosseley put a hand on Gisburne’s shoulder. “We’ve got off on the wrong foot.”

  “I only meant to show you the coin, Ross. Did you not see what it was?”

  “A dinar?”

  “From the Holy Land, yes. Spoils of the Crusade, offered by the hero of the Crusade...”

  De Rosseley looked at him in amazement. “He is your master now?” He shook his head. “No, I doubt anyone was ever that, but he really wants Hood dead?”

  “Wouldn’t you?”

  “Well, what a turnabout...” De Rosseley drank, and pondered. “Hunted down, you said? I like a good hunt. How many are there to be in this company of yours?”

  “A half-dozen. No more.”

  “This is a small war you wage, Guy...”

  “Enough for a hunting party. We must keep it small. It may yet avert a far greater war.”

  “So, when is this hunt to take place?”

  “We gather on the fifteenth of next month.”

  De Rosseley nodded slowly. “Tell me one thing. Am I the first?” Gisburne frowned. “That you have asked, I mean. Obviously, I’m hoping the answer is ‘yes.’”

  Gisburne thought carefully about his next words. “You are the first man I have asked.”

  De Rosseley narrowed his eyes, and looked hard at Gisburne. “Man?” He smiled. “What is it, Guy—was there a woman ahead of me?” He laughed then caught the look in Gisburne’s eye. His face fell. “My God, there was... Wait... A woman, or the woman?”

  “The woman.”

  De Rosseley looked him in the eye for a moment, then nodded. “All right. Fair enough. She brought down the Red Hand when I could not. Saved my life into the bargain. She was the better man that day. Did she agree?”

  “She did.”

  He smiled, clearly glad at that news. “And where do you go next?”

  “To find a Saracen.”

  “A Saracen?” De Rosseley raised his eyebrows. “Well, you’d better get going. It’s a long way to the Holy Land.” He waved his thumb towards the east. “And it’s that way.”

  “This one is closer to home,” said Gisburne, and nodded back towards England.

  “So I am between a woman and a Saracen. I must confess I am mightily intrigued by this army of yours.”

  “So are you with us?”

  De Rosseley sighed deeply. “I can hardly have it said a woman took up a challenge I would not, can I? Or a Saracen. But keep the gold. Grim as you may have painted it, this is a good deed. I’ll do it for that. And for a friend.” He smiled and knocked his cup against Gisburne’s. “To our enemies’ enemies.”

  Gisburne smiled. Ross always inspired confidence in him; he would do so in the others. There
had been no guarantee they would agree to join him, but for the first time, he began to feel this thing was possible. “You know Clippestone?”

  “Of course.”

  “Come there on the appointed day. Come alone. No squires, no pages; just you. ”

  De Rosseley nodded, frowning, as if struggling to take in the strange instruction.

  “And I know I shouldn’t need to say this...” began Gisburne.

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t make yourself fodder for the ravens.”

  De Rosseley laughed. “What in the seventy-two names of God is that supposed to mean?”

  “Last time I saw you after a tournament, you looked like a pear that had spent a week in a royal messenger’s saddlebag. Much as I know you abhor ‘failure to present,’ please—try not to die before our small war is even begun.”

  X

  London

  1 March, 1194

  GISBURNE KNEW A cheat when he saw one. From his cramped corner, shaded by the rickety wooden stair of the heaving, sweaty inn, he had watched the same trick played out at least a dozen times, and he knew that all was not as it seemed.

  It always went the same way. The victim was shown three cups and a ball, and the ball went under one cup. The cups were moved about rapidly on the barrel top, and the victim asked to tap the cup under which he thought the ball was hidden. The first time, he was always allowed to find the ball. Sometimes a second time, too. The trickster expressed amazement, hinted that the victim was too good at this, and then suggested they put money on it. Which the victim always did. From then on, the ball eluded him, no matter how carefully he watched, no matter how keenly he followed it. Finally, his money or his resolve would run out, then after a brief interlude another would take his place and it would start all over again.

  It was a familiar enough trick, and it always involved cheating of some kind or another—a sleight of hand of some sort. But this was different. As Gisburne watched the trickster move the cups—sometimes only with his fingertips—it became clear something more was going on. Something that foxed even London’s shrewdest street wretches. Something impossible.

  At first, he hadn’t been at all sure he would recognise that face again, not after all this time. It had only been a fleeting encounter, after all, and not exactly cordial. In the event, he spotted him immediately. Even if the face had not been familiar—the sharp nose, the piercing eyes, the crow-black hair—Gisburne’s attention would have been drawn to that spot; the crowd gathered around the barrel, cheering and laughing and groaning as each victim’s loss unfolded.

  This was not at all what he had been expecting. In fact, that morning, he had set out seeking someone entirely different.

  It had seemed a straightforward enough task: head for the docks, then ask for the big Saracen. Arabs were not exactly plentiful in London, and it had been Gisburne himself who had secured employment for his old friend among the merchants and wharf rats. He’d been looking forward to the meeting, too. Last time they had met had been far from England’s cold and damp—in Jerusalem, in what now seemed like a distant dream. After that, there had been only a hurried message from London announcing his unexpected arrival there, and a favour that Gisburne had called in by way of help. That came courtesy of Ranulph Le Fort—one of those who had fought alongside him against the Red Hand, and whose life he saved—who also happened to have forged friendships among the merchants of London.

  But today, Gisburne had arrived in London only to discover he was too late. The word on the docks was that the big Saracen had moved on—in a hurry. Eastward, they thought. But bit by bit, as Gisburne drew closer to the few the Saracen had trusted and who trusted him, the parts of the mosaic came together. A destination became clear.

  As to why he had left, no one knew. He had disappeared overnight without a word, not even taking the wages he was owed. Most of those he had spoken to had shrugged it off as somehow inevitable. Daily life must be far from easy for an Arab in London, but for that very reason, any who did stay would command a certain respect, something this particular Arab generally achieved by his size and bearing alone. It must be something other than the usual trouble, and that worried Gisburne. Whoever had been responsible for his friend’s flight to England may have followed him here.

  But then, quite by chance, he had heard a quite different whisper; another name familiar to him. And skills that had attracted some attention. The whispers had led him here. He could not have imagined, at first, that it was the same man that he had encountered in the Forêt de Boulogne. But now he’d seen him and was convinced. Well, if he could not find one recruit, perhaps fate could yet provide him with another—though quite what reception he would get, he couldn’t say. How does one normally greet a man one has almost killed?

  The game, it seemed, was drawing to a close. One by one, the roughs about the conjuror’s barrel were melting away into the throng. Gisburne stood and began to weave his way across the crowded interior.

  ALDRIC FITZ ROLF was gathering together his winnings—a tidy stash of silver pennies—when the mug of ale thudded down on the barrel top. “What if they were to find out the secret of your trick?” said Gisburne.

  Aldric raised his head, and gawped in amazement at the face he saw before him. “You...”

  “I have heard you’re now an enginer, and it so happens I have need of one.”

  Aldric tried to stand, and Gisburne gripped his arm and dragged him back down into his seat. Aldric winced. Several pairs of eyes flicked warily in their direction, but at the sight of Gisburne, turned swiftly away again.

  “Last time I saw you,” hissed Aldric, “you shot me in this shoulder with a crossbow.”

  “And you were fighting for the madman Tancred de Mercheval, and shot me in the heart at his command. I’d say we’re even, wouldn’t you?”

  Aldric shrugged irritably, then drank from the mug.

  “When I left you,” continued Gisburne, “I told you to find a better master. Did you?”

  “Yes,” said Aldric. “Me. But that was not so easy a route as you might assume.”

  “I never assume. Tell me.”

  “I hated Tancred. Who wouldn’t? And when you arrived... Well, I knew he was done. Or if he wasn’t, I was. So I ran, the bolt still in me. Or staggered, at least. It seemed an age that I plodded on like that, the flames of Castel Mercheval at my back. Then I ran into Lucatz.”

  “Lucatz?”

  “Lucatz the Enginer,” explained Aldric. “The one you tied to a tree. The one Tancred had brought from Paris to open your stupid box.”

  “Ah,” said Gisburne. “Lucatz.”

  “He helped me—he was an able physician. And I him, as best I could. Together we made it back to Paris. I could not fight or find work with this injury, but Lucatz gave me a roof over my head and work I could manage. And so I healed.”

  “And showed an aptitude for the enginer’s craft, it would seem.”

  “So it would seem. I became Lucatz’s apprentice. Then he died. Robbed in the street.” Aldric swigged his ale, his gaze fixed on the floor. “He was good to me. And I could not save him. Me—a man-at-arms...”

  “There’s fight in you yet, Aldric Fitz Rolf. I see it.”

  “No thanks to you,” spat Aldric. “Anyway... Things didn’t look good for me, so I took to the road. Just me, a bag of tools and my wits.”

  “And washed up here...”

  “There are worse places to be.”

  “Last time I heard that was in a sewer.”

  Aldric eyed Gisburne, as if unsure whether to take him seriously. “How did you find me?”

  “Truth be told, I came to London looking for someone else. Didn’t find him. I may yet, if he isn’t dead. But in the meantime, I heard a tale of an ambitious young enginer. One story led to another, each to a place a little humbler than the last. And here I am.” Gisburne looked about him at the dark, sticky interior. “I have to admit, I’m a little disappointed.”

  Aldric narrowed his ey
es. “What’s it to you, anyway?”

  “I have an interest. I set you on this path, for good or ill. I heard that the young man I encountered had grown, learned new skills. I was hopeful. And now I see this is how you put those skills to use—cheating pennies from strangers, when your wisdom could be winning battles.”

  Aldric scowled. “Cheating? How da—?” But before he could finish the sentence, Gisburne had gripped the barrel by its rim and turned it about, sending Aldric’s mug flying. At its base, just where Aldric’s feet had been, a small peg of wood projected from a slot. Aldric flushed red at the sight of it.

  “Everyone checks the cups and the ball,” said Gisburne. “No one suspects the barrel upon which they sit.” He held up a coin between thumb and forefinger. “A silver penny. Old King Henry, bless him. Let’s see where he ends up, shall we?” With that, he slapped the coin on a portion of the barrel top marked by a discrete scratch in the wood, then pressed his foot on peg. As if by magic, a tiny flap—so perfectly fitted it was all but invisible—yawned inward. The coin disappeared down the opening, flew out of a bung hole halfway down the barrel and bounced across the floorboards. Gisburne lifted his foot and the door snapped shut, invisible once more. “Everyone’s so busy looking at the cups no one would think to look at your feet, nor at your hands retrieving the ball from the skirts of your tunic where your little device has deposited it. With the ball in your palm, you can lift any cup to your advantage, and it’s a simple matter then to reintroduce the ball. They’re all on the lookout for the ball being taken, after all; not for it coming back.”

  Aldric swallowed hard, and looked about him anxiously. Gisburne’s antics had attracted unwanted attention. Several were men who had lost money to Aldric’s game, and one or two now looked as if they were considering taking the matter up with him.