III
CONQUEST
XXIV
Inis na Gloichenn, off the West Coast of Scotland
November, 1193
GISBURNE’S STOMACH HEAVED as the boat rose on the swell. His eyes were fixed on the dim light that burned in the tower window—the one sign of life on the dark island. That light was their guide now. Not that the island’s inhabitants had any idea of it; nor would the realisation last long when they did.
He glanced back at Galfrid—who winked at him from beneath his armoured brow—then beyond to the dozen other glinting helms within the boat.
Against his better judgement, he let his gaze stray further, beyond the confines of their craft to the other boats strung out along the tether. The lead boat dipped and the remaining five, one after another, rode up on the swell in a graceful arc, the faces of their crews—stark and clear but weirdly expressionless—like ghosts in the moonlight.
His stomach felt like it was dropping out of him. Every muscle clenched, and the reality of his situation—which he had mostly banished from his mind—crashed in afresh. His insides lurched, his head spun. He turned hastily, fixing his eye back on the single light ahead, gloved hands gripping the prow. He tried to focus on the steady rhythm of the oars—the one note of order in this immense, black chaos. Breathing deep, he felt the ache of icy air, laden with salt spray, hitting his lungs; the pain was a relief. It would be over soon, one way or another. Almost there. Almost there...
Ahead, the rocks loomed black as shadows, like a jagged row of teeth: the island’s maw, waiting to consume them. Along the gumline, the water—churned white by the crashing waves—seemed to glow in the cold light of the moon. The landing would be treacherous; it was likely at least one of the boats would be smashed. But the boats did not matter. If all went to plan, they would soon have their enemy’s ship. If it did not... Well, nothing would matter then.
As Gisburne watched, cloud passed over the moon, plunging the rocks ahead into shadow. But they would know where they were soon enough.
They had given themselves all the advantages. They had approached from the island’s far side, beyond which was nothing but the great northern sea. There was no watch upon this jagged shore. Only a madman would approach from that direction.
They had come under cover of darkness and had no lights upon their boats. If anyone had happened to look out in their direction, the chances of them being spotted were remote.
They had been informed of their enemy’s hiding place by one Tancred had not once suspected would betray him.
The risks were high. Merely being on the sea was the very last thing Gisburne wanted. But if successful, they would catch their enemy completely unawares.
An old adage came to mind: To defeat your enemy, you must think like your enemy.
Tancred was mad, of course, but so was the man who had betrayed him—a fact Tancred had not properly assessed. If any among the assembled army of Templars and Hospitallers had thought Gisburne’s strategy mad, none had expressed it, but, at the moment, that, too, seemed a fair assessment. But to win, one had to do what others were not prepared to—even if it meant facing one’s worst nightmare. And Gisburne meant to win.
The time spent on the Scottish mainland, waiting for the right moment to strike, had been close to unbearable. For three days Gisburne had looked out upon the churning grey ocean and tried to picture enacting his plan upon it.
He could not.
Back in Nottingham, it had seemed a work of bold genius. Now, with the salt wind lashing his face and the waves pounding the rocky shore, it looked utterly impossible. Not that he could let his doubts show. His Hospitaller and Templar comrades had faith in him. Quite why, he wasn’t sure.
The Templars weren’t here because of him; that much he knew. They were here because of Tancred, whose heresies and outrages had brought shame upon their order. And the Hospitallers were here because of the Templars. Pragmatic as ever, neither order seemed unduly troubled that Gisburne’s Scottish campaign had only been possible thanks to the support of Prince John. What John had promised the King of the Scots in return for safe passage, Gisburne did not know, but he suspected William the Lion was as happy as anyone to have Tancred swept from his threshold.
He had sensed a grudging respect amongst the knights nonetheless. The Templars knew of his early campaigns against Tancred, and—in spite of one or two past altercations between them and Gisburne—were prepared to support his efforts to the hilt if it meant ridding them of the hated madman. He supposed they must have forgiven him for stealing the skull of St John the Baptist.
The Hospitallers—or, at least, these Hospitallers—had stood alongside him once before, following the murder of one of their brothers by the Red Hand. That fight had also brought the death of one of their worthiest members, Theobald of Acre, and to honour his memory the Hospitallers of Stibenhede had pledged to stand by Gisburne if needed—especially if there was a chance to show up the Templars.
Still, all this did not sit well with him. He was no commander. It had been years since he had led a company into battle. The last occasion had been at Hattin, and Robert of Locksley had been among them. The wounds inflicted in that disastrous clash still lingered—on his body, in his mind, on the world.
Most gathered upon that shore seemed remarkably unconcerned about the battle ahead. They spoke of it in purely practical terms: the terrain, numbers of men, their opponents’ training, the visibility upon their approach.
These aspects of the plan worried Gisburne not at all. For him, all was overshadowed by the prospect of a short sea voyage in a small boat—and each day as he looked out upon the lead-grey sea, it was all he could think of.
Several times, while they had been waiting on the mainland for the weather to abate, Gisburne had taken out the tiny scrap of parchment that had brought them here—the clue that Hood had delivered to him on the shaft of a green-fletched arrow. It said simply:
TANCRED
And, below that, the name of the island upon which the rogue Templar had established his fortress:
INIS NA GLOICHENN
The simple words had nothing more to yield. Studying them was pointless, a nervous habit. Yet every time he looked upon them, the same thought occurred: Hood knew the whereabouts of Tancred, yes, but Tancred also knew the whereabouts of Hood.
One day, as he and Galfrid had stood watching the setting sun turn the sea to red beyond the distant island, the squire had touched upon this same thought. “Do you think this is what Hood wanted?” he said. “For us to kill Tancred?”
“Partly.”
He shook his head. “A stupid risk on his part. How could he know that Tancred would not give us information on him?”
“He doesn’t,” said Gisburne. “In fact... I think he’s depending on it.” Galfrid frowned at him. Gisburne sighed and looked to the bloody horizon. “A reckoning is coming between Hood and me. It’s what he wants, what he expects.” He did not relish doing what his enemy wanted—it went against his every instinct, all his training—but he knew, somehow, that it was inevitable.
Galfrid had simply shrugged. “Let him expect what he likes. Tancred would never give up that information. Although, in a way, that’s a good thing.”
“Why?”
“Because it means there’s no possible good that can come of him.” He had nodded as he stared into the distance. “No reason not to kill him.”
Three days they had stood, battle-ready. Three days doing no more than watching the atrocious weather. They were waiting on the word of the gruff old Scottish fisherman who had agreed to act as their guide. On the first day, as the wind and sea raged, Galfrid had asked when the storm was likely to pass. The old man—who spent words as sparingly as silver pennies—looked at him with a frown and said: “Tha’s nae a storm.”
“God’s teeth...” Galfrid had muttered to Gisburne. “What if this really is as good as it gets?”
Gisburne did not even want to think about that.
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br /> The old man’s eyes—the only part of him to move—scanned the horizon. “Calmer water is comin’,” he said. “Two days, maybe three.”
And he was exactly right.
The boat struck something. It heaved forward on the swell, rock grinding against wood, and lurched sideways, and suddenly a jagged black shape was looming ahead of them. Gisburne—whose first instinct was to grip the prow tighter—gritted his teeth and let go. As he did so, the boat scraped over the reef and butted its bows against the low black rock. The port side of the prow splintered where his hand had been. Had he hesitated, his mission would already be over.
The two men behind him sprang up and hurled grapples into the dark, the leather-clad metal clanking dully against stone. One was pulled tight on its rope; the other dragged free and crashed against the starboard bow, narrowly missing Galfrid’s shoulder. Without pause, the knight hauled it up and swung again, riding the boat’s pitch and roll with all the ease of a master horseman on an unbroken stallion. This time, it caught, and they heaved the boat hard against the rock.
Gisburne gripped the rope and pulled himself onto the sea-smoothed outcrop, the crunch of mussel shells beneath his feet. In a moment he was upright, relishing the feeling of solid ground beneath his feet and slinging the small, teardrop-shaped shield off his back. The moon emerged from behind the clouds and he ducked to his knees—no movement up on the cliff; no light, no cry of alarm. Glancing to his right he saw the other boats strung out along the shore, all pitched at crazy angles on the surf, their crews hurling ropes in the cold light or already scrambling ashore, the shields on their backs making them look like a swarm of beetles.
He waited until all seventy-seven men had made landfall, then thrust his arm through his shield’s straps and began to move forward.
Not a word was spoken. There was no sound but the waves, the quiet clink of arms and armour and the soft footfalls upon rock. As the ground flattened out and rocks gave way to earth, Gisburne shouldered his shield for a moment, unbuckled his helm from his belt, put it on and pulled the strap tight beneath his chin. He had painted it black for the occasion; if he was to be first above the parapet, he had no intention of signalling their presence to the enemy.
The faceplate made it harder to see where he was putting his feet, but already he could make out the path winding up the low cliff. It was far narrower than expected; they would have to go up in single file. If for any reason they were discovered before they had made the clifftop, they would be done for. But if they could all make the climb unobserved—and if the old fisherman’s description was correct—there would be nothing but a low, dry-stone wall between them and their goal. That, and an unknown number of pagan Norse warriors.
Once the scourge of the English coast, they were now a rare breed. The last of them had fled to ever more remote regions to escape the rule of kings and the taint of the White Christ. Somehow, that had led them into the service of the fanatical Tancred. So uncommon were they that not a single man here had fought their like before. None knew what to expect of their combat. And as yet, it was unclear whether they would find ten, or a hundred.
Gisburne went first, shield ready, sword drawn, and Galfrid followed close behind. The climb went quickly, and his impressions as he picked his way up the rocky path were weird, unreal. The helm separated him from the world in a way he did not like. But it was better than getting your head staved in.
The path ended with a narrow squeeze between the rocks. Gisburne and Galfrid eased themselves through. Gisburne stepped over a rise—and threw himself flat on the soft, mossy ground.
Directly ahead, he could see the roofs of a clutch of strange stone dwellings, along with more recent huts built from boat timbers. From the heart of them rose a thick, grey stone tower shaped like a bee skep—a broch, built by the ancient peoples of these islands, taken by Tancred as his castle. Before them stood the dry-stone wall—little more than waist height—that the old fisherman had promised. And standing before that, with his back to them, was a Norseman in a belted sheepskin, pissing against the grey stones and humming quietly to himself.
Gisburne lay for a moment, weighing up the situation. Clearly, this was the watchman of this shore—he was dressed for the weather and his spear was propped against the wall. No other figures were visible. The lone guard was utterly oblivious to the nearly eighty elite knights and serjeants poised behind his back. Yet ahead of him—and just a shout away—was the island’s entire garrison.
The time for thought was over. Gisburne launched himself forward, sword held wide and low. He could hear Galfrid—adept at anticipating his master’s moves—close behind. Their gear rattled with every step—but before the guard could turn, Gisburne was on him. He brought the sword up and drew its blade across the Norseman’s throat, cutting to the bone. The guard’s cry was lost in a gurgle of blood as Gisburne spun him around and let him fall. Galfrid jumped back, but not fast enough to avoid the still-flowing stream of urine splattering across his feet. He gave Gisburne a dirty look, then signalled to the others to move forward. Swords were drawn, shields gripped, as they slipped over the wall and spread out among the huts.
The plan was simple. Each group would target a dwelling, blocking all but one entrance, and, when the alarm was raised, capture or kill the men as they emerged. Neither of the knightly orders relished such brutal tactics, but the fact that these were pagans salved any troubled consciences.
Gisburne and his crew, meanwhile, would head to the broch, and to Tancred.
They were almost at the door of the tower when a big Norseman appeared from its far side, a great log on his shoulder.
At the sight of them, he bellowed at the top of his lungs, hurled the log at them and ran headlong for the door.
The fight had begun.
Gisburne side-stepped the log as it crashed to earth and took off after him, with Galfrid and the others close behind; they had to get to the heavy wooden door before it was closed and barred.
Gisburne crashed into it just as it was closing, stopping it with barely a finger’s width to spare. Beyond it, mere inches from him, harsh voices were shouting. He shoved with his shoulder; the door gave, then shoved back at him, his booted feet sliding on the gritty ground. Galfrid’s shoulder joined his and the door gave again, allowing the squire to jam the point of his shield in the gap. Two Hospitallers joined the struggle, but so confined was the space that they could only get their hands, not their shoulders, against the door.
As it quivered back and forth, iron hinges squealing in protest, sword blades struck out from within, stabbing blindly. One sliced a Hospitaller’s upper arm, forcing him to retreat. Gisburne responded in kind, jabbing into the gap. On the third thrust, his sword point met with something; there was a cry and the door fell back, opening a full eight inches. Wide eyes glinted in the dark, and then one of the Norsemen gave a deafening roar of defiance, and the gap closed once again.
They were at an impasse—and all the while, those inside were entrenching themselves for the fight to come.
Gisburne looked at Galfrid. “Llewellyn,” he said.
Galfrid understood. From a leather bag on his back he pulled out a globe of terracotta, barely bigger than an apple, the wooden bung sealed with wax. A gift from the workshop of Llewellyn of Newport, enginer to Prince John.
Gisburne gripped Galfrid’s shield, twisted it hard, and with a great cry of his own put every ounce of strength into his shoulder. The injured Hospitaller, blood coursing down his arm, forgot his wound and put both palms against the planks, his roar joining with Gisburne’s.
The door slid open five inches, eight, then suddenly gave another four. Galfrid hurled the globe low through the gap, and it smashed on the grey stone floor. The squire ducked aside as the space beyond the door lit up, and a wave of intense heat burst through the opening, making the Hospitallers recoil—but the door did not close, and the cries from beyond it were now those of agony.
Gisburne waited until the glow had abated,
then pushed hard. The door flew open, stopping half way against a soft form slumped in the entrance; they hauled out the smoking body, tongues of flame still licking about his legs. Another—alive, but barely conscious—lay slumped in the dark, and Gisburne stepped over him, the bitter stench of burnt wool and seared flesh in his nostrils, and advanced up the narrow stone stair.
At the top was the orange glow of an open doorway. They would be waiting for him—but he was fully armoured. He held his shield close, lowered his head and charged into the chamber.
He felt something crash against his shield. Another blow battered his head. A third struck his right shin.
He did not stop.
The rain of blows ceased. Glancing back, head still low, he saw four Norsemen being overwhelmed by the invading Hospitallers. They fought back viciously; though lacking armour—one even had no shoes—they seemed entirely without fear. Gisburne keenly felt the tragedy of their inevitable defeat, but his pity was short-lived.
He turned and lifted his head. Galfrid was at his right shoulder. And he was staring.
In the centre of the floor was a broad circular hearth, in which a great fire was in its dying stages. But beyond, on the far side of the dimly-lit interior and partly obscured by woodsmoke, stood a large, peculiar apparatus, the like of which Gisburne had never seen. It had a chamber made of copper, and wheels and weights of iron, articulated arms and a framework of wood. On some of the parts were gleaming copper plates bearing arcane symbols and letters: some Hebrew, some Greek, some utterly beyond his comprehension.
Up higher, closer to the vaulted wooden roof through which the rising smoke filtered, something else caught Gisburne’s eye: a movement, and a glint of silvery metal. He nudged Galfrid and advanced toward the stone steps that wound up to the upper floor.
Guy of Gisburne- The Omnibus Page 107
