Guy of Gisburne- The Omnibus

by Toby Venables

  Every minute the halt continued, his curiosity grew. Galfrid knew he could not really be alone up here. There were still guards on the battlements; that he couldn’t see them did not mean they weren’t there. When he did see movement, high on the gatehouse tower, he caught a fleeting glimpse of Murdac’s head, then what might have been de Montbegon. They were, in all likelihood, scanning the besieging army, looking for signs of an assault.

  Galfrid ran up the steps to the battlement on the keep’s east wall and peered out. The besiegers appeared to be idle, the siege engines’ crews sitting upon their machines as if they had simply lost interest. No shields were being prepared, no ladders, no troops massing. Nothing. He looked up to the gatehouse tower again, to see two guards peering out, wondering, just as he had been. But Murdac had retreated below again. Perhaps he had contented himself that no attack was imminent. But Galfrid wasn’t content: something, he was certain, was coming.

  He ran back down into the courtyard, where men with rags across their faces had emerged to clear the dead things. They’d likely be tossed over the south wall onto the rocks below. But Galfrid was already heading north, towards the gate of the keep.

  It took some minutes to get the porter to attend him and let him through the wicket gate into the outer bailey, and as soon as he had, Galfrid ran to the great, heavily fortified outer gatehouse tower and raced up the steps. This was the main gate into the castle; when the attack came—if it came—this would likely be their focus. But it was also the closest Galfrid could get to the attackers.

  “All right, Will?” he said. “What’s going on?”

  “Bugger all,” said Will Cobbe, staring out at the sprawling army. “No idea why, though.”

  Cobbe was a decent sort. He had a good brain, too. Most of his peers simply breathed a sigh of relief at the end of the bombardment—but not him. Like Galfrid, he was growing more uneasy by the minute.

  “So why have they stopped?” said Galfrid.

  Cobbe shrugged. “Perhaps they’ve simply run out of things to throw at us.”

  “Then why not attack? Why wait?”

  “Perhaps they’re preparing to mine, to try to get into the tunnels.”

  “Or perhaps a delegation is coming. Look.” Galfrid pointed, and there, in the thick of the army, towards the southern side, two horsemen were weaving their way forward. He watched in silence as the riders broke from the front line, and kept coming.

  “Jesus...” said Cobbe. “I’d best send for Murdac.” And he ran and shouted down the stair.

  Galfrid, meanwhile, squinted at the approaching horsemen. It was too far to make out faces, and the morning light threw them into shadow, obscuring further detail—but the shape of the lead rider on the black horse was suddenly familiar.

  When Cobbe returned to his side, he was chuckling to himself.

  “What is it?” said Cobbe.

  “Nothing, nothing,” said Galfrid. “You know how it gets, being cooped up in here...”

  “I do that,” said Cobbe. A boy appeared at the top of the stairs, and Cobbe turned. “Go to the Constable. Tell him he must come—”

  “Wait a minute,” said Galfrid. “Let’s not be hasty.”

  Cobbe looked at the riders, then at the boy, then at Galfrid again. “What?”

  “We need to be sure first.”

  Cobbe’s frown grew deeper. “Sure of what?”

  “That they are what we think they are.” As he spoke, he was hastily calculating how long it would take for the boy to find Murdac, and for Murdac to make his way from the keep to the outer bailey gate. Not long, but it should give him just long enough.

  Cobbe looked out towards the horsemen again, now close enough to make out the sticks held aloft in each of their hands.

  “They’re carrying white wands,” he said. “The sign of truce. What other reason can they have for coming than parley?” He turned to the stair doorway again. “Boy?”

  The messenger jumped.

  “Not so fast,” said Galfrid, and held up his hand. The boy looked deeply confused—Cobbe hardly less so. “Let’s hear what they have to say first.”

  Cobbe clearly thought this madness, but was either too polite or too bemused to say outright. “I’m not sure that is a good idea...”

  Galfrid could make out the faces. The second rider had been harder to guess, but now there was no doubt. He smiled to himself.

  “How far away are they now, would you say?” said Galfrid.

  “What? A hundred yards or so,” said Cobbe, bewildered. Then he could stand it no longer. “Look, this is ridiculous, they’ll be here any moment.” He signalled to the lad. “Go, now—and be quick about it!”

  “Boy,” called Galfrid, and the messenger stopped again. “I last saw him in the cellars. Look there first.”

  He nodded, and ran off. Should buy Galfrid a few more minutes.

  Cobbe advanced to the edge of the parapet, gripping his crossbow, and called down: “Who goes there?”

  “A delegation from Richard, King of England!” came the reply; de Rosseley’s voice.

  Cobbe was at a loss as to what to say next, but Galfrid came up beside him and leaned over the battlement. And there were Gisburne and de Rosseley, their horses stamping at the far the edge of the moat.

  “All right?” said Galfrid.

  “Jesus...” said Cobbe, and tried to pull Galfrid back. “Don’t talk to them!”

  “But I know them.”

  “Galfrid?” The voice was Gisburne’s.

  The squire leaned out again. “I know we had a falling out,” he called, “but this is ridiculous.”

  Gisburne stared, open-mouthed, then laughed. “God, but you’re a welcome sight...” His eyes hunted the rest of the battlement. “Mélisande?”

  “Hale and hearty,” said Galfrid. “Llewellyn driving us to drink, but definitely alive. Good to see you, too, by the way, Sir John.”

  “We are also fine, since you didn’t ask, Squire Galfrid,” said de Rosseley.

  Galfrid laughed. “Well, that’s good. But how on God’s earth did you come to be..?”

  “Long story,” said de Rosseley.

  “Then it had best keep. Murdac is summoned, so if you’ve anything to say, say it quick.” He cast a glance at Cobbe, who now stood by with all the ease of a man who had been unwittingly drawn into a conspiracy.

  “Listen to me,” said Gisburne, “the King will not come and show himself. Not even the Marshal could persuade him, which means he won’t come for anyone or anything.”

  “Why the Hell not?”

  Gisburne shrugged. “Something about a grumpy scruffbag of a squire.”

  “Ha, ha,” said Galfrid. “Well the news from my side is hardly any better. Murdac flatly refuses to believe the King himself is here. Doesn’t want to believe it, I’d say.”

  Gisburne sighed. “If someone could only come from within—someone who knows him, who is trusted. If they could see him with their own eyes, and report it back...”

  “Report what back? What is this?” The voice was Murdac’s, and in the next moment his face appeared over the battlement, de Montbegon’s lurking close behind. The Constable’s eyes widened at what he saw. “Gisburne? What trick is this?”

  “No trick, Sir Radulph. I come to tell you that King Richard is here and is intent on punishing this castle and all in it.”

  Galfrid saw poor Cobbe blanch.

  “If you value your lives and those of your people,” Gisburne continued, “you must yield without delay. Believe me, it is the only hope for clemency.”

  “Is that the entire message?” said Murdac, his voice devoid of expression.

  “What more need be said?” replied Gisburne.

  Murdac’s eyes narrowed to slits. “You say there is no trick, Gisburne. And yet you, who served Prince John, now come to me as a representative of John’s enemies. How am I to believe a single word you say?”

  Gisburne held his gaze for a time, but the Constable was chillier than the nor
th wind. “If you don’t believe me, believe your own eyes. Or send someone you do believe...”

  “No one will leave this castle,” said Murdac. “Go back to your master, whoever he now is, and tell him that.” He turned away. “Cobbe?”

  Will Cobbe snapped to attention.

  “I wish you to count to ten,” Murdac instructed, “and if these two have not left by the time you reach it, shoot Gisburne’s horse.”

  And with a last scowl at Galfrid, the Constable turned and strode away.

  L

  SIR FULCHER DE Grendon shook his head and peered cautiously about the courtyard. “This is folly, Master Bartholomew. Even now Sir Radulph is in his tower, planning his strategies. But does he think of the good people under his protection? Of their fates? ” He shook his head again. “Great folly, I say.”

  The cellarer nodded and looked like he’d rather be talking about barrels.

  “Sir Radulph does not understand,” said de Grendon. “He has not been up close to the King. But I have. And many times, too. The King is a harsh man. Some might say a brutal man.” He thought of the bodies that had lately been hurled over the battlements and shuddered. “But one thing is beyond doubt.” De Grendon moved in closer. “King Richard has God on his side.”

  Bartholomew looked back at him, wide-eyed.

  De Grendon nodded. “It’s true. I know, for I have seen him. I have seen it in his eye, in his bearing. There is no doubt: God chose him for King, chose him for his holy crusade, and now has chosen him for this task. And you know what that means, Master Bartholomew?”

  Bartholomew frowned. “Errr...”

  “It means that by defying him, we are defying God!”

  Bartholomew’s mouth fell open, and De Grendon nodded slowly, pleased at this effect.

  “Sir Radulph insists the King is not out there, but I feel it in my bones, Master Bartholomew. I do. And I have said as much to the Constable. I told him: there’s barely a man here who would not now surrender, and rightly so. But the Devil plugs his ears, and with this stubborn defiance he risks damning us all. Now tell me, Bartholomew—seeing no evidence of God, doubting his existence even, would you, nonetheless, pray?”

  “Well, I...”

  “Of course you would! Why? Because caution is the wisest course. What if your doubts proved wrong? What then? Well, it’s too late then!” He shook his head yet again, and looked up at the greying sky as if the impending rain were God’s judgement. “Folly, Master Bartholomew. Such folly!”

  He looked hastily about him again, to reassure himself that no one with a serious opinion on the matter was listening.

  But someone was.

  “HIM?” WHISPERED MÉLISANDE, ducking back around the corner of the tower.

  Galfrid nodded.

  “It’s the first time I’ve heard him speak more than two words together,” said Mélisande. “You’re certain he’ll do it?”

  “He’ll do it,” said Galfrid. “He’ll have no choice.”

  “When?”

  “As soon as we can. Richard’s men have been gathering stones for the siege engines. I don’t know whether Murdac noted that, but I certainly did.”

  “Well, I’d better go and play my part, then...” said Mélisande.

  “The main gate—within the half-hour!” hissed Galfrid as she slipped away. Then he strode out of the shadowed nook by the tower and headed straight for de Grendon and the cellarer.

  Bartholomew looked up and gave his friend a broad, toothy smile—but Galfrid ignored him entirely and sailed straight up to the young knight.

  “Sir Fulcher,” he said with a bow.

  “Squire Galfrid.”

  “May we speak? In private.”

  Without waiting for a response from either, Galfrid steered Sir Fulcher across the open courtyard, and away from wagging ears.

  “You are one of Sir Radulph’s most trusted men,” whispered Galfrid.

  “Well, I wouldn’t exactly say...”

  “Most trusted. Would it surprise you to know that he is well aware of your views upon this siege?”

  De Grendon’s face suggested it probably would—that he might even bypass ‘surprise’ to ‘abject terror’.

  Galfrid placed an arm about his shoulder. “There is a task of utmost importance that is asked of you, upon which depends the very future of this citadel...”

  “A TASK, YOU say?” said Henry Rousel with a frown. “Then why does Sir Radulph not come to me himself?” Rousel was terse. Mélisande would have to work on him.

  “This comes directly from him Sir Henry,” she said. “And must remain in confidence.”

  Rousel half frowned, half smiled. “Not Sir Henry, my lady,” he said. “Just plain Henry—as I’ve said before.”

  “My apologies,” said Mélisande, blushing a little and lowering her head. “It’s your bearing. I forget.”

  Rousel evidently liked the mistake. “No need to apologise, my lady...”

  “But there is,” she insisted. “For that, and for my behaviour following our first meeting. I embarrassed you, and for that I am truly sorry.”

  Rousel looked to either side, then leaned in closer and lowered his voice. “My lady, you were come to warn us of the impending danger.” He nodded his head towards the army beyond the battlements. “Had we but listened sooner—had he listened sooner—we may have been better prepared.”

  It was not an entirely accurate assessment of the situation, but Mélisande was more than happy to accept it. Rousel’s terseness, she now realised, was not directed at her, but at his superior—and what she had taken to be wariness she now saw was a grudging respect. All this was good.

  She closed in and lowered her voice. “You will have seen that I was not bound in chains or thrown in a dungeon after my escapade, deserving though I may have been. That I have, in fact, the freedom of the castle. You may take this as proof, if you will, that I have Sir Radulph’s complete trust.”

  “I cannot doubt the evidence, ma’am,” said Rousel.

  “I know well that you too can be trusted above all others. And that is why I tell you what I tell you now. Regarding this siege... The Constable has had a change of heart.”

  Rousel’s eyebrows rose, disappearing behind his helm.

  “You will have heard that there was negotiation with emissaries of the King from battlement.”

  “I heard, but...”

  She raised a finger to silence him. “Murdac is ready to yield. But first someone must go to the King’s camp, to receive the King’s word. Murdac wishes to go in person—to see the King with his own eyes. But he must do so in secret. And someone he trusts must accompany him.”

  “Tell me what needs to be done,” said Rousel.

  “IS THIS REALLY necessary?” said de Grendon, peering from beneath the hood of his cloak.

  “In confidence, Sir Fulcher,” said Galfrid, leading de Grendon through the gate of the keep and into the inner bailey, gripping the knight’s arm. He had no intention of letting him get away. “It must be so.”

  “And you say the horses will be waiting at the gate?”

  “They will be waiting. But keep quiet, will you? There’s a good fellow.”

  Spots of rain pattered dismally against their hoods. Up ahead, in the shadows of the great gatehouse, Galfrid made out the slight figure of Mélisande accompanied by two horses, one bearing a hooded rider.

  “Is that he?” said de Grendon.

  “That is who you will accompany.”

  “But it doesn’t look like... I mean, I don’t remember him being quite so...”

  Then the mounted figure—a good six inches taller in the saddle than Radulph Murdac—turned and looked at them.

  “But that’s not Sir Radulph...” said de Grendon.

  “ISN’T THAT SIR Fulcher de Grendon?” said Rousel.

  “He goes in Sir Radulph’s stead,” said Mélisande. She spoke lightly, making it sound the most normal thing in the world.

  “I thought you said...”
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  “The siege engines are being prepared. He could not in all conscience abandon the castle, even now. But he has every confidence in Sir Fulcher.”

  Rousel looked at her with sudden doubt, and she cursed to herself. No one could believe Murdac would have confidence in a man like de Grendon.

  She drew closer and lowered her voice as Galfrid and de Grendon approached. “You are the one Sir Radulph has faith in,” she said. “You are his eyes and ears. But he had to send a knight. Even a fool like Sir Fulcher will do.”

  Rousel’s expression was hard, and for a moment she was convinced the cause was lost. But then he gave a curt nod, and turned his horse to face the gate.

  Galfrid, meanwhile, had ushered the confused de Grendon to his waiting horse and was now speaking to him as if he were a child. “Up you go, Sir Fulcher. That’s it. In the saddle. Now, don’t you worry about a thing—Henry here is Sir Radulph’s most trusted man...” But as he spoke, Galfrid glanced back nervously across the inner bailey. Mélisande looked and saw that two of the guards at the keep were watching them, conversing intently. Then one pointed in their direction, and called down to another.

  “We need to hurry,” she muttered to Galfrid.

  The squire hauled a swathe of white material from his tunic and thrust it in de Grendon’s hand. “You carry this, sire. Hold it up nice and high. Do you think you can do that?” De Grendon looked at the white flag with a mixture of bemusement and disgust. It looked suspiciously like one of Master Bartholomew’s aprons.

  At Rousel’s command the great gate began to open.

  It seemed to take an age. De Grendon’s horse stamped. Mélisande glanced back across the inner bailey to the keep gatehouse, and saw sudden activity there.

  Rousel turned back momentarily, and Mélisande saw a last, fleeting doubt upon his face. She prayed to God he would not see the commotion. Then a distant cheer went up from Richard’s men as they registered the gate opening, and he turned back. In the face of what was now really happening, the look on Rousel’s face turned to one of determination and he rode out towards the King’s great army with Sir Fulcher de Grendon at his side.