Feeling like an adulterer – and indignant at the injustice of the feeling – he stole along the curved stone corridor to his own chamber. Behind its door, he disordered the bed and made hasty, token adjustments to his appearance.
Moments later, he was striding into the sunlit courtyard. It was now almost empty – just the ruts to show where Mélisande’s entourage had been. A handful of the castle’s own servants – plainer by far than Mélisande’s – went about their daily business, acknowledging Gisburne with a courteous nod as they did so.
“Guy!” called a voice. Gisburne turned and spied de Rosseley upon the eastern battlements, his raised arm silhouetted by the sun.
Gisburne waved, and headed for the stone stair.
“You look like shit,” said de Rosseley as his friend approached.
“Good morning to you too, Ross.”
“Well, it’s true. You’ve got a face like a boar’s ball sack and you look like you slept in your clothes.”
“Says the man who resembles a corpse run over by a dozen ox-carts.”
“Maybe so,” said de Rosseley. “But I’m still the best dressed corpse west of Constantinople.”
It was true. He had dressed to make an impression. His tunic was of red with black velvet trim, all embroidered with gold thread. Worn over it, in spite of the heat of the day, was a dazzlingly blue cloak, clasped about the throat with gold. He stood upon the battlement like a heroic captain at the prow of his ship, his hair and his cloak making languid movements in the gentle breeze.
Gisburne followed his gaze out beyond the bailey to the entourage of Mélisande de Champagne, now winding its steady way along the forest road.
“Well, what do you think of her?” said de Rosseley.
Gisburne pondered for a moment, making a mental inventory of Mélisande’s qualities. There were too many to count. “Before I answer that,” he said, “I have a question for you.”
“Yes?”
“Ireland. John’s campaign.”
“Ah. That. Not exactly a crowning achievement.”
“That’s almost exactly what Prince John said.”
“As well he might,” said de Rosseley. “He was the one whose crown was not achieved, after all.”
“He characterised it as mainly causing offence to a large number of people.”
“That was the one thing we excelled at.” It seemed de Rosseley almost blushed at the memory. “Needless to say, your father didn’t approve. He was right not to. We were young fools. Did John say that too?”
Gisburne nodded.
“Well, at least he’s kept his honesty,” sighed de Rosseley. “Though there are times when he might do well to use it more sparingly – especially these days. People see the worst in him as it is. The last thing most of them want is to be told the truth.”
“Do you recall anything – anything at all – that may have inspired a grudge?” said Gisburne. “Some particular slight or injustice?”
“That John inflicted? Personally?” De Rosseley puffed out his cheeks. “To be honest, the less contact he had with the locals the better he liked it. He wasn’t the sociable, outgoing fellow you see today.” A frown crept across his face. “There was one thing,” he said. “It wasn’t to do with John. Not really. But it was an odd business. An Irish noble – I forget his name – got some mad idea in his head. Ranulph Le Fort caught him creeping in to where we slept, knife in his hand. He challenged him, and the Irishman resisted. Ranulph killed him outright in the fight – those who survived an entanglement with Ranulph were few – but he lost two fingers from his left hand in the process. Poor bastard. The other Irish nobles were keen to smooth the whole thing over. Whether secretly sympathetic or not, they wanted no part of it. Ranulph himself would know more. He kept safe many of the records of that trip. We used to jokingly refer to him as ‘the clerk.’”
He sniggered. “Anyone less like a clerk it is hard to imagine. You know, when he lost those fingers, he said the most annoying thing was that he could no longer write. Wrote with his left, you see – didn’t care what anyone said about bad luck or the Devil. He’d give them the Devil for saying so! Do you know how awkward it is to write across a page with your left hand? Well, Ranulph did not merely cope with it; he had mastered it. That was the sort of man he was. Then he had to adapt to his right hand anyway.” He shook his head. “Your father took over his scribing duties for a time, since he had some experience in that department.”
“The Milford Roll,” said Gisburne.
“You know of that?” said de Rosseley.
“I hope to have my hands on it soon. But why did my father draw it up, and not Ranulph?”
De Rosseley chuckled to himself. “Ranulph, Thomas of Baylesford and a chap called Fitz Osbert were the very last to arrive at Milford. It was not at all certain they would make it; Ranulph and Baylesford caroused together a great deal in those days, and had evidently led young Fitz Osbert astray. But they did, by the skin of their teeth – and mightily hungover. So, it’s thanks to drink that their names appear last on that list.”
Gisburne pondered de Rosseley’s account. “So what drove this Irish noble to attempt murder?”
De Rosseley shrugged. “Never did find out. It was a bad business, though. Cut your father to the quick. I think he’d come to trust them. He always was the sort to win people over, to give them the benefit of the doubt. I’d wager he was the only one who didn’t make an enemy there.”
Gisburne looked into the distance. “You know, until recent weeks I didn’t even know that my father had been a member of that expedition.”
“He didn’t tell you?”
Gisburne shook his head.
De Rosseley shrugged. “He was a natural choice. He knew Ireland. He’d been there before – one of the few of us who had.”
Suddenly, things began to make a kind of sense. “He never spoke of that trip either,” said Gisburne. “But I guessed all the same.”
“That one really was meant to be secret. He took such responsibilities seriously.”
“But what was its purpose?”
De Rosseley made a show of looking over his shoulder. “I think it’s safe to tell you now...” he said. “Richard de Clare, Earl of Striguil and occasionally of Pembroke. Also known as ‘Strongbow.’ He was building a fine little kingdom for himself in Ireland years ago. Your father was sent to bring him round to King Henry’s point of view.” He shrugged again. “Didn’t work. But it’s hardly surprising. De Clare was a hothead. How did you guess, anyway?”
“Before he went away, he would talk of events in Ireland often,” said Gisburne. “Then after, not at all.” He thought of the image of his father as an agent on a secret mission, and smiled at it. The revelation that they had this in common made him feel closer to the old man than he had in years.
“So,” said de Rosseley. “Your turn.”
“My turn to what?”
“To answer the question,” said de Rosseley. Then, as if addressing someone profoundly deaf, added: “What do you think of the lady Mélisande?”
Knowing he could put it off no longer, Gisburne nodded slowly. “You really want to know?”
“Of course I do. There’s no one whose opinion I value more. Except on the subject of clothes.” He looked his guest up and down. “You can keep those disturbing thoughts to yourself.”
Gisburne looked out across the rolling landscape, images of Mélisande flickering through his mind. His first sight of her in the wintry streets of Paris – like the miracle of a spring bloom in all that grim, filthy chaos. Their first meeting at her encampment outside Marseille, and her complex game of feigned coyness and coquetry. Unmasking her in a forest in France, her eyes fiery, her hair full and wild. The sad, strong look on her face as she had surrendered herself to Tancred – to save Gisburne’s life. That last night in Wissant, knowing they had won, and were alive. Yes, especially that.
He took a deep breath. “I think she’s arrogant. Controlling, self-absorbed, impulsi
ve, and unreliable. And probably prohibitively expensive to keep.”
De Rosseley stared at him for a moment. “Don’t hold back or anything, will you?” He said. “If I didn’t know better I’d think you fancied her yourself.” De Rosseley always did have a knack for hitting the nail on the head without realising it. Gisburne supposed it was this instinct – or some aspect of it – that had kept him alive all these years.
“You want to know what I think?” said de Rosseley. Gisburne was not at all sure he did. His friend stared out over the trees, towards the hazy cloud of dust raised by the entourage of Mélisande de Champagne. Gisburne was certain there was longing in his eyes.
“I think you’re absolutely, totally right.”
Gisburne’s felt his heart leap in his chest.
“There was something just not right there. Some” – de Rosseley struggled to find the words – “some lack of connection.”
“Why, Ross – I never knew you were such a sentimentalist.”
“It’s like you were talking to her and not talking to her. Like there was someone else in there, hidden behind that façade. Half the time she was in my company, she just looked like she was in pain.”
My God, Ross, thought Gisburne. If you only knew...
De Rosseley sighed. “I just don’t want all that complication, you know?”
“Is this where you tell me you’d rather women were more like horses?” said Gisburne. Last time they’d met, that had almost been de Rosseley’s entire opinion on the matter.
“I will say this...” continued de Rosseley. “Grand as this place is – and it is grand, let’s not deny the fact – at the end of the day there’s only room for one arrogant, controlling, impulsive, self-absorbed person in it.”
“You missed out unreliable.”
De Rosseley waved the rebuke away, then planted both hands on the stone parapet. “I can’t say it doesn’t sadden me, though,” he said. “I mean – great arse.”
Gisburne felt his fists clench. “As I said,” he muttered, fighting to keep the indignation out of his voice, “such a sentimentalist.”
De Rosseley gave a snort of a laugh and slapped Gisburne on the back, then winced as his own battered bones protested.
“Well, thank you, Guy, for your honesty and plain speaking. You have confirmed what my gut was already telling me, and may well have saved me a lifetime of pain.” Gisburne felt a pang of guilt at de Rosseley words, but could not help but be amused that they came from the mouth of one who invited more pain into his life than anyone he knew. “Much as I love being tested to my limits by some worthy opponent – live for it, really – a fellow needs some respite. Not sure I want to fight battles at home as well.”
Gisburne smiled to himself. What de Gaillon would think of this small victory, he had no idea. But it was a victory, nonetheless. In his head he uttered a brief apology to the Count of Boulogne’s daughter, then looked once more at the train of wagons slowly receding into the distance, wondering when he would see her again. “You’d lose,” he said.
XXXII
Eastchepe
25 May, 1193
THE PAGE WAS running. It was one of Hamon’s boys who spotted him first; Galfrid saw him nudge his captain in the ribs and nod across the crowd. Galfrid followed the boys’ gaze along Eastchepe towards Tower Street, at first seeing nothing beyond a slight disturbance in the throng: sudden movements, hands thrown up, some accompanied by gruff exclamations.
Then he saw the flash of scarlet. Another shove, and it became the red livery of the Prince, almost glowing in the low, early evening sun. Another shout, and from the packed knot of people – through whom he pressed with fearless resolve – the boy emerged, his face as red as his tunic.
His name was Osbert – one of John’s messengers. He was ginger haired and ridiculously fresh faced; had his mother given him up as a babe, she would surely still recognise him now. Anyone could see he didn’t belong – none more so than the ring of ragged urchins gathered outside the door of Widow Fleet’s. As Osbert caught sight of Galfrid and made a determined beeline for him, they eyed him up and down like predators considering their next meal.
“Squire Galfrid!” said the boy, squeezing past the raggedy lads and kneeling in front of their master. He soiled his pristine knee on a scraping of horse dung, and a few of the boys sniggered. Hamon silenced them with a glare.
“What is it, boy?” said Galfrid. Unfazed by either the state of his hose or the half-dozen ragamuffins who now surrounded him, he stood, and – never once taking his eyes off his object – proffered a tiny, even square of white at the end of a poker-straight arm.
“Message for you, sire,” he said, in a clear, strong voice. The boy clearly took his duties seriously. Galfrid was sure he would go far.
“For me?” he said with a frown. He took the flimsy scrap – moist from the boy’s hot palm – and unfolded it.
It was in English – the language of King Alfred, Harold, and everyone in England below the rank of knight. Yet Galfrid, himself of pure Saxon stock, knew almost no one who wrote in it. A few clerks and poets, perhaps. A handful of monks maintaining age-old chronicles set in motion before the conquest. But, as a rule, those for whom it was their native tongue could neither read nor write and had little use for either skill, and those who could, wrote in Latin or French.
In a close, neat hand it said: Find me at the Red Dragon. Nothing else. No name, no other mark of any kind. It offered no clue as to whether this was meant as a code, a riddle, or some veiled reference to their elusive quarry. One quality, nonetheless, rendered it entirely distinct, and told Galfrid all he needed to know – a thing that had nothing whatever to do with the words.
It was written on paper.
Galfrid had not seen paper since Acre, and knew of only one person who used it.
“Hamon,” said Galfrid. “Where would I find the Red Dragon?”
“You mean the inn?” said Hamon. “There’s a few of ’em. But the closest is dahn there,” he pointed east. “On the right, in ’Arp lane.”
“Good,” said Galfrid. He crumpled the note in his fist and looked down at Osbert, whose intensely serious baby face was still staring up at him. “You get yourself back to the Tower fast as you can,” he said. Osbert nodded, and was off like a hare pursued by greyhounds, plunging once more into the bustling crowd.
“The rest of you lads know what you’re looking for,” said Galfrid as he strode off. “Now hop to it!” Not to be outdone, Hamon’s boys dispersed in all directions like wasps from a fallen nest.
THE HEAVING INTERIOR of the Red Dragon was thick with the warm, yeasty smell of stale drink and damp floorboards.
Scanning the room, Galfrid immediately spied a familiar figure sat alone at a rickety table in the far corner, nursing a mug of ale with a dour expression. With a private smile he wove his way through the sweaty patrons and plonked himself down opposite.
“I thought you couldn’t come out in daylight,” said Galfrid.
Llewellyn of Newport harumphed and scowled at the squire. “Believe me, if I could avoid coming out in the open, I would. It’s not good for the business I am in.” He sucked at his ale and wiped the back of his hand across his grizzled beard. “But we are a diminishing band at the Tower, so needs must...”
“Diminishing?”
Llewellyn held up his hands. “Don’t ask. Suffice to say, Fitz Thomas seeks to gain favour with the King’s men by making Prince John’s life as difficult as possible.” He huffed in irritation. “But at least when he stabs him in the back he does so with a smile on his face, eh?”
Without further comment, he reached down by his side and his hand reappeared grasping a rough-edged scroll tied with a faded ribbon which he slapped upon the table top. The parchment was wrapped about a bar of honey-coloured wood and went down with such a thwack it made Galfrid jump.
“What’s that?” he said.
“It’s the thing you’ve been waiting for,” said Llewellyn. Then, when Galfri
d failed to offer a response, he leaned forward and added: “Take a look.”
Galfrid, who knew perfectly well what the scroll was, looked about him at the chattering men packed between the inn’s uneven walls.
“Here?”
Llewellyn sighed. “You think any of these imbeciles knows what it is, or what use to make of it?” He did not bother to lower his voice. No one reacted. “How many d’you think can even read it?”
It was a fair point. With a shrug, Galfrid pulled the ribbon free, unrolled the document and spread it flat upon the table.
The Milford Roll was not long – the parchment barely warranted being rolled at all. The majority of it was taken up by a list of a few dozen names written in a small, neat hand across three columns, but at the top, in a distinctly separate section headed by a lofty proclamation in Latin that Galfrid did not bother to read, was a handful of names in much larger and more ostentatious characters. Several, he recognised: Bardulf, Wendenal, de Rosseley – and Gisburne. He raised his eyebrows at that. But of course... ‘G.’ Gisburne’s own father had been one of those dancing men all this time. But the question was, had his master left the name unwritten for the sake of brevity, or did he not wish Galfrid to know? His secrecy had already proved a sore point.
“Well, there it is,” said Llewellyn, sitting back. “The Milford Roll – whatever good it may do you.”
“We are searching for one large rat in a city of twenty thousand rats,” said Galfrid. “Anything that may help transform that quest from the impossible to the merely tortuous is most welcome.”
“This rat has a habit of announcing himself,” said Llewellyn. His voice seemed suddenly to have lost its edge of gruff, world-weary humour. “It’s the other reason I am here. There is news that could not be trusted to a messenger...” He leaned in close, his expression grave, his voice lowered to a husky whisper, only just audible above the din. “You see this name?” He placed a finger to the scroll.
Hunter of Sherwood: The Red Hand Page 27
