Gisburne, meanwhile, practised with the bow. They rode and sparred upon Hamstede Heath, and Gisburne had taken to wearing his mailcoat again – not just for this training, but all day. To get used to its weight again, he said – but these days it seemed wise to go protected. Galfrid had followed suit; they were now on a war footing.
On the evening of the twenty-second day of June, with Hood’s execution date two days away, Galfrid found himself in an inn just off Jewen Street, sat opposite his master.
“So, what are we doing here?” said Galfrid.
“The weapons,” said Gisburne, “did you pack them?”
“They’re with the horses. But why?”
“We’re going to an inn.”
“An inn.” Galfrid looked around him. “Am I missing something?”
“A different inn. One frequented by our friend Isaac.”
“But Isaac is at home this night. He has friends dining with him – to celebrate the last lick of paint going back on his walls.”
“Exactly!” said Gisburne, and his eyes gleamed.
Galfrid sighed. “Do you keep me in the dark on purpose,” he said, “or is it an illness?”
Gisburne leaned forward, and spoke so they might not be overheard. “These past few nights our friend Isaac has been visiting an inn near the wharves at Douegate. Not a very safe place for a London Jew to venture – and certainly not a place of which Elazar would approve. Why do you think he does that?”
“Perhaps he just likes that kind of inn,” said Galfrid.
“It’s not that kind of inn. And anyway, does he look like the sort?”
Galfrid shrugged as if to say: “You never can tell.”
“But there’s another thing...” said Gisburne. “Yesterday – quite independently, it would seem – that same place was visited by another friend of ours.”
Galfrid couldn’t think of any friends; and if Gisburne meant enemies, the list was too long to even contemplate.
“Bearded,” explained Gisburne. “Extremely tall. Likes to put on armour and bash people’s brains in...”
“He was there?”
“And gone again before we could make anything of it. But his being there at all tells us much.”
“You don’t suspect some connection between the Red Hand and Isaac?”
“But there already is a connection.”
“Ranulph?” said Galfrid.
“Ranulph,” said Gisburne. “Consider this: the Red Hand strikes at Isaac’s house. Ranulph runs. He hides out, but also gets word to Isaac to reassure him he is safe. Isaac, who is now regularly apprised of our efforts, arranges to meet him so he can pass on that information.”
“You think Ranulph is at that inn?”
“He has not been seen,” said Gisburne. “Not once. But I would stake my life on it. The place is a haunt of Hansa merchants. They are a closed community, untouchable by the authorities. I doubt there’s a better place to hide in all London.”
“I’ve heard tell that Baylesford had dealings with the Hansa. And his ship lies at dock a mere stone’s throw away. Perhaps Ranulph means to leave on it.”
“If he hasn’t already,” said Gisburne. “But we find out tonight, come hell or high water.” He sat back and drained his cup.
“So, to go back to my original question,” said Galfrid, “if our business is at an inn down near the wharves, why are we here?”
“We’re here to make sure that Isaac is not there.”
“Well, I saw him not half an hour ago,” said Galfrid, “welcoming his guests. Settling in for the evening.”
Gisburne smiled. “Then we are free to go.” A commotion near the door made both turn, and Galfrid glimpsed the flailing limbs of a familiar gangling figure fighting to get past the mistress of the establishment. “And, if I’m not mistaken, here comes our guide...”
XLVIII
Douegate
22 June, 1193
THE EXTERIOR OF the Hansa’s tavern was black as a crow’s belly. It stood in a dark, cobbled street just where the River Wallbrooke flowed into the Thames, and was built of the thickest timbers Gisburne had ever seen – some carved with the shapes of outlandish maritime creatures. From within came the muffled drone of dark, unfamiliar music. But for a single white gull, the street itself was utterly deserted, as if everyone in London knew something about it that Gisburne and his squire did not.
“If fighting breaks out,” said Gisburne as they tied the horses, “the one thing we absolutely must not allow to happen is for it to spill into the street.”
Galfrid nodded slowly as Gisburne strapped his sword to his left side, then drew his seax from his saddle and concealed it beneath his horsehide coat at his right. “And do you think fighting is likely to break out?” he said. Somehow, Gisburne had managed to make it sound like a certainty.
Gisburne chose to ignore the question. He tightened his belt a notch, adjusted his purse and eating knife, and straightened the mail beneath his black coat. “Inside, the fight is contained. Quarters are too close for swords to be drawn. But outside...” His voice trailed off. He took a deep breath as they turned and stood before the low, black door.
“Well, I’ve heard German hospitality can be generous,” said Galfrid. “That King Richard has been afforded certain luxuries whilst in prison.” He shrugged. “Maybe they’ll extend us a warm welcome.”
Gisburne pushed the heavy door open.
THE GLOOMY, COBBLED interior was a mere two steps down from the level of the street. Yet, as they had ducked their heads beneath the monstrous lintel and stepped in, it had felt as if they were descending into some hidden subterranean realm – a place of dwarf blacksmiths and gold-hoarding dragons.
To say it was austere was an understatement. As near as Gisburne could tell, every surface was stained or painted black, making those that were lit just as dark as those in shadow. The black benches and tables were tall, and angular, and oddly skeletal in character, and across them stretched a sea of shaven heads and grim faces, weirdly illuminated by the thick candles that were dotted about the benches. Every pair of glinting eyes was on them.
As they stepped forward, the thrum of chatter hushed, but even when it was clear to Gisburne that he and Galfrid were the topic of conversation, it did not cease. It did not need to. There was no English, no French spoken here, and of German, Gisburne grasped but one word in twenty. Nothing about their surroundings – not the clothes, nor the furniture, nor even the smell of the food or ale – had the familiarity of home.
They heard the door clank shut behind them. Gisburne turned to see a thickset man with a forked beard leaning against it, toying casually with a thin, black-handled blade. There was no going back now. Next to him, on the inside of the door, a disc of bronze imprinted with a two-headed eagle marked the place as Hansa territory.
“We’re not in England any more,” muttered Gisburne. Then he turned and smiled pleasantly, as, one by one, the faces turned away, back to their own business.
At the farthest wall of the tavern’s deep innards, Gisburne spied a hawk-faced man whose chair was raised higher than the rest, his table heavy with silver platters. The chair in which he sat was practically a throne, the backrest – higher than his head – carved into the shape of the same two-headed eagle that adorned the door. As he sat and picked at his meal with long pale fingers, he conversed with a broad-shouldered, shaven-headed man who stood at his right hand, his eyes fixed on the newcomers.
Gisburne nudged Galfrid. “What do you think?” he said. “The king of this place?”
“At the very least,” said Galfrid.
“Well, then. No point wasting time.” And he strode towards the Hansa king. At his approach, the man sat forward and placed his fingers together, but before Gisburne could set foot on the low dais, his crony – almost a head taller than Gisburne – stepped forward and stopped him with a firm hand against his chest.
“Otto,” said the Hansa king, and waved his hand. Otto withdrew. He sat back again.
“I am Günther von Köln,” he said. “You are welcome here. May I ask your business?”
Gisburne bowed his head in acknowledgement. He had no idea of this man’s status. He had given himself no title – was not an earl or baron, nor commander of an army – yet here he clearly held sway.
“I come not to trade,” said Gisburne, “but in search of two men. One whose life I believe is in danger, named Ranulph Le Fort.”
“Never heard of him,” said Günther. The response was too swift, too neat for Gisburne to believe it. He decided, for now, to move on.
“The other is the man who threatens him. The killer who is now abroad in this city, known as the Red Hand. I am tasked with hunting him down. I believe he may have been here.”
Günther’s eyes narrowed. “You think this a den of murderers?”
“He would not have seemed a villain,” said Gisburne. “But his appearance is distinct. He is large. Larger even than him.” He gestured to Otto. “Shaggy haired, and bearded. Perhaps dressed like a tinker. And his accent would be Irish.”
The German nodded slowly, reaching for his goblet. “Perhaps you can tell me on whose behalf you perform this deed. It may help me to understand why I should help you.”
“Prince John of England,” said Gisburne, “whose life is also threatened.”
Günther almost choked on his wine. “This is supposed to persuade me?” He began to laugh. Several nearby chuckled with him.
Gisburne, however, had another weapon. “If his name means nothing to you,” he said, “then do it for the sake of Thomas of Baylesford – a fellow merchant cruelly slain by the fiend.”
At this, Günther’s expression became deadly serious – but his eyes showed no surprise. That told Gisburne everything. He could not possibly be aware that it was Baylesford who had perished in the house on Jewen Street, unless he had been told by the only ones who knew – Isaac or Ranulph. Günther sat for a moment, staring at Gisburne, his eyes unblinking. “There was such a man as you describe,” he said at length. “He came looking for Baylesford. He said Baylesford owned a ship and he wished to charter it. His reason did not convince me. I said I could not help him. Then he enquired about hiring a ship from the Hansa – for a great purpose, he said. That it would help him be rid of someone who I would also be glad to get rid of. When he told me the man’s name, I admit I was tempted. But I don’t hand over ships to people I don’t trust, and I don’t trust anyone without money up front. Especially in these troubled times.” He shrugged. “So, I sent him packing.” He thought for a moment. “That is the phrase, is it not? ‘Sent him packing’?”
Gisburne looked at Galfrid with a frown. “Was he planning his escape?” said Galfrid
Gisburne turned back to their host. “When did he require this ship?”
“The twenty-third day of June,” said Günther. “Tomorrow.”
The day before Hood’s execution. The day before Gisburne had supposed he would strike. Did he really plan to depart then? It seemed to make no sense. “Where was it bound?” said Gisburne.
“He did not say.”
“But surely the crew...”
“He desired no crew,” said Günther. “Just the ship. From the western end of the wharves, by the bridge. He was quite specific.”
“No crew...? Did he mean to supply his own?”
“I saw none. But, either way, he was not getting his hands on one of my ships.”
Galfrid frowned. “Without a crew he’d be lucky to get as far as Wapping Marsh.”
“You understand my reticence,” said Günther. “And since it has transpired he is also the murderer, my instincts would seem to have been proven correct.”
“Why do you think he brought this request to you?”
Günther shrugged again. “You know what we are – how we operate. We have no restrictions placed upon us. We go where we choose, trade as we choose. No tolls, no taxes. Such was the dispensation granted us by the old King, may God rest his soul. A great man. Forward thinking. We shall have to see how this new one is, should he ever come back. We also have a reputation for – how shall I say it? – keeping ourselves to ourselves. Not entirely unfounded – we bother no one if no one bothers us. And of late, I will admit, we have withdrawn a little further from public life. These streets are now not so friendly to foreigners. Too many unruly elements looking for excuses to get even more unruly. Anyway, all these attributes of ours he perhaps saw as advantages in his... quest.”
“One thing puzzles me,” said Gisburne. Günther reached for a walnut, and cocked his head on one side. “You haven’t yet asked who I am.”
“Oh, I know who you are,” he said. “You are Guy of Gisburne.”
This, Gisburne had not expected. “How did you know that?”
“It is my business to know in my city.”
“Your city?” Gisburne laughed. “You know, you’re the third person this month who has told me this city is theirs. You people really should get together.”
Günther laughed without humour, and cracked the walnut between his palms. “There is another reason for me knowing about you...” He began to pick out the bits from the shattered shell. “I have heard of the exploits of the famous Dark Horseman on his black charger,” he said. “At Castel Mercheval and beyond. It is quite a thrill to finally meet him.” He smiled and popped a shard of walnut into his mouth. The cronies on either side chuckled.
Gisburne’s own smile fell away. “I’m not what people think I am,” he said.
“Oh, on the contrary,” said Günther, looking him up and down, “you are exactly as I expected.” The cronies chuckled harder. Günther flicked at the wreckage of the walnut for a few moments, then added: “I understand you knew my brother.”
This caught Gisburne completely off guard. His mind raced, trying to recall all the Germans he had ever encountered in his life. Of this rich and varied parade, not one came to mind as significant. Seeing his struggle, Günther leaned forward to fill the gap in his memory. “His name was Ulrich,” he said, “and he died at Castel Mercheval. By your hand.” The smile withered on his lips. “You see, it was you the Red Hand offered to rid me of...”
IN ALL HIS years, in spite of all the battles he had fought and all the enemies he had made, Gisburne had never yet stood face-to-face with a relative of one he had killed. There had been no hysterical parents, no devastated wives. No embittered siblings or offspring bent on revenge. Now, the fact struck him as extraordinary. Had it been merely luck that had spared him this? And was it that same capricious agency that had put Ulrich’s brother before him today? He cared nothing for this man Günther. But somehow, that was not the point. There were certain thoughts one did not wish to entertain in battle – that were kept at bay behind the thickest wall one could build – and now he felt those defences crumble. For the first time he wondered not only what number he had killed in his time on earth, but how many holes he had left in families.
With a soldier’s instincts, Gisburne readied himself for whatever violence Günther meant to unleash. Perhaps for the first time in his life, he found he could not blame him for it.
Günther rose to his feet. “Fortunately, it was not a sufficiently tempting offer,” he said. “My brother was unwise in his choice of masters. He paid the price for that folly. Now our business is done.” He turned to Otto. “Give these men whatever they want. Show them some German hospitality...” Otto bowed as Günther left the dais, passed behind a tapestry curtain and disappeared through a concealed doorway.
FOR SOME TIME, Gisburne and Galfrid – stunned at the bizarre turn of events – had sat where Otto placed them, staring at the beer, bread and sausage upon the table. The food looked good, but neither was in much of a mood to eat. Galfrid picked at it as Gisburne – idly spinning his eating knife upon the table top – kept his eye fixed on the far end of the room. There, Günther sat and drank and talked as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.
“What now?” said Galfrid.
Gisburne
had been anticipating the question for the past half hour, but was still no closer to an answer. In that time, the crowd had thickened in the tavern. A few moments before, Günther had reappeared from the back room behind the tapestry and resumed his place, not once looking across at Gisburne as he did so. It was meant to appear casual – as if to avoid drawing attention to the room. But the whole time Günther had been absent, Otto had positioned himself before the door, guarding it.
And suddenly the course ahead became clear.
“I want to get a look in that room,” said Gisburne.
Galfrid stared at him. “Seriously?”
“We know Baylesford went looking for Ranulph. I think he was trying to get his old friend to come back with him to a place of safety. A place where Baylesford had friends. Powerful, secretive friends. Before they could move, the Red Hand struck. But Ranulph already knew where to go – and he’s been here ever since.” He turned to Galfrid. “I think Ranulph Le Fort is in that room.”
Galfrid looked pained. “You’re not going to... Are you...?”
“I just need a distraction,” said Gisburne. “Enough to get me in there. If I can just stand before him, I can convince him we mean to help. That he can help us.”
“And if he’s not in there?”
Gisburne shrugged. “Then I’ll just say I got lost on the way to the privy.”
Before Galfrid could say any more, Gisburne was on his feet and starting to weave through the crowd towards the small group of musicians – and closer to the concealed door. As he did so, he saw Günther’s eyes on him, and immediately turned and engaged the nearest drinker in conversation.
“The privy,” he said. “This way?”
The German – a stern-faced man with drooping black moustaches and a jaw like the prow of a boat – stared back at him blankly, clearly comprehending not a word Gisburne said.
“The privy,” repeated Gisburne. “For a piss. Here?” He mimed the act. At that the man burst into laughter. All of his front teeth were missing. He nodded and pointed across towards the other side of the room. When Gisburne glanced back towards Günther, he could no longer see him. Clapping his new German friend upon the shoulder, he looked across to Galfrid – who gave an almost imperceptible nod in response.
Hunter of Sherwood: The Red Hand Page 38
