As a server brought more beer to the table, Galfrid dipped a sausage in mustard, took a great bite, then violently spat it out on the waiter’s shoes. “Christ! Are you trying to poison me?” he howled. “If that’s German hospitality I’d hate to be around when you’re pissed off!” The waiter shouted something incomprehensible – but clearly angry, in any language. Several patrons nearby were immediately on their feet. Galfrid was momentarily obscured from view. Gisburne could just hear his voice, raised in indignant protest. Otto stepped forward from his post, sensing trouble.
With all eyes turned to the apparently suicidal little English squire, Gisburne inched his way to the tapestry. He slipped his hand behind it, pulled its edge forward from the wall, and peered behind. The door was half open, a light flickering within. A shadow passed across it. Gisburne drew the tapestry further back – then a rough hand dragged him back by the neck of his coat.
“What the Hell are you doing?” growled Günther, and swung him around, away from the door. As Gisburne wheeled around, he caught Galfrid’s eye again, and shot an urgent, wide-eyed look at the squire.
Galfrid saw it and, misinterpreting Gisburne’s intention completely, upped the diversion by head-butting the waiter.
All Hell broke loose. Otto waded into the fray. Gisburne broke away from Günther and piled in to save his squire, just as Otto heaved the flailing figure of Galfrid from the crush like wet-nurse lifting a babe from its bath.
“Genug!”
With a single word, Günther brought the brawl to a shuddering stop. Fuming, he advanced on Gisburne, who struggled against restraining hands. All cleared a path for the German; Gisburne had rarely seen such deference, even for a prince.
“My brother may have been a misguided fool,” hissed Günther. “But he was still my brother. I give you one chance to leave here with your life. But should you ever set foot in here again, it will be immediately forfeit.”
And without further comment, Gisburne and Galfrid were thrown into the street.
THEY HAD RIDDEN no more than a dozen yards when Gisburne stopped, panic writ upon his face. He patted his belt urgently.
“What is it?” asked Galfrid.
“I have to go back,” said Gisburne.
Galfrid stared at him in disbelief. “You what?”
“My eating knife,” he said. “I left it on the table.”
“I’ll get you another...”
Gisburne shook his head. “No – no, you don’t understand. I have to go back.” He dismounted.
“They’ll kill you.”
“I won’t give them the chance,” said Gisburne and began to creep back towards the tavern door.
Galfrid also dismounted, though whether he meant to stop his master or help him, he wasn’t sure. “But what’s your plan?”
“I walk in, grab the knife. Walk out. Possibly run out.”
“And me?”
“Just be ready with the horses.” Gisburne was already back at the door.
Galfrid hung back. “That’s it?” he hissed. “The whole plan?”
“Trust me. It’ll be the last thing they’re expecting. By the time they know what’s going on I’ll be out of that door and back in the saddle.”
And with that, Gisburne pulled up his hood, and plunged in.
XLIX
AT THE PRECISE moment the heavy door crashed shut behind his master, Galfrid heard a voice call his name. A female voice. Instantly familiar.
“Squire Galfrid!”
Galfrid turned, and looked. His heart leapt – and sank. “Oh... balls.”
It was, perhaps, the least likely sight Galfrid could have imagined on this grim street – for there, on a richly decorated litter carried aloft by four strong servants, was Mélisande de Champagne. She beamed her irresistible smile at him. “What a piece of luck finding you here!”
There was an indistinct shout from inside the tavern. Galfrid smiled weakly – torn between joy at seeing her and a desperate urge to get her as far from this place as possible. “Indeed...” he said. “But... You should leave, my lady. This is not a good place to be.”
Mélisande looked askance at him, then gave a laugh. “If you’re in London and seeking passage on a ship to France, I’d say it was the perfect place to be...”
Galfrid glanced nervously towards the tavern door, his hands gripping the reins tighter. “You misunderstand... Please. You should get away. As fast as you can. The streets... They’re not safe.” To his own surprise, he found himself trying to shoo the litter-bearers as he spoke the words.
“What’s the matter, Galfrid?” she said with an amused smile. “D’you think I can’t handle myself?”
Few people in Galfrid’s wide experience could handle themselves quite as well as Mélisande de Champagne. But she had no idea what she was walking into. Above the raucous buzz of the tavern’s interior came a sudden crash. Galfrid started and turned at the sound.
“Is Sir Guy with you?” she said, hopefully. Then she followed his gaze back to the tavern. From within came raised voices – harsh, Germanic oaths. Something smashed against the door, almost shaking it off its hinges.
The door was hauled open roughly. Shouting, and heat, and the smell of burnt fat, stale beer and sweat erupted – and with them came Gisburne, flung bodily into the street. He rolled to a halt at Galfrid’s feet, as an angry rabble of cursing, Teutonic roughs swarmed into the narrow thoroughfare, armed with every kind of implement: knives, stools, an earthenware jug dripping beer, a poker still smoking from the fire.
They flowed about them – more than he could have imagined the place could hold – the litter swaying and tipping like a ship in a storm as it was swept out of sight by the angry throng. Before Galfrid knew it, he, Gisburne and their horses were staring at a solid wall of scowling, grim faces upon every side. For a moment, nobody moved.
“So,” said Galfrid as his master struggled to his feet. “How did that go for you?”
“Not so well. You?”
“I’m still here. Did you get your precious knife?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that’s something. What was it you said again – that we absolutely must not allow to happen?”
“Forget that.”
“So what’s the plan now?”
“Not dying.”
It was then that the crowd parted, and Günther von Köln stepped into the arena. At his shoulder staggered the hulking figure of Otto – now, somewhat inexplicably, with a two-headed eagle imprinted on his forehead.
Günther looked Gisburne up and down, shook his head, then began to laugh. “You are either one of the bravest men I ever met, or one of the most stupid.”
“Opinions differ on that score,” said Gisburne, glancing at Galfrid.
“The question is,” said Günther, “what to do with you now.” His eye moved to Nyght. He looked the stallion up and down admiringly. “Yours?”
Gisburne nodded, and Günther stepped closer. “Your legendary black charger!” he said. “Quite beautiful.” Nyght shook his head and stamped. “Well, I am a merchant. So here is my proposition to you: your life, in exchange for this fine horse.” He put an arm about Nyght’s neck and patted it.
Galfrid saw Gisburne tense. His fists clenched. Then he heard him mutter under his breath. “Remember Carcassonne?”
“Of course,” said Galfrid. “High up. Lots of walls.”
“I mean the donkey.”
“The don – ? No... You mean?”
“Yes. Get ready.”
Galfrid gripped his trusty pilgrim staff tighter.
“When you ladies are quite finished...” said Günther irritably. “Do we have a deal? Or do I let Otto loose on you?” Otto growled.
Then Gisburne leaned forward, bared his teeth, and snapped his jaw together three times.
Günther stared in bemusement. “What in Hell is that suppo –” He was cut short by Nyght’s teeth clamping onto Günther’s right ear, and tossing his head so hard that the German was almo
st pulled off his feet. Gisburne drew both sword and seax and booted Otto in the stomach, sending him staggering backwards and taking two more with him. “Heads!” shouted Galfrid, and Gisburne dropped to his knee as the squire swung his staff about him in great swooping arcs, cracking a new head with each revolution. One after another, its victims fell at their comrades’ feet.
A trio of mariners, thinking taking a prize better than fighting – or perhaps to deny their enemy a means of escape – went to grab the horses. Nyght broke the leader’s jaw with a flying hoof, then bucked and kicked two more behind him, sending them hurtling backwards into their comrades. No one troubled the horses after that.
Gisburne, meanwhile – crouched low beneath the booming staff – was also kept busy. Those behind the decimated front rank, frustrated at being denied the fight, had begun to hurl a barrage of objects at the pair: ale mugs, parts of a chair, plates, a boot, a heaved-up cobble. A wooden bowl caught Galfrid a glancing blow on the temple. An earthenware jug smacked into Gisburne’s chest and smashed on the cobbles, spraying the squire with beer. Gisburne batted them aside with both blades as if it were some frenzied childhood game. In each lull he struck out, cracking a knee of one with the back of his seax, lashing another across the face with the flat of his sword. Out of nowhere, between two bodies, a polearm was thrust at him. Gisburne dodged it, knocked it down with his sword and stepped on the shaft, pitching its owner into the arena on all fours, his face just inches from Gisburne’s. The pommel of Gisburne’s sword put him down for the remainder of the fight.
Galfrid realised that the Germans’ one advantage – greater numbers – had been almost neutralised when they’d surrounded their opponents. He even began to see the real possibility of escape. Then, in his moment of greatest hope, the staff stopped against a bar mace with a jarring crack. He stumbled, and before he could recover, they closed in like a pack of wolves.
The fight was messy. There was grabbing, scratching, smashing of fists. Galfrid and Gisburne gave as good as they got, but sheer numbers were going to get the better of them.
Suddenly, there came a shout from beyond the fray. Then another. Men cried in pain, and surprise. Günther’s men turned in shock. Someone was coming to the Englishmen’s aid. Grabbing what advantage they could, Gisburne and Galfrid felled those nearest them with a series of ferocious blows. Their attackers stepped back, suddenly unsure what they were facing. A space cleared – and a huge German was sent skidding across the muddy street towards Gisburne and Galfrid.
All stopped dead, and Günther – lost in the fray once the mêlée had begun – was once again revealed. He and his men stared in amazement. Standing in the space, sword in one hand and mace in the other, her hair wild, was Mélisande, bloodied men sprawled all about her.
“Well, there goes the secret identity,” muttered Galfrid.
GISBURNE LOOKED ON in wonderment and horror, his heart thumping in his chest. This was the best and worst thing he could have imagined.
By now he had imagined her to be hundreds of miles distant. He told himself that if he could transport her there with a wish, he would. Yet when he looked on her face, burning with fearless and irresistible passion, all selfless resolve faltered.
“Good to see you,” he called.
“You too,” responded Mélisande, eyes fixed on her wary opponents.
“What brings you here?”
“I was just passing through.”
“To where?”
“France.”
Günther, meanwhile, burst into astonished laughter, shaking his head in disbelief. “You two know each other?” Half his ear was now missing, blood coursing down the side of his head, yet his face registered a curious kind of joy. He clapped his hands as he guffawed. “Well, this just got more interesting than even I could have imagined...” He put his hand across his breast, and bowed. “Madam, I am no slave to custom. I embrace new ideas and bold endeavours of all kinds. And so I must salute the manner in which you have overcome the disadvantage of your sex.”
“Disadvantage?” said Mélisande. At that, she whipped around and buried the point of her right boot in the nearest German’s groin. The whole assembled company winced at the impact. Incapable of exclamation, the man crumpled, a sound like a broken bellows issuing from him as he hit the ground. She glared back at Günther. “What disadvantage?”
Günther chuckled in delight and turned to address his men, arms spread wide. “You see? This is why I love London! Just when you think you’ve seen it all, up pops something you could not possibly have expected.” Some laughed gruffly with him.
He turned back to her. “My lady, you are truly a revelation, if a short-lived one...” His laughter suddenly faded. “But it is time to move on from this play-acting.”
“Play-acting? You think I do this for entertainment?”
Günther looked Mélisande up and down, then turned his gaze upon Gisburne, a sly smile upon his lips. “I think, perhaps, yes...” Then the smile also dwindled. “But I have no argument with you. This business is between me and Sir Guy. Be on your way. Back to your woman’s things.”
Gisburne had noted no signal, no instruction, yet as Günther had been speaking, his men had begun to shift and reconfigure. Bit by bit, he now realised, the Germans were surrounding them once again. He could see Mélisande sensed it too.
“Go,” he breathed. “Go quickly...”
She looked at him, and flashed a sweet smile. Then turning back to Günther, she raised her sword point. “If you fight Gisburne, you fight me.”
Günther’s eyes remained fixed upon Gisburne, his voice like cold steel on stone. “My lady... You have only to walk away. I suggest you do so. Consider this my last warning.”
Gisburne looked at Mélisande, his eyes pleading for her to do so.
“And you listen to my warning,” she said through clenched teeth. “No one has yet died today. Until now, each side has spared the other the blade. But if you think I will hold back once you take this next step, you are mistaken. If you fight me, you will have to kill me.”
Gisburne winced at the words. They were meant as an ultimatum, to force Günther to back down. But in the few minutes he had known Günther, he had learned that such a tactic was folly. He also knew that in the month that had passed since her encounter with the Red Hand her wounds would not have completely healed, that her strength would be reduced, her responses slowed, her movements restricted. And yet here she was, about to throw herself into the wolf pit.
The German shrugged. “Have it your way.” And he turned to signal to his men. Gisburne tightened his grip on sword and seax. Galfrid released the hidden blade from his staff.
“Do you have any idea what that will bring down upon your head?” she said, now with a note of desperation in her voice.
“But of course. How silly of me.” Günther’s tone was harsh, mocking. He had tired of this amusement. “Your father is the Count of Boulogne. And that is supposed to intimidate me, is it not? Well, my lady, a new age is coming. In twenty years we’ll own him – along with the Holy Roman Emperor and the King of England.” He nodded to his men to close in for the kill.
“Enough!”
The voice boomed from outside the circle. An English voice. Yet at its sound, Günther held his men back.
For the third time, the rabble parted, and into the ring stepped a hooded figure. He was lean-faced, a thin scar across one eye, with the manner and physique of a soldier. And from his left hand were missing the first two fingers.
“Ranulph Le Fort...” muttered Gisburne.
Ranulph stepped forward to face Gisburne. He had no trace of fear about him.
“You say this man’s name is Gisburne?” he said. He addressed Günther as an equal.
Günther frowned. “It is. What of it?”
Ranulph frowned, and studied Gisburne’s face. “I knew his father. And he has been striving to prevent my death these past few weeks, as he tried to prevent Baylesford’s.” His voice dropped. “And
all the others...” There was pain behind his eyes. “He has done this with little thought for his own safety, as you see plainly.”
Günther looked about at the carnage. “You are saying I should spare him? After all this?”
“It’s what Baylesford would have wished,” said Ranulph.
That struck home. Günther looked hard at Gisburne. “You are using up your many lives with amazing rapidity, my friend. You should take more care.” He turned to his men, and his icy demeanour suddenly shifted to that of an affable host. “Well, then – we have no more business to discuss. Perhaps, after all, the world is more interesting with Guy of Gisburne still in it.” He turned to Mélisande with a bow. “And you, too, my lady. My apologies for inconveniencing you. And my best regards to your father.” And with that, he and his men melted away.
The trio were left standing in a deserted street, Ranulph facing Gisburne.
“Well, here we all are, then,” said Galfrid.
“It’s time we talked, you and I,” said Ranulph. “Alone.”
L
Eastchepe
22 June, 1193
WIDOW FLEET HARDLY knew what to do with herself. As they had crashed through the front door, she had beetled out in her nightdress, her hair awry, eyes like muddy puddles, fully prepared to berate her tenants for bursting in upon the house so late with no thought for those already abed. Doubtless she had expected to find Gisburne and Galfrid the worse for drink, and ripe for moral censure. What she actually saw in the light of her flickering candle, however, threw her into total confusion: the two men muddy, beaten and bruised, and with them – in a no less disordered state – a lady of noble bearing. As the trio fell into the hall and towards the stairs, she gaped, open-mouthed.
Hunter of Sherwood: The Red Hand Page 39
