IX
Ressons-sur-Matz, northern France
21 February, 1194
GISBURNE WINCED AS the big knight’s lance smashed against de Rosseley’s shield, sending shards of wood flying high in the air. The knights and retainers camped on the far side—now quite drunk—roared their approval, and fists were raised in triumph. Gruff oaths were bellowed out as de Rosseley turned his horse past their ranks and trotted back towards his attendants.
The sweet scent of freshly broken timber wafted on the air, mingling with the smell of horse dung, human sweat, mud and ale. These last two had formed an unlikely union, thanks to a split keg whose contents had formed a big, yeasty puddle opposite—prompting several of the big knight’s entourage to begin a game whose sole object was to shove each other in.
“What does that make it?” said Gisburne.
“Even,” said the squire, not once taking his eye from the lists. It was the most he had uttered in the past half-hour.
Each had now shattered one lance on the others’ shield—in theory, the highest-scoring hit, short of unhorsing your opponent outright—but on both occasions Gisburne had failed to note what the opposing lance had been doing. He vaguely recalled something about the points varying according to how far along the shaft the lance had been broken, or was that only when both lances were shattered on the same pass? He couldn’t remember. It seemed now that every tournament had its own arcane variation on the rules, usually made up that day by whoever was running the show, and not necessarily in the interests of either fairness or clarity.
To be honest, his grasp of this scene had always been sketchy. It infuriated him. Despite having stood at the lists in attendance of Gilbert de Gaillon as a young squire, this world—in which people fought for pleasure, and according to arbitrary rules—felt utterly alien. Perhaps what really made him angry was his own failure to grasp it.
De Rosseley was close now. Gisburne raised his head for a greeting, wondering if his old friend had spotted him standing there. But, as far as one could tell beneath the faceplate, de Rosseley remained aloof, his body language strangely still, as if concentration on the task at hand had shut out all else—as if hardly connected to his body at all. Gisburne knew that state, and envied him the ability to turn it on at will. Gaze fixed ahead, de Rosseley held out lance and shield to his attendant squires, even though to Gisburne they looked as good as new. Both were removed and replaced with such speed that their master’s hands barely had time to open and close before being filled again.
His opponent—less patient than he—was already lined up for the final pass, and was roaring out some incomprehensible challenge. De Rosseley, however, would not be rushed. He walked his horse in a slow arc, affording the big knight no attention whatsoever. Gisburne could see how that infuriated him—even his horse seemed to stamp in frustration.
The knight was enormous: a monster of a man on a monster of a horse. His destrier was Friesian, each black hoof as big as Gisburne’s face. The provenance of its rider, Gisburne could not guess. His armour was of decorated scales, in a Byzantine style. The blackened helm was Teutonic, with an ostentatious red plume upon the crown. The saddle had an Arab look to it. His shield—decorated with a red device that, to Gisburne, looked like a nun with a beak—was in a style he had never before seen: small and oddly shaped, and angled down the middle. The better to deflect a lance point, he guessed. And hanging from both the knight and his saddle were more weapons than Gisburne had ever seen on a single man: two fine swords, a variety of daggers, a short falchion, at least two maces, a flail and a long warhammer. These were just the ones he could see. Little wonder he needed a heavy horse for that lot.
The contrast between the two combatants could not have been greater. Everything about de Rosseley was light and sleek, not least his horse—a Cremello stallion of Iberian stock, unusually slender for its type but well-muscled and swift and silent as a ghost.
De Rosseley had barely signalled his readiness than the big knight was off—and at the first crash of its hooves, de Rosseley’s mount leapt forward.
GISBURNE BIT HIS lip as they closed the distance. Worrying about de Rosseley’s long-term safety was and had always been futile, but right now he needed him alive, and uninjured.
In the previous two passes, Gisburne had marvelled at how late, and how swiftly, de Rosseley lowered his lance. This time he was barely even aware of it happening. It struck dead centre of his opponent’s shield and with a great crack flew into three parts, two of which went spinning upwards, leaving puffs of dust in their wake. Gisburne winced at the impact, but de Rosseley rode on as if through dry grass.
The big knight—whose own lance tip had barely clipped de Rosseley’s shield—reeled and swayed dangerously in his saddle. His horse pulled hard to the right, snapping him upright. Gisburne wondered if he’d been trained to do that; it was a good trick if he had. But it mattered little now; the knight had lost. As he turned full about, Gisburne saw that his shield had split completely in two down the centre, its flapping halves now connected only by their straps and the linen covering.
Gisburne laughed, and clapped the squire on the shoulder. The young man gave a barely perceptible nod. Then, turning to look at the inscrutable young man, he thought he saw a fleeting frown.
Looking back across the lists, he saw that the big knight had thrown down both lance and shield, and—still shouting furiously—was now drawing his sword. Gisburne guessed that wherever he came from, he wasn’t used to being bettered. It was only when the sword was raised in the air that he realised the knight meant to charge again.
“He can’t do that...” muttered Gisburne, then turned to the squire. “Can he do that?”
The squire said nothing.
The big knight’s supporters roared. There was venom in it this time. They wanted blood.
De Rosseley would simply leave the field. Of course he would. That would be the sensible thing to do. Or someone would intervene. He had won fair and square, and the unwarranted challenge obliged him not at all. He could leave now—honour, head, and limbs intact—and leave the blustering rutterkin listening to his own rant.
But as Gisburne watched, de Rosseley threw down his own shield and what remained of his lance, and drew out a mace.
“No, no, no...” said Gisburne. “What’s he doing?”
The big knight lurched forward, sword drawn back. Gisburne could see he meant to pass along de Rosseley’s right side. From such a position, his blade—with all the force the big man could muster and the added momentum of his horse—could strike de Rosseley square across the neck. At best, his mail might stop the blade, and his head would not be taken off, but the blow would still kill him.
As the crowd roared its approval, forwarded Rosseley advanced, mace held low by his right side, taking exactly the line that favoured his opponent’s attack.
“This is madness,” said Gisburne. “His mace has half the reach of the sword. He cannot possibly...”
Gisburne wanted to look away, but found he could not. The sound of the bloodthirsty crowd rose to a great animalistic snarl.
In the heartbeat before they closed Gisburne had seen something odd. Keeping it low, so as to be barely noticeable, De Rosseley had passed the mace from his right hand to his left. Gisburne barely had time to ponder the seemingly absurd gesture before its significance was made abundantly clear. With the pair barely three yards from their encounter, de Rosseley pulled his horse hard across his opponent’s path. The big knight’s destrier, fearing collision, lurched violently. The knight faltered, thrown off balance. His blow never fell. De Rosseley passed along his opponent’s left—so close their stirrups clipped—and brought the mace up hard under the big knight’s chin.
The black helm flew high in the air, plume trailing like the tail of a bird. The knight tipped back, swivelled, crashed down onto the mud and rolled over three times, limbs flailing, his many weapons strewn across the field.
The squire turned, gave Gisburne the thinnest of smiles, then headed off to attend to his victorious master.
“GISBURNE!” CRIED DE Rosseley cheerily, pulling the sweat-stained arming cap from his head and ruffling his matted hair. “What in God’s name are you doing here?” As he dismounted, the inscrutable squire took his horse; another darted forward with a page in tow and received de Rosseley’s helm, stuffed now with the arming cap.
“Guy of Gisburne at tournament? It truly is the End of Days...” He strode forward, grinning broadly. Keeping pace with his master, the squire passed the headgear to the page, then did the same with the mace that was shoved under his nose. The page ran off with both and disappeared into the striped tent from which de Rosseley’s pennant flew. De Rosseley, meanwhile, unbuckled his belt and, without a glance, without breaking stride, held out his sword in its scabbard. This the squire kept for himself. Gisburne noted that once in possession of it, he strayed no more than three paces from his master, his arms folded about the sword as he cradled it against his left shoulder.
De Rosseley laughed and slapped his arms around his old friend, then stepped back and took a long look at him. “God’s teeth, man, you look half-dead!”
“I thought you entirely dead not moments ago,” said Gisburne.
De Rosseley shrugged. “Looks can be deceptive.”
“A principle that you seem to have worked to your advantage.” Gisburne nodded towards the lists where Sir Whatever-His-Name-Was—still out cold, or dead—was being attended by grey-faced squires.
As he spoke, the page returned at a scurry, pewter jug in hand, and offered up a silver cup to his master. De Rosseley did not speak, did not even look, but simply stretched out his hand, closed his fingers about the cup and raised it to his lips in one unbroken motion. As Gisburne watched, once again entranced by the seamless operation of a knight’s entourage, he became suddenly aware of an identical cup hovering at his side, proffered by a second page. He took it with not half the elegance of his old friend.
“Welcome to France,” De Rosseley said, “where they have the good sense to allow the Conflictus Gallicus.” He clanked his cup against Gisburne’s, and both drank. It was the finest wine Gisburne had tasted in months.
“Fear not,” said Gisburne. “The tournament will return to England when Richard does.”
“If he does,” sighed de Rosseley, and drank again.
Gisburne was just about to follow this with some enigmatic comment when a raucous laugh from a party of knights nearby made de Rosseley turn, he regarded them with contempt.
“Look at these bastards,” he said, thrusting his drink in their direction. “Every time, they do this...”
Gisburne looked, but all he could see was a group of well-to-do, unarmoured men enjoying some wine.
“They sit out the preliminaries as if they’ve no intention of taking part in the mêlée. They avoid injuries, size up the fighters, look for weaknesses. They watch them wear themselves out in the joust and single combat. Then on the day of the melée, these trundle-tails suddenly declare their intent and pick off all who they know to be weak or injured.” He shook his head and snorted in disgust. “Vultures! It should be outlawed. In the joust they call lance-dodging ‘failure to present.’ You get thrown out for it. Ridiculed! But how is this any better?” He held out his cup. It was immediately refilled.
“Well, you know my thoughts on the tournament...” said Gisburne.
De Rosseley drank again—more irritably, this time—wiped his mouth and narrowed his eyes. “I’ll be honest, it’s making me uneasy seeing you here. Like bumping into a nun in a whorehouse.”
“Do you speak from experience?”
“Just a figure of speech, old boy. Well, come on, out with it... I know you didn’t set foot on a ship just to watch me joust. And you look like a man who’s ready to leave before you’ve even properly arrived.”
Gisburne’s eyes flicked to the aloof squire and he lowered his voice. “I have come to ask if you would join me on a quest. A very important quest.”
“What is it this time? The Ark of the Covenant?”
“There is a wolf in the forest that must be put down,” said Gisburne. Then, realising he was talking in riddles, added, “An outlaw of my acquaintance.”
“An outlaw?” said de Rosseley with a quizzical frown, “or the outlaw?
“Yes. That one.”
De Rosseley nodded slowly. “So, you’ve decided to finish business?”
“Let’s just say it was decided for me.” Gisburne drew closer. “Listen Ross, I must be honest with you. This is not ritual combat; not a glorious contest. It is war, and our enemy is to be hunted down and put to death by any means necessary. I dare say there will be little honour in it, and I know that is not to your taste. But I need good fighters. Those I can rely on. It will be a hard fight, too. If we all come through unscathed, I may be forced to believe in miracles again...”
“Why, you make it sound so enticing.”
“Once done, it will rid England of its most vile pest—and earn more gold than a dozen tournaments, if you’ve a taste for it.” Gisburne drew a gold coin from his poke and held it out to him. “See here.”
At that, de Rosseley’s face fell. He turned to the squire. “Go.” The squire scampered swiftly away.
De Rosseley reached out to the coin—and closed Gisburne’s fist back around it. “What the Hell are you thinking?”
Gisburne frowned. “I only meant...”
“A knight does not fight for pay. That’s not how it goes.”
“Think of it as a gift. Compensation, expenses. Whatever you like.” Gisburne laughed, then gestured around him. “Come on, Ross, you spend your whole life fighting for money!”
“The tournament is different. You don’t understand these things. You never took part. This is what a knight does. It’s accepted. But fighting others’ battles for gold, like a common mercenary...” He reddened slightly, then softened. “I’m sorry, Guy. I meant no offence. I cast no judgement on you, or...”
Gisburne raised a conciliatory hand. “I know, I know.” He snorted and shook his head. “But we also both know that nearly every knight here has been bought by some lord or other. They call it loyalty, or service, or duty, but don’t try telling me there’s no pay in it. No silver, no horses, no fine swords. Food and shelter...”
De Rosseley looked about him nervously and drew in closer. “Yes, we do know this. And yes, there may well be a fine line between certain knights and mere pay-swords. But you cross that line at your peril; you step out of one class and into another. You know this better than most, my friend.”
“It’s all pretence,” said Gisburne. “Deception. At least when I fought for pay, I did it honestly.”
“I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve tried to explain this, but you remain as bloody-minded as ever. Let me put it in purely pragmatic terms. Pretence it may be; hypocrisy, even. But if you ever wish to win them over, you have to let them believe in it. You can’t fight everyone, Guy. Not all at once. De Gaillon taught you that much.”
Gisburne nodded, reluctantly. “He did.”
“He also, I hope, taught you that there are some for whom the knightly virtues are very real...”
Gisburne smiled. “Yes, that, too.”
De Rosseley put a hand on Gisburne’s shoulder. “We’ve got off on the wrong foot.”
“I only meant to show you the coin, Ross. Did you not see what it was?”
“A dinar?”
“From the Holy Land, yes. Spoils of the Crusade, offered by the hero of the Crusade...”
De Rosseley looked at him in amazement. “He is your master now?” He shook his head. “No, I doubt anyone was ever that, but he really wants Hood dead?”
“Wouldn’t you?”
“Well, what a turnabout...” De Rosseley drank, and pondered. “Hunted down, you said? I like a good hunt. How many are there to be in this company of yours?”
“A half-dozen. No more.”
“This is a small war you wage, Guy...”
“Enough for a hunting party. We must keep it small. It may yet avert a far greater war.”
“So, when is this hunt to take place?”
“We gather on the fifteenth of next month.”
De Rosseley nodded slowly. “Tell me one thing. Am I the first?” Gisburne frowned. “That you have asked, I mean. Obviously, I’m hoping the answer is ‘yes.’”
Gisburne thought carefully about his next words. “You are the first man I have asked.”
De Rosseley narrowed his eyes, and looked hard at Gisburne. “Man?” He smiled. “What is it, Guy—was there a woman ahead of me?” He laughed then caught the look in Gisburne’s eye. His face fell. “My God, there was... Wait... A woman, or the woman?”
“The woman.”
De Rosseley looked him in the eye for a moment, then nodded. “All right. Fair enough. She brought down the Red Hand when I could not. Saved my life into the bargain. She was the better man that day. Did she agree?”
“She did.”
He smiled, clearly glad at that news. “And where do you go next?”
“To find a Saracen.”
“A Saracen?” De Rosseley raised his eyebrows. “Well, you’d better get going. It’s a long way to the Holy Land.” He waved his thumb towards the east. “And it’s that way.”
“This one is closer to home,” said Gisburne, and nodded back towards England.
“So I am between a woman and a Saracen. I must confess I am mightily intrigued by this army of yours.”
“So are you with us?”
De Rosseley sighed deeply. “I can hardly have it said a woman took up a challenge I would not, can I? Or a Saracen. But keep the gold. Grim as you may have painted it, this is a good deed. I’ll do it for that. And for a friend.” He smiled and knocked his cup against Gisburne’s. “To our enemies’ enemies.”
Gisburne smiled. Ross always inspired confidence in him; he would do so in the others. There had been no guarantee they would agree to join him, but for the first time, he began to feel this thing was possible. “You know Clippestone?”
“Of course.”
“Come there on the appointed day. Come alone. No squires, no pages; just you. ”
De Rosseley nodded, frowning, as if struggling to take in the strange instruction.
“And I know I shouldn’t need to say this...” began Gisburne.
“Yes?”
“Don’t make yourself fodder for the ravens.”
De Rosseley laughed. “What in the seventy-two names of God is that supposed to mean?”
“Last time I saw you after a tournament, you looked like a pear that had spent a week in a royal messenger’s saddlebag. Much as I know you abhor ‘failure to present,’ please—try not to die before our small war is even begun.”