XIV
Clippestone Royal Palace, Sherwood Forest
15 March, 1194
ALDRIC WAS THE first to arrive at Clippestone.
It was the afternoon of the fourteenth—one day before the company was due to gather—when the guard called Gisburne to the gatehouse battlement. Through the haze of driving rain, heavy drops drumming against the horse-leather of his hood, he saw the lone figure of Aldric trudging up the gritty path, wrapped like a pilgrim and with a huge, heavy-looking bag over his back. Gisburne ordered the gates to be opened and his guest, pale and soaked to the skin, mud-caked to his knees, plodded in. He looked like he had been sleeping rough—and, thought Gisburne, was not very good at it.
“You win, damn you,” whispered Mélisande in Gisburne’s ear. It had been she who’d suggested placing bets on who would be first to arrive. Gisburne had gone along with it; it helped to distract from the foreboding that had clouded his mind for the past few days. Those days here with Mélisande—away from the eyes of those who might judge them and temporarily free of responsibility—had been idyllic. But the very preciousness of the time had only served to trouble him further. He had fought the feeling, and pushed it as far down as it would go. But some things, he knew, would not stay buried.
De Rosseley had been Mélisande’s choice—the clear favourite, she felt—and she had scoffed when Gisburne had nominated Aldric. But Gisburne understood Aldric’s situation. He had nowhere to go and few funds to buy a bed, and these days food was scarce even for those of moderate means. By Gisburne’s reckoning, if Aldric made it at all, it would be early, and he would not wait before knocking.
Gisburne sat him by the fire, where he ate and drank eagerly and rapidly returned to life. Even when engrossed in his meal, however, he never let the bag leave his side, nor allowed anyone but he to touch it.
Asif appeared later that night, also on foot. The rain had held off for an hour at most, but Asif somehow had managed to stay almost completely dry—and had also reached the main gate without the guard seeing or hearing him. Gisburne smiled to himself. It was little wonder the city fathers of Jerusalem—Christian and Muslim—had so valued his services.
Gisburne suspected Asif had been travelling under cover of darkness for at least part of his journey; a wise precaution, in these troubled times. Although bereft of sleep and left leaner by the past ten days, he carried it better than Aldric. In extremis, thought Gisburne, the training always showed.
The very first thing he did—almost before he was through the gate—was to press Prince John’s gold ring into Gisburne’s palm. “You’d better have this back,” he said. Whether it had served him well, or he could not wait to be rid of it, Gisburne could not be sure. But it didn’t matter now. He was here.
The exhausted Aldric had already retired to his bed when Asif took up his place by the fire, but the Arab soon fell into animated conversation with Mélisande, who surprised him—and Gisburne—by conversing with him in his own tongue.
All three stayed up far later than intended.
De Rosseley arrived bright and early next morning as Aldric and Asif were eyeing each other cautiously over breakfast. He looked rested and fed, and was immaculately dressed and freshly shaved, with all his gear packed neatly on his horse. Gisburne guessed he had stayed at the nearest inn with the object of arriving as early as possible. It was typical of Ross; he had turned up on the appointed date, exactly as instructed, with the full potential of the day ahead. “Did we say first to arrive,” muttered Mélisande, “or first to arrive on the day?” But Gisburne would have none of it.
He introduced the knight to the others, and they ate together, although De Rosseley partook only a little and, Gisburne guessed, purely out of politeness. While perfectly courteous to his fellow guests, he talked almost exclusively to his host, then afterwards sought permission to take a tour of the grounds on Talos, his chestnut stallion. Almost the only time de Rosseley was content to sit still was when he was on the back of a horse.
“There are some areas you may not go,” explained Gisburne, “but the guards will stop you before you get there. Other than that, the place is yours.”
De Rosseley bowed his head, a model of good manners, though the gesture clearly amused him. “My lord... My lady...” he said with a smile, then took his leave.
The pair watched from the battlement as he put Talos through his paces out by the still, swollen lake—walking him backwards, then making him stop and kick, spurring him sideways in a full circle with the lance point maintained perfectly at its dead centre. Occasional shafts of sunlight crept through the clouds as he did so, making the stallion’s flanks shine with a coppery fire.
“Whatever does de Rosseley do when the training stops?” asked Mélisande.
“For him, there isn’t anything else,” said Gisburne.
“Perhaps it should be you out there. We haven’t even sparred in a week.” She shot him a mischievous look. “A sword achieves nothing in its scabbard...”
It was a mark of his preoccupation that this made him look to the east wing of the palace, where the roofs of the enclosed courtyard were just visible. One of those forbidden areas he had spoken of. For now, at least. Mélisande followed his gaze.
“When will you tell them?” she said.
“When everyone is together.”
“Most know him of old. And all have reason to hate him.”
“It will be a test of their resolve.”
“Undoubtedly. But do you think this the right way to test it?”
“It’s... necessary.” Mélisande had accepted it, after all, and she had more reason to hate him than most. But the nature of her dedication was altogether different. He stood silent for a moment, wondering what she made of his hesitation. “If it proves too much... Well, it will show we cannot stand together. Better here than out there.”
“And what then?”
Gisburne did not reply, but turned and glanced nervously past the north gate and along the length of the road, tree-lined and empty.