XII

 

 

The road to Berughby

15 May, 1193

 

GALFRID WAS TO find the answer to his questions at a lonely inn somewhere between Aslockton and Bottesforde.

The squire had been ready soon after dawn. To his great frustration, Gisburne had not gathered himself to leave until long past midday – and the pace from Nottingham had been slow. At times, Galfrid had stared at Gisburne, wondering if something was wrong – if some ailment or injury was troubling him. But Gisburne just looked about, seeming to enjoy the day’s fine weather, taking deep breaths of the warm air and the scent of new spring blooms. Out across the cultivated fields, a light haze hung. In the wide open space three small boys with slings were cavorting, charged with keeping pigeons off the bean crop.

Galfrid turned away and eyed a now familiar rectangular box slung behind Gisburne’s saddle. “I can’t believe you’re bringing that.”

Gisburne looked at the squire, then at the hurdy gurdy that had somehow survived fire, brimstone, ordure and everything else that Salah al-Din’s Jerusalem had thrown at it. “I like it,” he said.

Galfrid kept his eyes fixed ahead. “So, what’s hidden it it this time? Greek Fire? Poisoned blades? The jewel encrusted arsebone of Saint Jerome?”

“Nothing,” said his master. Galfrid stared at him with narrowed eyes. Gisburne caught the look. “Check if you don’t believe me.”

Galfrid was damned if he was going to do that.

“I just like it,” said Gisburne.

Galfrid turned his attention back to the road. “So, is it to be this speed all the way to the Tower?” he said. Part of him relished the prospect. Another part wanted simply to press his horse to a gallop so they could get there and get on with it – whatever ‘it’ was.

“It’s like I said,” replied Gisburne, without turning to look at him. “No rush...”

“No rush?” said Galfrid, bemused. “You’re always in a rush.”

“Not today,” said Gisburne.

Galfrid sighed heavily, and looked back out across the fields.

 

 

THEY WERE LITTLE more than a dozen miles from Nottingham when Galfrid noticed Gisburne was scanning the horizon ahead. He did so with sudden eagerness, as if expecting trouble. Galfrid followed his gaze. Some way down the road, just coming into view beyond a sheltered copse of trees, was an old inn.

“Are we stopping?” said Galfrid. “Already?” Not that he minded. If Gisburne insisted on taking things easy, then a few extra ales along the way were fine by him. His master grunted, as if only dimly aware of his squire’s question, then geed Nyght into a trot.

“Right, then...” said Galfrid, mostly to his horse. “So now we hurry...” And he urged the mare on.

The inn was an odd, rounded building part-covered in ivy, which looked as if it was collapsing in on itself. But the smell of woodsmoke wafted from the chimney, and the alestake outside was decorated with fresh flowers. As they approached, however, his master seemed to be looking elsewhere.

Then he saw it. In the copse of trees, standing motionless and only just visible from the road, was a white horse. On it sat a cloaked and hooded figure, his face entirely obscured. Galfrid felt his muscles tighten. He looked down at the pilgrim staff tucked beneath his saddle bag. There was a sword at his belt too. And a mace tucked away on the saddle’s other side. But the staff had become his favoured weapon of late. It gave him additional reach – and the advantage of surprise. That staff hid several surprises. Without stopping, he reached down, loosened the straps, and drew it out.

Gisburne, a good twelve paces ahead of him, had no weapon drawn. The figure on the white horse turned, and walked slowly forward. Gisburne rode straight up to him, still unarmed. Galfrid pulled his horse up beside him, staff gripped and at the ready. He judged that with one good swing he could clout the rider about the head, if need be. That may not unhorse him, but he’d be senseless for a while.

The stranger looked up at his approach, then pulled back his hood. Galfrid gasped in astonishment.

“Good day, squire Galfrid,” said Prince John, with a mischievous smile.

 

 

GALFRID SHOT A glance at Gisburne, his expression pinched.

“You bastard,” he muttered. There was exasperation in it, but also, Gisburne sensed, relief. He hoped the squire now understood. But even so, he could not resist a laugh at Galfrid’s expense.

“Don’t blame Sir Guy,” smiled John. “I suggested we allow as few people as possible to know of this. He took me at my word, and told precisely no one.”

“But I saw you leave Nottingham two days ago...” said Galfrid, in protest.

“You didn’t see Prince John,” said Gisburne. “Just his entourage. The Prince was never there.”

“But I saw...”

“There is a man, who looks very much like me,” said John. “Who is me, for the moment. Even those travelling with him believe it. Of course, given the risks, he is too wary to leave his carriage. And so the deception is maintained.”

Galfrid stared at Gisburne. “It’s the bloody skull of St John the Baptist all over again. I can’t believe I fell for that a second time.”

“Misdirection,” said Gisburne. “Let’s hope the Red Hand is similarly diverted.

“We maintain an even pace, keeping the royal entourage two days ahead. That is the decoy. If anything happens, we’ll know about it. But for now, we are simply a pair of knights and a squire travelling upon the road.”

John laughed aloud at that, and slapped the side of his horse affectionately. Gisburne realised that the Prince was actually looking forward to this, even in the face of the present danger. And why should he not? He was free of the court. Free of the bureaucrats and the flatterers. Free of the unwanted attentions of the clergy and the struggles for power. And, most of all perhaps, he was free of what all the naysayers thought of him, be they barons or peasants. For a while, at least, he was not prince or heir – he was just himself. Quite what that was, Gisburne was not entirely sure.

“If this deception is to work,” Gisburne said. “We’ll have to dispense with calling you my lord...”

John shrugged. “You never bothered with the niceties anyway. But it is noted. Address me as ‘Sir John.’ Or simply ‘John.’ We’re familiar enough for that, I think.” Gisburne gave a respectful nod. John turned to the squire. “Galfrid? You are to call me ‘John.’ Can you do that?”

“Yes, my lor – Sorry, I mean, J – Joh –” But try as he might, Galfrid could not bring himself to address the Prince by his Christian name.

“Galfrid is a squire,” said Gisburne, coming to Galfrid’s rescue. “It would be more natural for him to afford a knight the courtesy his station demands.” He turned and looked Galfrid in the eye. “In fact, to witness it at all would be a novelty...”

“Of course, of course...” said John, nodding earnestly. “‘Sire,’ then.”

“You hear that, Galfrid?” said Gisburne, unable to suppress a smile of satisfaction. “‘Sire.’”

“Yes,” said Galfrid flatly. “‘Sire.’”

Gisburne turned back to John. “One other thing,” he said, more tentatively this time. “Your appearance...”

John looked vaguely mortified, and put his hand to his chest. “Is it not fitting to the purpose?” Concerned that the Prince would be unable to resist the fine silks and richly embroidered cloth that he regularly favoured, Gisburne had requested he wear something suitable for a long day’s hunting in the saddle. He had specified that they be his oldest riding clothes, and had also instructed John’s personal servant and groom to pack his horse accordingly, knowing that this was not something to which a Prince was accustomed. These two trusted individuals were the only ones permitted to know of the change to the plan, and even then only the night before. They now travelled with the impostor in John’s ornate carriage.

John, meanwhile, had followed his instructions to the letter, and inhabited his role perfectly – although his oldest clothes, it seemed, were still newer than Gisburne’s newest.

“The clothes are excellent,” said Gisburne. “Exactly right. But the rings...” He nodded at John’s fingers. “They announce you like a fanfare.” Gisburne drew his horse alongside John’s. John’s eyes narrowed as Gisburne held out his hand.

“Isn’t this precisely what Hood is supposed to do?”

“I’m saving him the trouble,” said Gisburne.

“You are a tyrant,” said John, then, pulling off the rings one by one, dropped them into Gisburne’s palm. Gisburne tipped them into a pouch, pulled its drawstrings tight and stowed it in the bag upon his belt.

“Am I now fit for the journey?” said John.

Gisburne nodded, and turned Nyght about. “It’s five miles to Berughby,” he said. “We’ll overnight there.”

“And tomorrow?” said John.

“The Great North Road,” said Gisburne.