XX

 

 

London

19 May, 1193

 

“I SAID, WHO goes there?” The thin-faced guard peered down from the battlement of the Tower gatehouse. He appeared far too young to be charged with such a responsibility – even his helmet looked too big for him.

“I heard you the first time,” said Gisburne, his patience wearing thin. “And I’ve told you already – it’s Prince John of England! The King’s bloody brother. Now open the bloody gates.”

The guard’s head wobbled uncertainly on its thin neck. He looked at the hooded figure to Gisburne’s side and back again, then suddenly withdrew.

“God save us...” sighed Gisburne. Behind them, Nyght stamped his hoof on the stone flags of the bridge in sympathy.

The great wooden doors of the Tower gatehouse to which the stone bridge led – spanning an incomplete and waterless moat – were rarely closed between dawn and nightfall. So many came and went in the day-to-day running of the place that, for the most part, it was not practical to close it. There were times, however, when an armed guard at an open gate was not deemed sufficient, or prudent. Times of threat, for example, or when royal persons were in residence.

Today, the gates were closed because Prince John was lately arrived with his entourage. What none guarding the Tower knew was that the supposed royal person they had within their walls was no prince – was not even a noble – and was not named John. Though he wore John’s clothes, travelled in John’s carriage, and was surrounded by John’s servants, his name was Edric, a weaver from Pocklington. But for the sake of the Prince’s safety, that had been kept from them, and they quite naturally reasoned that the newcomer at the gates could only be an impostor. The irony was not lost on Gisburne.

“I have spoken with the Lieutenant of the Tower...” called a voice. Gisburne looked up. There again was the wobbling head of the young guard.

“Good,” said Gisburne.“We’re getting somewhere...”

“He says you are not Prince John.”

Gisburne glowered skyward. “I never said I was Prince John,” he snapped. “This is Prince John!” He gestured to his companion.

“Tell ’im we already got one!” came the gruff voice of a second, unseen guard, followed by a gale of laughter.

“We’ve already got one!” called the younger, his face as straight as a poker.

“This is preposterous,” muttered John. His hand went to his sword hilt. Gisburne saw in his eye the look of a man about to draw his sword and batter the gates. This was unlikely to make much impression on six-inch-thick English oak, but such logic never troubled the legendary Angevin temper. Gisburne calmed him with a gesture of restraint, and called again to the guard.

“Do you know what the Prince looks like, boy?”

The guard nodded. His helmet wobbled.

“And have you seen him inside those walls? Has anyone?”

The guard hesitated, confusion writ upon his face. Clearly, he could not confirm it – although what was going on in the boy’s vacillating head, if anything, was hard to judge.

John, who could stand no more, whipped the hood from his head and bellowed up at the boy. “Dammit, if you claim to know his face, then look upon this. I am John, your Prince – brother to the King and heir to the English throne.”

The guard’s eyes widened in panic. “I... I shall speak with the Lieutenant.” He withdrew suddenly. There was chatter, and shouting. Another head appeared and disappeared before Gisburne even had time to focus on it.

Gisburne was aware that they must have looked a sorry pair, dusty and dishevelled from the road. The Prince hardly looked the part. But he was exhausted, the day was dragging on, and all he now wished for was to deliver John safe and sound and rejoin Galfrid, who by now would have secured them food and lodgings.

The guard’s head appeared again above them. His expression was strained – Gisburne wondered how he came to his current station, and whether he would last the course. The boy swallowed hard, then spoke. “The Lieutenant says the Prince’s entourage is within, and that none may –”

“The entourage may be within,” seethed John, “but it is also without. It has no Prince, for I am clearly here!” He was visibly shaking.

“God’s teeth...” sighed Gisburne, and rubbed his brow. “Have the Prince’s closest men come out here,” he called. It wasn’t the boy’s fault – but this absurd puppet show had gone on long enough. “His manservant or his groom – or Llewellyn of Newport. They will confirm it.”

Gisburne was suddenly aware that John had drawn his sword, and now thrust it up at the battlement – a singularly unwise act before the gates of the Tower. But trying to relieve the Prince of the weapon in his current state of mind was, perhaps, equally unwise.

“The last time I stood before the gates in this manner,” bellowed John, “it was the rat Longchamp, Constable of the Tower, cowering within – and you know what happened to him!”

Gisburne doubted the boy did, but the general point was made.

“Tell you what, boy,” Gisburne said, ideas and patience almost spent. “You get the Lieutenant to send for the Prince. Have Prince John come out here in person and clap his eyes on us. If you are right and we are impostors, then we will gladly be condemned to death for high treason and God knows what else. Here. Tonight. We would welcome it. And you would be a hero. But if you are wrong, and you fail to open these gates...” He hesitated.

“I need to speak with...”

“To Hell with that!” snapped Gisburne. “You send your bloody Lieutenant out here so we may speak with him and not his parrot!

Prince John, red-faced with fury, shook his sword aloft. “And be quick about it, boy,” he spat, “or by God I’ll climb up there and shove this right up...”

There was a clunk, and another. The great gates of the Tower of London creaked and clanked, and slowly began to open.