XXIV

 

 

The Tower of London

20 May, 1193

 

PRINCE JOHN WAS still abed when Gisburne arrived at the Tower next morning.

Never an early riser when left to his own devices – unless there was good hunting to be had – the Prince finally appeared clad in a strange gown suited neither to sleeping nor the rigours of the day. It was, explained John with some pride, for that state in between the two, which, when he was in one of his more indolent moods, could last longer than either.

Gisburne’s own night had passed much as expected – slowly – and he had wasted no time in quitting Master Bigot’s wretched establishment as soon as he was able. Bigot, to whom Galfrid had unfortunately given the impression that they would be staying an entire month, had ranted at the squire as he saddled the horses in the yard, spittle flying from his fat lips, claiming he had given them a special price only because of the promised length of their stay.

Gisburne, reaching his wits’ end at overhearing the outburst, had marched down the stair, put his sword point under Bigot’s wobbling, fleshy chin and told him he wouldn’t stay a minute longer in his rat-infested shithole even if under threat of death – and if Master Bigot were to threaten him with death, then he would be forced to respond in kind.

Bigot, having involuntarily soiled his drawers, withdrew without further comment.

Galfrid had then set to the task of finding more suitable lodgings – this time benefitting from an early morning start – whilst Gisburne, with a curious sense of déjà vu, had once again run the gauntlet of the Tower guard. Eventually, Fitz Thomas was again persuaded to appear, laughing amiably and looking as dishevelled as ever. Rumpled, affable, a little eccentric – but not too much. A friend to his men. A man of the people. “Sir Guy!” he had said. “What a pleasant surprise to see you again!” As far as Gisburne was concerned, it was neither pleasant, nor a surprise.

Prince John showed no irritation at being roused from his bed, but at the mention of the shenanigans at the gate flew into a violent rage. “Who do these bastards think they are?” he roared, hurling a stool across his chamber. A leg snapped off as it struck the wall and somersaulted the length of the room. “That smiling snake Fitz Thomas is already dropping dark hints that I should further reduce my retinue – for the better running of the fortress, he said. Imbecile! And as for de Coutances... Do you know what he did? He paid off my guard at the agreed fee – the fee that was supposed to secure their services until August. He didn’t even haggle! Now I must find the money to pay him for the guard I don’t even have. And the damned man talks to me like an equal! No, worse – like he is a king! These damned people with their damned sense of entitlement. Maybe Hood did not have such a bad idea, robbing from the rich to give to the poor...” Gisburne did not think it timely to tell him Hood did no such thing. “I’d like to take their unearned wealth and give it to those more deserving! Which would be anyone!”

It took half an hour and three quarters of a flask of wine for him to calm himself – but when he finally succeeded in doing so, the transformation was swift, and total. In moments he reverted entirely to his urbane, sardonic self, as if the other had been some dark interloper.

“Now we are safely in London,” said Gisburne, eager to move things on, “I must ask you about the Irish expedition.”

“Ah,” said John. “That.” He took another deep draught of wine. “Not my finest hour.” He sniggered at his own words. “No, not even my finest hour!”

“All of those so far killed were there with you,” said Gisburne. “If we can establish who else was in your party, and ascertain which among them are now in London, we may anticipate the Red Hand’s next move.”

“And warn them, too, of course,” said John. To this, Gisburne said nothing. John thought a moment, then threw up his hands in exasperation. “God’s nails, there must have been three hundred knights in all...”

“But the victims belonged to a core group, did they not? Those closest to you personally?”

John nodded. “True enough. But even of those...” He puffed out his cheeks and widened his eyes. “Perhaps I might remember half a dozen or so. Maybe more. But I was not even nineteen, and hardly the most interested in what was going on around me. Too self-absorbed. That was my entire problem.”

“If we can establish a list of those men,” said Gisburne. “The ones whose loss would hurt you the most...”

“I’ll do what I can,” said John with a shrug. Then he held a finger aloft. “But there is another way – to be absolutely sure. At Milford, prior to departure for Ireland, the knights accompanying me put their names to a document. Those most favoured – the inner circle, if you will – had their names writ first, and larger than the rest. Of these there were fewer than twenty.”

“This document,” said Gisburne. “What was its purpose?”

The Prince shrugged. “Pure affectation. An act of youthful exuberance – and idiotic vanity. You will know that prior to their departure from Dives, the Conqueror’s knights had their names put upon a scroll to mark the event – so they could show later that they were there. They had a sense they were making history. They were right. We flattered ourselves that our endeavour was of similar import. We were mistaken.” He gave a bitter laugh. “The Milford Roll! What fools we were. If we’d only known what a shambles it would become – how much we would later wish to forget it...”

“Can you tell me more of what happened in Ireland?” asked Gisburne.

John winced. “You must understand,” he said, “that we were all young. Well, most of us... The older ones tolerated our antics. None wished to upset their Prince – poor little John Lackland, who suddenly had been given a land all his own to play with.” He sighed. “Did you know my father wanted to have me made King of Ireland? He even had the crown made. Gold, with peacock feathers – quite a beautiful thing. But the bastard Pope wouldn’t allow it. So I was merely to be Lord of Ireland – whatever that meant.” He gave another humourless laugh. “Even that was a joke.”

“You said there were people in Ireland who might wish you harm. I need to know more of that – what offence was caused.”

John slumped in his chair. “It began the very first day, when we disembarked at Dublin. We thought it amusing to humiliate our hosts – made fun of their long beards. I had Eustace Fitz Warren tug on one to see if it was real. Not surprisingly, these noble chieftains did not take kindly to being ridiculed, or regarded as barbarians. Over the next few weeks we travelled the land, squandering my father’s barrels of silver pennies on our own pleasure while the already tenuous grip my family had upon Ireland slipped steadily away.” It was the first time Gisburne had ever heard Prince John refer to his father or brother as family. “I still hold the title, you know,” said John, wistfully. He shook his head. “Worthless. Wasted.”

“This chieftain – the one you say you humiliated. Can you recall his name?”

John turned up his hands in defeat. “The names were all unfamiliar,” he said.

“What of this Milford Roll? This list?” asked Gisburne. “Where may I find it?”

“There is a copy in Nottingham,” said John. “I will send for it. Today. It can be with us within the week.”

Gisburne nodded his approval.

“I had wondered if perhaps you’d seen it before,” said John.

“Me?” Gisburne looked at him, puzzled. “Why?”

“Because it was your father who drew it up, of course.”

Gisburne stared at him in mute astonishment.

“You did know he was with us in Ireland...?” added John, and watched as Gisburne’s astonishment turned to shock. “Ah. You didn’t know...”

“He went to Ireland when I was a boy. Or so I believe. Something for King Henry. I wasn’t meant to know.”

John nodded. “This was considerably later. When you were in the wilderness...” When he was a mercenary, John meant, but he had the good grace not to say it. “Don’t let it trouble you. It means nothing that you didn’t know it.”

Inconsequential though it seemed, and despite the Prince’s reassurance, it did trouble Gisburne. It troubled him that there was something that his father had kept from him. And it troubled him that it was connected, however tangentially, with the Red Hand. It seemed that everywhere around him were connections to that shady figure. Yet, for all that he touched upon things that were so familiar in Gisburne’s life, the man itself – at the very heart of it all – remained no more distinct or substantial than a ghost.

These thoughts brought Gisburne back to his key reason for visiting John – something, he sensed, the Prince would not relish.

“There is one other thing I need,” he said.

John spread his hands wide. “Name it.”

Gisburne turned away from his master. “I need to see him,” he said.

“Him?”

“The prisoner.”

“Oh,” said John, nodding slowly. “Him. He has a name, you know.”

Gisburne did not respond. If he had a name, a real name, it was surely long forgotten. “I need” – he corrected himself – “request permission to see the prisoner. Today.”

“Today?” said John. “Is it really that urgent?”

“Perhaps. I don’t know.”

“You won’t try to kill him, will you?”

Gisburne turned to the Prince with a quizzical look. “Why would I do that?”

“You tried it before.”

“That was different.”

John nodded in acknowledgement. “It was different. But we can’t have it happen here. I’m not like my brother. I believe in at least a pretence of due process.”

“And you shall have it...”

“Without law,” said John, “we are nothing.”

“You shall have it,” snapped Gisburne. He instantly regretted his irritation, but John remained unruffled.

“Well,” he said. “May I at least know why you request this?”

Gisburne took a deep breath and released it slowly. “The Red Hand’s actions are in some way connected to the day of the execution. I believe that is when he means to strike against you.”

“He?” said John. “It is a man after all, then...?” He waved it away as a bad joke. “You are sure of this?”

“As sure as I can be.”

“They are connected?” John stood, and paced, the full import of the possibility now weighing upon him. “How? And why?”

“I don’t know. But we perhaps have the means to find out. In a cell in this very castle.”

John was silent for a moment. “I seem to recall you questioned him for over a month and discovered nothing,” he said. “What makes you think it’ll be any different now?”

“Because now I know things he doesn’t. You know how he hates anyone knowing more than he. Perhaps it will draw him out.”

John nodded slowly. “Perhaps.”

“Are you afraid he won’t talk?”

“No,” said John. “I’m afraid he will.”

Gisburne stared at his prince, his brow creased into a frown. What in God’s name did he mean by that?

John sighed deeply. “He talks the birds down from the trees. Convinces men black is white. Turns brother against brother and son against father...” The Prince thought about those last words for a moment. “Hmm. Bad example...” He gave a sheepish smile, and a shrug. “But you know as well as I do that his words infect like a plague. They spread chaos and doubt; they destroy more surely than fire or tempest. They tear at the very fundamentals that hold this frail universe together.”

“Do you seriously believe I am susceptible to his poison?” said Gisburne.

“Do you seriously believe you are not?”

“I’ve endured it for long enough,” said Gisburne. “There’s nothing he can tell me that I haven’t heard a thousand times.”

“Except what you most seek – what he has yet to divulge,” said John. And it seemed then that a troubled look came over him. Hastily, he looked away.

“Please,” said Gisburne. “I ask little of you. This is my one request.”

At length, John nodded. “You do ask little,” he said. “And you give much.” He frowned, seeming deep in thought, as if his mind were reaching far back into some dark recess. Finally, he looked up. “You may see him.”

“Now? Today?”

“Now, and whenever you have need – until St John’s Day.” He smiled. “After that, his usefulness will be... limited.”

“Thank you, my lord,” said Gisburne, bowing. “Thank you...”

“Before you get too overwhelmed by my generosity,” John said, with a wry smile, “remember that it is my life that stands to be saved if you succeed. It’s in my interest to accede to your wishes.”

“Your safety is my one object,” said Gisburne, and bowed his head again.

John smiled again. “You don’t have to lie, Sir Guy. You were never so simple a man as to have just one object.” His smile faded, and gave way, it seemed to Gisburne, to the same introspective look he had seen moments before.

“But with that safety in mind,” said Gisburne, hesitantly, “I would ask...” His voice faded out.

“Yes?”

“I would ask that you do not leave the Tower. If there are goods you wish to buy or people you wish to see, have them come to you.”

John affected a wry smile. “So, for the coming month I am to be a prisoner within these walls, too?” he said. “Well, isn’t that a turn up! The outlaw and the Prince who caught him, locked in the self-same dungeon.”

“In here, we have full command of our surroundings,” said Gisburne. “But out there...” He gestured towards the great maze of streets that lay beyond the stone walls.

“Yes, yes, I know,” said John. “Control the battlefield...” He nodded. “And I will comply with your request. To the letter.”

The Prince averted his eyes, then turned away altogether, and did not look back.

“Go now. Speak with him. But whatever he says – whatever revelation spills from those lips – try to keep that one object of yours in mind. Not for my sake, but for your own.”