XXIX

 

 

“GOOD EVENING, SIR John,” said Mélisande, as her host struggled to remain upright. As if in a dream, Gisburne, too, rose to his feet. She averted her eyes from him entirely as she made her slow approach. “Please, Sir John,” she said, lifting the long fingers of her right hand. “Not on my account. You are injured.”

De Rosseley sank back to his bed, somewhat abashed but nonetheless grateful for the reprieve.

Gisburne thought he had remembered everything about Mélisande de Champagne – that she was branded in his memory. Only now did he realise he had remembered nothing. All that was familiar about her struck him now as if for first time, just as it had on that frozen street in Paris. That moment, when he had spied her atop a swaying litter as it bobbed above the heads of the teeming, chattering masses like a gilded royal barge, had left him bereft of words. So it was now. A man of action all his life, all he could do was stand and stare.

She was dressed in green, the colour she so often favoured. The silk gown was fitted closely to her slender form, with pendant sleeves that hung almost to the floor, the hems embroidered with fine gold wire. The gossamer-fine veil and wimple were of pure white, topped with a plain circlet of gold, and from the edge of her wimple, a single tendril of red-gold hair fell, just as it had that first time. Then, he had thought it a happy accident. It was, he now realised, a statement.

As she drew closer, he saw that the double belt about her slim waist was in fact a chain of gold, ending in delicate golden tassels. Other than this and the simple circlet upon her head, there were no adornments. No rings, no jewels – not even the sun pendant that she had perpetually worn during their days together. None were necessary.

“Good evening, Sir Guy. What a pleasant surprise to find you here.” Her eyes met his, and as they did so he fancied she allowed a playful smile to flicker across her lips, just for him.

“You know each other?” said de Rosseley before Gisburne could gather his wits to reply, then muttered to his old friend: “Now I understand why they call you the Dark Horse Man!”

But Gisburne was barely even aware of de Rosseley’s words. His brain had turned to mud. He was unaccountably hot, his heart thumping so hard in his chest he began to believe those about him might actually hear it.

“We have met,” said Mélisande. “Briefly. In Marseille, some eighteen months ago.” Her eyes again met Gisburne’s, but betrayed nothing of the adventure that had followed that meeting – the flight across France with a stolen relic, capture in the forests of Boulogne, the horrors of Castel Mercheval, and its subsequent ruin. “But perhaps Sir Guy does not remember...?” As she spoke, she offered a shapely white hand – a languorous gesture that barely made it above waist height.

“On the contrary,” said Gisburne, his throat dry, “I recall every moment.” And, dropping to one knee, he took her hand in his and bowed his head to kiss it. It was not the done thing to make actual contact. But against convention, against common sense, against anything anyone cared to put before him, Gisburne pressed his lips to it anyway, and – quite involuntarily – found he squeezed her smooth palm as he did so. Her skin smelled of rose petals. It made his head swim, memories rioting in his head.

“You look a little flushed, Sir Guy” said Mélisande. “Perhaps it is rather warm in here...?”

“Probably that ridiculous coat or whatever it is...” said de Rosseley. “What is that anyway? Horsehide?”

“It is the skin of my father’s destrier,” said Gisburne.

“Well, I hope it looked better on the horse,” muttered de Rosseley. Mélisande stifled a snigger.

Gisburne stood, staring at the ground, impassive. “Thirty months ago, that horse was all I had in the world,” he said. “All I had left of my father. Hood maimed it, left me to finish the beast off myself. This” – he tugged at the front of his coat – “reminds me of that. The day I lost everything, and gained everything. It was also the day I met Prince John and by him was dubbed a knight. A chevalier.”

De Rosseley bowed his head and nodded in acknowledgement, and silent apology. He had been a good friend to the old man. At the utterance of the word chevalier, Gisburne’s mind strayed to the legend of the Dark Horseman – the man who was him and not him, who was named, he supposed, not only for the black horse he rode, but the curious black coat that he wore. To those who knew only the legend – if such it was – it was a costume. An affectation. Something designed to inspire fear. They would never truly understand that it had not been made with any purpose meant for them. He felt the futility of his own quest – his attempts to understand the Red Hand from no more than an approximate image. He knew what he looked like, well enough, but who could say what any of it meant?

Gisburne found himself looking into Mélisande’s face – those impossibly deep eyes – and saw she too was staring at the ground, apparently miles away, her gaze unfocused. She looked pale – paler than he remembered. For a moment, he even thought she swayed a little. Perhaps de Rosseley’s good wine had flowed a little too freely this evening. She inhaled sharply, as if shocked out of her reverie. Gisburne saw her left hand twitch and then tighten into a fist. Then she looked up, an odd smile upon her face.

“I came to ask if you would accompany me on a walk about the battlements, Sir John,” she said. “To take the air. But since you are still indisposed from your exertions, perhaps you will not object if I ask Sir Guy to do so in your stead?”

Gisburne could see now that her breathing was uneven, and that she fought to hide it. There were beads of sweat on her smooth brow, and her left hand, still clenched, was shaking.

De Rosseley, who had not seen these things, eyed Gisburne with a look of one who had just been bettered upon the field. “It should be me touring my own castle with my own guest.” He sighed, smiled and extended his hand in defeat. “But tonight I must defer to Gisburne, in both capacities. There’s no better man in England – though it pains me to say so...”

“Then I bid you good night, Sir John,” said Mélisande, looped her arm through Gisburne’s and without further ceremony began to usher him to the door. The steward – still waiting, Mélisande’s dour servant bolt upright by his side – bowed at her approach and held the door open. “Your chamber is the next along this passage, Sir Guy,” he said, with yet another bow. “Your baggage is already within.”

Gisburne paused, and turned back to de Rosseley. “See you on the lists,” he said. Gisburne had never set foot in the joustyard as a competitor, and was unlikely ever to do so. But the banter had become its own ritual.

“Not if I see you first,” said de Rosseley.