XXX

 

 

“SIR JOHN’S CASTLE really is a wonder,” said Mélisande as they walked along the dim passage, her servant padding silently behind them. “Above the kitchens, guardhouse, service rooms and undercroft there are four separate chambers besides the great hall, each with its own fireplace and privy.” Gisburne found himself nodding dumbly at her inconsequential chatter. She made a vague gesture. “It is not connected one room to another, but has a continuous corridor built into the circular wall. That means any chamber may be secured or defended independently, without impeding access to the rest. Also, that guests are permitted their own private quarters, and may come and go without disturbing others. My chamber is the furthest along this passage. Sir John chose it for me; it gets the morning sun.”

Gisburne had thought that, once alone, they would revert to the close familiarity they had developed in their time together. Somehow, that had not happened. She was, nevertheless, making sure she he knew where her chamber was – or was he reading too much into that? Was it even possible to read too much into Mélisande de Champagne? She was leaning more heavily against him with every step. It felt good – he could not deny that. But it concerned him. Her progress was slow and unsteady. She looked ill.

Suddenly, he saw her face contort in agony. Her eyes rolled back in her head – her body fell limp. Gisburne caught her in his arms. Her servant rushed forward.

“What the Hell is this?” said Gisburne.

“She is... unwell, sire,” said the servant. He extended his hands as if to take her from him. His hands were shaking.

“I know that much. But is she injured? Tell me quickly.”

The servant hesitated.

“Last night, against the intruder,” hissed Gisburne. “Come on, I know what she is...”

It seemed, then, that the servant finally let his steely façade drop. “She took a blow to her left side. Severe. The skin is not broken, but...” he shrugged, then gave a shuddering sigh. Hours of anxiety seemed to show on his face.

Gisburne gently lifted one of her eyelids. Her pupils were large, her skin clammy. “Has she taken anything?” he said. “For the pain?”

“Henbane,” said the servant. “And a preparation from her travels in the East. What the Arabs call afyun – the tears of the poppy. But its effects are waning.”

“Help me get her to her chamber,” said Gisburne, glancing back towards de Rosseley’s door. “I may know what she is, but Sir John does not – nor the rest of the world, for that matter...”

 

 

ONCE SAFELY BEHIND the closed door, Gisburne’s mind became pragmatic, efficient. Focused. He was calm. This, at least, he understood.

Placing her upon the bed, he pulled away her veil and wimple. Red-gold hair tumbled free. Her head was hot, her mouth dry. “Pray God it’s not a fever,” he said as the servant hovered nervously by.

“Should I fetch her maidservants?” he said, wringing his hands.

“No time for that,” said Gisburne, unhooking her precious belt and discarding it on the floor. He turned her onto her right side. Upon her dress was an even row of tight lacing stretching the full length of her spine, from her neck to the small of her back. It was baffling to his eyes – providing no clue as to how or where it had been tied. For the first time in his life, he was keenly aware that he was a soldier and not a lady’s maid. He hooked his finger through and tugged at it.

“Sire...” the servant grasped Gisburne’s wrist. The tone of his voice was firm, his grip surprisingly strong. Gisburne had no doubt he would fight to protect his lady’s honour – Mélisande was not one to tolerate milksops.

“It’s necessary if she’s to breathe,” said Gisburne. The grip did not loosen. “Dammit, man,” he snapped, “it’s not as if I haven’t seen her naked before.”

The servant gazed again at his mistress, and relented. There was love in his eyes. Gisburne set about the laces again. “What’s your name?” he said. It was a moment before the servant realised he was being addressed.

“Bertran, sire.”

“You’re a good man, Bertran,” said Gisburne. Not knowing quite how to respond, Bertran simply gave an embarrassed nod.

Suddenly Mélisande jerked and came to, her breathing coming in short, wheezing gasps. Gisburne pulled again at the lacing, but it resisted him.

“We must cut this,” he said. “Hold her still.” Bertran did so. Gisburne drew his eating knife, slid the blade behind the lacing and sliced it through. Then again. And a third time. When it was slit almost from waist to shoulder blade, her breathing faltered. He did not trouble with a final cut, but grasped the material and ripped the last of the lacings apart. She gasped as the bindings about her chest were released, shuddered violently, then her eyes swam and she again slumped into Bertran’s arms, the full sinuous length of her bare back framed between crumpled hems of green. There was no underdress. Perhaps her injury had made it impossible for her to put it on over her head. Or perhaps it was just Mélisande being Mélisande.

“My lady requested the gown be laced tightly,” said Bertran. There was almost apology in his voice. “She said it helped to reduce the pain.”

Gisburne nodded. Many a time he’d seen knights strap up their sides and get straight back in the saddle. “But it will not help the wound to heal,” he said. “She must breathe freely now.” And keep on breathing, he thought. Only minutes ago had he found her, and already he was faced with the possibility of losing her all over again. He grasped her shoulders and laid her gently back upon the bed. “Fetch water,” he said.

Bertran hurried away to the far end of the chamber as Gisburne peeled the closely fitted silk from her pale body and revealed the wound. The bruise upon her left side stretched all the way from the bottom of her ribs, past her left breast to her underarm. It was edged with purplish red, but at its heart was almost black – a horrid contrast to the pale, perfect flesh that surrounded it. The skin was entirely unbroken, but it was badly swollen. It suddenly struck Gisburne how absurd it was that one of England’s greatest knights had been excused his duties as host by a woman who carried a near-identical injury.

“Bones may be broken,” said Gisburne as Bertran returned with a dish of water and a cloth.

“What will that mean?” said Bertran.

“Pain. Perhaps for weeks. But she may be lucky.” What was on his mind, however, was what other damage had been done and could not be seen. He chose not to speak of it yet. There was little Bertran could do, anyway.

“Surely, given the life your mistress leads,” said Gisburne, “you must have seen other situations such as this?”

Bertran cocked his head to one side. “There have been... moments. But she has a talent for inflicting injury rather than suffering it.” Gisburne smiled at that. “On the occasions when she has, she has usually insisted on dealing with it herself.” Gisburne could imagine the door slamming in Bertran’s face. Mélisande was nothing if not independent.

“Not this time,” he said. “Lift her feet.”

Bertran did so. Gisburne slid the dress entirely from under her and tossed it away, then folded the linen bedsheet over her naked body to preserve at least some dignity, and sat by her.

Bertran proffered the bowl. As Gisburne dipped the cloth into the water, he noted Bertran had strewn dried rose petals into it. He wrung it out, then mopped her brow, and then wrung and mopped again. After the third time, she awoke into a fit of coughing. Her eyes bulged and streamed with tears, purely from the pain. Pain was to be expected, but if it grew worse rather than better, or if she struggled to breathe, or started to run a fever – and especially if she coughed blood – then things would not be so simple. Then, her life would be hanging in the balance. Only the next few hours would tell.

As the coughing ceased, he held her face firmly between his palms and looked into her eyes. They were red and wild, but seemed clear, more focused – if a little indignant. All positive signs. “Can you hear me?” he said. He felt, rather than saw, her nod. “Spit,” he said, and held out his palm next to her face. She frowned at the suggestion. “Spit into my hand.”

“Not for twenty thousand crowns,” she croaked.

She coughed again, and almost doubled up. “Just do it!” he said. Reluctantly, she spat, and slumped back. He spread the saliva across his palm. No blood. That was good.

“Water,” she said. “Please...” He put the sopping cloth on her brow again, but she flung it off. “To drink!” she gasped. Bertran was already by her side with a cup and jug. She gulped down three cupfuls in succession before slumping onto the bed once more.

The water seemed to revive her. “Gisburne...” she said with a smile, as if seeing him for the first time. She put a hand on his face. “Have you rescued me again?”

“Hardly,” said Gisburne. “From what I’ve heard, it’s you who rescued Sir John.”

She let her hand fall back upon the linen sheet that covered her. As her palm brushed across her breast, realisation dawned, and she lifted the sheet to peer beneath.

“I appear to be naked,” she said. She looked back again. “Did you do this?”

“It’s how I remember you best,” said Gisburne.

Mélisande scowled at him. “I only regret that on this occasion I made it easy for you.”

Gisburne raised his eyebrows. “Easy?” He mopped her brow again. “When was anything about you ever easy? Last time I saw you like this, I woke up next morning to find you gone.”

Mélisande gave a kind of half-shrug, and a smile. “Sorry about that. You know I would love to have stayed. But anyway... Here we both are again.”

Gisburne sighed. “And then it turned out you’d helped me get back to England only so Hood could rob me of the stolen relic.”

Mélisande reddened, and the smile faded. “Not only,” she said. She looked up at Bertran, still loitering awkwardly by, and indicated that he could go. He hesitated.

“I’ll stay,” said Gisburne. Bertran looked to his mistress.

“Get some sleep, Bertan,” she said. “One of us needs to be at full strength when we leave tomorrow.”

Bertran bowed, and left them.

“You leave tomorrow?” said Gisburne.

“I must,” said Mélisande. Gisburne waited for her to expand upon the answer, but she did not.

“You’re lucky to be alive,” he said at length. “You know the Red Hand has slaughtered three of England’s greatest knights, and threatens to kill more?”

“Red Hand?”

“The mystery raider from last night.”

“So, is he the reason you’re here?” said Mélisande, feigning disappointment. “Not because of me?”

“Sorry to say, I had no idea you were within these walls.”

“And if you had...? Would that have brought you all the quicker, or kept you away?”

Gisburne looked at the stone floor. “What are you doing here?” he said.

“I’m just a noble lady seeking a husband.”

“So... Are we to expect a betrothal announcement soon?”

Mélisande narrowed her limpid eyes and studied him for a long moment. “Not just yet.”

Gisburne struggled once again to conceal his feelings – of joy and relief, this time. “Not your type?”

“Oh, he’s definitely my type...” said Mélisande with a sly smile. “If a little... overeager.” The smile vanished. “My father thinks it time I gave up my unseemly, wandering ways.”

Gisburne nodded blandly. “Does your father know what it is you do?”

“He knows not to ask too many questions,” she shot back. It sounded almost like a rebuke – but both knew Gisburne was already too deeply immersed in her secret world for it to have any meaning. She gave a sigh, shuddering as she did so – another twinge of pain, he guessed. Yes, he knew many of her secrets. But there was still much she kept concealed. From him. From everyone. She smiled. “Actually, I think he believes I am having an affair with King Philip. All those trips to court...”

“And are you?”

She gave a snort of derision which ended in a tiny cry of pain. “Now, he really isn’t my type. Awful teeth.” She frowned up at him. “Do you know Philip?”

Gisburne shook his head. “I do not.”

“A remarkable man, in many ways. An individual of ferocious energies. But horribly impatient. And fiercely envious. Like a spoilt child, at times.”

Gisburne smiled. “That sounds familiar. It could almost describe the Lionheart.”

“They always were a little too similar for their crusade to proceed smoothly.”

“It seems Richard lost no opportunity to make Philip feel inadequate. Little wonder Philip hates him.”

“Hates him?” chuckled Mélisande. “God, no! He loves him! Richard epitomises the warrior king he aspires to be, and has all the things he feels he lacks. Strength, stature, leadership...”

“Normandy. Aquitaine...”

“Yes, those too... Of course, Philip already has all of those qualities in abundance, compared with most men.”

“Next to Richard, most people feel inadequate,” said Gisburne. Then, after a moment’s thought added: “Most men.”

She narrowed her eyes at him again. “Except, perhaps, those who value brains above all else.”

He held her gaze for a moment, then tore his eyes away, uncertain if she had meant the words as a compliment. “Richard doesn’t lack intelligence,” he said. “Good God, you should see him on the battlefield. He’s just... Not complicated. He doesn’t overthink. Nothing troubles him at night.”

“Not even the company of women, I’ve heard,” said Mélisande.

“Not women. Not men. Nothing. It’s simply rest before the next day’s conquests.” Gisburne was convinced that simplicity was the key to Richard’s success. People liked their heroes to be simple.

“Well, there we have the difference,” said Mélisande. “Philip overthinks everything. He imagines invasions, intrigues, plots to kill him. Everything that might get in his way, everything that could go wrong.”

Gisburne nodded slowly and gazed off into some imagined distance, beyond the confines of the stone walls. “You know the best and worst thing one can take into battle?”

Mélisande shook her head.

“An imagination. Best, because you can imagine what might happen next. And worst, because you can imagine what might happen next... Gilbert de Gaillon told me that. Before I discovered it for myself.”

“De Gaillon told you so many damn things...” said Mélisande. “He must have been quite a talker.”

Gisburne smiled. “Quite the opposite. A man of few words.”

“Fewer than you?”

“Even fewer than that.”

“Do you have any idea how often you mentioned him in the short time we were together?”

Gisburne nodded and shrugged, sheepishly. “He changed the way I think. Made me what I am.”

“At the time you were practically dead in a freezing cave in the Forêt de Boulogne...” she said. “But you even mentioned him in your sleep as I nursed you through that fever.”

“And now that situation is reversed...” said Gisburne with a smile, and mopped her brow again. “So I suppose that at least makes us even.”

“No. It doesn’t.” Mélisande’s eyes suddenly filled with pain – not physical, this time. “I thought you were going to die in that wretched place.”

Gisburne held her sad gaze for a moment, then looked away, dipping the cloth into the water bowl. He could not let her know that he had exactly the same fear.

“So, what exactly is he, this Red Hand?” she said.

“Perhaps the more intriguing question,” said Gisburne, “is how you managed to stand up to him when knights of such ability failed...”

“You really need to ask?”

Gisburne smiled. “Not really,” he said. “De Rosseley gave me a blow-by-blow account.”

“Well then. Why don’t you tell me how I did it?”

Gisburne thought for a moment. “You know those strapping great horses young and foolish knights think are best?”

Mélisande smiled. “All too well.”

“That is what the Red Hand is.”

“But, as an experienced knight, the horse you choose to ride is different...”

“The horse I choose,” said Gisburne, “is strong and fast, but also agile. With spirit and stamina, but also patience. Something suited to the widest range of possible encounters.”

“And is that me?”

“That is the Shadow.”

She smiled. “You haven’t changed,” she said.

“Nor you. Except for that new scar on your right thigh.” He put his fingertip on the place. “A dagger point, I’d say.”

She glared at him again. “A Cordoban monk took it into his head to open my innards with a coustille.”

“What did you do to cause such offence?”

“He’s lying at the bottom of the Corilha Ravine,” she replied. “Perhaps you could ask him.” She smiled sweetly. “But what of you?”

He shrugged as if to say “nothing new”.

“Nyght?” she said.

“He’s well.”

“And Galfrid?”

“Also well.” He smiled. “I note the order in which you asked those questions. And I approve.” She drank more water from the cup. He refilled it.

“So tell me,” he said, “did you just happen to be dressed as the Shadow that night, or did you stop to change whilst the Red Hand rampaged?”

Mélisande narrowed her eyes. “Are you teasing me, or testing me?”

“Come on. You had no more idea the Red Hand was coming than anyone else. But you were ready. What were you doing that night? Heading out on some secret foray, or coming back from one?”

“Coming back.”

“From...?”

“It’s sweet that you ask me that,” said Mélisande, and stroked his cheek. “But you must know that I can’t possibly tell you.”

“Are you sure you couldn’t be persuaded?”

“I might. If you told me what you were doing in Jerusalem two months ago dressed as a troubadour.”

Gisburne felt his face redden, as if he were standing before her in that ridiculous garb. “You heard about that?”

“Some,” she said. “But a girl always likes to hear more. From the horse’s mouth, as it were.”

“Sadly, I too must decline...”

“Are you sure you couldn’t be persuaded?” She put her hand to his face again. “I know you, Gisburne. I’m willing to bet that I could have it out of you just like that.” She snapped her fingers by his ear. The motion of her arm as she did so made her wince with pain. Her face paled and she gripped her side.

“That’s a wager I might well let you win,” said Gisburne. “But not tonight...”

He lay her back again, and mopped her brow.

“You have known Sir John a long time?” she said, as if conversation might dull the pain. “You seem on familiar terms.”

“My father knew him before I,” said Gisburne. “They had both served King Henry, though were of quite different generations. Ross – Sir John – was barely five years older than me, but had already forged a formidable reputation.” He laughed. “De Gaillon never got to meet him. Not sure he’d have approved. But Ross came to my father’s house once when I was returned from Limousin, visiting my parents. I can’t have been more than seventeen and still raw from my first battles under Richard. It was a difficult time – away from the demands of conflict and the steady hand of de Gaillon, I wasn’t at all sure I’d taken the right course in life. But Ross put me back on track. He didn’t set out to, of course. He was just... him. Clear, focused, positive. We talked, rode horses... He was easy company. We’ve only met a few times since, often with years in between. But on each occasion it’s as if no time has passed.”

“Such connections are rare. One should make the most of them.”

He studied her for a moment, sensing she was talking about something else. Guilt suddenly tumbled in. He sighed and looked away.

“What is it?” she said.

Gisburne felt ashamed. “I could have warned him.”

Mélisande frowned. “You knew?”

“I knew he was a potential victim, yes,” said Gisburne, his eyes downcast. “And yet I said nothing. I just stood back and waited. Because I wanted to solve the riddle myself...”

Mélisande nodded, beginning to understand. “You did what needed to be done,” she said. “And nobody died. What more could he have done anyway, even if he had known?”

Gisburne looked at her, lying there, beaten half to death, then looked away again, unable to meet her gaze.

“But what kind of friend am I to do that?” he said. “What kind of man?”

“Come on...” she said, and took his hand. “It’s what I’d have done. Probably Ross, too. Kept a distance so as not to scare the prey. The man catches nothing who keeps returning to the trap.”

It sounded like the kind of advice de Gaillon would have given. For that reason alone – never mind the fact that it now issued from Mélisande’s lips – it ought to have pacified him. But it did not. He shook his head. “I was a fool,” he said. Hood’s words were still ringing in his ears, accusing him: You’re far more like me than anyone realises... Perhaps he was. But that was not what he wanted to be. “If anything had happened to Ross because of my inaction...” He trailed off, shaking his head.

“Sounds like you should be the one marrying him,” said Mélisande.

“Even less could I have lived with myself if I had brought disaster down upon you.” This time, Mélisande was the one to look away. It suddenly struck him that she was the only one with whom he felt able to share such secrets. And she an agent of the King of France...

“Do you think there’s a chance he’ll come back? Try again?”

Gisburne shrugged his shoulders. “Nothing has stopped him until now. We don’t know how he will react to failure, what it will drive him to do.” He sighed heavily. “But, honestly, I’d be guessing, whatever I say. This one is” – he struggled to find the words – “is unlike anything I’ve seen before.”

Mélisande nodded slowly. He knew without having to ask that she had nothing to hide – on this subject, at least. “Sir John has doubled the guard about the castle,” she said. “He has them patrolling now – making regular checks of the perimeter. They’ll not make the same mistakes again.”

“De Rosseley was just one of the opening moves,” said Gisburne. “The joust before the mêlée. Ultimately, the Red Hand has bigger fish to fry.” Here, he expected the obvious question. None came. But she already knew what master he served – and perhaps much more besides. She lifted herself shakily upon one elbow to bring her face closer to his, her other hand clutching the sheet to her breast. For a moment, she simply looked into his face, as if studying him. She traced one fingertip along his left eyebrow, past the thin scar that split it, then on down the side of his cheek.

“So, what troubles you at night, Guy of Gisburne?” she said. “Aside from obsessive thoughts of the Red Hand, I mean. What is it you have thought of these past eighteen months when sleep has eluded you?” He looked into her eyes. He could not account for why, but they seemed suddenly to change, to admit him completely. More than that; to reach out. “Anything?” The last word was little more than a whisper – barely a breath on her parted lips. The room around him seemed to shift, to become unstable. Gisburne felt himself growing dizzy, as if falling.

Her harsh cry jolted him back. She stiffened. Clutched her side. The cry was cut short. What little colour remained in her face suddenly drained from it, and she slumped into unconsciousness.

Gisburne dipped the damp cloth once more and pressed it against her brow. Her breathing was agitated – pained – but still strong. If she could get through the night, she would live. Then – as he gently mopped her beautiful, pale forehead, droplets of water running into the tendrils of her hair – he addressed her question. For one thing had always been there, like a shadow in the background, even when the Red Hand and Hood and Tancred had seemed to dominate his every waking thought. Something he had not even admitted to himself – until now.

“You,” he said.