XXXI

 

 

King Stormont Castle

25 May, 1193

 

GISBURNE AWOKE FACE down on the Persian rug, his face hot and itchy against its prickly, dusty fibres.

The sun was high in the sky. He sat up hurriedly, sensing it was late. Far later than he had meant to rise. A blanket slid off him as he did so; someone had covered him as he slept.

Everything had changed. Mélisande’s bed was now empty, her belongings entirely gone. He felt a sense of panic – which common sense managed to suppress. But the feeling of empty desolation that followed was not so easily subdued.

He struggled to his feet, gripped by a sudden sense of urgency, and mortified at the thought of being discovered in the lady’s bedchamber. As he turned, his foot knocked against something. Water slopped and spilled upon the rug. Near where his head had lain was the bowl and cloth, and next to them, tied in a knot, was a scarf of fine green silk.

He felt his heart thump at the sight of it. Snatching it up, without thinking, he brought it to his face. It carried her sweet scent. He drew it away, embarrassed by the impulse despite being completely alone in the chamber.

Perhaps she had left it by mistake. Perhaps she was still here, and it could yet be returned to her. Perhaps he could see her one more time. He gathered himself and hurried to the door, opening it a crack and peering out.

Two things occurred to him as he did so. The knot told him, as clearly as if she had said it herself, that her leaving of it was no accident. And that said that she was well. Both facts filled him with joy.

His wider predicament, however, did not.

He was too late. She had gone. Why did it always have to end like this? Why had she not woken him? The strength of his anger startled him. He had no claims over her – he wasn’t sure anyone did, if they even could – but the thought did little to console him.

Feeling like an adulterer – and indignant at the injustice of the feeling – he stole along the curved stone corridor to his own chamber. Behind its door, he disordered the bed and made hasty, token adjustments to his appearance.

Moments later, he was striding into the sunlit courtyard. It was now almost empty – just the ruts to show where Mélisande’s entourage had been. A handful of the castle’s own servants – plainer by far than Mélisande’s – went about their daily business, acknowledging Gisburne with a courteous nod as they did so.

“Guy!” called a voice. Gisburne turned and spied de Rosseley upon the eastern battlements, his raised arm silhouetted by the sun.

Gisburne waved, and headed for the stone stair.

“You look like shit,” said de Rosseley as his friend approached.

“Good morning to you too, Ross.”

“Well, it’s true. You’ve got a face like a boar’s ball sack and you look like you slept in your clothes.”

“Says the man who resembles a corpse run over by a dozen ox-carts.”

“Maybe so,” said de Rosseley. “But I’m still the best dressed corpse west of Constantinople.”

It was true. He had dressed to make an impression. His tunic was of red with black velvet trim, all embroidered with gold thread. Worn over it, in spite of the heat of the day, was a dazzlingly blue cloak, clasped about the throat with gold. He stood upon the battlement like a heroic captain at the prow of his ship, his hair and his cloak making languid movements in the gentle breeze.

Gisburne followed his gaze out beyond the bailey to the entourage of Mélisande de Champagne, now winding its steady way along the forest road.

“Well, what do you think of her?” said de Rosseley.

Gisburne pondered for a moment, making a mental inventory of Mélisande’s qualities. There were too many to count. “Before I answer that,” he said, “I have a question for you.”

“Yes?”

“Ireland. John’s campaign.”

“Ah. That. Not exactly a crowning achievement.”

“That’s almost exactly what Prince John said.”

“As well he might,” said de Rosseley. “He was the one whose crown was not achieved, after all.”

“He characterised it as mainly causing offence to a large number of people.”

“That was the one thing we excelled at.” It seemed de Rosseley almost blushed at the memory. “Needless to say, your father didn’t approve. He was right not to. We were young fools. Did John say that too?”

Gisburne nodded.

“Well, at least he’s kept his honesty,” sighed de Rosseley. “Though there are times when he might do well to use it more sparingly – especially these days. People see the worst in him as it is. The last thing most of them want is to be told the truth.”

“Do you recall anything – anything at all – that may have inspired a grudge?” said Gisburne. “Some particular slight or injustice?”

“That John inflicted? Personally?” De Rosseley puffed out his cheeks. “To be honest, the less contact he had with the locals the better he liked it. He wasn’t the sociable, outgoing fellow you see today.” A frown crept across his face. “There was one thing,” he said. “It wasn’t to do with John. Not really. But it was an odd business. An Irish noble – I forget his name – got some mad idea in his head. Ranulph Le Fort caught him creeping in to where we slept, knife in his hand. He challenged him, and the Irishman resisted. Ranulph killed him outright in the fight – those who survived an entanglement with Ranulph were few – but he lost two fingers from his left hand in the process. Poor bastard. The other Irish nobles were keen to smooth the whole thing over. Whether secretly sympathetic or not, they wanted no part of it. Ranulph himself would know more. He kept safe many of the records of that trip. We used to jokingly refer to him as ‘the clerk.’”

He sniggered. “Anyone less like a clerk it is hard to imagine. You know, when he lost those fingers, he said the most annoying thing was that he could no longer write. Wrote with his left, you see – didn’t care what anyone said about bad luck or the Devil. He’d give them the Devil for saying so! Do you know how awkward it is to write across a page with your left hand? Well, Ranulph did not merely cope with it; he had mastered it. That was the sort of man he was. Then he had to adapt to his right hand anyway.” He shook his head. “Your father took over his scribing duties for a time, since he had some experience in that department.”

“The Milford Roll,” said Gisburne.

“You know of that?” said de Rosseley.

“I hope to have my hands on it soon. But why did my father draw it up, and not Ranulph?”

De Rosseley chuckled to himself. “Ranulph, Thomas of Baylesford and a chap called Fitz Osbert were the very last to arrive at Milford. It was not at all certain they would make it; Ranulph and Baylesford caroused together a great deal in those days, and had evidently led young Fitz Osbert astray. But they did, by the skin of their teeth – and mightily hungover. So, it’s thanks to drink that their names appear last on that list.”

Gisburne pondered de Rosseley’s account. “So what drove this Irish noble to attempt murder?”

De Rosseley shrugged. “Never did find out. It was a bad business, though. Cut your father to the quick. I think he’d come to trust them. He always was the sort to win people over, to give them the benefit of the doubt. I’d wager he was the only one who didn’t make an enemy there.”

Gisburne looked into the distance. “You know, until recent weeks I didn’t even know that my father had been a member of that expedition.”

“He didn’t tell you?”

Gisburne shook his head.

De Rosseley shrugged. “He was a natural choice. He knew Ireland. He’d been there before – one of the few of us who had.”

Suddenly, things began to make a kind of sense. “He never spoke of that trip either,” said Gisburne. “But I guessed all the same.”

“That one really was meant to be secret. He took such responsibilities seriously.”

“But what was its purpose?”

De Rosseley made a show of looking over his shoulder. “I think it’s safe to tell you now...” he said. “Richard de Clare, Earl of Striguil and occasionally of Pembroke. Also known as ‘Strongbow.’ He was building a fine little kingdom for himself in Ireland years ago. Your father was sent to bring him round to King Henry’s point of view.” He shrugged again. “Didn’t work. But it’s hardly surprising. De Clare was a hothead. How did you guess, anyway?”

“Before he went away, he would talk of events in Ireland often,” said Gisburne. “Then after, not at all.” He thought of the image of his father as an agent on a secret mission, and smiled at it. The revelation that they had this in common made him feel closer to the old man than he had in years.

“So,” said de Rosseley. “Your turn.”

“My turn to what?”

“To answer the question,” said de Rosseley. Then, as if addressing someone profoundly deaf, added: “What do you think of the lady Mélisande?”

Knowing he could put it off no longer, Gisburne nodded slowly. “You really want to know?”

“Of course I do. There’s no one whose opinion I value more. Except on the subject of clothes.” He looked his guest up and down. “You can keep those disturbing thoughts to yourself.”

Gisburne looked out across the rolling landscape, images of Mélisande flickering through his mind. His first sight of her in the wintry streets of Paris – like the miracle of a spring bloom in all that grim, filthy chaos. Their first meeting at her encampment outside Marseille, and her complex game of feigned coyness and coquetry. Unmasking her in a forest in France, her eyes fiery, her hair full and wild. The sad, strong look on her face as she had surrendered herself to Tancred – to save Gisburne’s life. That last night in Wissant, knowing they had won, and were alive. Yes, especially that.

He took a deep breath. “I think she’s arrogant. Controlling, self-absorbed, impulsive, and unreliable. And probably prohibitively expensive to keep.”

De Rosseley stared at him for a moment. “Don’t hold back or anything, will you?” He said. “If I didn’t know better I’d think you fancied her yourself.” De Rosseley always did have a knack for hitting the nail on the head without realising it. Gisburne supposed it was this instinct – or some aspect of it – that had kept him alive all these years.

“You want to know what I think?” said de Rosseley. Gisburne was not at all sure he did. His friend stared out over the trees, towards the hazy cloud of dust raised by the entourage of Mélisande de Champagne. Gisburne was certain there was longing in his eyes.

“I think you’re absolutely, totally right.”

Gisburne’s felt his heart leap in his chest.

“There was something just not right there. Some” – de Rosseley struggled to find the words – “some lack of connection.”

“Why, Ross – I never knew you were such a sentimentalist.”

“It’s like you were talking to her and not talking to her. Like there was someone else in there, hidden behind that façade. Half the time she was in my company, she just looked like she was in pain.”

My God, Ross, thought Gisburne. If you only knew...

De Rosseley sighed. “I just don’t want all that complication, you know?”

“Is this where you tell me you’d rather women were more like horses?” said Gisburne. Last time they’d met, that had almost been de Rosseley’s entire opinion on the matter.

“I will say this...” continued de Rosseley. “Grand as this place is – and it is grand, let’s not deny the fact – at the end of the day there’s only room for one arrogant, controlling, impulsive, self-absorbed person in it.”

“You missed out unreliable.”

De Rosseley waved the rebuke away, then planted both hands on the stone parapet. “I can’t say it doesn’t sadden me, though,” he said. “I mean – great arse.”

Gisburne felt his fists clench. “As I said,” he muttered, fighting to keep the indignation out of his voice, “such a sentimentalist.”

De Rosseley gave a snort of a laugh and slapped Gisburne on the back, then winced as his own battered bones protested.

“Well, thank you, Guy, for your honesty and plain speaking. You have confirmed what my gut was already telling me, and may well have saved me a lifetime of pain.” Gisburne felt a pang of guilt at de Rosseley words, but could not help but be amused that they came from the mouth of one who invited more pain into his life than anyone he knew. “Much as I love being tested to my limits by some worthy opponent – live for it, really – a fellow needs some respite. Not sure I want to fight battles at home as well.”

Gisburne smiled to himself. What de Gaillon would think of this small victory, he had no idea. But it was a victory, nonetheless. In his head he uttered a brief apology to the Count of Boulogne’s daughter, then looked once more at the train of wagons slowly receding into the distance, wondering when he would see her again. “You’d lose,” he said.