XXXIV

 

 

The Tower of London

26 May, 1193

 

“THERE ARE FEWER names than I thought,” said Gisburne.

“Still more than I remembered...” said John.

There were sixteen names at the top of the Milford Roll – the sixteen who formed the core of Prince John’s party in Ireland. Of these, five had lately been brutally slain.

“Galfrid and I have been asking around,” said Gisburne. “Trying to establish who among these sixteen are here, now, in London. Based on what we have gleaned – with the addition of information we’ve had from de Rosseley and Llewellyn – we now have a fair idea. But there are gaps...”

“I’ll help where I can,” said John. He looked suddenly drawn – as if lacking sleep. Though he fought to maintain normality, his manner was agitated, and anxious.

Gisburne was bone-tired, and he knew Galfrid could not be feeling much better. Half the night they had spent pursuing trails and scraps of information, quizzing Hamon and his boys and sending them on fresh quests, traipsing around endless streets to call upon the sixteen’s friends and friends of friends – some of whom, having since changed allegiance, gave them short shrift. Others refused to come to their doors altogether, or had closed their shutters against them. Gisburne was not surprised. London was in an uneasy mood. The hysteria had abated as the crowd dispersed, but strange tensions lingered on the streets. It appeared that many had taken to the perceived safety of their homes a little earlier tonight – while others stalked them far later, and with questionable intent. Gisburne had seen groups of men – one heavily armed, several the worse for drink – roaming the streets like hungry wolves, looking for something upon which to vent their frustration. Later that night, one of Hamon’s boys had been brought back beaten to a bloody pulp. The lad, more shaken that he would admit, had dismissed his own injuries, and insisted upon returning to his task. Gisburne forbade it, and sent him to his home – wherever or whatever that was. Hamon took the episode in his stride. It happened, he said.

When it was finally beyond the hour when any could be persuaded to answer their doors, Gisburne and Galfrid had dragged themselves back to Eastchepe. Sleep had not come for Gisburne. His mind had been racing, but for the first time in days, he didn’t care. Even the tiresome ritual at the gates of the Tower had not fazed him – despite the guards at first refusing to accept the signed and sealed letter of admission supplied by Prince John. He was exhausted, yes – but he was also, at last, on the scent.

“Taking them in the order they appear on the Roll, then...” said Gisburne, his finger upon the parchment. “Walter Bardulf is our first victim.” His finger slid down to the next name. “Eustace Fitz Warren we believe to have been dead some years.”

“Correct,” said John. “Soon after Ireland. Riding accident. Very sad.”

Gisburne struck the name through with a stick of charcoal.

“William de Wendenal – the second victim. Raymond of Colton,” Gisburne rubbed his chin. “Of him we could find nothing.”

“He took holy orders, I believe,” said John. “Holed up in a monastery somewhere in Wales.”

“Then we can assume he is safe – at least for now.” Gisburne struck him out, too.

“Hugh de Mortville was our third victim. Then we have William Fitz Robert, and Robert Fitz William.”

“Fitz Robert died at Hattin,” said John. Gisburne crossed off the name.

“And I have it on good authority Robert Fitz William also went to the Holy Land,” said Galfrid. “Now settled and with a family in Acre.”

He, too, was crossed off.

“John de Rosseley we know about. Jocelyn de Gaillard – he was our fifth victim. Baldwin of Melville...”

“In Cornwall,” said Galfrid.

“So, he can also be discounted.” Gisburne struck the name through. “Alan Fitz Bruce is, as near as we can tell, in a prison in France.”

“Unfortunately, that doesn’t come as a surprise,” said John.

“Out of harm’s way, anyway,” said Galfrid. Gisburne struck out the name.

“Mortimer de Vere was victim number six. Robert of Gisburne...” For a moment, Gisburne’s hand hesitated. There seemed something terribly wrong about obliterating his own father’s name. He forced his hand across the page. “That leaves just three names: Ranulph Le Fort, Thomas of Baylesford and Richard Fitz Osbert.” These last three were written in a subtly different hand – evidently added after their late arrival.

“Fitz Osbert died early this year,” said Galfrid. “So Llewellyn said. But of the circumstances, he was vague.”

“Vague?” said Gisburne.

“The circumstances may not be divulged,” interjected John. “He was working for me. Definitely dead, anyway. I can vouch for that.”

Gisburne nodded slowly. “On Ranulph Le Fort, I regret we have failed to turn up a single thing.”

“I know he fell on hard times,” said John. “He always was plagued by ill luck. Last I heard he was in London, but that was nearly a year ago, in connection with Baylesford. They were good friends. Baylesford had given up courtly life altogether and become a merchant, and I seem to recall he put some opportunities Ranulph’s way.”

“I believe Baylesford to be in London,” said Galfrid. “He’s not easy to pin down. Always on the move, often at sea. But he owns a house here, by all accounts, and has been seen in the past few weeks. He has a ship at the wharves, too. We’ll keep pairs of eyes on them, and if he’s here, we’ll find him.”

“Well, now we have a clearer picture, at least,” Gisburne said, his eyes scanning the dwindling list.

“So many of them dead...” said John, shaking his head. “I begin to feel old.”

“It’s not the number that should concern you,” said Gisburne. “It’s the rate. Four died in the course of eight years, but in the past two months, that total has risen to nine. And there will be more – unless we stop him.”

John sighed and shook his head, as if overwhelmed by the task ahead. He reached for a cup of wine and took a drink. Gisburne saw his hand shaking.

“Are you all right?” Gisburne said.

“Don’t worry about me,” said John. If it was meant to be reassuring, it failed. He sounded tetchy and anxious – uncharacteristically so. “It’s nothing,” he added, moderating his tone. “Really.”

“There’s something else,” said Gisburne. He turned the Roll towards the Prince. “Look at the names of the victims – in particular those who have been attacked in or around London. What do you notice?”

“My God,” said John. His eyes widened.

Gisburne tapped his finger upon the parchment, following the rhythm of his words. “They were attacked in the precise order their names appear on this list.”

Realisation dawned upon the Prince’s face. “But that would mean...”

Gisburne nodded. “That the Red Hand has a copy of the Milford Roll.”

“But how is that possible?” said John. “A royal document in the hands of a lowly tinker?”

“I don’t know,” said Gisburne. “He is not what he appears – we know that much. But we also know he plans meticulously, and that orderly mind of his may yet be his undoing.” He thought of de Rosseley’s words – One must always look for the advantage – of the method Mélisande had used to fell the Red Hand. And – as always – he recalled the wisdom of Gilbert de Gaillon: Your enemy’s strength may become his weakness if it can be turned against him.

“Now we know where he will strike next,” said Gisburne. “Or, at least, who.” He placed his finger on the next name to appear on the list: Ranulph Le Fort.

John threw up his hands in exasperation. “But Ranulph is the one man we cannot locate.”

“He was last heard of in London,” said Gisburne. “We have a network established on these streets, and if he is here, we will find him. If that proves impossible – if he is already dead – then we know the Red Hand will turn his attention to Thomas of Baylesford. Either way, our next task is clear. I will track down Ranulph. Galfrid will seek out Baylesford.” He thrust his finger at the table top. “Then, by God, we will have him...”