XXXIX

 

 

Crippelsgate

14 June, 1193

 

ON THE FOURTEENTH day of June, the Red Hand’s interlude came to an abrupt end.

On that day, Gisburne and Galfrid were sat in a tavern in the shadow of the church of St-Giles-without-Crippelsgate. By the look on his face, Galfrid had not seen its like before. There were cloths covering the long tables. On either side were not benches, but chairs. And around them on every side sat the fashionable, the noble, the well-heeled.

Galfrid shifted uncomfortably. “What is this all about?

“I told you,” said Gisburne. “Food.”

“But we have food. There’s half a gallon of hogget stew left. And bread that was fresh this morning. And some of those German pickles you like.”

“Good food.”

Galfrid’s face hardened. “Are saying my cooking’s not up to scratch?”

That was not at all what Gisburne was saying. “Galfrid, please,” he said, holding up both hands. “Just accept this... in the spirit it is meant.” He had intended this meal as an apology, but Galfrid, as always, was not making it easy for him. “Your food is fine. Excellent, in fact. I just thought...” He gestured to his surroundings, hoping they spoke for him.

Finally, Galfrid seemed to understand. He nodded, even threatened to smile. “Well then...” he said. “I suppose the hogget will keep.” With that, he drew out his eating knife – a pitted and discoloured old blade with a plain wood handle and a point that had at some stage been snapped off and crudely sharpened back. He went to stab it into the table, but Gisburne thrust his outstretched hand, narrowly avoiding a skewering in the process.

“Please,” he said. “Not here...”

A foreign noble with the longest nose Gisburne had ever seen and a beard like a nun’s chuff shot them a sour look. Galfrid looked around, then carefully placed his battered old knife upon the table before him.

Wine was brought. Cups charged. A bowl of steaming broth arrived, followed by a salad of fragrant herbs, bread and cheese, and a dish of soft, spiced figs. They were immediately joined by a broad platter of hot ravieles – thin dough parcels of egg, cheese and saffron covered in butter with yet more grated cheese on top. Their lugubrious server – immaculately dressed in dark blue and white livery – named each dish in a monotone, managing to maintain an air of perfect civility whilst simultaneously regarding them as if they were a pair of animals wandered in from a provincial farmyard.

“I have heard this is some of the best food in London,” said Gisburne, after the servant had sloped off. Galfrid at first prodded the ravieles uncertainly, then spiked a parcel on his knife, sniffed it, and shoved it in his mouth. His face broke into a smile. From there on, there was no looking back.

For some time they ate in silence.

“It was not intentional, you know,” said Gisburne after the wine had been flowing a while, “me not telling you about my father in Ireland.”

“It’s your choice,” said Galfrid between mouthfuls. “And not my place to criticise.”

“You were right to criticise. The fact is, I did not know myself, until these past weeks. All that time he had kept it from me. I suppose I just wanted the secret to be mine for a while.”

Galfrid nodded slowly. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Really.”

At that moment, another dish landed upon the table – some kind of gargantuan fowl with onions in a deep red sauce. The aroma of garlic and wine made Gisburne immediately salivate.

“What’s this?” he said.

“A new dish from France,” said the server wearily. “Cock in wine.” Then he added, deadpan: “And I’ve heard all the jokes.” He plodded off, leaving Gisburne and Galfrid staring down at the dish in wonder, and not a little trepidation. “Cock in wine...” repeated Galfrid.

It was clear from the legs alone that in life it had been a cockerel of considerable dimensions. That did not bode so well – but at least, if it turned out to be like boiled wood, thought Gisburne, they could lap up the sauce. When they went at it with their knives, however, they found the meat so tender it fell off the bone. Gisburne spiked a piece awkwardly. Galfrid, giving up on that approach, attacked it with a spoon. Both ate. The soft, gamey meat merged with the flavour of rich, reduced wine, onions, butter and tiny pieces of smoked pork. Galfrid raised his eyebrows. “This is not something I thought I’d find myself saying,” he said, “but that is without doubt the best cock I’ve ever tasted.”

They demolished the dish without further comment, and were taking on the sauce with what remained of the bread when the clamour burst upon them.

To his dying day, Gisburne would never know how Hamon found them there. But he was glad he did. Whether Hamon was as glad, having run the gauntlet of the tavern’s fanatically officious staff, was perhaps another matter.

It began with a banging at the door. Then shouting. The mud-splattered figure of Hamon briefly appeared, then – protesting in the most colourful of terms – was dragged back by his ragged tunic. There was a tussle, a crash, a number of firm entreaties that were flatly ignored. Somehow he broke through again, and made it half way to Gisburne and Galfrid before his pursuers caught hold and wrestled him to the tavern floor.

Gisburne stood, sending his wine cup bowling off the table, its contents spraying over a pair of excessively loud Flemish merchants. One jumped to his feet in reflex as the wine hit his face – and his belly almost upended their own table, sending a dish of spiced pork smashing to the floor, shards of bouncing pottery and splatters of sauce peppering the thrashing blue and white bodies of the servers. But before Gisburne could even make a move – and with a determination that made the Tower guard look positively easygoing – they had hauled the struggling Hamon up by his arms and legs, like a sheep for the shearing, and were heading for the door ready to fling him out.

Hamon had uttered nothing coherent to his masters during that chaotic encounter, but he had delivered his message, nonetheless – the message that both hardly dared hope would arrive. For as he had been dragged away, he had raised his right hand in a peculiar gesture, in which the thumb and first two fingers were extended. This signal had been established so he might deliver this most grave piece of news without having to speak the words aloud. It related to the Red Hand, and it said simply: We have found him.

With the tavern now in uproar, Gisburne and Galfrid scrambled for the door. Outside, Hamon lay sprawled in the muck.

“Are you all right, boy?” said Galfrid, hauling him to his feet.

“I’ve ’ad worse,” said Hamon. Then he turned back to the door of the tavern and slung a clod of dung at it. “Stuck-up bastards!” he shouted.

“Let’s all get out of here,” said Gisburne. “Before they realise we haven’t paid the bill.”

 

 

AS THEY HURRIED round to the yard where Nyght and Mare were waiting, Hamon – still breathless – apprised them of the situation.

“It was my mate Tom,” he said. “’E seen this bloke who fitted your description: a tinker, bearded and big, but all ’unched so as to ’ide it. He followed ’im, and he stopped ’is wagon outside an ’ouse in Jewen Street, and then ’e ’eard ’im ask for Ranulph Le Fort.”

“Christ,” said Gisburne. “He’s found Ranulph. Is there more?”

“The people of the next door ’ouse was Jews. They’s all Jews down there. They turned ’im away, said ’e’d come to the wrong place. And off ’e went.”

“Did Tom follow?”

“’E ’ad to leave him to come and tell me. But this were just minutes ago. Just as long ago as it took to run from Jewen Street.”

“Come on, then!” said Gisburne, and hauled himself into Nyght’s saddle.