XLIII

 

 

Eastchepe

15 June, 1193

 

“CHECK EVERYTHING – NO matter how trivial it may seem,” said Gisburne. “The answer may lie in a single figure. A single name...”

Galfrid gazed across the room and felt his heart sink. The contents of the newly opened chest were spread over every inch of floor. Gisburne’s deduction had been correct. It did not contain treasure – at least, not of the conventional kind. Indeed, if there was anything of value amongst the piles of documents, it was proving hard to find. In addition to records of tax, copies of charters and accounts of legal proceedings, there were letters, lists, bills of sale and purchase, maps, scraps of poetry, random parts of the Gospels, descriptions of animals and plants and what appeared to be an Arab treatise on warfare. A proportion of these documents also related to the Irish expedition, and it was these that they had first endeavoured to separate out, and which now occupied the space immediately between them. One was a less ostentatious copy of the Milford Roll. Ranulph, it seemed, had kept everything.

And yet, where was Ranulph himself?

“We have heard that Ranulph Le Fort had two fingers missing from his left hand,” Gisburne had explained as they had ridden away from Jewen Street. “The burnt body in the room did not. Unless he had managed to grow them again, it could not be Ranulph.”

“But Isaac said...”

“Isaac is simply protecting his friend,” Gisburne had said. “He wants everyone to believe Ranulph killed. What better disguise than death? No one hunts a dead man.”

As to the mystery of the charred corpse, both had hoped the chest might furnish something of worth. Clearly, its contents were thought to be dangerous by the killer. But why? It seemed to offer no clues – only more questions.

 

 

GISBURNE HAD BEEN testy prior to the chest’s arrival. He had paced the room, trying to rid himself of energy that Galfrid knew no amount of pacing would dissipate. What his master needed was to get himself on a horse, to put both it and himself through their paces with lance and sword for a day, to collapse exhausted into a bath and then sleep for a full night. But for now, this room was his prison cell.

The one thing that had dragged him from it during the tense wait was the Widow Fleet. The moment Galfrid heard her shrill tones from the back yard, he feared the worst. In an attempt to calm the situation, he had discretely closed the back shutter against it, even though he suspected Widow Fleet’s voice could penetrate eight feet of stone. At any rate, it was too late.

“What in God’s name is going on now?” thundered Gisburne.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” said Galfrid. “Looks like the Widow’s got into another argument with Osekin about that pig of his.” Galfrid had spoken as dismissively as possible, but no sooner had he said it than Gisburne was storming down the stairs. He followed hard upon his master’s heels, swearing under his breath.

Osekin, it transpired, had heard of Widow Fleet’s new whitewash and set about painting his own back wall. To Widow Fleet, who only that morning had headed off another attempt by Osekin’s pig to decimate her vegetable patch, this was the last straw.

“You shouldn’t be whitewashing your walls!” she howled at her neighbour as Gisburne entered the yard. “You should be mending this excuse for a fence!” And, glaring at the rooting pig, she gave the rickety structure a sound kick. “Oh, tell him, please, Sir Guy!” she pleaded.

Osekin looked upon Gisburne approaching, and for reasons best known to himself saw in him a kindred spirit. “Ah!” he said with a genial smile. “I was just explaining to the Widow Fleet how it is in the nature of the animal...”

“Is this your pig?” demanded Gisburne, pointing at the creature.

“Yes, but...”

Gisburne grabbed the whitewash brush, slapped a white cross upon the pig’s dark, bristly back, then plopped the brush back in the pail, splashing the paint down Osekin’s left leg in the process.

“Hoi – what’s that all about?” said Osekin.

“So I have something to aim at,” said Gisburne.

“Aim...?” Osekin went as pale as his new walls.

Gisburne took a step closer. “I don’t care about fences, or whitewash, or whether this pig is yours or someone else’s or has had itself elected Pope. But next time I see that pig in this yard, I’ll hang it up and use it for target practice.” He turned from the shocked Osekin as if to go, then suddenly turned on him again. “And if you trouble Widow Fleet with this one more time, I’ll shove its head up your arse. Then I’ll shove your head up its arse. Clear?” And with that, he turned and stalked off.

“He’s a bit off pigs at the moment,” said Galfrid.

Widow Fleet had beamed, gazing after the departing Gisburne as if he were her personal hero.

 

 

“LOOK AT THIS...” said Galfrid. It had been sitting in front of them for the best part of an hour, a scrappily written record of some aspect of Ranulph’s finances. Galfrid could make little of it, except that those finances were far from healthy. But the parchment upon which they were written was a fine one, and when Galfrid finally thought to turn it over, it revealed an older and far more significant text – one that connected directly with the story related by de Rosseley. He passed it to Gisburne.

It was an order from John that money be paid to Ranulph in compensation for the loss of two of his fingers during a fight with a chieftain named Faelan Ua Dubhghail. It was mentioned that Faelan died during the fight, leaving a wife and two sons: his heir Ailin, aged twenty-four summers and Niall, aged thirteen. Out of this estate was to be paid compensation to Ranulph of six hundred deniers or one good war horse. The attack was described as unprovoked and to have been undertaken ‘in a manner most sly.’ But nowhere was it suggested why Ua Dubhghail wished to risk everything by killing one of John’s men that night.

“This must be in my father’s hand,” said Gisburne. “Ranulph could not write immediately after the attack.” He held it out to Galfrid. “Would that he had written a little more clearly. Can you make out the wife’s name?”

Galfrid could not, except that it began with an L.

Gisburne sighed. “The key must lie within this document,” he said “It’s the one thing that seems to connect with what we know so far.”

“Could our killer be one of those two boys? The younger would be a man now.”

“If so,” said Gisburne, “then we have before us the Red Hand’s true name.”

“If he suspected the existence of such a document, that alone would be reason enough for him to wish it destroyed,” said Galfrid.

Gisburne stared hard at the page, as if daring it to speak further to him. “But we cannot know for sure. And what could do we do with this information even if we knew? How does this help us?” He flung it down in exasperation, his hopes dashed. “The document confirms one thing, at least,” he said at length, and turned to his squire. “Ranulph Le Fort did indeed have two fingers missing from his left hand.”

“So whose body was it in the burnt house?”

Gisburne placed the tips of his fingers together and rubbed the forefingers against the bridge of his nose. “I have been thinking on that... We know that Ranulph was often in debt. Yet the body had gold rings on its fingers – not a sign of a man in need. More like... a merchant displaying his wealth.” He looked up. “I believe we may have found Thomas of Baylesford.”

Gisburne stood, and turned about the room, paying little attention to the documents that crumpled beneath his feet. “We know the two men had been friends – that Thomas had gone into hiding, apparently aware that his life was under threat. Perhaps aware that Ranulph’s was, too. I believe Thomas went to find Ranulph. Perhaps to warn him. Perhaps thinking there would be safety in numbers. But if Thomas could find him, then the Red Hand could too. And he did. Unfortunately for Thomas, it was he who was alone in that room the day the Red Hand came to call.”

In the space of a minute, Galfrid’s entire world had shifted. He had of late been guilty of indignation at Gisburne’s failure to find Ranulph. Now, it seemed it was instead Baylesford who had perished, and who had done so because he had realised he was being sought – not only by the Red Hand, but by Galfrid too.

“The question is,” said Gisburne, “what became of Ranulph?”

And all at once, it came to Galfrid. “I think I saw him...” he said. And he told Gisburne of the man in the crowd whose look had so puzzled him. To this he added one detail, that until now had seemed of little significance. “At the time, believing Ranulph dead, I thought nothing of it. Just a curiosity. But the hand with which he clutched his wares – his left – it had fingers missing.”

“You saw him clearly?” asked Gisburne.

“Clear as day.”

“You would recognise him?”

“I believe so.”

Gisburne smiled. “We are getting somewhere. At last. Nine days, Galfrid. Nine days until Hood’s execution... In that time we must find Ranulph and make our final preparations. He is now the only one left who knows what really happened in Ireland. But we have a couple of advantages, at least. The Red Hand is injured, and he does not know we have the contents of the chest. If we can only fathom what they mean...”

“We have two more,” said Galfrid. “The killer thinks Ranulph already dead. And we have this...” he held up the armour plate. He had meant this as a positive gesture – one of defiance. But at the sight of the blue-black scale, Gisburne’s face fell.

Instinctively, Galfrid understood: it reminded his master of the impossibility of the task ahead – of the moment when he knew he must face him for the final time.