L

 

 

Eastchepe

22 June, 1193

 

WIDOW FLEET HARDLY knew what to do with herself. As they had crashed through the front door, she had beetled out in her nightdress, her hair awry, eyes like muddy puddles, fully prepared to berate her tenants for bursting in upon the house so late with no thought for those already abed. Doubtless she had expected to find Gisburne and Galfrid the worse for drink, and ripe for moral censure. What she actually saw in the light of her flickering candle, however, threw her into total confusion: the two men muddy, beaten and bruised, and with them – in a no less disordered state – a lady of noble bearing. As the trio fell into the hall and towards the stairs, she gaped, open-mouthed.

“It’s all right, madam,” Galfrid had said. “We’re all right. Just cuts and bruises and trampled English pride.”

Then she had looked from her gentlemen tenants to the fine but dishevelled lady who now stood in the hall – her hall – and back once again to Gisburne and Galfrid. When neither spoke, Mélisande herself took the initiative.

“I am Mélisande de Champagne,” she said. “A pleasure to meet you.”

“Lady Mélisande is the daughter of the Count of Boulogne,” added Galfrid. At this, Widow Fleet gave an intake of breath, then flushed, passed the candle from hand to hand, then bowed, then ran out of things to do entirely.

“I must apologise for disturbing you at this late hour,” said Mélisande. “Some trouble upon the streets, as you can plainly see.”

“Oh, my lady, it has been terrible these past days!” The Widow looked upon Gisburne and Galfrid with infinite admiration. “And these good gentlemen came to your aid?”

“Something like that,” said Mélisande with a wry smile. “But all is well. And we must to our beds. Ready for the morrow.” She caught Gisburne’s eye, her smile fading.

“It is late to venture again into these troubled streets,” said a troubled Widow Fleet. “One of these gentlemen must see you safely back, or...”

“Or I could just stay here,” said Mélisande sweetly, her hands spread apart. She turned to Gisburne. “If you’ll have me.”

Widow Fleet, who had never seen or heard the like in all her born days, stood like a shrunken effigy of a woman, impossibly torn between scandalised outrage and overwhelming pride at having such a person under her roof. She finally gave in entirely to the latter, and broke into embarrassed laughter like a madwoman.

“Well, it’s decided, then,” said Mélisande, smiling warmly, and grasped her hand. “You are most kind.”

Widow Fleet blushed scarlet. Then as they turned toward the cramped stair, their long shadows cast before them, she bowed again, and laughed, and put her hand over her face, then, still tittering like a hysteric, scuttled away back to her bed.

 

 

“I DIDN’T THINK to see you again so soon,” said Gisburne. He stroked his fingers down her cheek, along the length of her slender neck and across her naked shoulder, sweeping aside the cascade of red-gold hair as he did so.

Mélisande shifted in the bed, propped her head upon her right hand, and made a show of scowling at him.“You know, those are the first actual words you have spoken since we got here?”

“Sorry about that,” said Gisburne. “But I am glad to see you.”

Mélisande’s scowl turned once again to a smile. “I could tell.”

He reached his hand behind her head, and kissed her upon her lips. She tasted of roses and spiced wine.

“I’ve missed you,” he said.

She looked around at the crazed inscriptions covering every inch of wall. “I could tell that too.” She turned her gaze back to him. “Not just because of the drawings.” And suddenly, she was not smiling – her expression instead turned to something deeper, strangely sad – something that made Gisburne wish to clasp her to him as tight as he knew how.

All at once, a loud snort made them start. It was Galfrid, in the neighbouring room, snoring. Gisburne and Mélisande simultaneously broke into stifled, adolescent giggles. The moment they had reached the top of the stairs, Galfrid had yawned very deliberately and immediately made himself scarce – an act, for which Gisburne would be eternally grateful.

“Well, at least we didn’t keep the poor fellow awake,” she said.

His hand traced a line across her breast, and down further still to where her waist dipped. The skin across her ribs was still discoloured from her injury. It looked grey in the moonlight. He stroked his fingers across it. “Does it hurt?”

“Only when I breathe deeply,” she said. “Or fast. Or when I exert myself.”

“Ah,” said Gisburne. “Sorry again.”

She touched his cheek. “Stop apologising. I said it hurt; I didn’t say I minded. But what about you? Are you hurting?”

“Just a few cuts and bruises,” he said. “An average night.”

“I didn’t mean that,” she said.

He stared at her for a moment, uncertain just what she did mean. There were many types of pain. But which was she referring to now?

“That shoulder of yours,” she said, poking the left side of his collarbone. Then she stroked it gently. “Your souvenir from Hattin. How is it?”

“It comes and goes. With the weather. With the phases of the moon. The tides. Who knows?” He have a half-shrug. “I have been training with the bow again. It has helped.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Gisburne the bowman. Is there no end to your talents?”

Gisburne gave a weak smile. There was an end, a limit. He just hoped, this time, he had not reached it.

She turned, and lay on her front, one leg kicked in the air, her hair strewn across her pale back. “That man,” she said, “Ranulph Le Fort. What did he say to you?”

Gisburne had changed after talking with Ranulph. Both Mélisande and Galfrid had seen it, he knew, but neither – until now – had asked. And now that someone had, he found it was too big, and struck to deep, for him to explain.

“A long story,” he said.

Mélisande lifted herself up onto her knees, studying the wall by the bed. “Is it to do with this?” Pinned immediately above where they lay was the parchment relating the altercation between Ranulph and the Irish lord.

“Yes,” said Gisburne. “How did you guess?”

She shrugged, and tossed her hair. “It wasn’t a guess. Ranulph’s name is upon it. And John’s. And it relates to Ireland.”

“But when did you read it?”

Mélisande smiled. “Don’t worry your head about that...” And she ruffled his hair. Then she leaned in, squinting at the parchment in the gloom, and placed a finger upon it. “But what is this name? La...?”

“Liadan,” said Gisburne. His voice was flat, without emotion. “The Red Hand’s mother.”

“My God. You found his name? Who he is?”

“Yes,” said Gisburne. “Finally.”

“This must help your task,” said Mélisande.

Gisburne said nothing. He turned on his back and gazed for some time at the dark beams above. “Ranulph leaves tomorrow on a ship bound for Calais,” he said at length. “It belongs to one Thomas of Baylesford, and sits at the wharf at Byllynsgate. Baylesford is dead, but he laid plans in advance – for himself and Ranulph to escape the Red Hand. I have arranged for you to take Baylesford’s place.”

“But I...”

“It is arranged,” insisted Gisburne.

Mélisande leaned over him, resting upon his chest, and moved a strand of hair from his forehead with her finger. “You are trying to keep me safe...” For once, she seemed to accept her lot. “So it is to be like before. A single night together before one of us departs on a ship... But what of you?”

“Tomorrow we prepare. The Red Hand will come. He will find a way into the Tower, no matter what anyone does. And then he will try to take his revenge. It’s there we will make our stand.”

“Revenge for what?”

“For his family,” said Gisburne.

Mélisande’s expression saddened as she gazed off into the distance. “It is terrible when one is condemned to be so full of hatred.”

Gisburne sat up, and with one hand on her cheek, kissed her on the forehead. “Goodbye, Mélisande,” he said.

She frowned at him as he drew back. “Goodbye?” The remaining warmth drained from her face. He glimpsed something in her he had rarely seen. She was frightened. But not for herself – never for herself.

Gisburne smiled a reassuring smile. “I’m saying it to you now because I know when I awake in the morning you will be gone.”

“It’s a long time until dawn,” she said. “Surely you can do better than just ‘goodbye’?”

He put his lips to hers, wrapped an arm about her waist and pulled her towards him.