LIII

 

 

The Tower of London

23 June, 1193

 

LATE UPON ST John’s Eve, Guy of Gisburne and his squire Galfrid presented themselves at the gates of the Tower of London. The guards at the gatehouse – several of whom now knew Gisburne by sight, and who greeted him genially – were just as reticent as ever to admit them. Now, at least, they had the courtesy to obstruct him with apology and regret, and Gisburne understood, finally, that their hands were tied – that it was Fitz Thomas, and no other, who determined to make his life difficult. Finally, the gates creaked open, and Gisburne – longbow over one shoulder, quiver hanging at his saddle – rode into the castle ward with his squire at his side.

And thus it was that the great longbow returned to the Tower.

Within the castle, all was the same as ever. Grooms and servants went about their business as if this day were no different from any other. It seemed impossible to Gisburne that life here could carry on in a state of such total oblivion.

There was, however, one deviation from normality. At the centre of yard, before the keep’s west wall, a scaffold was under construction. Hood’s scaffold. Before it stood a beaming Fitz Thomas, admiring the work as if it were all his own idea, and his own sweat. So low had the man now fallen in Gisburne’s opinion that he found himself unable to believe the Lieutenant capable of admiring things in any other way. It was his – in fact, or by some imagined right – or it was nothing.

“Magnificent beast, isn’t it?” he called across to Gisburne with a smile. The hearty relish with which he regarded this instrument of execution made Gisburne feel sick. He and Galfrid dismounted, and the squire led the horses away to the stable. “I imagine you have come to see that all preparations are in order for tomorrow?” said Fitz Thomas. “The big day! Well, I can assure you they are. And what is more –”

“I have no interest in what is happening tomorrow,” interrupted Gisburne. “Only in ensuring we reach it.”

Fitz Thomas guffawed as if Gisburne had made some unintelligible theological pronouncement of dubious scholarship, pulled a face at one of the workmen, who laughed dutifully, then looked back at Gisburne. “Well, God willing,” he chortled.

“It’ll take more than God,” said Gisburne. “We need men. Armed and ready. For tonight he will come.”

Fitz Thomas stared at him with what Gisburne finally realised was a kind of pity. The Lieutenant laughed as one might laugh at a deluded infant, or a particularly dim dog. “Are you still fretting about this Red Hand of yours?” Gisburne half expected to receive a pat on the head as he said it. “This is the Tower of London!” As if this, and this alone, were the entire answer to the problem, Fitz Thomas spread his hands wide and chuckled ever more heartily, catching the eye of one of the carpenters upon the scaffold as he did so. The man joined his laughter, and one by one, his fellows joined him.

Gisburne’s patience was gone. Today was the last day. Perhaps the final time he would ever see the Lieutenant of the Tower. He would not be missed – and Gisburne no longer cared much whether he offended him. But he did need his co-operation until this thing was done.

That morning, as predicted, Mélisande was gone. How, he would never know – years of practice creeping past armed guards, he supposed. Then he had gathered his things, ensured that money was left for Widow Fleet should he not return, and as much for his own sake as his host’s, he had washed his walls clean. All of those obsessive marks – all the words, numbers, pictures and plans – were now meaningless. Now, there was only action.

“I need your help,” said Gisburne. “We must work together to prevent this catastrophe – to safeguard the life of the Prince, and to bring the Red Hand’s reign of terror to an end. And for that, I need your men at my disposal. To distribute around the fortress. There are things that we can do. Traps that we can lay. I know this enemy – how he will try to trick us, how he will attack. This way, we have the best chance of bringing him to justice.”

Fitz Thomas frowned and nodded sagely. It was clear he had barely listened to half of what Gisburne had said. “But you see, the problems are not within these walls, but out there.” He gestured to the city beyond. “The people are in a state of turmoil. They are afraid – whipped up, may I say, by stories such as the one you continue to spin!” He laughed, and looked to the workmen again for support. This time, they studiously avoided his gaze. “These poor folk look to us to help them in their hour of need. And for that reason, the Tower garrison has been put at the disposal of the City to help keep the peace – a gesture to the Lord Mayor, Henry Fitz Ailwyn.” He smiled a patronising smile. “You see, there are more important collaborations, Sir Guy. It is not all about you and your needs.”

Gisburne fumed. He wished, there and then, to dash out Fitz Thomas’s brains. “Are you telling me that at a time of threat, the foremost royal palace in England is without a garrison? Whose idiotic idea was that?”

Fitz Thomas’s sickly smile curdled, but the Lieutenant recovered. “You talk of threat...” he said, smiling again. “But it is one man! Let him come, I say. Let him be broken against these walls!” He sighed, and smiled again, and then explained as if to a deaf old woman. “Relations between the Lord Mayor and the Crown are delicate. It will be good for the city. Good for us all.”

“Well, that’s something,” said Gisburne. “Next morning, when they find you, your men, your dog and the king’s own brother slaughtered and the Tower put to the torch, we will at least have good relations with the Lord Mayor to fall back on.”

At that, Fitz Thomas’s mask of affability fell away completely, and Gisburne found himself staring at the face of a bitter, hateful old man, his eyes devoid of sympathy or care. With a reddening face, Fitz Thomas stepped towards him. “I give you my permission to move freely within these walls,” he rasped, spit hitting Gisburne’s chest. “But should you interfere with the running of my castle, or attempt to foist your orders upon my men, you will be cast out of those gates!”

“You can’t do that,” said Gisburne.

“I’ll do as I like!” snapped Fitz Thomas. He was shaking with fury. Gisburne watched as the Lieutenant fought it down, then plastered another false smirk across his face. “Well... Now that is understood, I’m sure we can continue to be friends.” And with that he turned and walked away, exchanging a joke with the watchman as he went.

 

 

“THAT LOOKED LIKE fun,” said Galfrid, weighed down with their gear.

“He threatened to have us thrown out,” said Gisburne.

Galfrid looked around. “D’you think there are enough here to do that?”

Gisburne gave a humourless snort. “I said he couldn’t. I think he misunderstood. So how’s it looking?”

“Not good. We have a fair army of cooks, scullions, stable lads and pages, but beyond that...”

“How many guards do you count?”

Galfrid puffed out his cheeks. “Four on the gate. A few on the Towers. A couple loitering over by the stable. In all, I’d say no more than a dozen.”

“The heart of England, presided over by that oaf and a dozen men... And them not even the pick of the crop.”

Gisburne sighed, and looked westward towards the city. The evening sun was setting beyond the wall, its deep shadow creeping across the yard. “Prepare the weapons,” he said.