V

 

 

“YOU LOOK A little better than last time we met,” said John, pouring a generous measure of wine into a second goblet.

Guy of Gisburne pulled back his hood and loosened the clothes about his neck, sweating from his exertions and the heat of the fire. He had forgotten how much shorter John was than he. The prince had inherited his father Henry’s squat build – certainly a far cry from his heroic brother’s enormous stature. But John also had Henry’s shrewdness and subtlety – qualities of which Richard had none.

“I have you to thank for that,” said Gisburne matter-of-factly. Displays of gratitude never came easily to him. When he had first encountered the prince it had been a low period indeed. His nadir, he now realised – an abyss from which he may never have risen. That Prince John had seen potential in him even then was something for which he would ever be grateful. He accepted the proffered goblet from the prince’s hand, noting as he did so that the prince’s fondness for elaborate gold rings had not diminished – the one and only feature he shared with Longchamp.

“By the way,” he said, gulping a mouthful of wine, “at the foot of the north wall is a large crossbow of unusual design. You will want to make sure it is safely recovered.”

“One of Llewellyn’s?” said John, charging his own cup.

Gisburne nodded. “And something you might not wish your enemies to possess.”

John gave a sigh of mock exasperation. “I hope you’re not overburdening him with outlandish requests. Special crossbows. Greek Fire...” He nodded his head in the direction of the conflagration on the river. “He costs me an arm and a leg as it is.”

Gisburne supposed John meant this as a joke. The Counts of Anjou – John’s father, Henry II among them – were notoriously tight-fisted, but for almost a year now he had been living at John’s expense, and there had been no sign of penny pinching. Admittedly, his needs were few. During that time, he had performed various tasks at the prince’s behest, and for the past six months had been training squires at Nottingham Castle with John as his generous sponsor. But none were made aware that it was the prince backing him – not even John’s trusted ally the Sheriff had been burdened with that information. If anyone could guess it, thought Gisburne, he could. But the Sheriff also understood the need for secrecy.

The other knights at Nottingham were less understanding. At a time when social status was increasingly the measure of a knight, they regarded this rough interloper who had been foisted upon them – a man with no past, no family, no allegiances that they knew of – with open suspicion. He was a shadowy cipher. Something disconnected from their crude, but rigidly structured world. He had proven his worth, training the squires hard but fairly, and displaying modesty, pragmatism and a relentless vigour in his sparring with the other knights, and some warmed to him. When that sparring was organised into a contest – partly, Gisburne suspected, so one or two of them could have a proper crack at his skull – and he had doggedly fought his way through every one of them to emerge the outright champion, those bitter with defeat had reversed their good opinion. The process had proved a valuable point, nonetheless. Not to the other knights – Gisburne cared little what they thought of him – but to himself. It was really he who had been in training those past months. And now he was ready.

But ready for what? Gisburne sensed, from the drama of John’s test, that what lay ahead was something momentous – but the prince was giving nothing away.

“What shall we drink to?” said the prince, turning to him with sudden cheer. He could be charming when he needed to be. “The King..?”

Gisburne did not laugh, nor did he raise his cup. It was also the first time he had ever heard John refer to his brother as “king” – even then, he had done so only in jest. That was John’s way of facing difficulties, he had learned – through black humour. But Gisburne could not, would not laugh at Richard. John read the look in his eye, and withdrew the joke. “The future, then...” To that, both happily drank.

“You didn’t warn anyone that I was coming tonight,” said Gisburne, keen to know what this night was about, but feeling a growing conviction that John – often mischievous when allowed to be, and more often when not – would keep him guessing as long as possible. “Not even Puintellus.”

“Of course not,” said John, as if the suggestion were absurd. “What would be the good of that? A real enemy doesn’t announce himself.”

Gisburne was used to being unannounced. But it was a practical consideration that struck him now – a sudden, keen awareness that he was wearing no armour beneath his surcoat. Leaving his mail hauberk behind had been a necessity given the punishing climb up the Tower wall. And he had, naturally, shown mercy to his adversaries during this elaborate exercise – the unfortunate crossbowman’s nose being the single casualty. But only now that he was past the moment of immediate action and allowed to reflect upon what had gone before did it come home to him that they would have shown no mercy in return.

“What if they had killed me?” he said – more a genuine query than an expression of outrage.

John looked faintly abashed, the smile still playing on his lips, then shrugged. “But they didn’t... They weren’t able to.” He waved a finger. “That, really, is the point, isn’t it?”

“I don’t doubt another would take my place soon enough, even if they had.” Gisburne’s tone remained as matter-of-fact as ever.

“I think not... There really is no one quite like you, Sir Guy. Of that I am certain. As you should be – though I know you are far too modest to think so. I took a chance on you when we first met. And, unlike so many I could name, you have not disappointed me.” He tapped his cup against Gisburne’s and chuckled again. “Really, you are a most amazing fellow.”

Gisburne said nothing. He had always found praise the hardest thing to take. As both drank, John wandered to the small, arched window looking over the Thames, the stonework about it still glowing orange from the flames of the blazing wreck.

“However...” John sighed deeply. “Did you really need to burn the ship? It had little to do with your mission.”

“That’s why I burned it,” said Gisburne. “To ensure that everyone was looking the wrong way, at the wrong thing – which had little to do with my mission.”

John chuckled gently. “Don’t think I disapprove. Even this proves I made the right choice, as you will see. You have shown yourself to be quite the tactician.”

“Control the battlefield,” added Gisburne. “That’s what Gilbert taught me.”

“Gilbert de Gaillon...” The prince nodded slowly, regarding him in silence for a moment, his smile fading. “Best you keep that to yourself. At least for now. There are a select few of us who know the truth about his disgrace. But there are many who still bear a grudge.” He turned back to the window, the light from the burning ship flickering on his face.

John gave a shrug. “It was one of Longchamp’s, anyway. Shame about the wine on board, though. That was good stuff.” He peered into his goblet appreciatively, swirling it around, then allowed a smile to creep back across his face. “You know, my father had the worst taste in wine of anyone I’ve ever met. To him, wine was just wine – there was no good or bad. He was also morally opposed to paying anything more than the minimum. So, everyone at court had to endure this wretched stuff that tasted like tar and vinegar. I think secretly he enjoyed inflicting it on them.” He turned suddenly, returning to the present, and raised his goblet. “Here’s to the last of the good stuff. And the last of Longchamp.” With that, he drank deeply. Gisburne did likewise. John immediately recharged their goblets from the wine pitcher.

“This coat you wear,” he said as he poured, looking Gisburne up and down. “This is new. I can’t say it’s exactly to my liking. A little... rustic for my tastes. Dramatic, though. And hard-wearing, I dare say.”

“It worked for the horse,” said Gisburne, flatly. Then, feeling he had on this occasion been rather too sharp, added: “Horsehide. From my father’s destrier.”

“Ah.” John nodded, raising his eyebrows. “That horse.”

“It’s a reminder,” said Gisburne, his expression dark. “Of what was taken. That such things cannot be taken for granted.”

“And of those who took them?”

Gisburne did not want to acknowledge that, but knew it to be true.

“You have heard no more news of Hood, I suppose?” added John, casually. Gisburne felt his insides clench at the mere mention of the name.

“Rumours,” he shrugged. “Stories. Nothing certain.”

“Oh, there are stories...” said John. “The comman man about Nottinghamshire and Yorkshire speaks of little else. He is becoming – what do they call it? – a ‘folk hero’.”

“It’s a pity they don’t know him as I do,” said Gisburne, his demeanour grim. “I have seen many who stole when they had to, but those who are thieves through choice are the lowest kind of villain – and Hood the vilest kind of thief. He steals the respect of others. He robs men of their good sense – misappropriates their friendship and loyalty and has them believe in a lie.” He gulped agitatedly at his wine, feeling the anger boil in him. Once, a lifetime ago, he had himself been fool enough to believe in the man who now called himself Hood. “His creed is destruction,” he continued, gruffly, “and he will lead those who follow him only to that end.”

John narrowed his eyes. “You really are a curiosity, Gisburne. A man who distrusts authority, yet craves order. Who values the law of the crown, but rejects his king.”

“I do not reject the king. I reject the man who calls himself king...” Gisburne fought to calm himself, aware that, despite John’s sympathy for his views, what he was saying was treason, and the man he was now condemning, John’s brother. “You know I cannot respect Richard after all I have seen. I know the chaos he leaves in his wake.”

“As do I. All too well...” John’s voice trailed off. “Little wonder that Hood gravitates towards him. We suffer under a similar curse, you and I.” He regarded Gisburne coolly, his shrewd eyes narrowing again. “You know, you are the only man who speaks honestly to me. That is why I value you so highly. I don’t believe there is another in England I would trust to hold a sword to my throat.” He thought about that for a moment. “In the world, actually... And yet you never refer to me as ‘My Lord,’ or indeed by any honorific to which I am entitled. That could be read as disrespect.” The playful glint had returned to his eye.

“A man is what he is,” shrugged Gisburne. “Titles mean nothing.”

“Including that of ‘knight’? Wasn’t that a title for which you once fought so hard?”

Gisburne faltered. “It was not the title I craved. It was… something else.”

“You have heard, I suppose, that our… friend in the north – the one who holds sway in Sherwood – has allowed the rumour to spread that he, too, is a knight?”

Gisburne had not heard it. The news cut him to the quick.

“The story goes he is a nobleman whose lands were unjustly seized – by me, of course – and that this flagrant injustice drove him to rebel. His followers have latched onto it, caring little whether or not it is true – neither the folk nor the tale will be held back by a minor matter like truth. They paint him a loyal supporter of the absent Richard – who can do no wrong since he isn’t here – and a champion of the common people. Poor fools!”

He laughed suddenly, and loudly. “It was my noble brother who bankrupted this land for the sake of his crusade, who drove up their taxes and then abandoned his kingdom, allowing all to fall into disorder and leaving the rest of us to pick up the pieces. To carry the blame.” For the first time that night, there was a note of bitterness – almost desperation – in John’s tone. He gave another hollow laugh. “That’s our lionhearted king… The noble King of England! My God, he couldn’t wait to leave!” As he spoke, his voice began to tremble and crack, his wildy gesticulating hands clutching into claws and his eyes widening with almost bestial ferocity. “Do you know how long he’s spent here, in his entire life? Weeks. He doesn’t even speak English. Never saw the point in learning the language of his own people. Little wonder he appointed an idiot like Longchamp! He only graced these shores at all so he could get crowned and claim it as a base possession...” John fought to rein in his rage, swigging at his drink. “No, dear Richard cared not a jot for this land, beyond what it could raise in cash. You know, he once said – and I swear these are his very words – that he would have sold London if only he could have found a buyer? They all laughed when he said that. Only I knew he really meant it.”

The tirade over, the prince steadied himself with one hand on the back of the chair and and exhaled deeply. Gisburne had heard that all of the dynasty of Anjou had savage tempers. He did not doubt that applied to John too, given what he had seen – but he was glad not to have seen it in full flood.

The prince began to pace slowly, his tone once again restrained, controlled. “I have heard other curious tales from the north. Disturbing tales. I would value your opinion on them...” He stopped again, clutching his goblet before him in an attitude that momentarily evoked the sacrament. “They tell of the dead rising from their graves and terrorising the living.”

Gisburne frowned. “Stories to scare children,” he said, dismissively. He was not a superstitious man. Nor, he thought, was John. But there was no smile on the prince’s face. “I’ve known my share of death,” he continued, with a tone of steady pragmatism. “Sent a good many on that journey. I’ve yet to see one get up again.”

John nodded slowly, seeming to stare off into an imagined distance. “It is a sign of a kingdom in chaos. One in which natural laws are so overturned that the land no longer holds fast to the dead.” He shook his head suddenly. “It matters little whether the stories are true or false. As with Hood. That people believe them... That’s what matters.”

“I can deal with Hood...”

John turned and flashed a charismatic smile. “That time will come. I know you used to hunt the forests of Sherwood with your father, and you shall again – for a more rewarding prey, this time. But Hood is the least part of my reason for bringing you here tonight.” He gestured to the chair. Gisburne sat – silent, expectant. The prince paced before him, his eyes burning with a cold fire.

“In the coming weeks a certain artefact is to come into Marseille by ship. The skull of St John the Baptist, once a treasured relic in Antioch, girt with gold and encrusted with precious stones. The skull is a gift from the Templars to Philip of France. A peace offering, in a way – intended to buy off the French king’s claims to Cyprus. It will arrive just in time for Christmas. Rather sweet of them, don’t you think?” He paused for a sardonic smile, then resumed his steady pacing, his voice growing in intensity.

“Let me explain how this came about... Last June, Philip was on his way to the Holy Land with Richard – the pair of them united for once by the shared crusade. But like schoolboys they competed constantly. Unfortunately for Philip, this was a pissing contest he couldn’t hope to win. If there’s one thing my good brother knows how to do, it’s outshine everyone else – especially where brute force is involved. He first captured Messina after Philip had failed to do so, and then – never one to pass up an opportunity – stopped to conquer Cyprus and had himself declared king. When he heard of it, Philip, who had sailed straight to Tyre, was piqued. Richard had used men and resources meant for their crusade. To add insult to injury, Richard then married Berengaria of Navarre, in spite of the fact that he was still technically betrothed to Philip’s sister Alys, and had already claimed the territory of Vexin as her dowry. By the time they joined together to face Saladin, relations between Richard and Philip were, by all accounts, seriously strained.

“Then Richard, already bored by his new acquisition, sold Cyprus to the Templars. They understand its strategic importance, of course. So does Philip. And Philip has a claim, of sorts – that the island was taken by the crusading army of which he was a commander, and disposed of without his consent. He covets it – partly, I suspect, because Richard had the audacity to take it from under his nose and have himself declared twice a king. But also because he had the stupidity to then toss it away as a spoilt child does a toy. If Richard were wise, or in any way a politician, he might have recognised Philip’s acrimony and the need to assuage it, if only for the unity of his precious crusade. But he is not. He never was able to put himself in another’s shoes, or even see the point of doing so. And anyway, he was already off, chasing another bone. Another of those ‘meaningless titles’ of yours – King of Jerusalem, this time.” He allowed himself a chuckle at that, then banished it with a sigh.

“He’ll probably get it, or die trying. We’ll see how that works out. The Templars, though… They are subtle. They understand that real power depends on more than the sword. And they are still smarting after the disaster of Hattin. To rebuild their web, they need a sound foothold in the Mediterranean, within striking distance of the Holy Land, and Cyprus suits them well – but they want their dominion to be unchallenged. And so the skull of my holy namesake makes its merry way to the French King.”

John stopped before the fire, took up a poker and jabbed at a log, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney. It was a moment before Gisburne realised that John’s tale was over – that it had ended before he was able to divine his own place in it. So, a holy relic was passing from the most powerful organisation in Christendom to one of its greatest monarchs. It would establish a peace, of sorts – a peace that, as far as he could see, was of as much benefit to England as anyone else, and was being created via a transaction in which no one in England or the lands ruled by Anjou played any part. Finally, he asked: “What is it you wish me to do?”

John looked him squarely in the eye. “I wish you to steal it.”

Gisburne felt his blood freeze in his veins.

“The skills you have shown tonight,” continued John, matter-of-factly, “all those will be needed if this is to succeed.”

The flattery bypassed Gisburne entirely. “You... wish me to steal a holy relic?”

“Put aside its religious significance,” John said, sweeping his hand before him. “The gold and jewels that it has accumulated during its life are greater than a king’s ransom. Make no mistake; although this seems a noble and pious gesture – a benevolent gift – it is payment. Nothing more. Both sides know this, though none will speak openly of it.”

In truth, Gisburne cared nothing for any holy power it supposedly possessed. He had seen plenty of such relics in his travels – saints with more bones than a team of oxen, pieces of the true cross sufficient to build a small ship, thriving workshops that did a roaring trade churning out both. He had also see men fight, and die, depending on them – enough to regard such talismans with ambivalence at best. But while defying a respected religious order certainly gave him pause – even if it concerned an object of dubious provenance – it was the notion of theft itself with which he struggled most. John pre-empted his objection.

“If it helps your conscience, consider this...” His voice was stern now, devoid of the calculated charm he so often affected. “I believe that Philip intends to use this gift to fund outrages in England; acts calculated to further destabilise the kingdom, to take advantage of a weakened realm and an absent king. Do not think of this as a mere act of thievery. It is a blow against those who would see this land engulfed by anarchy. Against the agents of chaos. Those who would rob men of their good sense.”

The return of his own words startled him. Gisburne stared into the depths of the fire in thoughtful silence, weaving the threads of their whole conversation together and wondering if he was correct in supposing who one of those agents might be. If he was, then John’s reasoning was unassailable.

“I have already told you more than you need,” said John, as if pre-empting the question. “More than I should. But I tell you this so you may understand, and not judge me too harshly.” He sighed deeply, resignedly, as if being judged too harshly were a curse he had to bear. “Tonight’s little charade... Well, it was more than that. I needed to put you to the test. To push your capabilities to the limit. Not because I doubt your tenacity or resolve, but in order to ensure I was sending you on a mission from which you could actually return.”

“Did I pass?” muttered Gisburne.

John laughed, the mischievous glint momentarily returning. “Well, you’re here, aren’t you?” He turned away again, towards the window. “I have sent many good men to their deaths. That is the lot of a prince. It would doubtless surprise the people of this land to know that it gives me no pleasure. I would have you return alive – or know, at least, that I had done more than send you to the scaffold. Tonight was a demonstration of this desire. And, by the simple application of a sword blade, that I trust you above all men.”

After a moment’s silence, Gisburne gave a single, solemn nod.

John smiled. “The skull is to be met at Marseille and escorted to the king’s palace in Paris by a senior Templar named Tancred de Mercheval.” John’s eyes slid to Gisburne, as if looking for some flicker of recognition. But the name meant nothing to him. “Tancred is revered – feared – even among the Templars. It is a measure of the importance of this transaction that the Grand Master of the Temple entrusts the task to him, even though there is little love lost between them. Tancred is... Difficult. A maverick. But once it is in Tancred’s hands, there will be no wresting it from them. Only a fool or an army would attempt that – and you are neither.” He looked at Gisburne in silence for a moment, as if awaiting an objection. None came. “Therefore, you must strike at Marseille, before the handover to Tancred is effected. And that means, I regret to say, that you have a long and difficult journey ahead of you... Arrangements have been made for you to stay at Dover Castle prior to your departure from England. There you will join a ship bound for Calais, where you will disembark disguised as a humble pilgrim, heading for Marseille.”

“Disguised?” Again, Gisburne smarted at John’s words. Again, John raised a hand in protest.

“I know you detest all this secrecy, this deception. But it is necessary. Our foes are masters of it, and we must become masters of it ourselves. If my information is correct – and my information is always correct – there will be other interests, other forces, looking out for this prize. Even within the Templars there are factions who abhor its loss. You must tread carefully, my friend. One day you will be able to step out of the shadows. But for now, that is where I need you.”

“But... Dover Castle..?” said Gisburne.

“I know,” said John, waving a hand with mock displeasure. “I am hardly their favourite prince...”

In truth, Gisburne would also have preferred a far less grand lodging place. What was wrong with a simple inn, with good food and honest ale?

“I have my reasons, however,” said John, an inscrutable smile flickering across his lips. “On that day, its castellan, Matthew de Clere, will playing host to another guest who you may wish to meet. Think of it as a parting gift.” Gisburne waited for more on the matter, but nothing came. “Don’t worry – I will keep my name out of the arrangements, and it would certainly be best for you if you did not mention me.”

“I’ll need time to prepare,” said Gisburne.

“You have two weeks and a day,” replied John.

“And I will need to see Llewellyn.”

“Then you are in luck,” said John, triumphantly. “He is here. I find it useful to keep him nearby during trying times – which is, I must say, almost all of the time.”

He moved to the door, and opened it. Gisburne stood. Outside, lurking hesitantly, was the bloody-nosed guard. “He’ll be awake, of course – he always was a night-owl – and will be expecting you. He has a way of sniffing these things out. And I’m sure he can offer you a pallet for what remains of the night.”

As Gisburne passed through the open door, the guard scrutinised his attacker with a kind of timid resentment, hastily breaking eye contact when he realised Gisburne would not. “He’s ensconced in the enginer’s foxhole,” said John, “buried in the bowels of this place. The guard will show you the way.”

“I know the way,” replied Gisburne.

John stared at him in amazement. “I thought you had not set foot in the Tower until tonight. And most who have do not even know this chamber exists...”

“I contrived to make the acquaintance of a disgruntled mason,” said Gisburne. “Sacked by Puintellus for being in drink. I bought him as many drinks as he liked at an inn in Southwark. In return, he etched a complete plan of the keep on the underside of a trencher.”

John laughed and clapped his hands with delight. “Upon such trivialities are empires made and kingdoms broken...” The laughter faded. “Sleep well, Sir Guy. We shall not meet again until this matter is concluded.” And with that, he began to swing the door shut.

“One thing...” said Gisburne. John stopped, his eyes glinting through the narrow gap. “The guest at Dover. The one you have contrived for me to meet. How am I to know them?”

“You will know them,” said John. “And they you.”

“May I at least be told who it is?”

John smiled. It was the smile of a man who had just played the winning stroke in a long and complex game. “Lady Marian Fitzwalter,” he said, and closed the door.