IX

 

 

GISBURNE DID NOT need the servants. They stood idly by, watching in awkward silence as he loaded himself up, then headed down to the yard where his horse was waiting. It was largely habit. He was used to trusting no one, relying on no one. But also, today, it was partly pride – a note of defiance. That he should feel the need to defy a squire – that he had one at all – seemed absurd. But there it was.

When Gisburne arrived in the inner ward, weighed down with his gear, he found Galfrid already waiting. By him were two stable hands, and two horses – a pair of sturdy rounceys. As Gisburne neared, the snotty-nosed stable boy arrived with Nyght. A look of incomprehension crept over the youth’s face as he saw the assembled company. Panicky looks darted between the stable hands, as if some dreadful misunderstanding had occurred for which they would likely get the blame. Galfrid looked at Gisburne’s mount, back to his own, then to Gisburne.

“You’re not taking that with you...” He nodded at Nyght.

Gisburne held Galfrid’s gaze, uncertain for a moment whether the man meant it as a question or a command. The stony face gave no clue. He lowered the last of his baggage. The ground was icy, but too cold to be wet.

“It’s the latest thing,” said Gisburne. “It’s called a ‘horse’.” Galfrid’s eyes narrowed at that. “It’s a long way to Marseille. I don’t intend to walk.”

“I have already made provision...” began Galfrid.

“Well, I prefer mine,” snapped Gisburne.

“These are better over distance.”

“He’s a good horse.”

“I can see that,” said Galfrid with a nod. The conciliatory air withered as swiftly as it had bloomed. “As will everyone else. It won’t do.”

Nyght stamped and snorted and shook his head, as if taking personal offence at the comment. “Won’t do?” fumed Gisburne.

“He’s too good.”

Gisburne’s annoyance boiled over. “So, I’m to ride some nag now, am I?”

“When did you last see a pilgrim riding a courser?”

“When the pilgrim was a knight.”

Galfrid fell silent. There was a logic to the response, though it was not logic that drove Gisburne. It was defiance. And pride. And perhaps something more. A knight – a chevalier – was not a knight without his horse. He’d sooner give up his sword.

Galfrid moved in close to Gisburne’s face, his manner suddenly impatient, his voice lowered to an irascible hiss below the hearing of the stable hands. “We are crossing the lands of the King of France. Enemy lands, in all but name. We do not especially wish to announce the fact that we are a knight. It prompts unwelcome questions. And please – spare me the ‘a knight’s not a knight without a horse’ speech...” He turned away, seemed to try to compose himself, but failed. “Or perhaps you would prefer me to blow a trumpet fanfare as we disembark at Calais and shout ‘Hurrah for England and bollocks to King Philip’?”

Gisburne felt a strange satisfaction at the outburst. The little man was human after all. “The horse stays,” he said flatly.

For a while they held each other’s gaze in silence, then Galfrid let out a deep sigh, seeming to deflate. “So be it,” he said. He came in close again. The earlier ire had quite gone, but a quiet intensity remained in his voice. “But know this: if we be captured, we can expect no protection – least of all from our master. We will be denied. Condemned, if necessary. We have only each other for protection now.”

“Nyght is also my protection,” said Gisburne. “And I his.” It was a moment, Gisburne could see, before Galfrid grasped that he was referring to the name of his mount. “He is not merely ‘a horse’. Nor ‘a knight’s horse’. He is my horse. And he has proven his worth. You have yet to do so.”

Galfrid stood in silence again, as if digesting Gisburne’s words, then nodded in resignation.

Gisburne loaded up his horse in silence. Throughout all his earlier adventures as a mercenary, no matter where he had found himself or who he had fought for, Gisburne had never presented himself as something other than he was. People took him as they found him. Sneaking around, going in disguise, stealing... Those things went against the grain. To Hood, it was second nature. But not to him. No, not to him. Yet he understood that he would need to adapt his ways. To become something new. He could even see, he grudgingly admitted, that there might be some good sense in Galfrid’s words – not that he was ready to yield to a superannuated squire just yet. “One must adapt to stay alive, but one must stay true for that life to have purpose.” That was one of de Gaillon’s many maxims. As with all of the old knight’s pearls of wisdom – most of which were now permanently set in Gisburne’s brain – it was easy to recite, but excruciatingly difficult to live by. De Gaillon had a maxim for that, too. “Only the unremarkable man lives easily.”

At the moment he thought this, his leather-sheathed eating knife jumped out of the leather satchel that his impatient hands were wrestling in place behind his saddle. It fell, bounced and turned a somersault on the hard round. The knife evoked an unwelcome memory. The real reason thievery set his teeth on edge; the reason part of him still feared it. He did not want to think about that. Only de Gaillon had known that truth, and he was long gone. Gisburne scooped up the knife, flung open the satchel and shoved both it and the memory deep down where they belonged.

And yet, his change – his transformation – had already begun, with his assault on the Tower, with his preparations for this quest, with the contrivances that Llewellyn had prepared for him. But somehow, when he was dealing with inert matter – wood and metal, and solutions to practical problems – the ethics seemed of little account. Perhaps the trick was to focus on these – or think in a similar way about people.

“What wood is this?” said Galfrid, his earlier irritation quite gone. “It’s heavy.” Gisburne turned to see the little man hefting his pilgrim’s staff – a sturdy length of wood that stood just below shoulder height. The top eight inches were wrapped round with cord to serve as a hand grip, and had a bulb of polished iron at either end of that portion – each about the size of a hen’s egg, but spherical – the topmost forming a solid head to the staff.

Gisburne snatched it from him and tucked it beneath his bags. “Since I’ll be carrying it, you don’t need to worry.” He saw Galfrid’s eye wander next to the wooden box, and whipped it away before the squire could settle on it. He hung it over Nyght’s left flank. It was not ideal – he would need to secure it more tightly, to stop it bouncing against Nyght’s hip – but there would be time for that.

Galfrid had meanwhile produced a wrinkled apple from somewhere, and took a slice off it with a knife as he looked Gisburne up and down. “You’re wearing that, then, are you?” Gisburne looked down at his black horsehide coat, then back at the squire.

“Yes,” he said acidly. “Does that meet with your approval?” One of the stable lads stifled a laugh.

“It is... not so bad. Strange, yes. But practical. And one can’t imagine a knight would wear such a thing. Which is good.”

Gisburne sighed and turned back to his horse, beginning to wonder if there was anything upon which his unwelcome squire did not have an opinion, or the need to have the last word. Beyond his right shoulder, he heard the stable hand’s snigger finally break loose. He really would be glad to be rid of this place.

There remained only the earthenware bottles. Gisburne had looked all over his tightly packed saddle and bags, at first refusing to admit that they could not be accommodated. He now eyed Galfrid’s more leanly packed horse. “Since we are of an accord – and you of such a practical bent – I’m sure you won’t mind carrying these.”

To Gisburne’s surprise there was no word of protest, no grimace, no sigh of contempt. Galfrid took them without hesitation and strapped them firmly to his saddlebags.

“Your own personal supply?” he said.

“Don’t drink it,” warned Gisburne.

“So, what’s in the box?”

Gisburne wondered how long it would take him to ask. The squire had tried to sound casual, but without success.

“I’ll be keeping that by me,” Gisburne said. For the first time, fundamental questions formed in his mind. Just how much did Galfrid know of this mission? Everything? Nothing? Was there perhaps information this man possessed that he himself did not? Such questions were the reason he worked alone. Working alone, the matter of trust was simple: you trusted no one. There was no need. That would be another painful adjustment on his part. Weighing these thoughts, he looked Galfrid straight in the eye, and from a great effort of will, spoke without guard or affectation. “Do not touch it. Do not try to open it. And after we are successful in Marseille, it is to be guarded no matter what. Understand?”

Galfrid nodded, for once accepting his new master’s word without question. As they moved off in silence, Gisburne resolved to discuss the details of the mission with Galfrid at the first opportunity – to share what he knew. He hoped Galfrid would do the same. The trust had to begin somewhere. But it would not be quite yet – he would wait until they were in France and safely on their way.

“So,” piped up the squire as they wound their way down towards the harbour. “You’re a knight... And you called your horse ‘Nyght’?”

“Yes,” returned Gisburne, irritably. “What of it?” But Galfrid simply nodded slowly to himself, and crunched on another slice of apple, and gazed out over the gently heaving expanse of grey ocean.

Gisburne had the feeling this was going to be a long trip.