XI

 

 

Northern France – 23 November, 1191

 

GISBURNE DIDN’T SEE the rope until it was too late. It was the sound that made his muscles tense, the split second before impact – the crackling of the half frozen hemp cord whipping into the air before him, then the deep thrum as it pulled taut, and a spray of ice crystals on his face. Then came the impact that took the air out of his chest. By the time he knew what was happening, he was already falling.

They were riding fast. That was the bad luck. Gisburne had been pushing hard since Calais. The weather had been cold, even for the heart of winter, and the frozen ground tough going for the horses. But there had, at least, been no more snow. The roads were passable, and the ground just pliable enough to give decent grip. So, he had pushed their advantage. It also meant he didn’t have to suffer Galfrid’s conversation quite so much.

Gisburne had been determined to reach Lucheux before nightfall. The promise of a good inn and sweet hay for the horses – which, in turn, improved the prospect of reaching Amiens the day after – had them racing against the failing light.

The good luck was that it was Gisburne, not Galfrid, who went first into the low ravine. Had the smaller man been riding ahead, the rope would have caught across his throat. At a gallop, that meant a broken neck – or as Gisburne had seen happen once before, decapitation. Instead, it had struck Gisburne across his right arm – which he had raised instinctively – and across his collarbone. That meant, at least, that he was not dead before he hit the ground.

If there was one thing a knight learned, it was how to stay on a horse. How to cling to its back like a limpet, no matter what the terrain; how to face lance and sword and wield weapons in both hands at full gallop. But before Gisburne’s brain could make any decision on the matter, his body had known what to do. It had known that, no matter what, it was going no further, and that the beast upon which it was sat was not going to stop. Instinctively, his legs relinquished their grip. His arm flailed and caught around the rope. Nyght leapt ahead. For a moment he swung in the air, hearing Galfrid’s horse thundering to an abrupt halt behind him. The rope sagged, stopped, then gave completely, and he crashed to the hard ground. A gurgling cry of pain and anger issued from somewhere nearby as he did so – but the moment was too confused for him to tell where.

Gisburne lay still, framed in an icy crust of snow, dazed, struggling to catch his breath. He twisted feet and hands, trying to feel past the numbing cold for wrenched muscles or broken bones. The wind was knocked out of him, but there was no pain. That was not conclusive – pain was not always quick to come with the worst wounds – but it was a start. Had he tried to stay mounted, it would have been far worse. But now, he was down. That was not so good. A mounted knight was a near invincible force. Unmounted, he was still a formidable soldier. Flat on his back, with no weapon, he was as good as dead.

Before he could move, the man was already on him, a sword point at his neck, the other hand curled up in a resentful claw, its fingers bloody and raw, its palm lobster-pink and shiny from a fresh rope burn. His whole being quivered with pain and anger, snotty nostrils flaring as he snorted like an animal. “I got you!” The sound seethed through broken teeth. The man was stocky, dressed in muddy layers that had the stink of months of wear on them. The face atop this mound of rags was round and sweaty, his hair plastered to his head as if slick with pig grease. “I got you!”

Gisburne tried to get himself onto one elbow. The man put a reeking, ragged foot on Gisburne’s chest and pressed him hard against the crunching snow, his eyes wide, his teeth bared.

A smile broke out across the stranger’s face. He began to laugh. It became wild – erratic – bursting out between the words “I got you! I got you!” He spoke with growing intensity, as if each repetition of the weird chant were imbuing him with some magical potency.

Gisburne stared along the sword blade in a strange state of detachment, its cold point resting in the hollow at the base of his throat. Curved. The weapon was badly notched along its edge, but ended in a hilt that glinted gold. Only by degrees – and with some incredulity – did Gisburne realise he was looking at a paramerion, a Byzantine weapon. How such a blade came to be in the hands of this wretch, God alone knew.

Other details impressed themselves upon him. He was still alive. His hands were free. The man’s right foot was on his chest. The man was now one-handed. And he had his right forefinger hooked over the sword’s guard. He almost smiled at that. Somewhere, some part of him was also beginning to wonder where Galfrid was.

“What’re you going to do now, eh?” The pig-grease man leered over him, then winced, as if a pain were suddenly asserting itself. He stared at his own bloody, filthy hand for a moment in appalled fascination – then, in response to some instinct, licked it. Gisburne almost heaved. “I’ll have your bollocks for this, you basta...”

He did not finish the sentence. Gisburne grabbed his foot and pushed it upward. The man flailed backwards, the blade flying away from Gisburne’s throat in a futile attempt to right himself. Gisburne, still clinging to the foot, gave it a sharp quarter turn to the right. There was a crack, and a piercing shriek, and the man completely overbalanced, hopped uselessely, then bowled over onto the ground, somehow avoiding his own blade.

Gisburne was on his feet. Nyght was trained to return to him, and within seconds Gisburne had him by the reins and had pulled the nearest thing to hand – his pilgrim staff – from his pack.

“Stop! Stop!” It was not his attacker. Nor was it Galfrid. The voice was weak, fearful. But the figure behind it, he now saw, had a drawn bow aimed directly at his chest. Gisburne at last understood why Galfrid – whose horse snorted and stamped just behind where he now stood – had made no move.

Pig-Grease heaved himself to his feet, leaning on his ludicrously exotic blade, his eyes blazing like a furnace. He winced as he put weight on his right leg.

“You don’t know what you done,” he growled, pointing his sword. “You got no idea...”

His companion with the bow, meanwhile, had not the means to hide his nerves, and visibly shook. Gisburne even fancied he could hear the shaft of the arrow rattle against the bow. His face was also in stark contrast to the other – as long and thin as a coffin board, with nervous, beady eyes and a mouthful of yellow teeth like carpenter’s chisels. Many times Gisburne had had occasion to compare someone to a rat, but never had the similarity been so literal.

In the tense stillness of that moment, Gisburne sensed movement at the very edge of his vision. Galfrid’s hand was reaching slowly for one of the earthenware vessels on his saddle.

“Not the bottles,” hissed Gisburne.

The bowman switched his aim to Galfrid. The little man froze. Gisburne fancied he saw a scowl on his squire’s face.

They stood like that, a gleaming sword pointed at Gisburne’s chest, an arrow aimed at Galfrid’s heart, waiting for what would happen next.

Pig-Grease took a deep breath, seemed to gather himself. A smile creased his features. “Now... Let’s try that again.”

As he spoke, he eyed up the gear packed about the horses. His gaze settled on something.

“What’s in the box?” he said.