XV

 

 

Paris – 29 November, 1191

 

THEY COULD SMELL Paris before they could see it.

At least three times the size of London, the infectious, burgeoning sprawl of humanity, with its crooked roofs and spires thrusting into the grey fog of woodsmoke hanging above, was an awe-inspiring sight to the approaching pilgrims. But the reek of its clustered humanity had been growing in their nostrils all the previous day.

The day had proven hard going – the weather dry, but with a bitterly cold wind blowing in their faces. It was not by the gusting wind that the stink of the city had first announced itself, however, but the Seine. Their approach had seemed to involve endless crossings back and forth across the meandering river, using ferries of ever more perilous construction piloted by ferrymen of dubious reliability.

One vessel, whose rope bindings were coming adrift, listed so alarmingly as it plied its treacherous course that Gisburne was convinced, half way across, that they and their horses were doomed to be pitched into the icy, open sewer. Another benefited from an operator who flatly refused to to move until more passengers came along, forcing them to huddle in the bitter wind for hours until this became the case. Without exception, they grew increasingly decrepit and more ridiculously overpriced as the distance from Paris diminished.

Soon, the long-threatened snow had begun to fall and darkness enveloped them, and – when literally close enough to smell the French capital – they had finally been forced to seek lodgings several miles short of their goal.

They had limped into a ragged gathering of huddled dwellings just off the thoroughfare. Gisburne, having expected to dine well that night in one of the world’s greatest cities, had expressed the gloomy opinion that their chances of a decent meal now looked slim. “I’d eat mud if it was hot,” Galfrid had said. Gisburne thought he had also attempted to smile, but that his face was simply too frozen to adequately express anything other than cold.

They sought lodgings at a low, hump-backed building with a flag outside that indicated pilgrims were welcome. Inside, the welcome was rather less evident. The fire was meagre, and around the cramped interior sat a few gloomy, exhausted-looking patrons who looked upon the new arrivals with an expression that seemed part pity, part plea for rescue. Too tired to argue, Gisburne and Galfrid sought out the patron to secure shelter for the night. Reassuringly rotund, with gap teeth and sunken, piggy eyes, he turned out to be a jolly fellow indeed, greeting them like long-lost friends and promising them the finest food and lodging for miles around. When it came, however, the ale was watery, the bread as hard as wood, and the grey, greasy stew that accompanied it barely edible. It had evidently seen meat of some kind, though of that there was now no visible sign. Beneath the sour tang of onions that had begun to rot was another strangely rank aftertaste, like dead fish. Gisburne did not want to think about why that was.

“About that mud...” said Galfrid, with a despondent air. Gisburne shot back a look that was half smile, half grimace, and forced down another spoonful of the filthy, lukewarm concoction.

Gisburne had been trying to be more conciliatory to Galfrid since Amiens, three days earlier. Whilst there, Galfrid had insisted – actually insisted – that they visit the cathedral. Gisburne had refused. His preferred plan was to keep to the outskirts and not touch the centre of the city at all.

“But it’s what pilgrims do,” Galfrid had said, making no attempt to hide his frustration.

“It’s not what we do,” Gisburne had replied.

“And do you want everyone to know that?”

Gisburne had not been convinced. “Galfrid – no one knows. No one cares. We travel. We rest. That’s all. Our destination is a long way off, and I aim to get there before spring.”

Galfrid had sulked for the rest of the day, gazing elegiacally at the cathedral’s distant towers as they passed, and making Gisburne – much to his own annoyance – feel like a father who had been forced to discipline a demanding child. He also felt guilty. That annoyed him, too. It was too late to back down; it had been a point of principle, and his reasoning was perfectly sound. But perhaps he had grown too used to his own company in the past few years, too used to pleasing only himself and doing things his way. He had never asked for help, never wanted this companion on his journey. But now he had him, like it or not. And, while this strange little man seemed to adopt a gloomy air as a matter of course, Galfrid had never actually complained, but for this one point. He had done everything that was needed and more, and matched his master’s pace in terrible conditions without batting an eye. Gisburne wondered if he had pegged Galfrid all wrong. Perhaps this man he thought to be a cynic was pious after all, and he had offended his religious sensibilities. He didn’t think so.

Gisburne pushed away the remains of the putrid stew and looked around furtively. He was tired to the bone, but there was a niggling sense of frustration that wouldn’t let him rest just yet.

“Do you suppose there’s anywhere around here where we can at least get a decent drink?” he said.

“There are always those bottles of yours,” replied Galfrid.

Gisburne simply smiled, and shook his head, as Galfrid knew full well he would. Then, without another word, both stood and prepared to plunge out into the night.

There were times when Gisburne was surprised by his own optimism. The prospect of anything out in this bleak, freezing night seemed slim, and as they trudged on past the few dwellings, the wind and snow lashing their wrapped faces, even he was on the verge of giving up and heading back to the paltry hospitality they had just left. It was better than nothing – better than being out in this. But some impulse drove him to follow the turn in the road ahead, to at least satisfy himself that there was nothing beyond it.

The few dwellings having been left behind, the way was now flanked by dark, dense trees which seemed to promise nothing but mile upon mile of disordered nature. As they rounded the bend, however, they saw not the expected expanse of forest, but another clearing, and more buildings, and among them, not far ahead, a long, low roof beneath which an encouraging light glowed. From it, as if in response to their wish, and gusting on the merciless wind, came the sound of raucous, drink-fuelled singing. Gisburne and Galfrid looked at each other and actually laughed.

The inn was the Heaven to the Hell of their own bleak lodgings. The fire blazed, beer, cider and wine flowed, and hot bodies crammed every corner. The air was thick with the smell of sweat and the damp fur of the dogs that cavorted about the straw-strewn floor, tempered with the sharp, yeasty tang of spilt ale, and the aromas of seared meat, warm spices and woodsmoke. In one corner, about a crude, circular table of absurdly large proportions, sat almost a dozen knights, and about and between them, a similar number of fresh-faced lads of various ages – squires – who the knights were evidently trying to get drunk. This company, Gisburne was sure, had been the source of the singing. The song had now abated, but someone – Gisburne could not see who – was playing a jaunty tune on a whistle-pipe. Hands beat time on the table tops, joining the clamour of talk and laughter.

Both looked around in wonder, pulling off their wrappings and squeezing in to find a space about a barrel, with upended logs serving as stools. By the fire, Gisburne now saw, spiced wine was steaming in a pot. They had two cups and a jug brought to them, and supped and smiled stupidly as the warm, sweet brew flowed through them. The irony of the situation was not lost on the pair. Not only had they stopped short of their goal by only a few miles, they had fallen short of this, far more generous accommodation by mere yards. Not that it mattered now.

Gisburne eyed the party about the big table. He was wary of groups of knights away from the duties of service or war. Too often, they seemed to feel a lack when these things were not present, and sought to fill it in ways that were troublesome. And he had seen even good men – who, when encountered alone, were as gentle and honourable as one could wish – turn oafish and rowdy in the company of others.

He had been wondering if such was the case with this group, and had resolved this night to remain as unobtrusive as possible, just in case, when a cheery shout went up amongst them. They clapped and roared words of encouragement, and up onto the table was hoisted a gangly lad – a squire who could not have had more than eleven summers on him. His face was flushed and embarrassed. But there was no fear in it. He took a deep breath. The knights fell suddenly silent, and the boy raised his clear voice in song.

It was a tune Gisburne had heard many times before, one he knew only as Por mon coraige; an old song favoured by knights. It told of one leaving all he loved to fight in other lands. The beautiful, simple melodic lines unfolded, piercing the din of the tavern, and as it reached their ears, each within fell silent, one by one, until the only sounds were the pure notes rising and falling, the crack of the fire, and the wind that buffeted the rooftop. Around the table, the knights – men who had undoubtedly survived unspeakable horrors and hardships – stared into their drinks, lost in memory of all they had won and lost, tears coursing down their faces. When he finished, and let his head drop, there was a moment of silence when even the wind seemed to abate. The cheer that followed shook the rafters.

After their return, Gisburne and Galfrid settled down for the night on pallets in a cramped, dank room that played host that evening to three other travellers. Gisburne lay a long time in the dark, listening to the grunting and farting of his fellow pilgrims, the sharp, sickly tang of dead mice in his nostrils. The smell – perhaps spurred on by the presence of the knights in the inn – had evoked a powerful memory. He rubbed the scar on his brow – the flesh had begun to itch, as if itself remembering.

 

 

THEY REACHED PARIS a day – or, at least, part of a day – later than Gisburne had wished. The advantage to their late arrival in the city was that they had arrived in daylight. Galfrid had been dismissive from the start. “It’s like London,” he’d said, “but more cramped, more filthy and with worse food.”

Gisburne’s first impressions were of a city at once brand new and in a state of advanced decay. The wind was gusting from the southeast that day, and carried before it the full stink of the hectic, noisy, heaving hive of grandiose squalor. But, as they approached from the northwest, it seemed that that there was no corner where some building was not taking place. Around the entire metropolis, as far as the eye could see, were massive, half-built walls, punctuated by piles of sand or gravel and heaps of stones. The snow was trampled and tracked by hundreds of hooves and wheels that constantly came and went. Around every edifice, teetering scaffolds crawled with men who toiled ceaselessly with chisel and hammer while, about their heads, wooden cranes and windlasses swung and creaked under the weight of fresh masonry. Before the walls, to the south, as they approached Porte St Honoré, the landscape had been scoured and scraped of every living thing for miles around, and from this barren patch of bare, frozen earth, grit and icy puddles – broken and heaped and dug with vast ditches – rose massive, round towers and more thick walls of stone. A fortress fit for giants. Galfrid – who seemed to know everything about everything – informed Gisburne that this was the king’s new palace and royal arsenal. He had always envied London its Tower, and now meant to raise something even more grotesque. Gisburne asked if the palace had a name. Galfrid, with a snort of what may have been contempt at the French powers of imagination, said they simply called it “L’Oeuvre” – “the work”.

Philip, it seemed, was a fanatical builder. Gisburne knew – because it was the one part of Paris for which Galfrid showed any enthusiasm – that in the heart of the city, on the Île de la Cité, the great cathedral of Notre-Dame was also being raised. Philip had paved the main streets that crossed the city from north to south and from east to west, too, and built vast new markets at Halles Champeaux. Another of his innovations was the gallows of Montfaucon north of Paris. The criminals who were hanged there were left to rot as a warning to others, and in deference to the status of the dead, the place had become a public dumping ground for all other foul and stinking waste that the river could not carry away.

At Galfrid’s suggestion, they found lodging for themselves and their horses away from the centre of the city. Galfrid wished to continue on foot – to see the cathedral, he said – and this time, Gisburne resolved not to deny him this one pleasure. The cathedral was next to the current royal palace – the supposed final destination of the skull – and that was something Gisburne wished to see for himself. And so he donned his pilgrim hat – which he abhorred – and took up his staff.

As they advanced, the signs of innovation melted away, and the dingy, fungal maze of streets closed in about them.

Streets gave way to alleys, alleys to nooks not even wide enough to turn a horse. Up above, the teetering upper floors of the houses leaned in so close that Gisburne calculated one could easily piss from one open window to that opposite. And as the byways narrowed, the number of people grew. More than Gisburne had ever seen. Jerusalem had been populous – always bustling – but it was nothing like this. On every side, dirty figures shoved and jostled – young men, old women, children – occasionally regarding him with weary, blank eyes. Gisburne fought through the grim tide, oppressed by it. He felt like a knight’s pell, a straw-stuffed obstacle to be struck and kicked about. People of all ages begged or tried to sell them useless or rotting wares – things that, for the most part, looked as if they had just been picked up in the street. Mud-caked harlots plied their trade everywhere one looked, some with an almost evangelical zeal. On more than one occasion Gisburne had to physically repel them, and saw one strapping woman – with hair like Medusa, the muscles on her bare arms like whipcords – literally drag a cleric away to her lair.

About their legs, rats, dogs, fowls and the occasional pig – all the same dun colour as the trampled slush and mud, and all scrawny – darted and fought with each other over unidentifiable scraps, some with the intention of making a meal of their rival. Here and there were dead creatures – or parts of them. Once or twice Gisburne saw figures lying in the ordure at the street’s edge, the throng stepping over them on their hurried way. Whether they were alive or dead, he had no idea. Once, along a descending alley, a band of dark-eyed men with sticks came by, and the people stood aside. Gisburne and Galfrid did likewise, though what their purpose was, they never discovered.

If white was the colour of virginity, then Paris was a whore. In past days there had been a generous fall of fresh snow, but almost nowhere was it the good, honest white it was meant to be. Where feet, hooves and wheels passed – which was nearly everywhere – it had been churned and trodden to a grey-brown, icy sludge, its hue varying according to the neighbourhood. There were strict rules about what could and could not be emptied into the city streets, of course, but in this chaos – this abyss – enforcing anything was a virtual impossibility. In streets close to the river where certain trades predominated, one could tell the nature of the work not only from the dominant stink – a year-round feature, especially notable in summer – but from the distinctive colour of its effluent, thrown into even sharper relief where it stained the few untrodden patches of snow. There was grey snow outside the blacksmiths, red where the butchers had their shops and slaughteryards, yellow in the rows of tanneries clustered along the north bank of the Seine. Down one side street, where the snow was relatively untouched, Gisburne saw that it was blue. What had caused it, he could not guess. And everywhere, no matter what the trade, was the yellow-brown splatter of emptied chamber pots – 100,000 of them in continuous use in this one city, and tipped out of windows God knew how many times a day. If it was true what they said about the effect of cities on one’s guts, this was a frequent occurrence indeed. Eventually, all this – excrement, urine, blood, offal, and the chemicals from tanning and dyeing – would find its way into the river, the same river from which the city’s water was drawn.

Gisburne tried to visualise such an extraordinary quantity of shit, but found he could not. In the countryside where he grew up there had been muckheaps of almost legendary size, but they were specks in comparison. Surely, one day, the city would simply consume itself. He gave it ten years.

At last, the human tide flowing through the street drained into open space – the bank of the Seine opposite the Île de la Cité. Here, the general tumult was joined by the protests of horses, the rumble of carts and the cries of the traders whose stalls stood across the bridges.

Beneath the arches of the Grand Pont, great millstones turned day and night, driven by the open sewer of the Seine, grinding grain into flour for the next day’s bread.

Galfrid gazed across the bridge – packed with merchants hawking their wares, and hectic with every kind of noble, knight, ruffian and trader – to the royal palace beyond.

“Well,” said Galfrid. “That is where the skull is supposed to end up...”

Gisburne scanned the terrain from beneath his broad-brimmed hat. Back towards the Rue St Denis, his eyes came to rest on a small group of figures in white, red crosses emblazoned across their chests.

“Templars...” muttered Gisburne. He regarded them with a mix of respect and caution. The military order of monks known as the Knights Templar paid no taxes, passed unhindered through any borders and were answerable to no king. They were a formidable force – their coffers deep, their influence wide. It was wise to tread carefully where Templars were concerned.

“‘Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ and of the Temple of Solomon’, to give them their proper title,” said Galfrid. He looked at Gisburne, then gave a shrug. “Although ‘Templars’ is shorter.” Then something caught his eye. He squinted sideways at them, trying not to look too much like he was looking. “And these are not just Templars...”

Gisburne followed Galfrid’s gaze, trying to obscure his own look under his headgear.

“You see that red ribbon tied about their left arms? That is the mark of Tancred de Mercheval. The White Devil.”

“So, he is here,” said Gisburne. “To see the King, I suppose?”

Galfrid shrugged. “Perhaps. Or simply heading south from Castel Mercheval. To collect his prize. And getting the lay of the land as he does so. And before you say it, no, we could not carry out the robbery here.”

It was exactly what Gisburne had been thinking.

“It’s tempting, I know. A city in chaos. A smash and grab raid. I don’t doubt there would be a way we could snatch it. But what then? Their obstacles would also become ours. We’d never get out of the city alive.”

“There’s always the sewers,” said Gisburne, wryly.

Galfrid simply gave him a withering look, as if the idea did not warrant serious consideration. “The streets are the sewers,” he said. “This isn’t Jerusalem.”

Gisburne decided to let it go. He nodded towards the knot of men. “Is Tancred one of them?”

Galfrid laughed. “No...”

“So, why do they call him the White Devil?”

“They say he died and came back.”

“How?”

“You’ll know when you see him,” replied Galfrid, and would say no more.

The Templars were momentarily swallowed up by the throng – but now, something else caught Gisburne’s eye. Something at odds with everything around. A vision.

Swaying above the jostle and din, hoisted by an unnecessarily handsome quartet of green-liveried servants, was a litter. It had evidently just traversed the bridge, and was heading away from the royal palace towards Rue St Denis. And seated upon it, gazing with languid expression upon the hoipolloi of Paris, was one of the most beautiful women Gisburne had ever seen.

She was a uniquely bright thing in all this grim chaos. Her cloak was a marvel of blue silk with an ermine lining as white as fresh snow. Over a white chemise decorated with flowers, she wore a tunic of green silk, also completely lined with fur, body and sleeves. To enhance the beauty of her neck – which was, Gisburne had to admit, considerable – she had placed a clasp on her chemise that permitted an opening of a finger’s width, through which one could glimpse the pale curve of her breasts. The clasp itself was a masterpiece of craftsmanship, gold and shaped like the sun with a bright yellow stone at its centre. On her head – framing her rosebud mouth, her shapely nose, her large, limpid green eyes – was a wimple of white picked out in gold, and about her slim waist a belt fitted with a golden buckle. A single tendril of red-gold hair escaped the wimple’s edge, as if refusing to be contained.

She stifled a yawn, cast her eyes momentarily in Gisburne’s direction, and for an instant their gazes met. She looked hard at him, then turned swiftly away.

Gisburne heard Galfrid’s voice in his ear. “That is Mélisande de Champagne, daughter of the Count of Boulogne, grandaughter of King Stephen of England.”

Then, as if in answer to the question that had sprung unbidden into Guy’s mind, the squire added: “And wife of... no one. Yet.”

Gisburne gazed as the litter wove its way onward through the crowd, momentarily lost.

Without warning, something heavy cuffed his head – so hard he staggered where he stood, his hat bowling onto the ground. The blow was swift and brutal. While it didn’t feel as though it had drawn blood, it had about it the unmistakable heft and clink of metal. A familiar image leapt into his rattled brain. A mailed gauntlet. The hand of a knight.

“Filthy cur!” barked a voice.

Gisburne righted himself and turned to face his aggressor. Behind him stood four tall, broad-shouldered men. At their centre, and scowling at him from within a mane and beard of flame-red hair with a face of astonishing pinkness and appalled expression, like a freshly castrated hog, was his accuser. All wore the mail of a knight, a familiar white surcoat, and a red ribbon about the left arm.

Tancred’s men.

Gisburne knew the elite military orders well. He had stood alongside them in battle, seen them fight and die. But he immediately recognised the type of knights that now faced him. The worst kind – men trained to fight, raised on dreams of battle, who yearned for nothing else, and yet were denied it. He knew they hungered to be in the Holy Land, suffering any deprivation or hardship as long as they were able to kill for the Christian cause. He knew, too, that for men such as this, the Christian cause was perhaps not their primary motivation, but a convenient excuse. His mentor, Gilbert de Gaillon, had warned against loving combat for its own sake. “It is a means,” he would say, “never an end. One who fights for the sake of fighting has forgotten why he does it. Such a man dies soon, and for the most desolate of reasons – for no reason at all.”

To Gilbert, the very height of stupidity was to engage in a battle that did not need to be fought. But some, Gisburne knew, could not help themselves. Away from the fight, they felt useless. Impotent. They hated it – hated themselves – and so turned their hatred outwards, seeking conflict with everyone and everything around them. Such men would find a fight, or make one. Through all his battles, from the castles of France to the scorched plains of the Holy Land – battles in which the enemies had at first seemed clear – Gisburne had come to understand that the real threat to order came not from without, but from men such as this. They were the destroyers of peace, the agents of chaos. The ones who lusted all the more for battle when peace was upon them.

“How dare you gaze upon a lady thus?” The response that first sprang to mind – that he would look at whatever the hell he liked, in whatever manner he liked – remained behind clenched teeth. Instead, he said something he had never before said in his life.

“Peace be with you, brother.” And with that, he turned and walked away. He heard Galfrid sigh with relief as they went, picturing the throng closing around them as they plunged back into the current of human traffic.

Within moments, a rough hand spun him back round, and the ham-coloured flesh of the Templar was in his face once again. The quest for anonymity – the hoped-for dissolution back into one of the greatest concentrations of humanity in Christendom – had not been successful. Nor, Gisburne saw, could it ever have been. Around the Templars, even where the crowd were hard-pressed one against another, all maintained a fearful distance, eyes carefully averted.

“‘Brother’?” spat the man. “I’m not your brother. Do I look like the bastard son of a pox-ridden whore?” Gisburne felt Galfrid’s restraining grip on his elbow. But it was not needed. Various possible responses – many accurate, none particularly diplomatic – flashed through Gisburne’s mind. But, using all the will he could muster, he kept his mouth resolutely shut. Teeth clenched, straining to contain his outraged spirit as if it were a breath that had been held too long, Gisburne smiled weakly, gave a slight bow as if in obsequious apology, and turned once more.

Gisburne had not gone two paces before a hand in the back of his belt stopped him dead. The remaining Templars – four in all – circled around him like dogs. He and Galfrid could go in no direction now that was not physically barred by their persecutors. His persecutor rounded on him.

“We’re not done.”

“You’re making a mistake,” said Gisburne. He felt Galfrid tense beside him.

“You dare question me? I didn’t mistake the filthy look in your eye... pilgrim.” He spat the final word as if it were the grossest insult – but Gisburne could see a flicker of uncertainty in his eye. He looked hard into it.

“No, the mistake is what you’re doing now.”

Involuntarily, the Templar’s face fell. Gisburne, implacable, did not move, did not break eye contact, did not even blink. He could see the fear in in this man’s soul – could see the gnawing self-doubt that he had suddenly and inadvertently revealed, making the knight, even now, consider defeat. Gilbert de Gaillon’s words drifted back into his mind as they always did on such occasions. “Battles are first fought in the mind,” he would say. “One who believes he may lose is already half-defeated.”

Breaking away, as if suddenly aware that this strange pilgrim had seen too deeply, the Templar covered it with a raucous laugh. His fellows joined in as he turned to face them, then completed the circle back to Gisburne, his confidence visibly rallying at the sound. So, this was a man whose strength came not from within, but from without. It needed reassurance. He was weak.

“So what is it we have here?” he bellowed, far louder than he needed to, coming so close to Gisburne’s face now that he could feel the man’s spit hit his face as he spoke. “A fighting pilgrim? Oh! Pardon me, I have mistaken you, Sir Knight...?” He bowed low, his voice fluttering in a girlish mockery of apology. Gisburne felt Galfrid’s grip tighten on his elbow. The man straightened. “Well, I knew those Hospitaller bastards were desperate, but you...?” His fellow Templars guffawed. “So, is there fight in you, pilgrim?” He poked Gisburne hard in the chest as he spoke. “Is there?”

“There won’t be a fight,” said Gisburne in a monotone. Galfrid relaxed his grip.

The Templar frowned, simply bemused this time. “Oh? I suppose you mean to assault me with your piety. Do you mean to persuade me to throw down my weapons and follow the path of peace, when mighty Saladin and his godless minions could not?” His comrades giggled like boys at the absurdity of this suggestion.

“Not exactly,” said Gisburne, and smashed his forehead with unrestrained ferocity into the Templar’s nose. He felt the crunch as it flattened against the red face, saw the disbelief as its owner reeled backwards, the previously flushed face instantly paling – but for the gush of crimson that cascaded from its wrecked centre, clashing grimly as it drenched the coppery beard. Gisburne was vaguely aware of a drip of something on his own face as he braced himself for his next move – his enemy’s blood, he supposed. Before the knight could regain his wits or his fellows recover from shock, Gisburne had rammed the iron head of his pilgrim’s staff full force into the Templar’s unguarded stomach, then, as he doubled up, had whipped it around and cracked the wood across the back of the man’s skull. He went down like a sack of grain.

Two of the Templars already had their swords drawn. Galfrid’s hand went instinctively to his belt – but neither had anything larger than a knife on them.

“Grab this!” cried Gisburne, extending the pilgrim staff towards him.

Galfrid did so – then looked startled as Gisburne pulled at it.

“Hold it fast,” Gisburne said, and pulled hard again. It clicked, and the top eight inches, around which his fingers were clasped, came away from the rest of the staff. Two short metal bars sprang out to form a crosspiece. Then, in one swift movement, Gisburne drew out three feet of double-edged steel blade. Galfrid, suddenly understanding why the damn staff had been so heavy, looked in astonishment at the slender sword, then at the wooden scabbard in his hand. He had the less favourable end of this stick – but it was better than nothing.

Gisburne did not wait to defend himself, but hurled himself at the nearest of the Templars. Ill-prepared, the Templar flinched and raised his blade in reflex, stepping back as he did so. Gisburne whipped his blade around and smacked it into the knight’s exposed ribs. It would not penetrate his mail, Gisburne knew – but being struck with a length of steel would still give him pause for thought. If the knight’s blade hit him, however, it would be a different story – but for a coat of horsehide, he was completely unprotected.

He felt a rib crack, and the man doubled in pain. Gisburne brought the pommel of his staff-sword down on the man’s head and sent him sprawling as the second knight advanced on him. But Galfrid’s stick was already swinging. Its solid end caught the Templar square in the teeth with a sickening crunch, ensuring his apple-eating days were over.

The other two had their swords drawn, but they stood back – wary, now, of their adversaries. Gisburne was suddenly aware that a large ring had formed about them in the crowd, some gawping with thrilled delight, others at its edge looking trapped, and like they would rather have six or seven people between them and these men with drawn weapons. Deeper into the crowd, the litter bearing Mélisande de Champagne swayed dangerously as its servants fought to distance her from the fight.

Gisburne drew his blade back over his shoulder, ready to strike. “Do you concede?” he said.

They said nothing. But they did not laugh, either.

“Take them,” said Gisburne, and lunged forward.

“It’s all right for you,” said Galfrid. “All I have is a stick!” But it was no time for arguments. He whirled it around his head in a great arc, and charged at the other.

Gisburne’s opponent was wily. He appeared to stand firm, only side-stepping at the last moment. Gisburne, sword raised for the attack, found himself charging empty air, and began to fall. It was a simple but effective move – the knight would now swing around and strike Gisburne full force in the back or neck, killing or crippling him instantly.

But Gisburne knew the training. He had fought countless battles, and he had read the move. As he fell, he twisted his body, letting his blade swing out and up. It connected as the knight’s own sword was flashing towards its target, striking his hand with the mid-point of the blade and sending the Templar’s sword flying into the startled audience. As Gisburne hit the ground, he heard the Templar howl and saw him leap about, clutching his right hand. It was mail clad, but he wouldn’t be playing the lute any time soon.

Galfrid, meanwhile, had succeeded only in keeping his opponent at bay. His whistling, whirling staff was far longer than the knight’s sword. The knight – who swore under his breath in some Germanic tongue – couldn’t get close enough to strike, and edged backwards, occasionally hacking at the stick in an attempt to parry and dislodge it.

He was waiting for Galfrid to tire. Gisburne could see that unless a decisive move was made against him, the Templar would succeed in disarming Galfrid in moments. He also realised that the knight, moving gradually closer to where he now lay, was entirely oblivious to him lying on the ground. So Gisburne drew his eating knife from his belt and stabbed the man in the foot.

When Gisburne regained his feet, the knight was hopping comically. With one push, he toppled him over. There were a few laughs from the audience. Someone clapped.

Gisburne and Galfrid looked about at the circle of amazed faces, their dazed and wounded opponents already beginning to stir.

“I suggest we run away,” said Galfrid.

“Agreed,” said Gisburne, snatching up his hat. And they barged their way into the crowd and headed back towards the maze of streets.

“So much for not drawing attention,” said Galfrid as they ran. “Thanks to you, I didn’t get to see the cathedral!”

“It’s only half a cathedral anyway,” said Gisburne. “Come back when you’re eighty. They might even have the front door finished by then.”

And so they made their way up the Rue St Denis and disappeared into its anonymous side streets, both unaware that their progress was being followed by the green eyes of Mélisande de Champagne.