XVI

 

 

Auxerre – 4 December, 1191

 

BEFORE THEY HAD reached Courances, Gisburne knew that Nyght would go no further.

The past few days – and especially their eventful flight from Paris – had taken it out of the poor beast. And it wasn’t just his horse that Gisburne was thinking of. Galfrid had been right; Nyght’s gait was not suited to long distance travel, and now his master’s arsebones were suffering.

As they sat in yet another inn on yet another endless road, he thought of his poor raven-black courser, now many miles behind them, and of his poor arsebones. They were recovering now, thanks to the chestnut palfrey he had been riding. But those pains were as nothing to the pangs of guilt he now suffered – and the looks of “I told you so” from his squire. That horse had saved his life. Both of their lives. And how had he thanked him?

A platter was slammed on the table top. The gruff old woman – half Gisburne’s size – glared at them both. “Ham,” she said, and stalked off.

The place had felt unpromising from the the start: an otherwise empty and seemingly little-frequented place on the outskirts of Auxerre with a hatchet-faced patroness who slapped the bowls and platters upon the table top as if personally insulted. But they were in no mood to be choosy. The previous night they had been forced to camp in the woods, and it was something Gisburne wished not to repeat. They had managed a fire, but it had seemed every bit as reluctant to be there as they, and it had felt to Gisburne that he spent more time nursing the damp, smouldering branches than actually sleeping.

He had also had an uncanny feeling that they were being watched. On one occasion, he swore he could see a shadow moving among the trees. A vertical shadow. He knew every kind of beast that lived in the forests, but there was only one that walked on two legs. It was not until the next day, when he had finally confided in Galfrid, that the squire confessed that he, too, had thought there was something – or someone – watching them.

But tonight, at least, they had a bed and a hot meal. The food, when it came, far exceeded the expectations inspired by their surroundings. The bean soup, thickened with bread, was flavourful and deeply satisfying, the ham smoky and delicious. There were pickled vegetables too, and although there was no wine – that was too grand for this humble place – the ale was good. Gisburne took another slice of ham with his eating knife. It was the very same one with which he’d stabbed the Templar. He’d killed a man with it once – through necessity rather than choice. It was a fact that slid through his mind every time he used it to cut meat. But he would not change it. This knife was hard won. It had been with him since he was a boy – since that time with de Gaillon. The time when everything changed. He stabbed a chunk of ham and raised it to his mouth, glad now they had the place to themselves.

Just five days before, they had been sitting in a very different inn somewhere in Paris. It had been a bustling, jolly place run by Greeks who practically accosted people on the streets – pilgrims, mainly – and hustled them inside. The perfect place to lose themselves after the fight with the Templars.

Once inside, however, Galfrid had mostly complained about having to pay tourist prices. Gisburne could tell he had been rattled by the encounter, and he had learned in recent days that a grumpy Galfrid was a difficult thing to deal with.

“Can’t you just be happy to be alive?” Gisburne had said, and knocked back his drink. The wine was fair, the bread and cheese decent enough. And he was famished. The fact that they’d paid over the odds was of little consequence.

“What I’m not happy about,” he said, “is that we were almost dead.” Galfrid looked at his plate, sulkily. “You might at least have told me about the staff.”

Gisburne shrugged and hacked at the bread with his eating knife. “Now you know.”

“That was one of Llewellyn’s, I suppose?”

“You know of Llewellyn?” Once again, Galfrid had managed to surprise him.

“I know of a lot of people,” he said. “But that’s not going to be a lot of use if you keep getting us into fights. We can’t keep trusting to luck.”

Gisburne narrowed his eyes. He didn’t get them into any fight. And it wasn’t luck that saved them. But he decided to let it go.

“Templars aren’t what they used to be,” he said. “Not if they’re taking the likes of that red-bearded cur.”

“Fulke,” said Galfrid. “He is Tancred’s red right hand.”

Gisburne drank deeply from his cup and stared at Galfrid, amazed once again. “Is there anyone in Christendom you don’t know?” he said.

Despite his good humour, he cursed the ill luck that had caused them to blunder into their foe. He especially did not like the fact that Fulke now knew what they looked like.

His fears were realised as they were leaving Paris the next day.

They had set out early that morning, heading south, out of the city. It had turned colder, and fresh pinpricks of snow were falling. Snow was not so bad – at least, not when it was like this, with flakes too small and too compact to stick to their clothes. What he did not want was rain. Their thick woollen cloaks would hold it off for a time, but no matter how they wrapped themselves against it, they would eventually get soaked through. As long as they were moving, and their bodies generating heat, they would get by. But if they stopped for any length of time, they would freeze.

These were the thoughts occupying his mind when Galfrid jolted him out of his reverie.

In the road ahead were five mounted men.

All were in full armour, helms upon their heads, three with maces and poleaxes, two with couched lances. Gisburne did not immediately recognise the one at their centre without his Templar surcoat. But as they neared, he saw that it was their red-headed friend from the Grand Pont. At first, he supposed the other four must be his Templar comrades. But gradually he realised – from their build, from their grim demeanour – that they were not. They were mercenaries, hired by Fulke for this act of revenge. Perhaps he had not wished to involve his fellow knights. Perhaps they had some greater sense of honour than he. But it was this that told Gisburne they meant to kill him. Plus, of course, the fact that Fulke had put off his Templar colours – an act forbidden by the Temple, which insisted its knights wear the cross at all times. As Gisburne knew well, one did not go in disguise unless one was going to commit a crime.

So much for the Templar’s sworn duty to protect the pilgrim, he thought.

“What now?” said Galfrid. Gisburne, who had happily taken on such odds on foot, and would do so again, knew that to do so with knights on horseback was suicide.

“Evade them. Outrun them,” he said. “That’s our only chance.”

“But they’re blocking the road,” said Galfrid. The men were now drawing their horses into a line. “And I think they’re preparing to charge.”

“They are,” said Gisburne.

“So what do we do?”

“What they don’t expect,” said Gisburne. “We charge first.” And with that, Nyght leapt to the gallop at the point of Gisburne’s spurs. Galfrid’s normally placid horse reared in alarm, and with a great cry he charged after his master.

Gisburne had drawn not his sword, but his pilgrim staff, which he whirled around his head, its five foot length roaring in great arcs as he thundered towards the mounted men. He knew Nyght would not willingly career into another horse. He trusted their mounts to have the same wisdom – but the men would try to put everything in his way.

What happened next was a blur in Gisburne’s memory. There was a clash. Something glanced off the pommel of his saddle. The staff connected jarringly with metal. He realised that he had got past the riders without being struck, and that one of them was unhorsed by his blow. Now all they had to do was ride for their lives.

Then he saw Galfrid’s horse, riderless. He wheeled around. Galfrid was alive, and running, but a moment away from being ridden down by one of their attackers – and now Fulke and one of his hired killers were heading for Gisburne.

Galfrid darted left, into the trees. Clever move, thought Gisburne. Amongst the trees, the man on foot had the advantage. An idea struck him. He turned his horse and, flattening himself against Nyght’s back, plunged into the forest.

One of his pursuers – not Fulke – tried to follow and immediately struck a branch. Gisburne heard him fall heavily. He tried to turn Nyght about, looking for Galfrid, but could see nothing of him. Then there was a whistle from somewhere above. Gisburne rode towards it. Down from a tree swung Galfrid, dropping onto Nyght behind Gisburne.

He did not wait. Spurring his horse, he wove his way through the trees back to the highway, and rode for his life.