XVII

 

 

GALFRID HAD SAT for what seemed like hours by the foot of the cross. He was frozen to the bone, and certain Gisburne must be dead.

After their encounter on the road, Gisburne had finally stopped at the roadside calvary, the sound of other hooves having long since faded. Galfrid had slithered off Nyght’s back, pale, exhausted, and struggled to straighten himself. By some miracle he was uninjured, but the ride had nearly killed him. Gisburne, however, had shown no signs of dismounting.

“Wait here,” said Gisburne.

“Wha–?” Galfrid was not even able to articulate a complete question before Gisburne turned his horse and rode back the way he had come. Wait here. For what? For how long? For a few moments? Or until Gisburne had ridden to Marseille and completed his quest? The man had given him no clue. As the morning had crept past and Galfrid’s arse had become indistinguishable from the frozen rock upon which he was perched, he began to wonder if Gisburne had gone back for his horse or his gear. It made a kind of sense. But only an idiot...

As he had thought it, he had heard the sound of hooves. A single horse. He hid himself – then saw Gisburne astride Nyght, his flanks packed with additional gear. His gear.

“I got lucky,” said Gisburne. He dismounted, hauled Galfrid’s rescued gear off Nyght’s steaming back and dumped it in the snow at his squire’s feet. “But no horse. And I’m afraid we lost the Greek Fire.”

Galfrid frowned deeply. “The Greek Fi–?” His eyes suddenly widened. “The earthenware bottles...”

“One of Fulke’s men must’ve tried to open them,” said Gisburne.

“I was carrying Greek Fire?” stammered Galfrid.

Gisburne nodded. “Only enough to destroy a ship.”

“And all these past seven days this was sloshing back and forth just inches from my privates?”

“Inches wouldn’t make any difference,” said Gisburne matter-of-factly. “You’d need to be thirty feet back at least. But don’t worry. It was perfectly safe.”

“So I see,” Galfrid slumped back down on the cold rock, the risk of piles suddenly forgotten, shaking his head in disbelief. “And how did our Templar friends find it, safety-wise?”

“Two were burnt to smouldering heaps where they stood,” said Gisburne. “One lay wailing on the ground, thrusting a smoking stump into the snow. He offered little resistance. Of our red-headed friend there was no sign.”

“Most likely he fled,” said Galfrid, “believing it the work of the Devil...”

Gisburne shrugged, continuing to sort through their gear.

“...and who’s to say he isn’t right?” added Galfrid under his breath.

“They weren’t the only casualties, I’m afraid,” said Gisburne, holding up a pair of Galfrid’s breeches with the seat entirely burnt away. “But most of it seems intact.”

“It could’ve been worse,” admitted Galfrid, kneeling amongst the salvaged remains and carrying out a rapid stocktake. Several items were scorched – some severely enough to abandon. There was no sign at all of his leather flask, nor of the pouch of provisions. He thought of his flint and steel – then realised they were still upon his belt. What else was missing, he was at a loss to say. It would become clear over the next few days. But his sword was here, and his mail, and his collection of knives. Even the pigskin pouch – sold to him by a Spanish merchant who had claimed it made him immune to the thievery of Saracens – still containing its hoard of silver English pennies. With these things, he could make his way in almost any circumstances.

“The loss of the Greek Fire is bad...” said Gisburne gravely. “It will affect our plans.”

“Our plans?” said Galfrid with a raised eyebrow. “You never actually shared this plan with me. And how come it only becomes our plan when it’s going wrong?”

Gisburne ignored him.

Galfrid chuckled to himself, surveying the strewn accoutrements, mentally calculating the most efficient means of packing them onto one animal. In spite of everything, seeing the gear spread out, he now felt oddly touched that Gisburne had gone back. His master may have stowed bottles of Greek Fire between his legs, but nothing could take away from the fact that he had risked his life for Galfrid’s sword, some silver pennies and a pair of his burned breeches.

“Well, we are alive,” he said brightly. “We still have our weapons. And our wits. And” – he patted Nyght – “this finest of horses.” He allowed himself a look of genuine affection, then hastily extinguished it.

“So, are you going to tell him he has to carry this lot, or am I?”