XIX
SOMETHING JARRED GISBURNE from his slumber. He could not be sure what it was – whether a sound or a movement. He was not even conscious of hearing it. But there had been something. Like any seasoned soldier, he could sleep through all manner of uproar and noise. But there were subtler sounds to which he was sensitised, as a mother is to the cries of her babe.
He lay on his bed, not moving, barely breathing, listening to the night. A drift of cold air struck the back of his head. He turned it slowly. As he did so, he realised that the shutter at the window was open, its opening a pale glow of moonlight. Had Galfrid done that? He could hear his squire’s soft breaths in the darkness. If he had done it, it had not been recent. But it could not have been long, or the room would be frozen.
As these thoughts formed in his mind, he seemed to become aware of something at the periphery of his vision. Something in the blackness of the room. A shape. Not moving, but not belonging. Realisation slowly dawned.
A dark figure was standing over the bed.
He leapt to his feet, grasping his shortsword. The shape moved swiftly, silently – evading him, and momentarily passing before the open window.
He saw a figure – small and slight, clad entirely in black, even its head wrapped about with swathes of dark material. He swung at it. It seemed to slide away from him like a shadow.
Galfrid was awake now, and on his feet. They had it cornered, one on each side. But as Gisburne advanced, sword in hand, it seemed to bend, then spin around, and what he believed to be a foot struck him in the side of the head, sending him sprawling. He righted himself just in time to see Galfrid’s knife kicked out of his hand, then Galfrid himself grabbed, spun and flung to the floorboards with a thud that shook the whole house. Then, as Gisburne watched, helpless, the thing seem to somersault up and out of the open window, its shadow shooting across the floor as the window frame emptied and it was gone.
Gisburne stood, stunned and speechless as Galfrid, winded but apparently otherwise unharmed, hauled himself to his feet.
“What in God’s name was that?” said the squire, panting.
“I don’t know...” Gisburne crouched and saw in the gloom that their gear had been disarrayed. Searched. But why?
“The way he moved... The way he fought...”
“I’ve never seen anything like it. Except...”
“Except...?”
Gisburne hesitated, not wanting to use the word. “Hashashin. I saw them on three occasions. But I’ve never heard of them operating further west than Palestine.”
“But they’re killers. If they’d wanted us dead...”
Gisburne nodded. “We’d be dead already.”
“They had every chance. As we slept...”
“Whoever this was, they had some other object in mind.” He turned over the strewn gear in search of a clue. Something that was missing. Taken. But nothing seemed to be. Galfrid’s stash of silver pennies – a small fortune – had been rifled, but ignored. The only thing that was missing, as far as Gisburne could see, was any apparent motive.
Galfrid read Gisburne’s thoughts.
“They were disturbed before they could take anything, perhaps,” he said. But this was blind optimism. Gisburne was, by now, realising the truth, and it made his blood run cold.
“They were after information,” he said. “About us.”
“But why us?” said Galfrid. As soon as he uttered the words, his face fell. “They know.”
Gisburne mulled it over, his expression grim. “The fact that they are interested in us at all... It suggests so.”
“That shape. In the forest...”
Gisburne nodded. “We are being watched. Followed. And we must assume they know of our mission.”
“But how could they?” Galfrid’s bemusement was entirely understandable. Only a handful of people had ever known of it, and their loyalty was beyond question.
“I don’t know,” said Gisburne. “But whoever or whatever they are, they know of us. They know of the skull. And they want it for themselves.”