XXI

 

 

THE NEXT MORNING, they were roused early. The news Richard hoped for had come. The rebel knight and a dozen of his men – desperate, starving and half done, by all accounts – were hiding out in the forest to the north. This was their land. They knew how to use it to their advantage, and would fight to the end. But that end was now within Richard’s grasp. A company of forty knights, serjeants and squires rode out to hasten them to their doom.

The ride through the forest was tense, the mood expectant. Smoke had been seen rising from the woodland ahead. They even fancied, at times, that they heard the distant whinny of a horse. There was no other sign of men. But instinct told them they were close.

At the edge of the trees, Richard called them to a halt. Ahead of them, beyond the clearing, was a small, wooded ravine, where the road narrowed and the banks rose sharply on either side. The Duke advanced his horse two steps, narrowed his eyes, and scanned the dark cleft and the foliage framing it as if somehow able to penetrate its depths. Satisfied, he drew his horse back.

“De Gaillon,” he said, matter-of-factly, and pointed towards the shadowy path. “Ride ahead there and check the lie of the land.”

De Gaillon followed the gesture, and gave a snort of derision. “If anything in this land lies, it’s that ravine.” A handful of the knights stifled laughs at the comment. Even Gisburne could see it was the perfect place for an ambush. But Richard’s expression remained stony.

“Then go and wrest the truth from it.” De Gaillon’s half smile faded. It was no joke. The Duke meant it. He held Richard’s hard gaze for a moment, then nodded curtly.

“My lord...” He pulled his horse around, gesturing silently to several of his fellows.

“No,” said Richard, stopping him with a raised hand. “Alone.”

De Gaillon stared at Richard, not quite comprehending the request. Then realisation dawned. He looked bleakly from face to face, and several of the other knights avoided his gaze. Richard lowered his hand, and turned it in a gesture towards the ravine. “Well?”

De Gaillon frowned, his horse stamping impatiently. “Alone...” he said.

“What is it?” said Richard calmly. “Are you afraid?” Gisburne saw de Gaillon’s teeth clench at the suggestion.

This was madness. Richard meant for him to ride alone, unsupported, into that place. Why would Richard do something so stupid? Gisburne looked about him, waiting for someone to speak up, to point out the folly of this action, but none did. De Gaillon caught Gisburne’s eye for a fleeting moment. Something like an apology seemed to pass across his face – then Gisburne, with a rush of horror that churned his insides to mud, realised what was happening. What was about to happen. But it was too late. De Gaillon had turned his horse and was riding for the ravine. Gisburne, his eyes smarting, went to follow – he belonged at his master’s side, no matter what – but a knight’s hand on his horse’s bridle stopped him.

None spoke as de Gaillon was swallowed up by the shadows. A strange silence followed. Then a shout. A clash of metal against metal. A shriek of pain. Gisburne looked from the Duke to his knights and back in panic and disbelief. But Richard, staring ahead, did not move. There was another cry – a different voice, this time. Then further clashes. Then silence.

“Come,” said Richard. “Sir Gilbert needs our aid.” And he spurred his horse. The entire company thundered into the ravine, then, weapons drawn. All but Gisburne. He sat – breathless, paralysed, impotent, his horse stamping in frustration – listening to the sounds of slaughter as Richard’s knights destroyed the rebels.

De Gaillon had not called out, but Gisburne knew before the charge that he was already dead. His heart turned to stone in his chest. So often he had imagined this moment – the loss of his master in battle. It was an everpresent possibility, one he had rehearsed over and over in his mind. But for it to happen like this... He felt desperately unprepared. Sick. Bereaved. Betrayed.

In a daze, he watched Richard and his knights return. They parted, rode around him. Then Gisburne rode alone into the ravine to recover his master’s body, his own life seeming to slide into the abyss.

No one ever said he was outcast. But back in the camp, all shunned him. No eyes met his. He felt as if a ghost. Any hope that a new master would take him on to allow the completion of his journey to knighthood – a journey which only that morning had still seemed tantalisingly close to its end – was extinguished. The knights – even those de Gaillon had called friend – turned their backs. The other squires avoided his gaze, and dropped their heads guiltily when he was near. When food was prepared, one younger squire – who liked and admired Gisburne, and had perhaps thought him a fine example to follow – forgot himself, and brought him a bowl of soup. Before he reached the place where Gisburne sat, well away from the others, a knight gripped his arm, took the bowl from him, and tipped its steaming contents onto the earth.

The atrocity was not acknowledged. There was no mourning. And this, perhaps, was the worst of it. To die – that was bad enough. But for your death to go unremarked, to mean nothing... It felt like a dream – one in which his mentor of so many years had never existed. One from which he could not wake. The disconnection from the world was brutal and complete. De Gaillon was gone. He was a knight expectant no longer. Without a knight as master, he was no longer even a squire. He was nothing. No one.

It was a squire’s duty to arrange proper burial for his knight. But he could not hope to return him to his home in distant Normandy. Not on his own. He knew no wife now waited there, and no children. And there were no other relatives or lovers, as far as he knew. Of his friends he knew nothing, save those with whom he served – and they had abandoned him. This was the lot of the dedicated soldier, then – to end his days alone, unloved. For a day Gisburne sat with the slashed and beaten corpse propped against a tree, his head in his hands, weeping.

He toiled all the following night, burying de Gaillon in a secluded glade. The only other attendees at the graveside were the bats that flitted silently about Gisburne’s head.

He marked the place with rough stones, then rode off into the north, no longer knowing where his road would lead.