XXVII

 

 

“SO,” SAID GALFRID. “Our shadowy assassin strikes again.”

To Gisburne’s amazement, he had still been sat at the same place in the same tavern. But he was glad of it. The encounter had woken him up, and the information it provided fired him with a new sense of urgency, and a need to talk.

“As long as he’s on our side, I don’t mind,” said Gisburne. “Whoever he is, he saved my skin.” Gisburne’s manner was dismissive, but he knew this was a lie. He was not only being watched; he was being protected. And he had no idea by whom, nor their purpose. Question continued to pile upon question.

“And you say the Templar also knew? About your interest in the skull?”

“A shrewd guess. Perhaps I have been a little too... obvious... in my actions.” He looked guiltily, almost sheepishly at Galfrid. “I’ll work on it. But the man said he was no fool, and he was right. Though still foolish enough to let slip one other important piece of information.” That fact he had yet to impart to Galfrid. He wasn’t sure how. It somehow seemed too big, too momentous. He felt his heart race at the thought. But Galfrid would now ask; he had opened that door to him.

But Galfrid, for once missing his cue, did no such thing. “And Mélisande... How much does she know?” asked Galfrid.

“Everything. Or so we must assume.”

Galfrid sighed. “This is fast becoming the worst kept secret in Christendom. Why did she want to see you anyway?”

Gisburne spread his hands. “To sound out a rival. To get a look up close.” But, in truth, this, too, remained a mystery. If her goal was simply to safeguard the skull, and protect French interests, why not simply kill him? And why feed him information? The whole business made him uneasy. “She warned me not to trust Tancred.”

“Were you likely to do that?”

“Hardly.”

Galfrid nodded. “Our plan?”

“The plan has changed,” Gisburne said. “The loss of the Greek Fire saw to that.”

Galfrid leaned forward. “You know, you never actually told me what that plan was. But if I were you, right now I’d be considering intercepting the ship before it even reached Marseille.”

Impressive, thought Gisburne. He nodded slowly. “The ship will hug the coast, put in where it can – especially in winter, and especially overnight. If we know where, we can get to it whilst it’s at anchor.”

“If we know where, and when,” said Galfrid, somewhat gloomily.

“Tonight,” said Gisburne. Galfrid almost choked on his drink. “The Templar. He told me. Tomorrow it arrives in Marseille. Which means tonight it makes its last stop on the coast.”

Galfrid stared at him, struggling to take the information in. “It’s early. Ahead of schedule. Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. This is our one chance, Galfrid. After today, it passes into Tancred’s hands.”

“And you say the Templar told you? Why? Why would someone do that?”

“Because it’s the sort of idiotic thing a man says when he thinks he’s about to kill you,” said Gisburne impatiently. He leaned forward, his eyes afire, his voice hushed. “This is it, Galfrid. This is what we came for.” It had been six weeks since he stood before John at the Tower of London and received his orders. Six hard weeks, during which this had seemed a distant dream. But now, suddenly, it was upon them. He felt a strange thrill – one he had not felt in years. The thrill – and trepidation – that one felt before a battle.

Galfrid swallowed hard. “Do we know where?”

“We can find out,” said Gisburne. “There’s someone I need to see. Mamdour. An old friend. He trades here now. If anyone knows, he will.”

Galfrid’s eyes narrowed. “Would I be right in thinking Mr Mamdour is a foreign gentleman? A... Saracen gentleman?”

“Nubian, actually,” said Gisburne. “And I trust him.”

Galfrid thought a moment, then nodded.

Gisburne tensed his muscles, felt his heart pounding.

“Prepare the horses,” he said.