XXVIII

 

 

The coast of Provence – December, 1191

 

THE TEMPLAR SHIP was already lying at anchor when they arrived. “A business associate tells me two Templars came asking for good wine and fresh meat,” Mamdour had said. “It was to be taken to a bay along the coast, to arrive before tomorrow night. They call the place the Bay of the Cross. It is a day’s sailing from here, at least. Two days by wagon. But a determined man with a good horse, he could get there in a few hours. A man determined like you.” He had smiled knowingly as he’d said it. Gisburne had tried to reward him for his help, but at that, Mamdour had looked mortally offended. “Stay alive,” he had said, and, grinning widely, had thrown his arms around Gisburne and clapped his hands on his friend’s back.

Gisburne and Galfrid had ridden southeast, cutting across country in a wide arc before doubling back to the cove. The final approach they had made on foot, and now – huddled among the rocks of the cliff – looked down upon the small but bustling encampment on the white stretch of beach. A fire blazed at its heart, casting long, shifting shadows beyond the neat row of tents set back from the ocean’s edge. Gisburne counted six horses, and perhaps two dozen men milling about, most of them armed knights. Distant sounds of laughter and the rasping drone and mournful melody of a hurdy gurdy drifted on the air. And there, in the still waters of the small, sheltered bay, with the moon and stars of the clear night sky reflected all about, sat the vessel – small, high-sided and shallow of draught. A fine, new ship – swift and manoeuvrable – but not one for a heavy sea.

“Do you see any guards aboard?” said Galfrid, squinting into the gloom.

“I see no one at all.” There was a note of surprise in Gisburne’s voice. Clearly the Templars were confident in their abilities – they had every right to be – but he had not expected them to be so complacent. He could hardly believe his luck.

“And you’re certain the skull will be on the ship?”

Gisburne scanned the beach again, looking for signs of something under guard. But there were no clusters of men. No tent that had more security than any of its fellows. The ship itself clearly made the best strongroom.

“I’d stake my life on it.”

Galfrid looked like he was going to say something, but stopped himself. Galfrid hardly ever stopped himself – but Gisburne knew what its gist would have been. He was staking his life on it. If he was wrong, their quest would likely end here.

Gisburne had dressed lightly, his mail hauberk stowed in a bag upon Galfrid’s horse, and now, creeping back from the cliff edge, he began to throw off the remainder of his clothes. Stripping down to his hose, he slung a bag across his chest, tucked a slim crowbar in his belt and slung his shortsword across the small of his back. He shuddered as the cold metal touched his skin. Temperatures here were nothing like those they had left behind in the north, but it was cold enough when half naked. The sea would be colder still.

“You’re only taking the shortsword?’ said Galfrid.

“Have you ever tried swimming with a broadsword?”

Galfrid clearly had not. He looked as if he thought swimming of any kind an abomination.

“Bring the horses up as close as you can,” said Gisburne. He gestured to his pile of clothes. “And pack everything on them.” He took a deep breath – a last look at the relative safety of this bleak crag. “When I return, we’ll need to get away fast.”

“How will I know when you’re clear?”

“You’ll know.” And with that, crouching low, he stalked eastward along the clifftop, finally disappearing from Galfrid’s view through a cleft in the rocks.

The climb down to the cove was treacherous. To avoid being seen, Gisburne had headed east of the beach to pick his way down through the rocks on the headland. Here, Mamdour had assured him, was a path – although it proved a path fit only for a mountain goat. There were great gaps, and drops of six feet or more, and occasionally jagged shadows into which he was forced to slither, with little idea how deep they went. In one place, he disturbed a huddle of birds that screeched and flapped and flew at his face. He clung to the rock a long time after they had fled, sprawled, motionless, the birds’ fishy stink in his nostrils, certain he had given himself away. But there were no shouts from down below. No sudden mobilisation. No signs of alarm. The same breeze that carried their sounds to him carried his away from them. Finally he dared to move again, feeling the crust of birdshit crumbling beneath his fingers.

A sailor had once told him that the Mediterranean waters in the winter were warmer than the seas of England in summer. Gisburne focused hard on this thought as he slipped from the barnacle encrusted rock into the freezing, weedy water. From above, the sea had looked as smooth as black glass. Down here, less so. He flexed his left shoulder to relieve the stiffness in it, then, suppressing a shiver, he pushed himself off.

Gisburne had been a strong swimmer since childhood. But it had been months since he’d swum last, years since he had done so in the open sea. Even then, it had not been through choice. Now, the salty swell lapped in his face. The bag and his hose dragged, and the sword felt like it would pull him under. But he relaxed into the swim, and found his rhythm. The lapping waves gave way to a deeper swell. The shiver passed. There were some pockets of almost tepid water, and some that were ice cold. But he felt the warmth of the exertion flow through him. And so, in the moonlight, he advanced slowly, steadily towards the twin torches that glimmered like eyes upon the ship’s high stern.

He had no formed no plan for getting aboard. He had neither grapple nor rope. There was, in any case, no means of throwing them from the water, nor any crossbow here capable of projecting them. Lacking any other method, he had resigned himself to a painful climb up one of the anchor ropes. Now, he saw that they were not ropes, but thick chains. The Templars had spared no expense. As the dark timbers loomed like a creaking, heaving wall silhouetted against the moon, the dipping chains spreading from the hull like a spider’s legs, the climb seemed impossible.

Then he heard a sound he knew. The hollow thunk of wet timber knocking against wet timber in a steady rhythm. As he drew nearer still, his eyes penetrating the deep shadow at the stern, he saw it. A small boat bobbing in the water, tethered to the ship, and above it – as if left for his convenience – a rope ladder stretching up to the deck. There was no one to see Gisburne’s smile. He swam between the ship and the boat, gripped the rope, then began to haul himself up out of the water.