XXXVI

 

 

GISBURNE HAD RARELY seen anyone ride with such skill, or with such fury. Like its rider, the horse was slender and small of stature, but long-limbed and powerful and impossibly swift. Gisburne thought he recognised the distinctive shape of an Arabian horse. If that were the case, his palfrey’s chances of catching or outlasting such a beast were zero.

Some two hundred yards along the dry dirt road, the black rider had darted off into the trees. Gisburne followed. The trees were not closely packed, but they were small, and their branches low, and riding between them at speed was hazardous in the extreme. Gisburne’s quarry seemed to negotiate them with an almost supernatural ability, ducking and dodging between the boughs with the instinctual grace of a deer. Only by following an identical path did Gisburne manage to stay in the saddle, and even then he found himself lashed by twigs and branches. It struck him, then, that the pursuit was futile. He could only gain the advantage by doing the one thing he knew he was unable to do – breaking away and somehow cutting the thief off. To follow doggedly in the same hoofprints might work if he were astride a fresher, faster beast, but his mount was already flagging, already at the limit of its endurance. He was certain, too, that the black rider’s horse was well within his – that he was idling, toying with him, saving his energy.

Then, as he was giving up hope, something happened that he could not have predicted. The black rider slowed, drew up amongst some young oaks, and dismounted. So, he wished to fight. Well, that was something Gisburne was better equipped to deal with, at least. He dropped down from his horse and faced his adversary at some dozen yards distance. The dark figure stood, the box still tucked under his arm, one hip pushed slightly out. Gisburne could see now that the fellow had no sword upon his belt – though weapons of various kinds were tucked about his saddle. What he did have was a matching pair of curved knives the likes of which Gisburne had never seen, their black and silver grips protruding from broad, black scabbards. But so far, he had drawn no weapon, and showed no obvious sign of doing so.

Without warning, he started towards Gisburne. Gisburne’s hand went to his sword hilt. The black rider paused, then continued; Gisburne drew the blade, took a step forward. The figure seemed to drop, then spin, and a foot whipped around and kicked the weapon from his hand. Gisburne’s hand went for his knife. The foot whipped around again – but this time Gisburne was ready. He caught it, and lifted it, throwing his attacker off balance. The box tumbled away. The black rider landed heavily on his back, was momentarily stunned – and Gisburne was on him. He sat astride the fellow’s stomach, denying him the knives in his belt. His foe struggled hard, but, fast as he was, he could not match Gisburne in weight or strength. Then Gisburne grabbed at the wrappings about his captive’s face. He would know at last who this was, who kept their face covered and crept about in the night.

Gisburne pulled. The material unwound. “Time for you to show your face, you miserable cow–”

The word coward stopped in Gisburne’s throat. He sat back in shock. The face of Mélisande de Champagne glared back at him, her eyes fiery, her hair full and wild.

“‘Miserable cow’...?” she said. Then a black-clad foot hooked around his neck and flipped him backwards. Gisburne fell heavily, rolled once and leapt to his feet, clutching his bruised throat, his eating knife drawn. But Mélisande was already up, a blade in each hand. They stared at each other for a moment, the only sound their panting breaths – eyes locked, muscles tense. Galfrid drew up sharply some twenty yards distant, and looked in baffled astonishment.

“Do you want to live?” she said.

Gisburne stared at her, frowning, still in shock.

“Yes,” he coughed, his windpipe still smarting.

She sheathed both knives in one swift move. “Then follow me.”

And she turned and whistled for her horse.