XXXVII
AS THEY RODE through the sparse, open forest, Mélisande leading the way, Gisburne found himself going over the events of past weeks. The first sighting in Paris. The intruder in their room. The meeting on the outskirts of Marseille. The dark assassin in the streets. Everything now seemed to take on a different hue.
“We share a common goal with regard to the skull,” she had said before they had mounted up to follow her. “Trust me.” And for some reason, he did. She had let him catch up with her in the woods, when she could so easily have made her escape. She’d had the chance to kill them, as they slept, and had not taken it. She had, in fact, saved their lives – his, more than once. She had also taken the box, he now realised, only when it was threatened with capture by Tancred’s men. He didn’t doubt she could take it from them again if she chose to do so. She was determined and capable enough.
He looked at her, several yards ahead now, her coils of golden hair tumbling down her back. The girl who had run wild in the woods and fields. She might well be that same girl at heart, but her methods had clearly moved on. Where had she learned those skills, and acquired those weapons – both of which seemed to point to the empire of Salah al-Din? And to whom, or what, was she now loyal?
The spell was broken by Galfrid sighing deeply beside him.
“Typical woman,” he said.
Gisburne stared at him, screwing up his eyes as if the better to comprehend this strange, random statement.
“Typical woman?” he repeated, with incredulity and not a little irritation. He looked back to the slender figure ahead of them. “One who dresses as a man, creeps about like an assassin in the night and steals holy relics from Templars? I don’t know what kind of women you’re used to mixing with, Galfrid, but this is a first for me.”
“I just meant...” said Galfrid, looking as if he already regretted saying it, “that it’s typical of a woman to be the very last thing she appears to be.”
Gisburne huffed at that. “I’ve met plenty of women who are exactly what they appear to be. Disappointingly so. Believe me, this one is far from typical.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Galfrid give a wry smile. Gisburne chose not pursue it.
Something else was taking his attention now. Something he had not expected, and was at a loss to explain. In the hard riding and fierce fight, his body and mail had heated up considerably, and now, it seemed to him, a distinct odour was rising from it.
Gisburne sniffed at his mail again. Not vinegar. But not exactly pleasant. Thick, this time. Meaty. Slightly rank. Something half recognised, but so incongruous it was impossible to place.
“Galfrid...?”
Galfrid looked across at him.
“This latest thing I am smelling. From my hauberk...”
“Lard,” said Galfrid, matter-of-factly. “Good for proofing the links against rust. I took the liberty before we left Marseille.”
“Lard. Of course. Stupid of me.” Gisburne nodded, resignedly. “So, I am to smell like a side of bacon now...”
Galfrid gave a smirk. “She won’t mind,” he said.
Gisburne chose not to grace that with a response.
“We’re here,” said Mélisande at last, slowing. She put her fingers to her mouth and whistled, and a whistle answered. Up ahead, Gisburne saw the trees thin out into a clearing, from one edge of which led a wide path. And in the clearing was a large encampment – the very same as Gisburne had seen that night in Marseille. The three wagons were drawn into a horseshoe, and among them were pitched several tents about a central fire. Liveried servants cleaned, groomed horses and served food, while a half dozen knights – in surcoats of green, each emblazoned with a yellow sun – sat eating and tending their weapons. Several had evidently jumped to their feet at her approach, and on catching sight of Gisburne and Galfrid, three went for their weapons. Mélisande stayed them with a hand. “Make ready to leave!” she called. Immediately, activities were curtailed. The fire was extinguished, the horses prepared. All set about striking camp and packing the wagons with well-practised efficiency. “Welcome to my home,” she said to Gisburne.
As her people bustled about her, Mélisande squatted by the glowing remains of the fire. Without a word, a servant handed her some meat and a cup of ale – two more servants thrust the same into the hands of Gisburne and Galfrid.
“Eat,” said Mélisande. “We leave as soon as the wagons are ready.”
Gisburne did so. Judging by the intensity of the activity, that moment would come soon.
“This is the second time we have shared a meal,” said Gisburne. “Perhaps this time we can speak more plainly.”
“Perhaps.” She almost smiled.
Gisburne studied her intently.
“You’ve acquired some Saracen ways,” he said. “Some Saracen skills.”
“I spent some time there,” she said dismissively. “In the so-called Holy Land. I learned a great deal.”
“Such as..?”
“Such as, it is not all so holy.” She laughed. “Why? Do you think me perhaps an agent of the Sultan?”
“I think you are a loyal servant to King Philip,” said Gisburne. Mélisande said nothing, her face neither confirming nor denying it. “I saw you in Paris. Weeks ago. Leaving the Îsle de la Cité via the Grand Pont.” Those were the certain facts. But Gisburne decided it was time to add some conjectural flesh to their bones. “You were at his palace. Preparing for this venture, as Tancred was.” He shrugged, and drank. “I’ve encountered no other agent of the French crown upon my travels, but it is absurd to think the King would not have someone keeping an eye on things. It might as well be you.”
“What a nice way to put it.” Mélisande smiled sweetly – a smile that somehow seemed to combine perfect innocence with impish mischief, and gave away absolutely nothing. “I also saw you in Paris,” she said. “Fighting with Templars. If you wish to continue in this line of work, you really must learn to be more discreet.”
Galfrid stifled a snigger.
Gisburne sat forward. “You claimed we shared a common goal,” he said. “That goal is to keep the skull out of the untrustworthy hands of this rebel Templar. Correct?”
This time, he saw in her eyes that he was.
“Tancred strays further from the fold every day,” she said. “He no longer feels bound by the authority of his own order. His view is that the skull should never have been given up. That it has a power. And perhaps... yes, perhaps he means to take it for himself.”
He smiled. “Then as long as the skull is in France, it would seem we are indeed of one mind, and one heart.” He thought she almost blushed at that. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, he added: “But what about after that?”
She looked into his eyes for what seemed a long time, then stood suddenly.
“You will travel with us from here,” she said. “It’s best.”
“But the wagons are slow,” protested Gisburne. “If we are to prevent Tancred getting ahead of us, then men on horseback...”
“...will be easily spotted and swiftly hunted down,” she interrupted. “Tancred is already ahead of you. And these wagons are faster than you think.”
Gisburne looked at them sceptically.
She sighed, growing impatient. “I am the daughter of the Count of Boulogne. No one will suspect you are travelling with me. And even Tancred would not dare cross a nobleman’s family in his own land. It will afford you greater protection.”
“Whilst allowing you to keep closer to your prize,” said Gisburne.
She smiled at that. “You are good,” she said. “But don’t flatter yourself.”
Gisburne hesitated, and Mélisande took a step towards him, her manner suddenly sincere. “You’re exhausted. Tancred’s men are looking for you, and they know your faces. With us, you pass unnoticed. You can travel in one of the wagons, out of sight – even sleep, if you need to. And I won’t be offended if you take turns. To keep watch on your box.”
Gisburne knew perfectly well that she could have taken it for herself by now. That she still could, given the men at her disposal. He wondered at it – could not entirely fathom it. And what would happen once they reached Paris, and Gisburne and Galfrid went to break away with the skull, heading for England? That was a mystery. But, Gisburne found, it was a mystery to which he very much wished to know the answer.
“The first wagon is mine,” said Mélisande, pulling off her jerkin and throwing it in the back. “The second will be yours. It has space enough for you to be comfortable.”
“You know they’ll be watching the roads,” Gisburne said, as he tethered his horse to the wagon.
“Not these roads,” said Mélisande. “And if they’re still with us past Lyon, we’ll lose them in the Morvan.”
Galfrid looked startled. “No one in their right mind chooses to go through the Morvan in winter.”
Mélisande smiled, stepped forward and brought a hand up to the squire’s face. “And that is precisely why we do it.” She turned, removed her belt and knives and hurled them into the wagon. “And now, I am going to make myself a woman again.” She pulled herself aboard her carriage. “I suggest you rest. Au revoir, gentlemen.” The flaps of the canvas tilt were pulled tight shut and the convoy began to move.
Galfrid stared after her as if in a trance.
“Typical, eh?” said Gisburne, and hauled himself into the back of their wagon.