XL

 

 

THEY LAY IN darkness beneath the awning of a furled tent, feeling the wagon pitch and rumble on the stony track. Gisburne had insisted they have their horses saddled and packed and tethered to the rear of the wagon; if the need for a quick getaway arose, he did not wish to be caught unprepared. But the reliquary box had stayed inside, out of sight, and now nestled between their heads. Mélisande, sat at the front of the wagon, occasionally called back, relating what she could see. There was indeed a large group, spread across the road. They were Tancred’s men, and Tancred was among them. Then her commentary went silent, and Gisburne knew they were close.

Gisburne heard a voice howling in imitation of a wolf, then breaking into laughter. He swore it was Fulke. Galfrid cursed under his breath at the sound; his arrow had struck home, but the bastard wasn’t dead. There were shouts, commands, other voices raised in protest. The wagon drew to a halt. Mélisande’s voice – clear and strong, with no hint of anger – rose above all others, greeting Tancred respectfully and requesting that they be allowed to pass. Gisburne did not hear the response – only the low hiss as he spoke. Mélisande’s voice sounded once more, asserting their right to do so, and reminding Tancred whose daughter she was. Then he did hear Tancred’s words. They ignored Mélisande entirely, and instead addressed his own men. They were to look for a box – wooden, locked with a key, and little bigger than a man’s head. If Tancred had not known about the reliquary before, he certainly did now.

Then there were other shouts – evidently as Tancred’s men attempted to search the wagons, and were prevented by Mélisande’s own knights. Words uttered in anger. Outrage, dishonour. Insult. Then a thud, a crash. A scream from one of the female servants. The sound of metal against metal. Mélisande cried out in appeal – but a moment later the air was thick with the sound of clashing weapons.

Against the backdrop of bitter fighting, Gisburne felt someone enter the wagon. He threw off the awning, sword in hand. Mélisande looked back at him, her face distraught. Gisburne looked at Galfrid. “Do you think there’s any point hiding now?” he said.

“None,” replied Galfrid.

“Stay here,” Gisburne said to Mélisande. Without waiting for a response he took her head in his free hand, kissed her on the brow, and he and Galfrid flung open the wagon’s tilt.

The convoy was in chaos. Women screamed and tried to take refuge in the other wagons, whilst Mélisande’s mounted knights hacked and stabbed at the surrounding Templars. It had begun as an attempt to prevent them searching the wagons, but had become a confused and bloody pitched battle. The horses of one wagon were starting to panic and looked as if they might break loose – or break their legs trying. Several of Mélisande’s men had already fallen, and one look told Gisburne that they were going to lose this fight.

“Let’s try to even these odds,” he said, as he untethered his horse from the back of the wagon and leapt onto it. Galfrid followed suit. Gisburne could see neither Tancred nor Fulke in the mêlée, but no matter – there were plenty more heads to swing his sword at. As he looked back, he saw Mélisande, framed by the wagon’s tilt, loosing an arrow and preparing another. He smiled to himself, then turned to face the foe.

Gisburne had already struck down two of them when it happened.

Something must have struck one of the wagon’s horses. A sword blade or lance. The beast gave a piercing whinny, the wagon lurched violently, then the horse next to it spooked into a blind panic. The creaking contraption lurched again. The brake snapped. Then the wagon rumbled forward.

“The box!” cried Galfrid. “It’s in the wagon.”

Gisburne turned just in time to see it move off – and Mélisande, still in the back of the wagon, realise with sudden shock that she was now entirely at the mercy of the stampeding animals. It gathered pace rapidly as it headed down the hill. Soon it would not be able to stop, even if the horses wished it to. Gisburne turned his horse about and raced after it, the wind whipping his face, Galfrid close behind. As he did so, he heard an icy voice – Tancred’s – bark a command from somewhere far behind him. “After them! Stop the wagon!”

He glanced back – and saw no fewer than six of Tancred’s knights in pursuit. But that was not his concern now. As it hurtled down the rough track, out of control, the wagon veered dangerously close to the suddenly precipitous left-hand edge of the road, its canopy flapping wildly in the wind. He could no longer see Mélisande. But just then, one of the fastenings broke free, and the gusting wind caught under the wagon’s covering and lifted it clean off. The huge expanse of canvas – as big as a sail – flew high in the air. Its bottom edge brushed Gisburne’s head as he rode beneath, missed Galfrid entirely, then, as it fell, wrapped around one of the Templars riding full tilt after them. The horse stumbled, the rider cried out, and both careered off the edge of the road, tumbling over and over down the mountainside, the great awning still wrapped about them.

Now, in the body of the wagon, Gisburne could see Mélisande, clinging on for dear life and working her way to the front. A horse thundered by on his right side. Somehow, one of the Templars had got past him, and was now drawing level with the wagon. As he watched in astonishment, the rider – as foolhardy as he was fearless – leapt from his galloping horse and into the back of the wagon.

He fell heavily. Mélisande heard, turned and took up a whip, lashing the knight mercilessly about the head and neck as the wagon jumped and pitched from side to side. But this one had a fanatical determination. He crept towards her, through the blows, drawing a blade as he did so.

Gisburne urged his horse on, drawing up between the side of the wagon and the sheer rock face towering to his right. One shift in the wagon’s trajectory and he might be crushed, but he did not intend to stay long enough for that. He freed his foot from the stirrup, braced it against the saddle, gripped the pommel with both hands, and jumped.

He rolled into the back of the wagon behind the Templar. The knight turned just in time to see a tent pole swinging towards his head. It knocked him flat, sending his blade spinning out and over the precipice. Gisburne leapt on him, hauled him up by his surcoat, and hurled him from the back of the wagon, straight under the crashing hooves of his comrades.

Mélisande had taken the reins – which by some miracle had not come adrift – but the horses were not stopping. Gripping the side of the wagon as he went, thrown from side to side as the wheels rumbled horribly close to the road’s edge, Gisburne crawled up to the seat beside her and hauled on the reins as hard as he could. The effort counted for nothing. The wagon’s momentum down the incline was driving the horses on. Nothing was going to stop it now.

Up ahead, the road curved sharply to the right, around the mountain; with sinking heart, Gisburne realised the wagon would not make the turn.

A hand grabbed him from behind, and heaved him backwards. He struck out, blindly, as the wagon bumped and lurched, knocking his assailant off him. The Templar cracked his head on the reliquary box and was out cold – but already two more had climbed aboard, and another, at the gallop, was drawing up alongside.

Gisburne looked at the diminishing road, looked back at the advancing Templars, then pulled Mélisande towards him. “Stay close!” he roared against the din of the wagon. The last of the Templars flung himself from his saddle into the wagon – only to watch in amazement as Gisburne leapt from the wagon and into the saddle the Templar had just vacated. Gisburne hauled Mélisande onto the horse behind him, and with only moments to spare, she leaned over and grabbed the reliquary box.

Their horse veered away, following the road. But the wagon did not. The last thing they saw was the look of horror on the faces of the Templars as – too late – they saw the fate hurtling towards them. Then the wagon, its horses and its ill-fated passengers plunged screaming over the cliff edge.

As they draw to a halt and dismounted – panting, exhausted – Galfrid caught up with both of their horses.

They looked back, but could see nothing and no one. The Templars were spent, or had given up. Mélisande’s retinue was scattered and left far behind. Gisburne gazed into the empty distance, worrying at their fate. Mélisande looked up into his face, and read the thoughts there.

“They know what to do,” she said, placing a hand on his shoulder. “They’ll regroup, make their way back home. But we’ll see no more of them this trip.”

“Better for them,” said Gisburne. He was suddenly all too aware of the destruction he brought in his wake.

“Just the three of us, then,” said Galfrid, with his usual air of gloomy fatality. “Our gear is all here. Every bit. But I’m sorry to say we have no food beyond a hunk of bread and a morsel of cheese that have both been a week in my satchel.”

“We must find something,” said Gisburne. “We’ve a long road ahead, and no time to linger. Tancred will know where it is we’re heading.” He eyed Mélisande as he spoke the words, but she was deep in thought.

“Wait!” she said suddenly, and she went to her horse. She delved in her saddlebag and returned triumphant with a brown, bloody package.

That night they dined on wolf leg stew.