XLVI

 

 

A CAVE. IT was a cave. He knew it before he opened his eyes this time – must have somehow worked it out during his brief spells of wakefulness. He didn’t know how, but the realisation gave him hope. He was connecting things – piecing the world back together again.

When he awoke, his whole face was burning. Urging his swollen eyes to open, he blinked away the sticky rheum, and the flames filled his vision. He was lying on his side, hunched around a small rock, his head only inches from the glowing, cracking logs of a fire. His nose and cheeks were roasting in the fierce heat. He flexed, rolled onto his back, away from the flames. The simple movement felt like a boot in the ribs.

He couldn’t feel his hands and feet, and momentary panic gripped him. He tried to move his legs. They answered – still part of him, but numbed and insensible with cold. His feet were ice, his head fire. Every inch in between ached – but that, too was good. It was no longer the raw agony of fresh injury. It was the dull pain of healing flesh.

He took a moment to gather himself, letting his eyes rove around the dark interior. The chamber was the size of a monk’s cell, but longer, and easily high enough to stand in. A bear cave, perhaps. But also a cave of men, long ago. Their marks – some faded, some obscured by green moulds or centuries of soot – were everywhere visible through the thick haze of smoke. Parts of his delirious dream flashed back and made him shudder. It sparked off a wave of uncontrollable shivering. He remembered that it was still winter.

As he looked, he realised that the rock on the cave floor, near his chest – a pitted, roughly egg-shaped stone about the size of a human head – had lichen and moss upon it. It had only recently been placed there. He wondered at its purpose. Only gradually did he understand it was to prevent him rolling into the fire as he slept.

Someone had taken care of him. But it was makeshift. His body was swaddled in dirty blankets which, even against the smoke, had the acrid smell of aged damp. But whoever they were, they had kept him alive. His torso – the part that he could feel – was cold and clammy with sweat. He knew now he had to move, get the blood flowing back into his limbs, and learn the extent of the damage inflicted upon him. He struggled to free his hands, extended them toward the flames and forced the paralysed claws of his fingers to flex.

As they returned to life, he shuffled sideways, raising himself up gingerly, bit by bit, into a sitting position against the cave wall. He put his fingers to a spot on his cheek that stung with the fierce anger of a fresh burn. There was a tiny, crusty pit in the flesh. Something had popped in the fire – a stone or pocket of sap – and hit him there.

Now, from where he sat, he could see a sliver of daylight at the cave’s mouth. It was just beyond a bend obscuring most of the opening from view. The height of the cave also dipped there. An occupant of the cave could see out whilst still remaining hidden, and anyone entering would have to stoop low to get in. He noted, too, that the smoke did not flow out of the cave mouth, but was pulled towards him by an inward draught, presumably to escape via some fissure above. A natural chimney. If the fissure was long and the ground above it thick with foliage, the smoke would also be dispersed. One could perhaps hide here for months without being detected. He began to appreciate the wisdom of the ancient men who had once made this their fortress.

The smoke caught in his throat; he tried to resist coughing, but could not. Excruciating pain stabbed his side. It was something he’d known before. He hawked up deep, gritting his teeth against the pain that it caused, and spat on the ground, looking for fresh blood. It was clear. That was good. It probably wouldn’t kill him, then. Just give him weeks of pain before it healed.

There came a crackle of dead wood being crushed underfoot. The rock chamber baffled his senses; made it seem, for a moment, that the sound came from behind him, deeper within the cave. Then a shadow passed across the meagre slit of daylight at the cave’s mouth. Human, a bow across its shoulder. By instinct, his hand went to his sword, but grasped nothing but rotted leaf mould and bits of ancient animal bones. For the first time in his life, there was no sword by his side. No knife. No weapon of any kind. Except... He grasped the rock with stiff fingers, heaved it to his shoulder and, with his back flat against the wall, ignoring the pain, pushed himself up on unsteady legs. The uneven surface of the rock grazed the flesh as his backbone ran hard against it.

A crouched, hooded silhouette turned the corner. He rested the rock on his collarbone – not certain he could even lift it in his current state, but determined to do so no matter what pain ensued. The figure straightened, its face now lit by fire.

Mélisande.

She gave a wry smile. “Don’t start what you can’t finish,” she said.

He let go the breath he was holding – it almost turned to a laugh of relief – and with it the rock. It thumped to the ground and tumbled towards the fire. He slumped as if the stone had taken all his tension with it, allowing himself to slide slowly back down, his back still against the cave wall. He winced as he felt a familiar stab of pain in his chest.

“Well,” he said through gritted teeth. “You’re the second surprise today...”

She threw down a dead hare and slung a bag off her shoulder. “The first..?”

“That I’m alive.”

Kneeling, she unpacked a bundle of grubby cloth from the bag. “You only realised that today?” She peeled back the folds to reveal half a loaf of bread, an onion, dried fruit, a leather flask, some cheese. To Gisburne – suddenly famished beyond words – it was a feast.

He broke off a chunk of bread, and as he tore at it with his teeth, chewing open mouthed, a slow realisation dawned upon him. He’d had no sense of passing time – had let go his grip on the world entirely. “How long have I been here?”

“Three days,” she said.

Gisburne stared, his mind flooded with questions – gripped with panic at the sense of lost time. He had to put himself back into the world. But what would he find when he got there? What had passed since he had plunged into that freezing water?

Mélisande turned to him, put a hand on each side of his face, studied his eyes intently, turning his head left, then right. She opened his mouth, looked in, closed it, and gave him a light slap on one cheek.

“A little flushed, but you’ll do,” she said, and reached into a vertical split in the rock wall. From it she took a soft leather case, unrolled it, checked a variety of small knives it contained, then tied it up and threw it into her bag. “Sorry if the fire was a little fierce. I didn’t want it to die while I was gone. It’s the devil to get started, with everything so damp.”

“Well, I’ve been marinated and larded – why not cooked?” He watched as she pulled a wineskin from the crack, shook it, and slung it over her shoulder. “How did you get me here? And how did you find this cave?”

“I didn’t,” she said, breaking off a third of the loaf and stuffing that, too, into her bag. “You did. Must’ve dragged yourself here from the river.” She shook her head, her expression a mix of amusement, disbelief and admiration. “You are a tenacious fellow, Guy of Gisburne.” He had no memory of having done so, but knew better than most how the body could fight to protect itself.

She reached into a gap in the rock wall once more, and this time drew out a stoneware bottle. “I followed your trail, then did what I could to hide it. It was bloody, easy to spot in the snow. I scattered it as best I could. A fresh fall of snow finished the task.” Uncorking the bottle, she sniffed at it. “Drink,” she said, and thrust it into his stiff hand. “It’ll help with the pain.”

He took a swig. The liquid hit his throat like fire, the cough it induced racking his chest with new pains. “Christ!” he exclaimed. “When you said it would help with the pain, I thought you meant it would stop it...”

She almost smiled at that. “It’ll also keep the cold at bay.”

“What is this stuff?”

“It’s called ‘marc’ – strong drink, from my father’s estates. Just don’t get it near the fire; I haven’t nursed you this far to see you go up in flames. And keep the fire going or you’ll freeze. They shouldn’t see the smoke unless they’re looking for it, and they won’t be looking. There’s more wood near the mouth of the cave. And your gear – as much as I could salvage.”

“Sword?” said Gisburne. She nodded. “Helm..?”

“Yes. Nearly all. The bindings broke and your horse threw it off in the forest. Otherwise it might all be half way to Paris by now.”

Gisburne shook his head. Nyght would not go far from his master if he could help it. Although he did not want to think about what fate his horse had suffered. And then there was–

“Galfrid.” He tried to sit up. She pushed him back down.

“Captured,” she said.

“And the box too, then...” Gisburne’s hand went to his neck; the key to the reliquary box still hung around it. With Gisburne half dead at his feet, Tancred had had the chance to take the key, and to finish off his foe. But he had wasted both opportunities. Gisburne felt a grim satisfaction at that. They would never succeed in opening the box, no matter how hard they tried. Not without the key. And that meant he had something they needed. But as the ghoulish face of the White Devil loomed in his mind beside the sweaty, contemptuous visage of Fulke, cool detachment evaporated. He was filled, instead, with overwhelming hatred. His heart pounded, his fingers clenched. He heaved himself to his feet.

“I have to get out there...”

She turned on him. “You must rest! You must stay hidden.” There was an odd, evasive look in her eye. She busied herself fastening her bag.

Only then did he fully realise that she meant to leave.

“You’re going?”

“It’s necessary.”

“For how long?”

She did not reply. But previously scattered thoughts suddenly came together. The store of food. Her hasty packing. The information about firewood, about his recovered gear. He felt a creeping dread.

“Are you coming back?”

Still she said nothing.

“Why such a hurry?” he said. His voice was stern. This time, when she remained mute, he gripped her wrist and turned her towards him.

She flashed angry eyes, resisted him with surprising strength, her beautiful face creased in a frown. Then she gave up, let her head fall. “I had a contact inside Castel Mercheval.”

Gisburne let her wrist drop.

“A servant. He passed me bread and ale – the food that kept you alive. Information, too.”

“Had...? You said had...”

“Today...” She faltered. “He was not at the appointed place. I must assume he has been discovered. If so, God help him. And if he has been discovered, then it’s only a matter of time before they also find me. So, you see, I must leave you. For your own good.”

“But I only just got you back...” The feeling behind the words surprised him.

“You must accept it.”

“But you could lie low here. How are they to know...”

“No!” Mélisande shook her head, her patience almost gone. “They will make him speak. Then they will know I am somewhere in this forest. But they don’t know about you. Not yet.”

“But if he speaks...”

“I told him only I needed food for myself. He could not tell them anything of you even if he wanted to. Now I must move if I am not to bring Tancred down upon you.”

Gisburne stared at her for a moment in the fire’s dying light.

“What of Tancred? You said you were passed information.”

“Tancred believes you dead. You almost were.”

“The first of those facts is in our favour,” said Gisburne thoughtfully. He took a determined step, meaning to reclaim his sword. He winced, and staggered, steadying himself against the cave wall. “The second, not so much...”

“Tancred will work on Galfrid, get what he can from him. Meanwhile, he has sent for an enginer from Amiens to open your reliquary box. He fears devices that may damage its precious cargo.”

“He’s no fool.”

“Apparently the first two men who touched it collapsed and lost their wits,” said Mélisande, giving Gisburne a searching look. “They say it is cursed.”

That gave Gisburne a grim satisfaction. But he doubted Tancred – the blessed, incorruptible Tancred, God’s right hand – would be put off by such a trivial threat. Gisburne had thought no one would be able to force open the reliquary. But he was wrong. Another like Llewellyn could do it. And when they did...

“Help me,” he said, taking another step towards the cave mouth.

“What?”

“Help me get my armour on.”

Mélisande actually laughed at that – a strange, strained chuckle. “You’re going after your box, when you can’t even get your armour on?”

“They can keep the box,” he said. “I’m going for Galfrid.”

She stared at him, dumbfounded. “Are you mad? You’re half dead. You must heal first.”

“When does the enginer arrive?”

“Three days, but–” said Mélisande.

“Then I have three more days to heal. After that, Galfrid will become superfluous to them.”

Mélisande had seen the tenacity of this man – had seen how he had dragged himself back to life. She nodded slowly, then gripped his hand.

“Succeed,” she said.

“You could join me,” he said. “We could fight together.”

She shook her head. “I cannot.” Somewhere out in the forest, a distant horn sounded. She tensed, turning towards the sound, and pulled her hand away. “I told you. They are hunting for me. They will scour these woods until they find me; and once they have done so, they will stop. And you will be free.”

“But if they don’t capture you...” began Gisburne. Then he saw the wounded look in her eye, and finally understood. “No!” he said. “Not that... I won’t allow it.”

“You cannot stop it.” She stepped further back from him, defiant – but her voice had softened now, was almost pleading. “I am known to them. But you... You do not exist. You’re dead. A ghost. The only one who can move secretly against them. If there is anything that can be done now, it must be you who does it.”

“I won’t have you sacrifice yourself...” He grabbed at her hand, but she wrested it free.

“It’s not a sacrifice,” she insisted. “It’s a tactic. Think. I am of the house of Boulogne. Even Tancred would not dare to cross that line.”

Gisburne was not so sure. “One does not negotiate with Tancred de Mercheval,” he said.

She smiled sweetly, her eyes fixed on his. “Then you had better come to my rescue.”

She threw her bow on the ground and backed away towards the halo of light at the cave’s entrance.

“Don’t worry, I’ll make it look good,” she said. “I never submit without a fight – even if it’s a token one.” Outside, the horn sounded again in the forest – closer, this time. Another answered it. Gisburne fancied he could hear the distant barking and baying of hounds. Mélisande glanced out towards the forest, then back to him – the look in her wild, sad eyes a mix of defiance, torment and exhilaration.

“Think of me,” she said, then rushed forward, kissed him hard on the lips, and was gone.