LXV

 

 

WHEN HE STIRRED next morning, she was gone.

Gisburne – half awake, his head pounding – sat bolt upright.

Her gear was missing. His was still stacked neatly by the wall – a gap where hers once stood. For a moment, he felt a deep sadness. Then panic gripped him. He leapt out of bed, naked, and snatched up the great helm. Empty. He flung it down in frustration, searched agitatedly through his gear, his discarded clothes, the thick bedding. Finally, he slumped down on the bed, clutching his head in disbelief. As he did so, his heel knocked against something heavy, which rocked against the floorboards. Bending down, he peered beneath the bed, and there, staring back at him from the shadows with an unblinking gaze, was the skull. With a snort of a laugh, he hauled it out, hefted it in one hand, and sat contemplating it for a moment. The gold and jewels glinted in the morning light.

She had not taken it, although she’d had every chance. He had been dead to the world that night. Mélisande could have ridden out of the room on a bull, holding the skull aloft and singing Veni Creator Spiritus and he probably would have known nothing about it. But she hadn’t. Why not? He looked into the skull’s ancient eyes, and gave a deep frown. Why not?

Perhaps he would never know.

There had been no goodbyes. She had left exactly as she first came to him – as a silent shadow in the night. He looked around the room. Now there was no hint of her left – just the empty space in the bed, and the fast-fading scent of her upon him. The task was done. His mission all but over. But all he felt was a curious sense of desolation.

“You’ve caused an awful lot of trouble, John,” he said, addressing the yellowed bones. “I just hope it’s all been worth it.”

Minutes later he was stepping out into the fresh, bright morning towards the ship bound for home.