Epilogue

 

 

Village of Gisburne – 13 January, 1192

 

GUY OF GISBURNE rode along the winding, high banked lane, lost in thought, his head pounding from the night before.

For a long time he had been riding with little thought for his surroundings. He was weary – exhausted by the demands of his quest, worn down by the weeks of travel, dispirited by its conclusion. De Gaillon was right; you felt more tired after a defeat. He kept telling himself that it had not been a defeat – that it had achieved exactly what was needed. And perhaps it would even help bring Hood to justice. That was something for which he heartily wished. But he knew the resources of that man – resources drawn from a seemingly inexhaustible well – and doubted that his end would come so easily. And there were other things, too. Things left unfinished.

There was Tancred. For the sake of all that was good, all that was reasonable, he wished the world cleansed of him. Whether that had indeed been achieved, he had not heard one way or the other.

There was also Mélisande de Champagne. Of her, he had thought a great deal. He told himself she was a mere fact of his mission, a temporary alliance – another piece on the chessboard which could now be disregarded. But he was not yet skilled enough in the art to make himself believe that lie.

Then there was Galfrid. His heart shrank at the thought. That was his defeat, his loss. The rest was simply incidental damage – the scarring of battle. But that... He knew what Gilbert would have said: that in order to win, one had to be prepared to lose something. But that did not make it feel any better.

He sighed heavily and looked around him, seeking solace in the quiet of the land. For a long time he had been travelling through the sparse, rolling landscape typical of these parts, dotted with gnarled trees and outcrops of mossy, grey rock. The road itself followed the high ground. To his left, for much of the way, the valley had fallen away in a gentle slope down to a tumbling, icy river, swollen now by the thaw. Its roar had been his constant companion for the greater part of that afternoon. Across the bleakly beautiful panorama a network of dry stone walls spread like grey-green veins, and here and there a lonely cottage leaned into the wind. The snows of recent weeks had here quite gone, and the brisk breeze had whipped the bare ground dry. The sun came and went with alarming rapidity – solid clouds hurtling across the cold blue sky, their pattern of huge shadows sliding across the open fields and moors, plunging them into cold, grey darkness before bursting back into light moments later.

Over the last league, the landscape had begun to soften, becoming flatter, more sheltered by trees, the stone walls replaced by thick hedges. He half recognised these roads now, as one does in a dream – at once familiar and unfamiliar, muddled by memory. It had been a long time since he had travelled this way. Years. He had been a different man then. The last time he had expected to do so, just over a year ago, he had got only as far as the priory at Lundwood. There, the monks were caring for his dying father, cruelly cast off his land by Richard’s edict. There, too, had been Marian.

He shook his thumping head to rid himself of that thought, then winced at the way his tender brain seemed to bounce in his skull.

The blame for the state of his head lay squarely at Llewellyn’s door.

At their reunion in Nottingham Castle the week before, Llewellyn had greeted him heartily. True to his word, and without prompting, he drew out the promised bottle of potent, ecclesiastical brew – but not before he had plied him with just about every other kind of drink, some from lands Gisburne had not even heard of, and at least one that Llewellyn had described as “an experiment”.

As was evident from their surroundings that night, Llewellyn liked experiments. Gisburne gazed around the workshop in the bowels of the castle – a larger and far richer version of his temporary accommodation at the Tower. It was a cluttered treasury of outlandish devices both real and imagined, some complete, many only half realised, others no more than pinned sketches on scraps of material or parchment. Often there was a strange beauty in their intricate design, in the iron, wood, bronze and ivory of their construction. Some featured stout springs or heavy tubes cast in metal, evidently intended to launch lethal projectiles. Others had structures as fine as fishbones – one, stretched with some gossamer-thin, near-transparent material and shaped like a bird. The purpose of many of these things was lost on Gisburne – and, perhaps, on anyone but Llewellyn himself.

The current experiment, in particular, seemed to have taken the esteemed enginer into the realms of the bizarre. In the centre of the pockmarked square table was a wooden stand, and upon the wooden stand something that loosely resembled a human arm, fashioned from dozens of shaped plates of metal, all hinged, overlapping and interlocking in a manner that brought to mind the body of a wasp. It was as if the limb had lately been wrenched from such a creature – but grown of iron and steel, and of outlandish size.

This was not in itself the strangest part of the scene, however. All about it there were drawings of insects and crawling sea beasts, and upon a platter, in various states of preservation or dismantlement, numerous large beetles, hornets and other armoured creatures – some, Gisburne recognised, native to the Holy Land, and perhaps further afield. A dung beetle, locusts, gigantic cockroaches, the likes of which he had never seen before. And spiders – of such size he hoped never to meet in life. Amongst all of them, however, it was the more modestly proportioned scorpions that caused him to shudder.

“Lunch?” said Gisburne, sipping tentatively at Llewellyn’s “experimental” brew, and finding it not only palatable, but surprisingly conventional – something like cider, but, by Gisburne’s reckoning, some hundred times stronger.

Llewellyn cast him a weary, unamused smile, as if it were the hundredth time that day he’d heard the joke – though quite who visited him down here, Gisburne could not imagine.

“The crabs and lobsters, I did eat,” he said. “The Moors partake of locusts, I have heard, but personally I shan’t be turning to them for sustenance. Only for inspiration...”

Gisburne turned his gaze to the hinged shell upon the wooden stand.

“That?”

“That.”

“What is that?”

“It is the future of warfare,” said Llewellyn.

Gisburne stood, studying it more closely. “So, we are to become like crabs and beetles, scuttling across the battlefield?”

“Have you never tried to crush an earwig underfoot, only for it to still be quick and vital after three tries? Have you never eaten lobster, and not had to attack it with all your strength to release it from its shell, though it be a fraction of your size? They are great survivors – armoured by the Almighty since creation. We have much to learn from this wisdom, if we only care to look. Imagine if you could walk right up to your foes, knowing their blades – and even their arrows – could do you no harm.”

“Don’t think I haven’t thought about it,” said Gisburne. He picked up the strange carapace, feeling its weight, testing its complex, interlocking plates and joints, and shook his head slowly. “Little wonder that it’s becoming a rich man’s game.”

“It’s too heavy,” sighed Llewellyn. “And awkward. The articulation needs work. You see, it’s all a question of the right steel – making it strong enough to resist a blade, yet flexible enough to be workable. But if I can make it flex just the right way, and make it lighter...”

“I could test it for you,” offered Gisburne, feeling the extent of its movement.

“You could,” said Llewellyn, standing and taking it from him with a suddenly proprietorial air. “When it’s ready...” He placed it carefully – almost lovingly – upon its base once more. It was, Gisburne thought, like one child relieving another of a cherished toy before it becomes damaged. “Don’t worry,” said Llewellyn, his back to his guest. “I will keep you informed of my progress. God knows you’re going to need all the help you can get to preserve your life in the months to come.”

Gisburne smiled and raised his glass. “To beetles and lobsters, and all their creeping kind.”

Llewellyn raised his own, and they both drank.

By the time they moved on to the monkish brew that evening, Gisburne was already flagging, and they had only managed about a quarter of the bottle before he gave up the ghost. Llewellyn had stoppered up the remainder and presented it to him.

Gisburne had worked his way through most of it on the night before this final day’s travel, as compensation for the dismal lodgings in Bradford. All day, he had been regretting it, nursing a thick head that not even a bitter Yorkshire wind could blow away. The worst hangovers of all were born from drinking alone.

Quite suddenly, Gisburne found himself at a turning so familiar it made him stop. A winding lane struck off to the left by a broken oak tree – a tree he had played in as a child. He geed Nyght on, suddenly impatient for what lay ahead.

And then, as the lane turned, he saw it: a picturesque stone house – modest in size, but well-proportioned, with arched windows and a square tower at its western end. The house in which he had been born. The house in which his mother and sister had died. The house Richard had stolen from his father, and John had now restored. Gisburne was suddenly overwhelmed by a feeling he never thought to have again.

He was home.

He urged his horse into a gallop.

As the hooves pounded the road, memory tugged at him, and he did not resist. For a moment, he was a child again. The small boy being chased by the wife of Godwine the farmer, for robbing apples from their orchard. Slightly older, and stealing his little sister’s cake, and blaming it on the dog – then, later that week, almost breaking his arm as he’d tried to ride off with a visiting knight’s colossal destrier. Not long before he was due to leave for Normandy, pushing yeoman Robert’s boy in the mud and relieving him of the silver penny his uncle had given to him for his name day.

Then there was the time with Gilbert de Gaillon. The time when everything changed.

 

 

HE WAS THIRTEEN. One year into his apprenticeship with Gilbert, and already grown in confidence. Life with Gilbert was good – his master was firm, but fair, and the training, hard as it was, easily within his capabilities. Many knights treated their squires like common slaves who simply had to put up with whatever was thrust upon them, no matter how mean or cruel. Some seemed to consider that good sport. De Gaillon, however, took his responsibilities as a mentor seriously. He was not only the boy’s master, nor simply a trainer in the arts of combat. He was also a teacher, preparing his young charge for life. And when he spoke to Gisburne, he did so as he would anyone else, making no allowance for status. This was almost unique among the knights Gisburne had encountered. At first, he valued it highly. Then, he began to take it for granted. Soon, he was becoming cocky.

It came to a head one night in the summer. It had been a good day – one of those in which everything, even the weather, seemed to work in one’s favour, and at the end of which one’s muscles had the satisfying ache of hard work well done. He had served de Gaillon his meal and was finally eating his own, seated by the camp fire along with several of the other squires. Nicolas, an older squire who Gisburne greatly admired, was talking loudly to his fellows. Nicolas was tall, broad shouldered, with hair as black as pitch – a son of a wealthy family. His uncle was a Count, and had sent him the gift of a new knife as a reward for his good conduct in a recent tournament. He wielded it like a sword in the flickering light of the fire, and joked about how he could eat two meals at once now he had two eating knives. It was a beautiful piece of work – its handle carved in bone, with all manner of inlays and glittering ornaments. All marvelled at it.

But it was not this that occupied young Gisburne’s mind. It was Nicolas’s old knife, sticking upright out of a slab of bread.

It was an object Gisburne had long coveted. The handle was of black wood; two elegantly shaped parts, held in place either side of the tang with flat rivets. The blade – about a palm’s length – was simple, but satisfyingly shaped and proportioned. Sharpened on one edge, flat on the other, and thick at the base, giving it good strength and weight, the whole gently tapering to a fine point. There was nothing in the way of decoration upon it. It was not ostentatious – probably not very valuable. But in Gisburne’s mind, it had a simplicity that he had seen in no other – and every part of him wanted it for his own. Now that Nicolas had his fancy new knife, he could see no earthly reason why that should not be so.

That night, he crept into the tent where Nicolas lay sleeping. It was a mad undertaking. Nicolas was five years older than he, and twice his size – if he caught him in the act, he would skin him alive. But his lust for the prize drew him on. He had expected the theft itself to be a challenge; in the event, both knives were left lying in plain sight by their owner’s snoring head. As he plucked up the blade, he saw that Nicolas was dribbling in his sleep like a baby. He left the tent chuckling to himself in a delirium of triumph.

Then the whole world collapsed around him.

In the dying light of the fire, watching him, half-dressed as if just risen from his bed, was Gilbert de Gaillon. Gisburne’s limbs froze, his face suddenly burning hot. His mind spun, seeking excuses. Explanations. But there were none. He was utterly exposed. De Gaillon’s eyes, glinting in the firelight, dropped to the knife in the boy’s hand, then came back up to his face, the unrelenting gaze boring into him as he stood, mute and useless. Gisburne expected some dreadful retribution – a beating, a barrage of unbearable admonishments, total humiliation before all his peers, perhaps even to be sent packing back home, a miserable failure. An exposed thief. But none of these things happened. What did happen was worse than all of them. De Gaillon narrowed his eyes for a moment, then, without a word, turned and walked away.

Gisburne stood, suddenly powerless, for what seemed an age. He was shocked and sickened – more horribly alone than he had ever felt in his life, although what had caused it was just this: that he was never alone. There were always others’ needs, others’ feelings, others’ judgements. He had always pushed them to one side – disregarded them, been impervious to them. He had believed himself somehow indestructible. Now, he felt like Adam, suddenly aware of his nakedness, his weakness, his sin. For a moment he hated de Gaillon for forcing this self-knowledge upon him, wanted to rail against him, beat his fists against his chest. But somewhere beneath it, even then, he knew he would only be railing against himself, and that it was part of himself that he hated. To have disappointed his master – to have failed him... It was its own punishment. The worst feeling in the world.

Biting his lip to hold back the tears, he crept back into Nicolas’s tent and placed the knife exactly as he had found it. Then, wretched and shamed, he crawled into his bed and sobbed himself into a fitful sleep.

Gisburne walked on eggshells the whole of the next day. He felt sick. His hands shook. His bowels couldn’t keep a grip on anything. He had restored the object to its proper place – but nothing could put things back as they were. Nothing could undo the knowledge of the crime. So, he busied himself around his master, not daring to look him in the eye, waiting for the moment when the subject would be raised. But de Gaillon said nothing of the incident that day. Nor the day after that. Nor any day that week, that month, that year. He simply carried on as if nothing had changed, and Gisburne – trepidation gradually turning to relief, and then being forgotten – did the same.

But everything had changed. It was years before Gisburne fully understood the wisdom of his master’s actions that night, but when he finally did, he loved him all the more for it. For trusting him to find his own way forward. For understanding that defeats are often better teachers than triumphs. For believing in him, and making him realise that mistakes do not have to define a man. Gisburne’s attitude towards stealing – and towards himself – changed forever that night. No one hates thieves like a reformed thief.

There was an unexpected coda to the story, two days after the abandoned theft. Gisburne was scrubbing the tack for his master’s horses when a voice behind spoke his name. He turned, and felt his heart drop out of his chest. It was Nicolas. In his hand, he clutched the sheathed, black-handled knife.

Nicolas had never spoken to Gisburne directly before, except to cut him down to size in front of the others. Gisburne was about to confess all and throw himself on the other’s mercy when he realised that Nicolas – who could be a bluff and boastful sort when with his fellows – had not a look of anger or hatred, but a sort of embarrassed, sheepish smile. “I know you always liked this knife,” he said. “And now I have two...” He thrust the knife towards Gisburne. Gisburne, stunned and silent, took it from him. Then Nicolas laughed, and ruffled Gisburne’s hair roughly, and was gone.

For a time, he had considered throwing the knife into the river Eure. Denying himself this thing, of which he was so unworthy. Then he thought what his master would do. De Gaillon detested self-flagellation, and would probably just think it a waste of a good knife. And so, the knife had stayed.

 

 

AS NYGHT SLOWED to a trot, Gisburne let his fingers go to its haft. The knife had served as a constant reminder of those times. Of that night, and of a gift freely given. But it was something else – something less tangible – that had helped keep him true. Ever since, whenever he had been faced with a harsh decision or moral dilemma, he had found himself wondering what de Gaillon would think – had asked himself how the old man would judge his actions. De Gaillon had become a constant guiding presence in Gisburne’s eventful existence – even more so in death than he had been in life. He had become his conscience. Gisburne did not know if there was some realm from which de Gaillon now looked down upon him. But that mattered little. His mentor lived on in him. De Gaillon had, in a sense, made him. It was, he now realised, perhaps the closest thing to a personal God he was ever likely to get.

Gisburne threw himself down off his horse and tied the reins to the bar above the stone trough – the place he had tied so many horses as a child, and from where he had once attempted to steal one. As Nyght drank noisily, he stood before the low, wide door, hardly daring to move.

Through the waxed linen of the downstairs windows, a dim light glowed. Smoke curled from the chimney, and the smell of roasting beef and onions wafted on the air. Someone was here. Either John had also laid on servants, or... For a moment, it crossed Gisburne’s mind that the whole thing was an elaborate joke. But no. He could not believe that.

As he approached the door with tentative steps, key in hand, sounds of movement came from within. The clank of a pot. The jangle of a knife or spoon being set on a wooden table. He stopped by the door, wondering why he was at such pains to move silently on what was supposed to be his property. As if to assert his ownership of the place – to confirm that the key, and by extension he, did indeed belong here – he went to put it into the lock. Before key and lock could meet, the door opened.

“You took your time,” said a familiar voice.

Gisburne stared, wide-eyed, at Galfrid. The little man stood, bedecked in a slightly stained apron, ladle in one hand, savoury aromas flooding past him on the warm air, expression as inscrutable as ever. He gestured back towards the interior with the ladle.

“There’s a stew on the go if you’re hungry. I couldn’t get any...” But there he was stopped. Gisburne flung his arms around the little man and clutched him to his chest. “You’re not dead!” Gisburne laughed, and slapped both hands on his squire’s back, overcome with joy and relief. Galfrid, dumbfounded, simply stood, arms stuck out either side of him like a scarecrow – ladle in one, fresh air in the other – not having the first idea to do with himself.

Finally Gisburne released Galfrid from the rough embrace and stood back, still clutching him by the shoulders, still laughing. “You’re not dead!” he repeated, giving his squire a gentle shake as he did so. He could hardly remember a time in his life when he was more glad to see anyone.

Gisburne looked him up and down. Galfrid’s face had a couple of new scars, but otherwise he appeared whole – none the worse for their trials. The vigour of Gisburne’s greeting had clearly taken him completely by surprise, however. He looked stunned – and, Gisburne thought, maybe even emotional behind that implacable front. “You’re all right...” he said. Then, more cautiously. “You are all right?”

A pained expression passed across Galfrid’s face for an instant, as if recalling a memory that would rather remained buried. Gisburne thought of what he must have suffered at Castel Mercheval, considered asking him more directly, but then rejected the idea. Galfrid’s face changed again, and he nodded, almost casually. It would take time, thought Gisburne. Let him come to it when he’s ready. And he smiled, and let his hands drop.

“Well, er... You’d best come in then,” said Galfrid awkwardly, clearing his throat. “You must be hungry.” And with that, he disappeared inside. Gisburne followed, dipping his head under the lintel as he went.

The low stone doorway opened straight onto a wide hall. At one end, a familiar fireplace was hung with pots, about which Galfrid now bustled like an old woman.

“There’s wine here – not Prince John’s, the good stuff, mind. Or ale if you prefer. I paid over the odds for that. He could see I wanted it in a hurry. Tricky bunch, these locals – the awkward bugger nearly didn’t sell it to me at all. But an Englishman’s house isn’t a home without ale. Anyway, I’ve cleaned up a bit, as best I can – it was left in a bit of a state. Hopefully it’s as you would wish it.” He thought for a moment. “As you remember it.”

It was exactly as Gisburne remembered it. A little smaller, maybe. But that was a trick of age. Even the few sticks of furniture his parents had owned – both had had simple tastes – were still here. Gisburne went over to the heavy wooden table that dominated the centre of the room, sat at the bench, and ran his finger over a crudely carved letter “G” on one corner of the thick tabletop – still visible despite years of use and polish. His father had given him a hiding for doing that. How old must he have been then? Fifteen? Fourteen? No – he was already in Normandy then, under de Gaillon’s tutelage. He could only have been twelve, at the most. It seemed inconceivable to him that so fragile a relic could still exist from all those years ago – years that had seen him traverse so much of the earth that his childhood had seemed another world. But here it was.

A frown knotted his brow. “Galfrid, I...”

“It’s all right.” Galfrid held up a hand in protest. “You did what you had to do. And much more besides.” For perhaps the second time since Gisburne had known him, there was no trace of irony or cynicism in his tone. “I knew the skull was never in that box.” Galfrid looked him in the eye. “You had it all along, didn’t you?”

Gisburne nodded, felt oddly ashamed at the deception. But Galfrid waved the thought away. “You came back for us. At Castel Mercheval. That you did not have to do.” He shrugged, turned back to his stew, perhaps embarrassed at his own words. “Admittedly, you may have come back more for the wealthy, feisty, beautiful, unmarried Countess, but still...”

Gisburne smiled to himself. Memories of Mélisande flooded his mind. Every time he thought of her – and it had been often – something tugged at his innards. She had deceived him. But then, he had deceived her. It was a fair exchange, he supposed. A normal part of his new life as Prince John’s agent. But she had also saved him – had also, surely, done more than she’d had to. And there was certainly no deception that last night together. She had wanted him. And, whatever deceptions surrounded them – and there were plenty – there was something more honest in that one encounter than any he’d known before. For a time, he had attempted to rationalise it – told himself she had merely been a surrogate for Marian, as had many women before. He had felt guilt over some of those liaisons. Guilt at misleading them, guilt at misusing his feelings for Marian. He had felt a pang of guilt over Mélisande, too – but for entirely opposite reasons. He felt guilty because, that night, Marian had not entered his thoughts once. He had not wanted her, nor a dismal substitute for her. He had wanted only Mélisande. For herself.

Never before had he encountered a woman who knew his world – who really understood it, had experienced it. The possibility had never crossed his mind. There were so many things that he could never begin to explain to Marian, that he wished to speak of, but could not – things that Mélisande could simply read in his face, without a word being spoken. To be able to share one’s life to that extent... But could a woman such as she – one who went her own way, and would not be owned – ever belong to just one man? How and when their paths might cross again, he did not know. But cross they would. And the mere thought made his heart beat faster.

A jug clunked down before him on the tabletop, brimming with beer. “You look like you need a drink.” Galfrid placed two silver-rimmed horn cups side by side and filled them both. “Let’s start with the ale.”

Gisburne smiled. He knocked his cup against Galfrid’s, and drank. Perhaps it was the homeliness of the surroundings, or the relief at seeing his friend alive – Gisburne didn’t really care. He only knew, as the foaming, malty brew hit his throat like a blessing, that this beer was the best he’d ever tasted.

“Hmm,” said Galfrid, smacking his lips critically, the ridge of his nose wrinkling in a frown. “It’ll do. Could be better. Especially for that bloody price.”

Gisburne’s eyes narrowed. “The locals... You said they were ‘tricky’?” He vaguely wondered if any of the locals he had terrorised as a child were still alive.

Galfrid grunted in assent. “They’ve been keeping their distance, mostly.”

“But why? They all loved my father. My mother, too. Do they know who it is who has taken possession of the place?”

“They do know, yes...” Galfrid shifted on his feet awkwardly. “It is...” He looked as if he did not wish to continue, but pushed on, regardless. “It is because of Gilbert de Gaillon. His reputation.”

Gisburne felt a sudden fury rise in him – had an urge to fling his cup into the fire. But he’d had enough of that anger. He’d had it for years now. It was time to throw it off. He drank again, until the cup was drained, then slapped it down and sighed deeply.

“If I have to fight for a hundred years – if I have to defy King Richard the Lionheart himself – I will not rest until the name of Gilbert de Gaillon is restored. That is my sole quest.”

“Our quest,” said Galfrid. “There are no sole quests any more.” He held out his cup. They knocked brims. “Which means we only have to fight for fifty years apiece.”

Gisburne gave a snort of laughter and shook his head. “You really are the most extraordinary fellow, Galfrid.” Galfrid shrugged, and gulped his ale. Gisburne studied him with a kind of wonder – the strange, impossible little man. “You haven’t yet told me how you escaped Castel Mercheval.”

Galfrid’s eyebrows raised. “In order to learn that secret,” he said, “you will have to get me very, very drunk indeed.” He held up a finger. “But I warn you – if you think you can drink me under the table...”

“I have seen the underside of this table often enough to develop a keen strategy in that regard,” said Gisburne. And he filled up Galfrid’s cup until it overflowed.

“One thing...” he said, as Galfrid was raising the cup to his lips. “Tancred?” It was a question that had been on his mind since that day.

Galfrid’s grave expression gave him his answer before the squire even spoke. “He was burned,” he said. “By flames. By quicklime. It near took the flesh off his face.” Gisburne thought he saw Galfrid shudder as he spoke the words. “But it appears he is not yet done with this world. Either that, or the hereafter refuses to have him. He lives. Against all odds.” He paused and drank. “The Templars have disowned him. He goes his own way now. I hear his strength returns, and his will is stronger than ever. But as for his sanity...”

Galfrid didn’t need to say more. Gisburne nodded slowly. “Well, it would appear that rather than rid the world of a pestilential evil, I have in fact turned it into something far worse – a hideous, twisted monster now bent on my utter destruction.”

“I’ll drink to that,” said Galfrid, resignedly. They knocked cups once again. Gisburne drank, and stared into the fire. He thought of the pieces now in play. John. Richard. Mélisande. Philip. The Templars. And now Tancred. Especially Tancred. He had surely not seen the last of him.

And yet somehow, deep in his bones, he knew that whatever might pass in what remained of his life, his ultimate fate lay not with the crazed Templar, but somewhere in the great forests to the south.

One day, when the circle closed upon his nemesis, he would become a hunter of Sherwood again – but this time, with a far more deadly prey.