“He’ll probably get it, or die trying. We’ll see how that works out. The Templars, though… They are subtle. They understand that real power depends on more than the sword. And they are still smarting after the disaster of Hattin. To rebuild their web, they need a sound foothold in the Mediterranean, within striking distance of the Holy Land, and Cyprus suits them well – but they want their dominion to be unchallenged. And so the skull of my holy namesake makes its merry way to the French King.”
John stopped before the fire, took up a poker and jabbed at a log, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney. It was a moment before Gisburne realised that John’s tale was over – that it had ended before he was able to divine his own place in it. So, a holy relic was passing from the most powerful organisation in Christendom to one of its greatest monarchs. It would establish a peace, of sorts – a peace that, as far as he could see, was of as much benefit to England as anyone else, and was being created via a transaction in which no one in England or the lands ruled by Anjou played any part. Finally, he asked: “What is it you wish me to do?”
John looked him squarely in the eye. “I wish you to steal it.”
Gisburne felt his blood freeze in his veins.
“The skills you have shown tonight,” continued John, matter-of-factly, “all those will be needed if this is to succeed.”
The flattery bypassed Gisburne entirely. “You... wish me to steal a holy relic?”
“Put aside its religious significance,” John said, sweeping his hand before him. “The gold and jewels that it has accumulated during its life are greater than a king’s ransom. Make no mistake; although this seems a noble and pious gesture – a benevolent gift – it is payment. Nothing more. Both sides know this, though none will speak openly of it.”
In truth, Gisburne cared nothing for any holy power it supposedly possessed. He had seen plenty of such relics in his travels – saints with more bones than a team of oxen, pieces of the true cross sufficient to build a small ship, thriving workshops that did a roaring trade churning out both. He had also see men fight, and die, depending on them – enough to regard such talismans with ambivalence at best. But while defying a respected religious order certainly gave him pause – even if it concerned an object of dubious provenance – it was the notion of theft itself with which he struggled most. John pre-empted his objection.
“If it helps your conscience, consider this...” His voice was stern now, devoid of the calculated charm he so often affected. “I believe that Philip intends to use this gift to fund outrages in England; acts calculated to further destabilise the kingdom, to take advantage of a weakened realm and an absent king. Do not think of this as a mere act of thievery. It is a blow against those who would see this land engulfed by anarchy. Against the agents of chaos. Those who would rob men of their good sense.”
The return of his own words startled him. Gisburne stared into the depths of the fire in thoughtful silence, weaving the threads of their whole conversation together and wondering if he was correct in supposing who one of those agents might be. If he was, then John’s reasoning was unassailable.
“I have already told you more than you need,” said John, as if pre-empting the question. “More than I should. But I tell you this so you may understand, and not judge me too harshly.” He sighed deeply, resignedly, as if being judged too harshly were a curse he had to bear. “Tonight’s little charade... Well, it was more than that. I needed to put you to the test. To push your capabilities to the limit. Not because I doubt your tenacity or resolve, but in order to ensure I was sending you on a mission from which you could actually return.”
“Did I pass?” muttered Gisburne.
John laughed, the mischievous glint momentarily returning. “Well, you’re here, aren’t you?” He turned away again, towards the window. “I have sent many good men to their deaths. That is the lot of a prince. It would doubtless surprise the people of this land to know that it gives me no pleasure. I would have you return alive – or know, at least, that I had done more than send you to the scaffold. Tonight was a demonstration of this desire. And, by the simple application of a sword blade, that I trust you above all men.”
After a moment’s silence, Gisburne gave a single, solemn nod.
John smiled. “The skull is to be met at Marseille and escorted to the king’s palace in Paris by a senior Templar named Tancred de Mercheval.” John’s eyes slid to Gisburne, as if looking for some flicker of recognition. But the name meant nothing to him. “Tancred is revered – feared – even among the Templars. It is a measure of the importance of this transaction that the Grand Master of the Temple entrusts the task to him, even though there is little love lost between them. Tancred is... Difficult. A maverick. But once it is in Tancred’s hands, there will be no wresting it from them. Only a fool or an army would attempt that – and you are neither.” He looked at Gisburne in silence for a moment, as if awaiting an objection. None came. “Therefore, you must strike at Marseille, before the handover to Tancred is effected. And that means, I regret to say, that you have a long and difficult journey ahead of you... Arrangements have been made for you to stay at Dover Castle prior to your departure from England. There you will join a ship bound for Calais, where you will disembark disguised as a humble pilgrim, heading for Marseille.”
“Disguised?” Again, Gisburne smarted at John’s words. Again, John raised a hand in protest.
“I know you detest all this secrecy, this deception. But it is necessary. Our foes are masters of it, and we must become masters of it ourselves. If my information is correct – and my information is always correct – there will be other interests, other forces, looking out for this prize. Even within the Templars there are factions who abhor its loss. You must tread carefully, my friend. One day you will be able to step out of the shadows. But for now, that is where I need you.”
“But... Dover Castle..?” said Gisburne.
“I know,” said John, waving a hand with mock displeasure. “I am hardly their favourite prince...”
In truth, Gisburne would also have preferred a far less grand lodging place. What was wrong with a simple inn, with good food and honest ale?
“I have my reasons, however,” said John, an inscrutable smile flickering across his lips. “On that day, its castellan, Matthew de Clere, will playing host to another guest who you may wish to meet. Think of it as a parting gift.” Gisburne waited for more on the matter, but nothing came. “Don’t worry – I will keep my name out of the arrangements, and it would certainly be best for you if you did not mention me.”
“I’ll need time to prepare,” said Gisburne.
“You have two weeks and a day,” replied John.
“And I will need to see Llewellyn.”
“Then you are in luck,” said John, triumphantly. “He is here. I find it useful to keep him nearby during trying times – which is, I must say, almost all of the time.”
He moved to the door, and opened it. Gisburne stood. Outside, lurking hesitantly, was the bloody-nosed guard. “He’ll be awake, of course – he always was a night-owl – and will be expecting you. He has a way of sniffing these things out. And I’m sure he can offer you a pallet for what remains of the night.”
As Gisburne passed through the open door, the guard scrutinised his attacker with a kind of timid resentment, hastily breaking eye contact when he realised Gisburne would not. “He’s ensconced in the enginer’s foxhole,” said John, “buried in the bowels of this place. The guard will show you the way.”
“I know the way,” replied Gisburne.
John stared at him in amazement. “I thought you had not set foot in the Tower until tonight. And most who have do not even know this chamber exists...”
“I contrived to make the acquaintance of a disgruntled mason,” said Gisburne. “Sacked by Puintellus for being in drink. I bought him as many drinks as he liked at an inn in Southwark. In return, he etched a complete plan of the keep on the underside of a trencher.”
&nb
sp; John laughed and clapped his hands with delight. “Upon such trivialities are empires made and kingdoms broken...” The laughter faded. “Sleep well, Sir Guy. We shall not meet again until this matter is concluded.” And with that, he began to swing the door shut.
“One thing...” said Gisburne. John stopped, his eyes glinting through the narrow gap. “The guest at Dover. The one you have contrived for me to meet. How am I to know them?”
“You will know them,” said John. “And they you.”
“May I at least be told who it is?”
John smiled. It was the smile of a man who had just played the winning stroke in a long and complex game. “Lady Marian Fitzwalter,” he said, and closed the door.
VI
IT TOOK THREE attempts to find Llewellyn’s “foxhole”. The first had brought him to a dead end in a dank, airless vaulted interior that smelt of damp earth and vinegar and which was filled, as far as he was able to tell, with barrels of pork and salt fish. Next time, he’d have the informant mark the map on a piece of cloth, and keep it in his pocket.
As he wandered, the shadows gliding and leaping across the stonework at the passing of the smoky, sputtering tallow candle, he puzzled over John’s final words. Lady Marian Fitzwalter... Every time he thought he knew the man, John found new ways to surprise him. How could he have known about Lady Marian? Gisburne had told no one. Not that there was much to tell, of course; Marian had never returned Gisburne’s keener affections, nor even shown much interest in doing so. He wondered if John knew that too. She liked him, of course. They had always liked each other. She had even tolerated his later attempts at intimacy – tentative though they were – with good grace. But her tolerance, well-meant though it was, made him feel less like a man, and more like one of her dogs. Hatred would be better. At least then he would be the subject of some strong emotion.
Turning back on himself, he headed again into the store room with its ranks of stacked barrels. This, surely, was where the chamber should be – so his instincts told him, anyway. Then, just as he was about to abandon the place for a second time, the same instincts urged him to investigate a shadow deeper in the chamber. There, in a small archway, almost obscured by the barrels flanking it on either side, was a narrow door. He pushed on it. From inside, carried upon a heat like a desert wind, came the smell of sulphur and woodsmoke.
In one corner, a small furnace glowed. Before it stood an incongruously elaborate wooden chair – it almost deserved to be called a throne – and by its side a small rustic table bearing some scraps of cloth and broken pieces of charcoal. In the other, a huge flap of brown leather screened off a a tiny section of the room, its surface marked by silvery flecks of molten lead. Against one wall was a cluttered bench strewn with tools and pieces of shaped wood and beaten or cast metal; on the other, shelves packed from floor to ceiling with every kind of curiosity, from bottles of liquids and jars of coloured powders, to animal skulls, antlers and lengths of bone. And, in between, every inch of the cramped space was filled with sacks, barrels, boxes and chests.
“The crossbow worked, then,” said a gruff voice. Llewellyn of Newport stepped out from behind a ragged flap of the hanging partition. Gisburne fancied for a fleeting moment that he could see smoke rising from his grizzled hair and beard.
“And the Greek Fire,” replied Gisburne.
Llewellyn snorted in laughter, and slapped Gisburne on the arm. “I could tell that, even buried way down here. It has a distinct aroma. And it gets about.” He grunted in laughter again, waving his guest inside and closing the door behind him. “If you only knew what I’d been through to perfect that recipe. Speaking of which...” Crossing the room, avoiding every obstacle with practised ease, he stooped over a sturdy leather bag near the chair, and extricated an elegantly shaped glass bottle, stoppered with beeswax. A smile creased his face as he cradled it in his hands, blowing off a little dust.
“You know what this is?”
“Does it explode?” said Gisburne. He naturally assumed that nothing in Llewellyn’s possession was quite what it seemed.
“Monks made this. A heady brew. If ever you wondered why so many of them are unable to speak...” He chuckled, waving the bottle gently in Gisburne’s direction. “I’ve been waiting for some excuse to drink it. I had hoped for something momentous, but your arrival will have to do.” And with that, he placed the bottle on the little table by his chair and began rifling the shelves in a hunt for cups.
“My apologies for the mess,” he called, his head half buried amongst bottles. “The previous tenant was French.” He said this as if it provided the entire explanation. Gisburne thought better than to mention that it looked, if anything, slightly more ordered than Llewellyn’s own workshop in Nottingham. As he stood, wondering where to put himself in the mayhem, he idly picked up a complex wooden model from the cluttered bench – evidently some kind of variant on the trebuchet – pulling back its arm and watching in fascination as its tiny pulleys pulled and tiny gears meshed.
“Please don’t touch that,” snapped Llewellyn, extricating himself.
“Do we make war on mice now?” Gisburne said, putting a rivet in the trebuchet’s tiny bucket and firing it across the room. It clattered behind a long, low chest.
Crossing the room in two strides, Llewellyn snatched the device from him, slapped it back on the worktop irritably and threw a cloth over it. “The real one is bigger.” As he turned, he gestured to the big chair by the furnace. “Sit. Sit. You look ready to drop.”
Gisburne sat. Sure enough, as he did so a wave of fatigue suddenly broke over him. It was the familiar crash after the rush of battle. He didn’t fight it – the time for fighting was past, at least for now – and instead allowed his body to relax for what he realised was the first time in days.
“So,” Llewellyn said as he excavated a horn cup and blew into it. “I would imagine the prince has now revealed his mission, and you are in need of some tools to speed its successful completion. Correct?”
It was a fair summing up. “There is a catch,” said Gisburne. “I need them in my hands in two weeks.”
Llewellyn stopped for a moment, and looked at him steadily, a knowing look in his eye. “I might have one or two things that could be adapted to the purpose.”
Gisburne stared back. “Do you already know the mission?”
Llewellyn pulled a dented, tarnished silver vessel from a wooden box, knocked it upside down on the bench a few times and then rubbed the lip on his tunic. “I know only weights, tensions, tolerances and reactions. Anything else is for others to worry about.” He stood for a moment, a cup in each hand, an unconvincing look of feigned innocence on his face. Gisburne wondered if it had simply become a habit with Llewellyn to pretend to know far less than he actually did. “However,” he continued with a shrug, “in judging those tensions and tolerances, it might help if I were to know who you will be up against.”
“The King of France,” said Gisburne casually. “And the Templars.”
Llewellyn, who had now placed the cups upon the table and again taken up the cherished bottle, stopped as if struck by an arrow. He nodded slowly, his expression sombre. “A general piece of advice, then, from one friend to another... Templars are not like any other adversary. Oh, I know – I won’t lecture you about their dedication, their ruthless efficiency. I know you’ve seen those up close. Just be aware: they have the best enginers of anyone in this world, Christian or Saracen.”
“Better than you?”
Llewellyn did not succumb to the flattery. “Whatever ingenuities you may bring, whatever... surprises I can furnish, expect the same – and more – from them.”
“They’re still men.”
“Yes. Men with wealth greater than kings. Men driven by a religious zeal more fervent than popes. Men with political reach beyond that of any emperor. They have no nation, yet princes fear them. They have a network of loans and debts stretching from here to the Holy Land that makes the wealth of nations appear feeble an
d archaic – and upon which some of those nations depend. They are a web – everywhere and nowhere – and answerable only to God.”
“And yet, their flesh is no more resistant to the bite of a blade. Their blood flows no less freely. Their skulls are no thicker than any other man’s.” Gisburne thought for a moment. “All right, maybe their skulls are a little thicker...” But Llewellyn did not laugh. Not this time.
“Do you know of a knight named Tancred de Mercheval?” said Gisburne with a yawn, breaking the momentary silence. “John says he is a maverick.” He saw what he thought was a flicker of alarm in Llewellyn’s eyes, hastily suppressed. Then a smile creased the old man’s features.
“So, it’s ‘John’ now, is it...?” The smile faded away again, like a brief chink of sunlight peeking through cloud. “‘Maverick’ is one word for it. He was favoured by the old Grand Master, Gérard de Ridefort. The new one is less enamoured, and keeps him on a long leash for when he needs his dirty work done. But he controls him less and less.”
“He exceeds his orders?”
Llewellyn took a deep breath. “There was a case of a heretic monk in southern France, harboured by his community. Tancred was dispatched to bring him to justice, but ordered not to kill him. The monk had preached that the Almighty was the God of Peace – that all killing was a sin. Tancred determined to prove him wrong. Since the whole village had protected him, he had every man, woman and child in it put to death. Then he let the monk go to contemplate the consequences of his actions. The monk hanged himself under a bridge two days later. So yes, you could say he exceeds his orders, though he would perhaps disagree. His orders come direct from God.”
Gisburne considered Llewellyn’s words for a moment. “Another lunatic,” he sighed at length. “I’ve spent my life surrounded by them. Present company excepted.”
“He is a formidable adversary, Guy,” said Llewellyn softly. “One who plays by no rules but his own.”
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