Knight of Shadows

by Toby Venables

  In truth, it had never been close to actually hitting Tancred’s knights. But it didn’t need to. All that was required was the fleeting belief that it would – that brief moment of panic. The fact that it had spattered them with fresh blood as it swung added to the effect.

  He heard de Gaillon’s voice in his head – the voice that was now always with him. “Overthrow the mind and the body will follow.” To which he sometimes would add: “The opposite is not always the case...” Gisburne had proved both points today. He had seen strong men give up the ghost and die when they felt there was no hope, and those with no breath in them rally by force of will. He had been one of those men.

  He paused by the still-glowing remains of the fire, scooped up the earthenware bottle, released its cork and took a swig. The harsh, warming liquor flowed through him, making him shudder – a pleasant kind of pain.

  He stepped forward to see what he had caught.

  There were three men; more than he’d hoped. And Fulke was one of them. Well, that was something. It made the half-day it had taken to dig out the pit worthwhile.

  Two were dead, or as good as – one impaled through the abdomen, another with terrible injuries to his face and a wooden stake driven clean through a thigh. But Fulke – who had more luck than he would ever deserve in life – had, by some miracle, managed to entirely avoid the stakes. He had toppled sideways, and was now wedged between three stakes, one of which had managed to pierce and pass under his mail. He hung now suspended, flailing uselessly like a beetle stuck in honey. His face was grazed and bloody; smears of fresh pitch marked his beard and face and stuck to his hands.

  As Gisburne stared down at Fulke, the big man suddenly became aware of him. He struggled to free himself with renewed urgency, grunting furiously as he did so. It was no good. Gisburne waited until he had given up, red faced and panting, before addressing him.

  “You look like you need a drink,” he said. And he poured the remains of the bottle of marc over the stranded knight. Fulke howled as the alcohol hit open wounds. Gisburne tossed the bottle away and left Fulke to huff and wail with his dead and dying fellows.

  He walked towards the enginer, still tied to his tree, who had soiled his drawers. Gisburne could see the terror in the enginer’s eyes as he approached, could hear the whimper behind the gag. Stopping before him, he drew his shortsword. The man’s eyes widened, and his head shook.

  “I’m sorry,” said Gisburne, then raised the weapon – and hacked at the bonds about the ancient trunk. The enginer collapsed onto the wet forest floor as the ropes gave, and stared up at his captor, amazed.

  “Run away,” said Gisburne.

  The man fled into the forest.

  Gisburne stood for a moment, contemplating the destruction surrounding him. But he was not done yet. As he turned, a sound amongst the trees – as of something large, on the move – made him tense, and a black shape pushed out of the spiked bushes. Gisburne let his shortsword drop to his side, and his blackened face lit up in unrestrained delight.

  “Nyght!” His horse came to him, and gave him a hard nudge with his nose, as if in reproach. Gisburne sheathed his shortsword and put his arms about his horse’s shimmering neck. “Don’t be angry,” he said. “I’ll take better care of you next time...” And he turned to head back to the path, Nyght following closely by his side.

  As he walked back past the pit, a familiar voice rang out. “Listen!” It was Fulke, his voice suddenly conciliatory. “Friend!” From those lips the word sounded ridiculous – pathetic. “Listen! I have no love for Tancred. I can help... I have information. About your friend, and the woman. I can help you get inside. I know a way... One that no one else does...”

  Gisburne paused by the pit, looked briefly at the smiling, crimson face of Fulke leering up at him, kicked the still-glowing embers of the fire into it with the toe of his boot, and walked away.

  He heard the whoosh as the alcohol ignited. Then the crackle as the pitch caught. Nyght whinnied beside him, but stayed calm. At the same moment, Fulke let out a desperate shriek as he saw his fate, the flames already biting his clothing and beard. The men trapped around him cried out for help – from God, from man, from anyone – as their flesh, too, began to burn.

  Gisburne plunged back into the forest, the roaring flames leaping higher from the pit behind him.

  Tancred would also hear the screams of his men, and would know he had already lost.

  LIX

  Castel Mercheval – December, 1191

  TANCRED DID NOT wait for his men to return before unleashing his wrath. He had heard their screams – heard them perish one by one – but it was God that told him of their miserable failure. They had erred, let down both him and their Maker, and so he had no compunction about the terrors he would bring down upon them and their foe. He would rain down fire and destruction until either his enemy’s body or his will to live had been utterly obliterated.

  For the past hour, the trebuchet atop the southeast tower had flung huge rocks amongst the trees, cracking boughs and pounding into the underbrush. The mangonels on the gatehouse and battlements had thrown hot coals and flaming bales which left high, arcing trails of black smoke in their wake. And both had hurled great jars that exploded in plumes of flame as they burst against the earth and the trunks of trees. At Tancred’s insistence, the scorpion atop the gatehouse had joined the barrage, firing one bolt after another – some flaming – into the forest’s midst. For him, war was total, even against just one man. Their target had been a circle of some several hundred yards about the thin column of smoke that marked the clearing. That smoke had darkened and thickened as the cries echoed in the forest. Tancred ordered his men to target the sounds. They did so, athough he could see the reluctance in their eyes. The fear. He knew the source of it, even if it did not touch him: they feared they were slaughtering their fellows, murdering them.

  He had put them right about that. At worst, he said, they were putting an end to their agony. And all was to be bent to their main purpose, no matter what the outcome. If he had to burn the entire forest down, and everything in it, he would. Better ten good men were sent to Heaven than one agent of the Devil went free.

  Now, the smoke from their adversary’s fire had been completely obscured, the rough circle of once-thick forest around it smashed and broken, thick with smoke and – even in the rain and damp – glowing with flames. Tancred strode back and forth along the southern battlements over the main gate – now hot as Hell with the fires of the engines – urging his men on. He did not do so with words of encouragement. There were no words, and encouragement was not his way. Instead he paced at their backs like a restless corpse, glaring at them, lips curled back from his teeth in an unconscious sneer, the distant, leaping flames of the forest reflecting in his cold, dead eyes.

  Long ago, Lucatz the Enginer had advised him – as tactfully as he knew how – never to allow the siege engines to remain primed. With the exception of the counterweight trebuchet, they should be readied only immediately before firing. It would not only reduce their effectiveness, but could also cause strained ropes and wires to snap with a lethal whiplash, or even cause the whole device to implode. Tancred had listened patiently, unmoved and unmoving, as Lucatz had explained. Then he said simply: “Make them stronger.”

  Lucatz had stared at him for a moment, too timid to challenge the suggestion, then set about the task. But Tancred had seen the reluctance in him, too. The same weakness. None of them understood as he understood. Evil could strike day or night. Its agents were among us, looked like us. He had to be ready at all times. And when he struck, he had to do so with a hammerblow.

  The creak of ropes, the clack of ratchets, the clatter of wood against wood and the distant thump and crackle of destruction had become merged almost into a melody, when a cry went up from the watchmen. Tancred flew to the parapet. A single chestnut courser – one of the serjeants’ – had emerged from the maelstrom via the road, and now galloped towards them, its reins hang
ing before it. Clinging about its neck was a single ragged figure, doubled up in agony, blood clearly visible even upon the familiar scarlet livery.

  “Open the gate!” roared Tancred, and marched to the wooden stairway, his red cloak flying. This was the only living thing to have emerged from the forest. The man’s life was, of course, irrelevant – but he would have the soldier’s report before he died.

  Tancred heard the great gates clank and squeak as the guards threw off the bar and heaved them open to admit the rider. He sensed that it was not yet over; that there would be more of Gisburne before the day was out. Part of him relished the idea. He wished to face him again. To look him in the eye as he met his doom.

  As he alighted in the bailey from the stairway, he saw two servants struggling towards the dog compound near the stables, a great trough of steaming offal swaying between them. Behind the compound’s wooden bars, the hounds yelped and snapped.

  Tancred stopped the servants with a hand. “No,” he said. Rooted to the spot, the two men stared back, terror written over their faces. “Not yet. Keep them hungry. We may have need of them.” Visibly relieved, the men set down their burden, wiped hands on greasy thighs, and hurried away. There were those, long ago, who had seen fit to point out that having a pack of dogs so close to the stables would spook the horses. Tancred had replied he had no use for horses that were spooked by dogs. They would become hardened to it, or they would be released from his service. By implication, it was clear to his questioners that the same applied to them.

  When Tancred turned, the horse was already through the gate, its rider slumped flat against it, his body hanging half way down its flank.

  Tancred recognised Aldric’s horse – he knew his horses far better than he knew his men – but as it drew to a halt before the stable block beneath the west wall, he sensed that something was awry with its rider. It was not Aldric, or anyone he immediately recognised. And, as a small knot of knights and soldiers gathered around to offer help, or to hear what they could from him, and the limp figure slithered further from his mount, the bloodstained surcoat rode up to reveal another beneath. Black.

  There followed an explosion of unleashed fury. As it slipped and fell, the figure righted itself with sudden and unexpected grace, hauled at the saddle, and swung with ferocious speed at the surrounding throng. Blood and spit and shattered teeth flew as a sword struck one full in the face. Another collapsed as the blade swung back and came crashing down upon his collarbone, slicing six inches into his torso. A third was slashed across the throat and fell to his knees in a foaming crimson gush.

  All of this happened before anyone could react. Now they reeled back, grasped for weapons, or remained paralysed – easy prey for the flashing blades.

  Gisburne – Norman broadsword in one hand, Saxon shortsword in the other – first targeted those who would fight back. The sword flew from a knight’s grip, its ringing, spinning blade catching a serjeant upon the cheek. A cocked, loaded crossbow was battered sideways and went off, its bolt splintering a guard’s shin.

  The circle drew back around him, Gisburne’s targets dwindling, until the remaining soldiers all stood about, staring wide-eyed at the demonic figure and the slaughter he had inflicted upon them. One of the guards, at a safe distance from the invader’s blades, levelled his crossbow.

  Tancred’s hand pushed the bow down, its bolt discharging harmlessly into the ground. The crossbowman stared in bemusement as his master thrust him aside and advanced into the circle, drawing his sword. Gisburne locked eyes on Tancred, and gripped his weapons tighter – and for an instant, Tancred could swear he saw a smile flicker across that face.

  The Templar found himself almost glad at this development. What Gisburne had hoped to achieve by this astonishing, foolhardy action was a mystery, but part of him – the part that was still human – could not help but admire the man’s boldness and tenacity. He knew it was the Devil that gave Gisburne strength, but there was a certain purity of purpose that Tancred found... pleasing. Tancred realised, perhaps for the first time, he respected purity above all else – even when it was the purity of evil. There was a clarity – an honesty – in its utter lack of compromise. They were two sides of a coin, Gisburne and he, their interdependence – their conflict – an inevitability. Yes, this moment had been ordained. The two of them, face to face. He felt a strange satisfaction at what was to come next.

  “God wills it,” he said, and swung his blade.

  LX

  GISBURNE’S STRATEGY HAD been a gamble. A precarious balancing act, in which he had attempted to read the mind of his opponent – his deluded, insane, barely human opponent – and judge exactly which pieces in the game could be given up or put at risk. Each piece had its purpose, its place – and its moment when it became redundant.

  His thinking had gone like this: Tancred would not kill Galfrid and Mélisande – at least, not until he had used them to draw him out, and acquired the key to the box. And then, he gambled that Tancred would not kill him until he had the relic in his hand. In fact, he was depending on it. This was the most unpredictable part of the plan, depending on the notion that he, Gisburne, was the only one who understood the box, and that Tancred might feel the need to extract further knoweldge from him in order to open it safely.

  At the moment, sadly, it was looking very much like Tancred wanted to kill him.

  Gisburne parried the first blow with his shortsword. There was a spark as the blades hit; a splinter of metal flew and struck Gisburne on the cheek. He stepped over the body of one of his victims and leapt back, the surrounding men falling back around him. They were an audience now – the horror of the slaughter now turning to a kind of baying bloodlust. A lust for his blood, the usurper’s blood.

  Tancred fought with speed and grace – went at him with a series of astonishing moves, his body spinning, the blade flashing at him almost faster than Gisburne’s eye could follow. He sidestepped and parried, deflecting the blade, trying to protect his own. No one wanted to use their precious sword to parry another. But it was better than dying.

  Tancred’s technique was unlike any other, except for that of a sandy-haired boy all those years ago, at Fontaine-La-Verte. This much he already knew to his cost. It broke all the rules. Tancred had the wrong grip. He used both short edge and long edge of the blade – the “back” and the “front” – with almost equal vigour, in spite of everything Gisburne had ever been taught. He even had the audacity to turn his back on his opponent as he whirled his blade about him.

  Before, Gisburne had found he simply did not know how to fight this man; there was nothing familiar with which to engage. This time, he simply fell back. Gisburne would not be tricked into playing by another’s rules. Tancred flailed and slashed at him, growing furious with frustration as he stumbled and backed away, the baying crowd jeering around them. They cheered as Gisburne fell against the wooden stairway. Tancred’s sword flashed close to his head, and embedded itself at an angle in the newel post – almost splitting it. Tancred hissed like some nocturnal creature, and heaved it free – but Gisburne had already leapt to his feet and was half way up the stair. Tancred pursued him – and Gisburne smiled. Try your little dance on the stairs, you prancing bastard, he thought.

  Tancred could not. Forced to fight frontally, his technique stripped away, he suddenly became a conventional opponent. Vulnerable, mortal. Gisburne pushed his advantage. He bore down on his foe, using his extra height, slashing at Tancred’s head while his own was beyond his opponent’s reach. The White Devil – for the first time on the defensive – flung himself to one side, stumbling on the wet wood of the steps, one foot almost slipping between the treads. Gisburne pressed on, landing a kick on the side of Tancred’s head. He fell sideways against his own sword hand, the blade clattering against the stone wall. Gisburne swung his foot again and caught the Templar across the mouth. Blood splattered on the stones.

  Tancred roared in anger, grabbed at the foot and missed it, then swung his blade ful
l force at Gisburne’s legs. Gisburne flung himself back and fell hard against the treads, losing his shortsword. He was scrambling up the steps as Tancred swung again, his blade biting. Had he worn the full hauberk of a knight, the mail about his legs might have turned the sword point. But he did not. Tancred’s sword cut through Gisburne’s long leather boots and snicked the front edge of his shinbone. He cried out between gritted teeth, and the leering faces cheered their approval. Tancred immediately changed tactic, targeting Gisburne’s feet and legs. They were his weak point – impossible to defend at this angle. And now Tancred had realised it, and meant to cripple him.

  Gisburne clawed faster, backwards up the stairway, his blade connecting awkwardly with Tancred’s. The gathered men cheered at the turnabout – more, it seemed to Gisburne, in a kind of poisonous anger than with any fervour. That was what Tancred bred here. There was no passion – only hatred.

  Suddenly, he felt cold stone beneath him. He was on the parapet.

  He stood, knowing he had only moments to decide his course. Behind him was the southwest tower. Ahead, advancing now, the grim, glaring visage of Tancred de Mercheval. Once at the top of the steps he could resume his lethal assault. Gisburne turned and ran for the tower, smashing his sword pommel into the face of an astonished guard and sending him sprawling off the walkway. A second guard literally leapt off, out of Gisburne’s path, rather than get in his way.

  Gisburne raced up the internal ladder to the fighting platform at the top of the tower, where the larger of the mangonels was positioned. As he emerged, a man-at-arms flew at him with a mace, and Gisburne ducked, felt the man nearly tumble over the top of him, then heaved him over the battlements. In another moment, Tancred would be up the ladder’s steps, his sword whirling at him in unstoppable arcs. The confined arena would favour Tancred; there would now be nowhere for him to hide from Tancred’s spinning blade. Doubtless, Tancred would now be considering the folly of Gisburne’s move and relishing his demise, knowing he had the advantage of the battlefield.