Despite having passed this chamber on numerous occasions, on only a handful of those had Gisburne set foot further within it – and only once had he passed through the small door in the far right corner of the back wall. It was in an identical position to that which opened into the crypt on the floor below, and was built of the same blackened wood. Gisburne stared at it in silence, then turned his flambeau around the room, putting the closed door at his back, and moved instead towards the arches that opened into the great banqueting hall.
On the first floor, they had communicated only in hushed tones; on the echoing stair, in whispers. Now, none spoke. Gisburne gestured to Theobald and Ranulph to spread out, each entering the hall through a different archway.
From here, if all was well, Theobald would continue on up the yet more confined stair of the south-west tower. Ranulph and the Germans would move up the north-west, whilst Gisburne would return with Galfrid and Mélisande to the remaining stairway in the corner of the court chamber.
But first came the banqueting hall itself.
Gisburne had been here twice before – once, to dine in the company of Prince John. Then, it had echoed with the sounds of joyous chatter and music, the air filled with the aromas of roasted meats and spices, a crackling blaze in the hearth keeping the winter chill at bay. Now, forsaken, it was dark and damp and heavy with the creeping smell of mildew, whose relentless march the midsummer air outside had failed to impede. On the walls were dark, Flemish tapestries from the time of Henry – their tops now festooned with cobwebs. Behind the dais where England’s absent monarch should have sat – but never had – was a newer addition: the red banner of the Lionheart. Much like his father’s, it bore not one, but two gold lions. Richard could never resist going one better – it was what drove him. Gisburne fully expected a third lion to join them should Richard ever return from imprisonment.
The banner was poor quality – hastily prepared when Richard had rushed to England after his father’s death, eager to be crowned. It now had a torn, ragged hole in its top left corner, where it had been badly nailed to its timber spar. A tangled skein of old web, thick with black dust, hung across the head of the uppermost lion like a dirty crown.
The groups fanned out to check each nook and recess. Otto took the furthest. As he drew close, a shrill screech tore the air. From behind one of the tapestries, something flew at his head. He shouted and ducked, and Theobald raised his sword.
The chattering bird fluttered off into the rafters, where, finding no way out, it eventually settled. Ranulph smiled and clapped Otto on his enormous shoulder. They breathed again. There was nothing in the hall – nothing but a terrified sparrow for a monarch, and a company of spiders for his court.
There was one more place to check before moving on. It lay beyond the arch at the furthest end of the hall. This doorway led into the same chamber as the small black door – the Chapel of St John. It was open, and from it, a dim light glowed.
Gisburne moved towards it, gathering pace as he did so. The others fell into step behind him.
None – not even Gisburne – were prepared for what they found. In the chapel – dominated by massive Norman columns, above which, bounding the overlooking gallery, was a second row of stone arches – dozens of candles burned. It was not, in itself, a strange sight. But after all they had seen thus far – or, rather, all this place had been lacking – the sight of it chilled Gisburne to the bone.
For a moment, all stood transfixed. Then Ranulph stepped forward, and examined the tops of the candles, poking one with his finger. “These were lit not half an hour ago,” he whispered.
Theobald looked from Ranulph to Gisburne to Otto.
“John?” whispered Mélisande by Gisburne’s ear.
“Not John,” said Gisburne. Quite apart from anything else, a chapel was the very last place one would find the Prince.
“Tell me,” whispered Otto. “Are there ghosts in this place?” This big man, who Gisburne had judged to be afraid of nothing, had a tremor in his voice.
“No ghosts,” said Gisburne. “None but the human kind.”
“Then what is that?” said Otto. And he pointed up to the gallery.
Framed in one of the archways was a dark shape, massive, yet weirdly without depth – like a shadow. And it had the horned shape of a demon.
All stared at the motionless thing, striving to make sense of it. Still it refused to move.
“It’s just an illusion,” said Theobald. “A trick of the light. Nothing more.” One by one, the others – baffled by the eerily still shape – lowered their weapons. Even Otto turned, and wiped a hand across his forehead. He looked sheepish – embarrassed. Gisburne, too, was ready to look away.
Only then did it move.
With almost supernatural speed, it darted away, across the next opening, and there merged completely into the shadows. Mélisande saw Gisburne tense, and turned back to the gallery. All followed her gaze – and gripped their weapons tighter. Almost without thought, Gisburne had whipped an arrow from his quiver and set it on his bow. Now, his eyes strained to see – to find a target. To detect some movement. But there was nothing.
Then he heard it, echoing above. The rhythmic chink of metal.
“It’s him,” he said.
The sound receded. The shadow had been heading towards the north-east stair – directly through Prince John’s bedchamber. Realisation struck. “He will fail to find John up there,” said Gisburne. “He will come looking. Try to move down. But we must contain him – drive him back up to the roof if we can.”
“But where is John?” said Mélisande.
Gisburne was already at the small black door leading to the court chamber. He wrenched it open. “Go!” he hissed to Ranulph and Theobald. “Guard the stairways. Call out if you see him – but do not move from them. We must not let him pass.” They ran back into the banqueting hall with their men to take the remaining towers up to the next level, while Mélisande and Galfrid hurried after Gisburne towards the main stair.
THE SOUNDS THAT erupted and echoed through the north-east tower as they ascended were those of wanton destruction. Above them, furniture crashed and splintered. Objects were hurled across the room. Metal clattered. Pottery smashed.
It stopped abruptly. When Gisburne, Galfrid and Mélisande emerged from the stairway door, the dust still hung in the air.
This floor followed the now familiar pattern of three distinct chambers: a large hall to the west, a smaller room to the north-east, and a level of the chapel to the south-east. But it differed from the others in one important respect: around all of these chambers ran a continuous passageway set into the fifteen-foot-thick walls, part of which formed the gallery around the Chapel.
From the doorway at the top of the stair they could not see directly into John’s bedchamber. Instead, they were faced with a solid corner of stone, and stretching from it, at right angles to one another, corridors running the length of the north and east walls. From this, some yards distant in each direction, dark arched doorways opened into the chamber.
Gisburne looked to the nearest – the bedchamber’s north entrance – then unslung his bow, and nocked an arrow upon the string. “Stay by this door,” he whispered. “Let nothing past.”
“I didn’t come this far to guard a damned door,” said Mélisande. But behind the indignation, Gisburne sensed something else. Fear for his safety? Perhaps he flattered himself.
“You must stay,” he said, looking her in the eye. “No matter what you hear.” Mélisande knew as well as he that it was a necessary tactic. She gave a reluctant nod. “If he comes, keep him here. By any means. Distraction, diversion. Anything.”
“May we kill him?” said Galfrid.
“Please do,” said Gisburne. “Just don’t kill yourselves.” Then he turned, padded silently to the chamber door, peered around its edge, and slipped in.
It was as if a wild animal had been let loose. Everything was wrecked and strewn about. Prince John’s fine cloth
es were torn to shreds, his possessions broken and scattered, a barrel of wine – smelled before it was seen – burst open, its contents splattered and now flooding the wooden floor. Even the bed had been destroyed, its spilt straw guts – now stained deep red, in parts – transforming the royal chamber into a disordered stable.
He picked his way through the wreckage. Moving silently proved all but impossible – doubtless part of the Red Hand’s strategy. So be it. It was time to come out of the shadows. He levelled his bow, his eye to the arrow.
“Ranulph?” His voice rang though the silent spaces. “Speak!”
“Here!” came Ranulph’s echoing voice from the council chamber beyond.
“Theobald?”
“Here!” called the Hospitaller, his voice more distant than the first.
“Niall Ua Dubhghail!” bellowed Gisburne. It sounded like a challenge – and it was meant as one.
Before its echo had died, a huge figure burst forth from the furthest archway, roaring as it came. Gisburne drew and loosed his arrow at the great, misshapen head. There was a clang like a bell as it struck. The Red Hand reeled at the impact, the floor shaking under him. Gisburne loosed another at his chest. Then another.
None bit. But they hurt him. A fourth shattered to splinters on his midriff. The roar turned to a cry of pain, and he turned and fled into the third archway through to the council chamber.
He was limping. This, and the debris that cluttered the chamber floor, were all that had protected Gisburne from death. As he darted through the nearest arch, he set another arrow upon his bow – but the Red Hand was nowhere to be seen in the great hall.
For a moment, it seemed some act of magic. Then a crash within the bedchamber told Gisburne that his foe had wrong-footed him, and doubled back through the archway. He glimpsed the dark shape as it ran into the shadows of the corridor on the bedchamber’s far side – the corridor leading directly to the stair which Mélisande and Galfrid now guarded. Gisburne ran headlong to the other corridor, meaning to head him off.
He stepped into it with an arrow at full draw – and there, at the corridor’s end, standing before his arrow’s point, was Mélisande. He lowered the weapon. She looked along the adjoining corridor, then back at him, and shook her head. But Gisburne could hear heavy footfalls, and the clank of metal.
After a moment of disorientation, he understood. They were receding. The Red Hand had turned the other way, and was running along the passageway that circled the entire floor, and from which he could strike anywhere.
A cry went up from Theobald. Gisburne dashed back into the dark council chamber and towards the south-west stair. Another shout of alarm. A cry of pain, and a clatter of weapons, as if some great struggle were taking place. As Gisburne approached, he was dimly aware of Ranulph – the indefatigable fighter – rushing to the aid of the Hospitallers, both Germans hard on his tail.
“No!” cried Gisburne. “Stand fast!”
But Ranulph did not hear, or – with thoughts of revenge for Baylesford burning in his mind – chose not to. There was no time to argue now. Gisburne threw himself through the arch, arrow drawn – and there saw the Red Hand, two knights hanging off him, crashing against the walls of the corridor, and Theobald beyond, striking merciless blows with his sword. Gisburne aimed, but could not shoot without risking the Hospitallers’ lives. Then Otto and Ranulph charged past and flung themselves into the fray. They gripped him all around, Ranulph clawing at his helm, and for a moment it looked as if they may wrestle him to the ground – but the Red Hand, suddenly possessed of renewed strength, crashed back and forth between the stone walls – once, twice, three times – then flung all of his assailants off as if they were stalks of grass.
Two of the Hospitallers tumbled and crashed down the stone steps, and Otto and Ranulph fell in a heap, blocking the corridor. With astonishing agility, the Red Hand leapt over them, slammed Otto’s fork-bearded comrade against the wall and sent Gisburne flying.
Gisburne gathered his wits and looked the length of the corridor stretching towards the now unguarded north-west stair. No sign. A flare of light – unaccountably bright – caught his eye from within the council chamber. Scrambling back to his feet, he ran towards it.
The unoccupied throne had been set ablaze, thick, choking smoke billowing from its upholstered seat with the sickly smell of burning horsehair. The others ran into the chamber – all, by some miracle, alive and walking.
Otto went to fight the fire, but Gisburne held him back. “Leave it,” he said. “Let it burn...” Then, frowning at the familiarity of the words, cursing his own stupidity, he turned and ran to the north-west stair. The Red Hand had long since passed, but from somewhere – he could not tell whether up or down – came the echoing clink of his armour.
Gisburne withdrew to the council chamber, his head bowed. “Mélisande?” he called. “Galfrid?” They came running. “We lost him,” said Gisburne. “We must regroup. Start again.”
“But what of that?” said Mélisande, pointing to the end wall.
The fire – which had seemed more a provocation than a serious attempt at destruction – was already dying. Now visible beyond it, illuminated by the flames, was a message. On the whitewashed wall of the Council Chamber, in smudged black charcoal, were scrawled three words:
NUNC IOANNES HABEO
Now I have John.
Gisburne stared in disbelief. “That’s impossible...” he muttered.
“It would appear not,” said Ranulph gravely.
“But John was never here,” said Gisburne. It was a bluff. It had to be. But the terrible possibility gripped him, nonetheless. “I must go,” he said. “Find John. Get him out.”
“What of him – the Red Hand?” said Theobald. “Has he moved back up to the battlements?”
Gisburne gazed upward. “That is where he means to draw us. I’m certain of it.”
“And if he has moved further down?” said Mélisande.
“Then my mission is all the more urgent,” said Gisburne, and turned towards the north-east stair. “Drop back to the second floor. From there you have only one staircase to defend. I will continue down to the first. Keep him in as best you can, but do not engage him if it can be avoided. It’s me he wants.”
“And if he does have John?” called Ranulph.
Gisburne shook his head. It was not possible. But even as he thought it, he was beset with doubts. “We’ll know soon enough.”
He turned into the stair and hurried down into the darkness.
GISBURNE DESCENDED ALONE to the first floor. Where the Red Hand now was, none could be sure. The possibility that he had overtaken them all – that he had somehow slipped past and even now was here – flashed through his mind. He dismissed it. For a moment he stood in semi-darkness, looking across de Coutances’s chamber to the open door of the crypt. There was no sound. On the table – against all expectation – the puddled candle still somehow clung to life, its feeble flame barely more than a glow. Gisburne took another candle, lit it, and hurried to the far side of the chamber.
Pausing for one last look around him, he turned and plunged into the crypt. He turned left and walked almost to the end, where, upon the side wall, was a motheaten arras depicting scenes from the story of The Three Living and the Three Dead. He drew it back to reveal another arched door, looked back to the crypt entrance once more, then heaved the door open.
Inside, cowering in a dark, stone space not even wide enough for him to sit, was the huddled figure of the Prince.
“I’m sorry I ever dragged you into this,” said Gisburne, holding out his hand. “But now I mean to get you out. Come on.” He hauled him fully to his feet – then saw his eyes widen with terror in the candlelight.
Gisburne did not have time to turn. The last thing he heard before blackness fell was the clank of metal.
COLD STONE GRATING against the edge of his teeth.
A ringing in his head.
His left eye burning. Stinging.
&nbs
p; Echoing shouts.
His toes moving in his boots, sweaty and stiff.
A cry of pain like none he had ever heard – which suddenly ceased.
Then blackness once again.
SOMETHING WAS SHAKING him. His eyes opened to points of light, and faces like skulls. His eyes cleared, the images resolved. Candles around him. The faces of his comrades. Then he remembered.
He sat up, feeling a rush to his head. His left temple throbbed. When he put his hand to his forehead, it met flesh sooner that expected – and it was sticky. A swollen gash above his left eye – just above the other old scar. Well, at least it wouldn’t be lonely now. He laughed, and found himself looking up into Mélisande’s face.
“You think this is funny?” she said.
It wasn’t. Not at all. And it was coming back to him now. His face fell. “He’s taken him...” he croaked, and stood unsteadily. He was back in de Coutances’s chamber, though he had no memory of having been moved. Across from him, Ranulph lay half slumped on the bed, his left arm soaked in blood, his face pale as death. And one of their number was missing. A Hospitaller. “What happened?” he said.
“That’s better,” said Mélisande, satisfied. “It’s no good you being alive if you’ve lost your mind.”
He took a swaying step towards Ranulph. Mélisande reached out to support him. “I’m all right,” he said, waving her away. It wasn’t true, but it would be, soon enough. “How long was I gone?”
“Not long,” said Galfrid.
“Long enough,” said Theobald, despondently.
Gisburne’s head was clearing. He could see now that Ranulph’s arm was badly broken. His sleeve was pulled back, the wound partly bound – but yellow-white bone protruded from the exposed flesh of his forearm.
Guy of Gisburne- The Omnibus Page 84