He took a deep breath, taking pleasure in his brief seclusion—a pleasure that had only grown since his incarceration. Privacy was not something Richard often experienced, or indeed particularly valued, but there were times, he had to admit, when solitude was best, and this was assuredly one of them. Occasionally, his one-time clerk and now physician Mauger had tried to get in on it—examining what was produced for the purpose, he said, of “ascertaining the King’s good health.” Richard had said, with all the firmness he could muster, that Mauger could poke and prod all he liked afterwards—he could make them into a damned hat if he wanted—but if he ever wished to be a bishop, something the King knew he coveted, he would have to go against tradition and keep his face out of the King’s arse.
So it had become sacrosanct—and for this moment, everything stopped. One might say his day revolved around it, as surely as the sun revolved about the earth. Nothing was planned to clash with the daily occurrence, and all else took second place. Had the Pope himself come knocking, threatening excommunication, even he would have to damn well wait until nature had taken its course. In the Holy Land, Richard had kept King Philip of France waiting thus on more than one occasion—often rather longer than necessary, it had to be said. He chuckled to himself at the memory. So finely wrought were his guts, so predictable the movements, that it rarely took more than a few minutes to complete the process satisfactorily; but having the King of the French waiting on his turds amused him too much for the opportunity to be wasted.
There were other, more profound reasons why he so relished this moment, however. It was still. It was without interruption, without strife, without any kind of demand upon him: perhaps the only moment this was really true. Apart from when he was asleep, of course, but that Richard largely regarded as an irritating waste of time. To be at stool, however—to have his old travelling commode brought out by his grooms, the one that he laughingly referred to as his “throne”—and to be in this state of sublime isolation, that was glorious. A perfect, still moment—a moment of prayer, almost—in which all was right. It was, he had come to realise, the only time he truly enjoyed peace.
The sound of boot leather scraping on the wall shattered his reverie. It came from behind him, and he knew immediately what it was. It was followed by the heavy thud of feet landing on earth.
His hand crept to the grip of his sword. Every day of his life, he had been prepared for someone to come and kill him, or to try. He was not afraid—he was never afraid—but he knew they would be. They were afraid because they were about to face the Lionheart. And he was not—because he was the Lionheart! Let them come.
But the man did not move. Then Richard heard more sounds from further along the wall—another man clambering over and dropping into the garden. Then another. Then two more. At the edge of his vision he saw the last slide over the top of the wall and drop like a shadow. Great God! Could it be?—it looked for all the world like a Saracen...
Still he did not turn. He would not give them the satisfaction. The helm was still upon his head and the mail coat upon his back—they would have a job felling him. And he could take five if he had to. “Well, come on, then,” he called in a strong, unwavering voice. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
“My lord,” said a half familiar voice. “We need to talk.”
Richard turned upon his wooden throne and frowned. “Gisburne?”
XLVI
“WHAT IN THE name of Christ’s holy bollocks d’you think you’re doing?” thundered the Lionheart, hauling up his drawers. “How dare you disturb my repose!”
“I am sorry, my lord.” Gisburne’s voice was firm, but as spoke he looked nervously to the tiny windows and back door of the house, wondering if Richard’s shouting would bring a flood of armed men, and whether the King was in any kind of mood to stop them killing them. “It was the only time I knew you would be alone. The only time we could get to you.”
“The worst possible time!” bellowed Richard, tying his waistband, his face red with rage.
“But now we are here,” said Gisburne. He saw Aldric wince at the words. Everyone’s instinct before the raging Lionheart was to grovel, but Gisburne knew Richard of old. To do so was to dig one’s own grave.
“We have news,” Gisburne said.
To the astonishment of all, Richard’s fury actually seemed to abate.
“There are other methods of delivering news, Gisburne,” he rumbled, and buckled his sword back on. “This one was likely to get you killed—perhaps rightly!”
“But we weren’t. And other methods could not be trusted.”
“And it takes five of you to deliver it?”
“We stay together,” said Gisburne—thinking anxiously of his comrades behind the doomed castle walls.
Richard nodded and took a step closer to Gisburne, casting his eyes about conspiratorially. His gaze came to rest on Asif.
“God’s nails, man! A Saracen? You brought a fucking Saracen to me?”
“He came of his own free will. I merely invited him.”
“A Saracen,” said Richard, as if unable to believe the evidence of his eyes. “Here. In England. In the Lionheart’s own camp...” He laughed, and shook his head. “I can see why my brother likes you, Gisburne. Though quite what you saw in the chitty-faced windsucker is another matter.” He turned to Asif and, thumbs tucked in his belt, looked him up and down as a trader does a horse.
“Who is he, anyway?”
“A friend,” said Gisburne. “Lately of Jerusalem. He has enemies in that city now.”
“As do we all,” muttered Richard.
“I am honoured, my lord,” said Asif, bowing very low.
Richard appeared taken aback by this direct address—as if the horse had just spoken. “Honoured?” Richard said. “You’re lucky to be alive. You must be a special kind of Saracen to thrive this far from home. And to be so trusted. Tell me, since you fight for me now: what is your opinion of Saladin?”
“He was a very great man,” Asif said. “Fearsome in battle, but also wise. Magnanimous to his people, harsh when necessary. Brutal, sometimes. But fair when it was possible to be so.”
The Lionheart held his gaze for a long time, his eyes expressionless. “A lesser man might have said he hated him, thinking it was what I wanted to hear. But it is not. People think I must have hated Saladin because he was my enemy. Not true. I loved him like a brother. Rather better than some brothers, perhaps... We understood each other, as only kings and warriors can understand each other. You know he sent me two horses when my own was killed? And iced water, from the mountains? Just because you have to kill someone doesn’t mean you can’t love them.”
Gisburne saw Asif almost laugh at this, thinking it was a joke. But it was no joke.
“When you go back,” said Richard, “tell your people that I, too, was fair to you. That I showed respect.” Asif bowed his head low—but his eyes slid to meet with Gisburne’s just for an instant.
“And you,” said Richard, turning. “De Rosseley, isn’t it?”
De Rosseley bowed.
“Hm. Good choice. A great competitor in the tourney. Marshal speaks highly of you. He is here, you know. You two should get together.”
William Marshal, fast becoming the King’s right hand, was regarded by many as the greatest knight who ever lived, and in his tournament days was unsurpassed. De Rosseley bowed again, blushing a little.
“My dead brother was the one obsessed with all that play-fighting,” continued Richard. “I prefer the real thing. But when there’s no boar to be had, I’ll settle for pork!” He laughed and clapped de Rosseley upon the shoulder.
Richard turned, for a moment allowing his gaze to rest on Tancred. At Gisburne’s insistence, Tancred had donned his helm, the faceplate of which obscured his features. Thank Christ—God knows what Richard would have made of him.
Aldric, meanwhile, was afforded not even a moment of the King’s attention.
“Well, Gisburne,” said Richard, “you
have so far today invaded my privy and upset my natural rhythms. Let’s see if you can win back your King’s favour.” His voice turned grave. “I hope your news is good—that you have succeeded in your endeavour...?”
“The situation... has changed,” said Gisburne.
Richard’s expression turned cold as stone. “That’s the kind of thing people say when they have not succeeded.”
“His army was already on the march. And his spies work hard for him. They got the news of your arrival even before Nottingham.”
“How many?” said Richard.
Gisburne hesitated.
“Seven hundred, we believe,” said de Rosseley.
“More,” said Gisburne. De Rosseley stared at him. “I believe there may be more. The route he has followed, round the villages—there can be only one reason for it. To win more followers to his cause. That, and to bask in their adulation.”
“Well, what are you going to do about it?” snapped Richard.
“You said it yourself: you cannot be their destroyer. But I can. And you have the means here. Ten times over.”
Richard stared hard at Gisburne. “I offered you an army once,” he said. “You turned it down. Just now, that army is a little busy.”
De Rosseley stepped forward. “These men we face—they are common folk, on foot, lightly armed and barely armoured at all. If we hit them hard, just fifty knights might see it done.”
Richard looked from one to the other, studying each, but his expression had thawed at de Rosseley’s entreaty.
“Walk with me,” he said, and headed off towards the house.
All fell into line behind their King.
“FOR A MOMENT I thought he was going to kill us,” whispered Aldric close to Gisburne’s ear.
“For a moment I thought I was going to kill him,” muttered Gisburne.
“Will he give us the men for the task?”
“I have no idea.”
The King threw the door open with a crash and, ducking under the lintel, strode in.
The gloomy, uneven passage led past a low doorway on one side and a winding wooden stair on the other, then opened directly into the room at the front of the house. This, it was obvious, was the chamber Richard had taken for his own. Its windows gave an unimpeded view up to the castle, and immediately impressed on Gisburne how perilously close the King had chosen to be to his enemy.
In half of the room, several men—now caught off-guard by his unscheduled appearance—stood about a table, upon which were a drift of documents and a jug of wine. It was here that Richard drew up his plans for the siege. They snapped to attention and bowed as he entered, and he dismissed them with an irritable wave.
The other half of the room served as his bedchamber. There were none of the soft touches of luxury that would have accompanied his brother John. The bed was simple, as were the two pallets in the corner—one for a groom and one for his physician, Gisburne guessed—but upon two walls had been hung rich tapestries depicting, on one, the King spearing a boar in the guts, and on the other, the King decapitating his enemies.
Among those in the now-crowded room were a groom, a herald, Mauger the physician and a handful of fully-armoured serjeants and knights. Gisburne could not help wondering why none of them had come to their King’s aid when he and his comrades had dropped over the wall. He had fully expected it—surely it was their duty to watch and protect their lord? Perhaps Richard—the most arrogantly self-reliant and untrusting man Gisburne had ever met—had ordered them not to. Perhaps they were afraid to. Or perhaps even they—especially they, the ones who really knew the man—wished him dead? Maybe all three.
Richard ignored them all and barged straight through to the front door which, despite the desperate scrambling of a groom to get there first, he opened himself.
“Well?” he said, when Gisburne did not follow him outside.
“You wish me to accompany you?” said Gisburne. “In plain sight?”
“If one man has seen you in my company, then all have,” said Richard. He did not sound pleased at this prospect. “So let them see you. They will think you are coming round to the side of right.”
De Rosseley raised his eyebrows at Gisburne, who felt his innards squirm.
They marched out, several of the armed knights scuttling after them, strapping their helms upon their heads as they came. As they emerged—the reek of burning hitting Gisburne’s nostrils, the sounds of clattering and hammering assailing his ears—he was reminded again of their proximity to the castle walls.
Directly opposite them was a tall house in a rather fancy, continental style, but this and the one they had just left were the last of the street, which stretched away to the right of them. A short distance to their left, past the street’s end, was a great ditch, and just beyond it the smoking stumps and tarry black earth where the burned stockade had stood. Beyond that, at the top of the sloping hill, rose the walls of the castle itself.
Richard strode straight towards it, then veered off to the right, to pass around the end of the fancy house.
“You know what they call me in the Limousin?” he said. “Oc e No. ‘Yes and no.’ Because for me the world is black and white. There is no grey, no in between, no compromise or indecision. I say no when I mean no and yes when I mean yes.”
Gisburne had not the slightest clue why he was being told this, but as they drew around the end of the house, evidence of his words came into view. There, in a neat row before the smouldering embers of the stockade, were erected six tall gallows, clearly and immediately visible from the castle walls. Limp bodies swung from them, swaying in the wind, their heads crooked at impossible angles, the first flies of the season already buzzing about them. One turned slowly upon its rope as if in response to the King’s approach—flesh livid, eyes bulging, tongue lolling. Like his fellows, he was armoured, and wore the colours of the Nottingham garrison.
“Captured them yesterday,” said Richard, pausing to admire his handiwork. “Now they’re working for us again!” He laughed at his own joke. “You should have seen their faces when they finally realised the person standing before them was their King! Well, now those up there know what’s in store for them.” And then he turned and walked on, parallel to the ditch, past the ends of the houses and yards at their right hand. A crossbow bolt whirred and smacked into the grass at the ditch’s edge, not five yards from him. Richard paid it not the slightest heed.
It was a moment before Gisburne—faced with the horror that was to befall his besieged comrades—fully realised the significance of the King’s words.
“They don’t know...” he muttered to himself.
“You’ll have your knights,” Richard said, still striding ahead, then added, with greater force: “But when I am done with them. We have business to see to first.”
Gisburne drew closer, and said: “They don’t know. They don’t know it’s you. Or they don’t believe it—that you are really here.”
“They’ll know soon enough,” said Richard flatly.
“But if you could show yourself—clearly, so they could see your face—they would yield. Knowing for certain the Lionheart himself was at their gates would be enough, I am sure of it. All this could be avoided. It could be over within the hour.”
“You want me to move closer?” said Richard, cocking his thumb at the castle. “They’d like that, their crossbowmen. Perhaps you would too. But I’m not a complete fool. Do you think I don’t know how to handle a damned siege?”
As they rounded the last of the houses and stepped into the wide, open space before the collapsed gatehouse, a great cheer went up, and Gisburne and his company saw exactly how the Lionheart handled a siege.
For a forty-foot stretch at least, the great ditch had been filled and flattened, ready for the feet and hooves of the besieging army, and about the approach road, that army was now gathered in vast number, saluting and shouting for their King, weapons glinting in the daylight. But it was not these that took Gisburne’s attentio
n, but the three huge siege engines that towered behind them—two mangonels, flanking a great trebuchet.
“Master Elias! Master Roger!” called the King. “Bring them forward!”
And as the crews hauled the engines into place, the footsoldiers chanting them on, Gisburne realised his hope for a peaceful surrender was an utterly lost cause. Richard doubtless understood Gisburne’s reasoning, but he didn’t want them to give up. He wanted a fight.
The King stepped up onto the back of a broken cart, and turned to address his men.
“See those men in there?” he roared, pointing his sword back towards the castle towers. “They think this castle is theirs!” A great cry of protest and derision went up.
“Well, we’ll take their castle!”
A cheer.
“Then we’ll take their traitorous hands and their traitorous balls!”
Another, louder this time.
“Then we’ll take their women—while they look on!”
The loudest cheer of all.
Swept up by the wave, bathing in its glory, Richard bellowed on, spittle flying from his lips. “They have been excommunicated – infidels now – so you may do as you please to them! But before we taste, I say we tenderise the meat. What say you?” And he thrust his sword at God.
With a frenzied roar, all raised their weapons; hundreds—thousands—of swords, spears, polearms and lances were shaken at the sky.
Richard smiled, bearing his white teeth like a predatory animal. “Begin the bombardment!”
And then Gisburne remembered why he hated the Lionheart.
XLVII
THE TALLOW CANDLES flickered and spat as Galfrid and Mélisande descended the spiralling stone steps into thick darkness, the world rumbling around them.
Guy of Gisburne- The Omnibus Page 117