“They say,” began de Rosseley, “that he made fools of the Templars. Took a great treasure from under their noses. That two crossbow bolts to the heart did not kill him, that he single-handedly destroyed Tancred de Mercheval’s greatest knights, and left his castle a pile of smoking rubble...” De Rosseley smiled like a cat, clearly relishing the slow realisation dawning upon Gisburne’s face.
“The Dark Horseman?” said Gisburne, aghast.
“That’s what the French call him,” said de Rosseley, sitting back. “What they call you.”
Gisburne slumped back in his chair, appalled. De Rosseley chuckled, and clapped his hands together. “Death rides a black horse, my friend!”
“If it’s Revelation you speak of,” said Gisburne, his voice flat, and emotionless, “Death rides a pale horse. The black horse brings famine.”
“Oh, who cares about the details,” said De Rosseley, and slapped him on the knee. “Face it, my friend. You are a fucking legend!”
Gisburne had faced many monsters in his time. He was about to face another. What he had never anticipated was that he would become one. Now, this horrifying thing he had unwittingly created was lumbering off into the world, dragging him and his reputation behind it, entirely beyond his control. That was what a legend was. A legend wasn’t real. It was beyond real. It had its own agenda. Now, he realised, he was another step closer to being like Hood. Except that Hood recognised nothing as monstrous. He loved his legend. He sat high upon its grotesque, deformed shoulders as it strode across England, and laughed.
Gisburne clasped his fingers together, and tried to re-establish his focus. “I must return again to this ‘Shadow,’” he began. “If you’re right – if it was them – what business might they have here?”
De Rosseley shrugged, and looked away into the dark corner of the chamber. “An enemy of this one you call ‘Red Hand,’ perhaps. Someone like you – but working for a different master.” He smiled. “If so, you two should really get together...” He thought for another moment. “But then again, perhaps we’re looking at this all wrong. If the Shadow does indeed serve the French King, perhaps they were here not to protect me, but my guest.”
Gisburne felt his muscles tense. “Ross – who is this guest?”
“A noble lady,” said de Rosseley, evasively. “And, before you say anything, I saw her first...” He shrugged. “Time I started to think about a wife before the last vestiges of sense and vigour are knocked out of me. And one could do a lot worse than the daughter of a French Count.”
All at once, Gisburne remembered the half-familiar face in the courtyard, and every tantalising clue fell into place beyond any possible doubt. “Her name, Ross,” he said. “Tell me her name...”
Hardly were the words out of his mouth than the door of the chamber clanked and creaked opened behind him. “Ah! It appears I can do even better,” said de Rosseley. Gisburne turned and saw, framed in the doorway, three overlapping figures: the steward, the liveried servant from the courtyard, and between them, de Rosseley’s esteemed guest. The steward opened the door wide, bowed low and drew back to allow her to enter.
“Gisburne,” said de Rosseley, rising from his bed, “allow me to introduce Lady Mélisande de Champagne...”
XXIX
“GOOD EVENING, SIR John,” said Mélisande, as her host struggled to remain upright. As if in a dream, Gisburne, too, rose to his feet. She averted her eyes from him entirely as she made her slow approach. “Please, Sir John,” she said, lifting the long fingers of her right hand. “Not on my account. You are injured.”
De Rosseley sank back to his bed, somewhat abashed but nonetheless grateful for the reprieve.
Gisburne thought he had remembered everything about Mélisande de Champagne – that she was branded in his memory. Only now did he realise he had remembered nothing. All that was familiar about her struck him now as if for first time, just as it had on that frozen street in Paris. That moment, when he had spied her atop a swaying litter as it bobbed above the heads of the teeming, chattering masses like a gilded royal barge, had left him bereft of words. So it was now. A man of action all his life, all he could do was stand and stare.
She was dressed in green, the colour she so often favoured. The silk gown was fitted closely to her slender form, with pendant sleeves that hung almost to the floor, the hems embroidered with fine gold wire. The gossamer-fine veil and wimple were of pure white, topped with a plain circlet of gold, and from the edge of her wimple, a single tendril of red-gold hair fell, just as it had that first time. Then, he had thought it a happy accident. It was, he now realised, a statement.
As she drew closer, he saw that the double belt about her slim waist was in fact a chain of gold, ending in delicate golden tassels. Other than this and the simple circlet upon her head, there were no adornments. No rings, no jewels – not even the sun pendant that she had perpetually worn during their days together. None were necessary.
“Good evening, Sir Guy. What a pleasant surprise to find you here.” Her eyes met his, and as they did so he fancied she allowed a playful smile to flicker across her lips, just for him.
“You know each other?” said de Rosseley before Gisburne could gather his wits to reply, then muttered to his old friend: “Now I understand why they call you the Dark Horse Man!”
But Gisburne was barely even aware of de Rosseley’s words. His brain had turned to mud. He was unaccountably hot, his heart thumping so hard in his chest he began to believe those about him might actually hear it.
“We have met,” said Mélisande. “Briefly. In Marseille, some eighteen months ago.” Her eyes again met Gisburne’s, but betrayed nothing of the adventure that had followed that meeting – the flight across France with a stolen relic, capture in the forests of Boulogne, the horrors of Castel Mercheval, and its subsequent ruin. “But perhaps Sir Guy does not remember...?” As she spoke, she offered a shapely white hand – a languorous gesture that barely made it above waist height.
“On the contrary,” said Gisburne, his throat dry, “I recall every moment.” And, dropping to one knee, he took her hand in his and bowed his head to kiss it. It was not the done thing to make actual contact. But against convention, against common sense, against anything anyone cared to put before him, Gisburne pressed his lips to it anyway, and – quite involuntarily – found he squeezed her smooth palm as he did so. Her skin smelled of rose petals. It made his head swim, memories rioting in his head.
“You look a little flushed, Sir Guy” said Mélisande. “Perhaps it is rather warm in here...?”
“Probably that ridiculous coat or whatever it is...” said de Rosseley. “What is that anyway? Horsehide?”
“It is the skin of my father’s destrier,” said Gisburne.
“Well, I hope it looked better on the horse,” muttered de Rosseley. Mélisande stifled a snigger.
Gisburne stood, staring at the ground, impassive. “Thirty months ago, that horse was all I had in the world,” he said. “All I had left of my father. Hood maimed it, left me to finish the beast off myself. This” – he tugged at the front of his coat – “reminds me of that. The day I lost everything, and gained everything. It was also the day I met Prince John and by him was dubbed a knight. A chevalier.”
De Rosseley bowed his head and nodded in acknowledgement, and silent apology. He had been a good friend to the old man. At the utterance of the word chevalier, Gisburne’s mind strayed to the legend of the Dark Horseman – the man who was him and not him, who was named, he supposed, not only for the black horse he rode, but the curious black coat that he wore. To those who knew only the legend – if such it was – it was a costume. An affectation. Something designed to inspire fear. They would never truly understand that it had not been made with any purpose meant for them. He felt the futility of his own quest – his attempts to understand the Red Hand from no more than an approximate image. He knew what he looked like, well enough, but who could say what any of it meant?
Gisburne found hi
mself looking into Mélisande’s face – those impossibly deep eyes – and saw she too was staring at the ground, apparently miles away, her gaze unfocused. She looked pale – paler than he remembered. For a moment, he even thought she swayed a little. Perhaps de Rosseley’s good wine had flowed a little too freely this evening. She inhaled sharply, as if shocked out of her reverie. Gisburne saw her left hand twitch and then tighten into a fist. Then she looked up, an odd smile upon her face.
“I came to ask if you would accompany me on a walk about the battlements, Sir John,” she said. “To take the air. But since you are still indisposed from your exertions, perhaps you will not object if I ask Sir Guy to do so in your stead?”
Gisburne could see now that her breathing was uneven, and that she fought to hide it. There were beads of sweat on her smooth brow, and her left hand, still clenched, was shaking.
De Rosseley, who had not seen these things, eyed Gisburne with a look of one who had just been bettered upon the field. “It should be me touring my own castle with my own guest.” He sighed, smiled and extended his hand in defeat. “But tonight I must defer to Gisburne, in both capacities. There’s no better man in England – though it pains me to say so...”
“Then I bid you good night, Sir John,” said Mélisande, looped her arm through Gisburne’s and without further ceremony began to usher him to the door. The steward – still waiting, Mélisande’s dour servant bolt upright by his side – bowed at her approach and held the door open. “Your chamber is the next along this passage, Sir Guy,” he said, with yet another bow. “Your baggage is already within.”
Gisburne paused, and turned back to de Rosseley. “See you on the lists,” he said. Gisburne had never set foot in the joustyard as a competitor, and was unlikely ever to do so. But the banter had become its own ritual.
“Not if I see you first,” said de Rosseley.
XXX
“SIR JOHN’S CASTLE really is a wonder,” said Mélisande as they walked along the dim passage, her servant padding silently behind them. “Above the kitchens, guardhouse, service rooms and undercroft there are four separate chambers besides the great hall, each with its own fireplace and privy.” Gisburne found himself nodding dumbly at her inconsequential chatter. She made a vague gesture. “It is not connected one room to another, but has a continuous corridor built into the circular wall. That means any chamber may be secured or defended independently, without impeding access to the rest. Also, that guests are permitted their own private quarters, and may come and go without disturbing others. My chamber is the furthest along this passage. Sir John chose it for me; it gets the morning sun.”
Gisburne had thought that, once alone, they would revert to the close familiarity they had developed in their time together. Somehow, that had not happened. She was, nevertheless, making sure she he knew where her chamber was – or was he reading too much into that? Was it even possible to read too much into Mélisande de Champagne? She was leaning more heavily against him with every step. It felt good – he could not deny that. But it concerned him. Her progress was slow and unsteady. She looked ill.
Suddenly, he saw her face contort in agony. Her eyes rolled back in her head – her body fell limp. Gisburne caught her in his arms. Her servant rushed forward.
“What the Hell is this?” said Gisburne.
“She is... unwell, sire,” said the servant. He extended his hands as if to take her from him. His hands were shaking.
“I know that much. But is she injured? Tell me quickly.”
The servant hesitated.
“Last night, against the intruder,” hissed Gisburne. “Come on, I know what she is...”
It seemed, then, that the servant finally let his steely façade drop. “She took a blow to her left side. Severe. The skin is not broken, but...” he shrugged, then gave a shuddering sigh. Hours of anxiety seemed to show on his face.
Gisburne gently lifted one of her eyelids. Her pupils were large, her skin clammy. “Has she taken anything?” he said. “For the pain?”
“Henbane,” said the servant. “And a preparation from her travels in the East. What the Arabs call afyun – the tears of the poppy. But its effects are waning.”
“Help me get her to her chamber,” said Gisburne, glancing back towards de Rosseley’s door. “I may know what she is, but Sir John does not – nor the rest of the world, for that matter...”
ONCE SAFELY BEHIND the closed door, Gisburne’s mind became pragmatic, efficient. Focused. He was calm. This, at least, he understood.
Placing her upon the bed, he pulled away her veil and wimple. Red-gold hair tumbled free. Her head was hot, her mouth dry. “Pray God it’s not a fever,” he said as the servant hovered nervously by.
“Should I fetch her maidservants?” he said, wringing his hands.
“No time for that,” said Gisburne, unhooking her precious belt and discarding it on the floor. He turned her onto her right side. Upon her dress was an even row of tight lacing stretching the full length of her spine, from her neck to the small of her back. It was baffling to his eyes – providing no clue as to how or where it had been tied. For the first time in his life, he was keenly aware that he was a soldier and not a lady’s maid. He hooked his finger through and tugged at it.
“Sire...” the servant grasped Gisburne’s wrist. The tone of his voice was firm, his grip surprisingly strong. Gisburne had no doubt he would fight to protect his lady’s honour – Mélisande was not one to tolerate milksops.
“It’s necessary if she’s to breathe,” said Gisburne. The grip did not loosen. “Dammit, man,” he snapped, “it’s not as if I haven’t seen her naked before.”
The servant gazed again at his mistress, and relented. There was love in his eyes. Gisburne set about the laces again. “What’s your name?” he said. It was a moment before the servant realised he was being addressed.
“Bertran, sire.”
“You’re a good man, Bertran,” said Gisburne. Not knowing quite how to respond, Bertran simply gave an embarrassed nod.
Suddenly Mélisande jerked and came to, her breathing coming in short, wheezing gasps. Gisburne pulled again at the lacing, but it resisted him.
“We must cut this,” he said. “Hold her still.” Bertran did so. Gisburne drew his eating knife, slid the blade behind the lacing and sliced it through. Then again. And a third time. When it was slit almost from waist to shoulder blade, her breathing faltered. He did not trouble with a final cut, but grasped the material and ripped the last of the lacings apart. She gasped as the bindings about her chest were released, shuddered violently, then her eyes swam and she again slumped into Bertran’s arms, the full sinuous length of her bare back framed between crumpled hems of green. There was no underdress. Perhaps her injury had made it impossible for her to put it on over her head. Or perhaps it was just Mélisande being Mélisande.
“My lady requested the gown be laced tightly,” said Bertran. There was almost apology in his voice. “She said it helped to reduce the pain.”
Gisburne nodded. Many a time he’d seen knights strap up their sides and get straight back in the saddle. “But it will not help the wound to heal,” he said. “She must breathe freely now.” And keep on breathing, he thought. Only minutes ago had he found her, and already he was faced with the possibility of losing her all over again. He grasped her shoulders and laid her gently back upon the bed. “Fetch water,” he said.
Bertran hurried away to the far end of the chamber as Gisburne peeled the closely fitted silk from her pale body and revealed the wound. The bruise upon her left side stretched all the way from the bottom of her ribs, past her left breast to her underarm. It was edged with purplish red, but at its heart was almost black – a horrid contrast to the pale, perfect flesh that surrounded it. The skin was entirely unbroken, but it was badly swollen. It suddenly struck Gisburne how absurd it was that one of England’s greatest knights had been excused his duties as host by a woman who carried a near-identical injury.
“Bones
may be broken,” said Gisburne as Bertran returned with a dish of water and a cloth.
“What will that mean?” said Bertran.
“Pain. Perhaps for weeks. But she may be lucky.” What was on his mind, however, was what other damage had been done and could not be seen. He chose not to speak of it yet. There was little Bertran could do, anyway.
“Surely, given the life your mistress leads,” said Gisburne, “you must have seen other situations such as this?”
Bertran cocked his head to one side. “There have been... moments. But she has a talent for inflicting injury rather than suffering it.” Gisburne smiled at that. “On the occasions when she has, she has usually insisted on dealing with it herself.” Gisburne could imagine the door slamming in Bertran’s face. Mélisande was nothing if not independent.
“Not this time,” he said. “Lift her feet.”
Bertran did so. Gisburne slid the dress entirely from under her and tossed it away, then folded the linen bedsheet over her naked body to preserve at least some dignity, and sat by her.
Bertran proffered the bowl. As Gisburne dipped the cloth into the water, he noted Bertran had strewn dried rose petals into it. He wrung it out, then mopped her brow, and then wrung and mopped again. After the third time, she awoke into a fit of coughing. Her eyes bulged and streamed with tears, purely from the pain. Pain was to be expected, but if it grew worse rather than better, or if she struggled to breathe, or started to run a fever – and especially if she coughed blood – then things would not be so simple. Then, her life would be hanging in the balance. Only the next few hours would tell.
As the coughing ceased, he held her face firmly between his palms and looked into her eyes. They were red and wild, but seemed clear, more focused – if a little indignant. All positive signs. “Can you hear me?” he said. He felt, rather than saw, her nod. “Spit,” he said, and held out his palm next to her face. She frowned at the suggestion. “Spit into my hand.”
Hunter of Sherwood: The Red Hand Page 25