Gisborne: Book of Pawns (11 page)

Thus
I had daydrea
med to my horse and her ears
twitched and I remembered now that she snorted loudly.

Derision. That’s what she thought
.

W
hat man with ambition would want to tie him
self to a damsel with nothing?
If my father had lost Moncrieff, I would be
penniless. Landless.
I would no longer be Lady Ysabel of Moncrie
ff but just plain Ysabel.

‘Oh God help me,’ I moaned
as a likely future stared across the room at me.

I could not bear the thought of Khazia being
sold. The horse was the last part of
a past life
to vanish and it poured acid on an already suppurating wound.

The bells of the Benedictine Abbaye Saint Ouen chimed the hour for Vigils and I shivered as I have ever held the belief that the midni
ght hour is the witching hour.
‘
Mary Mother, protect me..
.’ I began and crossed myself again, wondering
how I could expect God to right my wrongs.
Briefly I thought that if
Father had gamed Moncrieff away
then I had
a choice beyond the road. I could become a religieuse.
Many noble women d
id for any number of reasons.
They might be unmarried, unloved b
y their family, of ill-health. They may even have a calling.

Ah, b
ut w
hat they had and it appeared I did
no
t, was a dowry for the Church.
Besides,
if I were to be honest,
the thought of being incarcerated in a H
ouse of God was not at all my calling.
I could n
ever become a Bride of Christ.
As this idea left the way it had entered, a soft tap could be heard on my door.

I jumped up and
ran to it, my heart pounding. Inns were all well and good
but at least one felt safe in the dorter of a House of God.

‘
Ysabel,’ Guy’s voice whispered. ‘It is I…
’

I flung the door open and dragged him in.

‘Are you mad?
Everyone shall hear you and I will be seen to be a harlot!’

‘Then it is g
ood that we leave in an hour.’
He bent and stirred the fire
in the brazier
and the room warmed in the firelight.

My eyebrows rose. ‘An hour?
But it is dark.’

‘A military troupe leaves
for the north an
d we can travel in their wake with a group of merchants. It will be safe.
They go to meet Richard at Calais.’

‘But what about Khazia?’

‘There is a Comte
de
Lascalles
with whom I have spoken and he was attracted
by Khazia’s breeding.
We agreed a price,’ he placed a bag of coin in my hands, ‘and he has also traded me a good campaign horse as part of the bargain.’

‘
Khazia?’ I could have wept.

‘Will be
taken to the Comte’s estates
as soon as she is able
.’

‘No! I must see her. I must say farewell.’
I thre
w the bag and it hit his chest.
‘How dare you do this without my approval!’

He glared at me, his eyes as cold as
iron.

‘As I recall, we decided to leave forthwith
for Moncrieff.
Khazia, like Marais, was a liability.’

‘Goodness Guy,’ I snarled.
‘Shall I become a liability
of which
you must rid yourself as well?’

‘You are fr
equently a liability, Ysabel.’
His voice stroked the hairs on my neck in a frightening mann
er. ‘Here…
’
He threw a bundle at my feet.
‘Whilst I do think you ar
e winsome in your shift…’

I grabbed the blanket of
f
the bed to wrap myself.

‘Too late, I am afraid.’
He swung his gaze over every inch of my now covered body and there was not
hing I liked in that expression. ‘And a pretty view it was too.
You will be riding a campaign horse and as we are with soldiers, m
y advice is to dress as a youth. I have leggings and an undershirt and surcoat in the
par
cel along with boots and a hood.
Your dark cloak is unr
emarkable and as much a man’s. It will serve.
For what it is worth
,
Ysabel, it may pay to be dressed thus until we reach Moncrieff and find out what awaits us.’

I hugged the blanket tight, humiliated, wishing I had ne
ver thought I could marry him.

‘Why? What does
it
matter
if a noblewoman rides to the coast
with an escort
?’

‘I don’t know.
My gut crawls a little, that is all, and it is
better to be cautious.
Dress and
be downstairs in an hour.
I shall have the horses.’

I watched
him turn, his back straight, stride long.
I would swear he had put me back to where he had me safely positioned b
efore we had sent Marais home … a
ll tenderness gone in the blink of an
eye.
Thoughts of my lit
tle mare must now be pushed aside and I had no option but to trust this man and hope he guarded me with genuine care.

I stared up at the campaign horse
– a
gia
nt creature of the Apocalypse.
Shadows jumped and flickered and thoughts of Moncrieff receded unhappily to the back of my mind whilst I contemplated the mou
ntainous shape in front of me.
I sighed as I thought of my little grey m
are on whom I could spring bare
back if I chose
,
and I would almo
st have given in to all my woes
if the bristly lips of my mount hadn’t brushed over the top of my hand a
s it lay on the hitching rail.
The animal was infinitely gentle and I lifted my eyes to his, what I could see of them in the dark, and would s
wear he sent me a message back telling me
not
to
concern
my
self with things
I could not change.

Indeed. How you right you are.

Gisborne
was nowhere to be seen so
I called to the ostler.
‘The m
ounting block, do you have one? Steps?’ I indicated the horse.
‘To get on?’

He looked me up and down with curiosity and then replied, ‘Yes …
sir.
This way, please.’

With a youth’s clothing
and my hair diminished to
a knot under the hood he assumed I was a male but my voice had obviously thrown him. Ah well, no doubt he thought I was partial to men rather than women, my tones more those of a certain type of youth. He
indicated the steps
and retreated, staring at me as left
.

I retrieved the horse and
t
he
animal
plodded after me with giant hooves that echoed on the
cobbles.
He seemed resigned to his fate as my ride and I promised him as I gathered the reins, that I would be kind and n
ot heap my sadnesses upon him.
He stood patiently as I lifted m
y foot high up to the stirrup.
I have always been supple and managed to spring
upward
and then clamber
astride.
What I had not reckoned with was the breadth of his back and I whimpered as I settled, my thighs burn
ing as if they were stretched across
the rack.

I clicked my tongue and we moved through the leaping shadows of the torchlit space to the front yard of the livery.

‘Ah, Ys … Yves.
I
was wondering where you were. You are ready?’ Gisborne’s dark
shape could barely be seen.

‘I am, sir
,’ I replied gruffly.

We walked passed a flame as I looked at him
and h
is eyes glinted with merriment -
s
omething one rarely saw.
‘We must make haste.
The company will not wait.’

We trotted side by side,
my horse the height of his.

‘
My voice is hardly masculine, Gisborne. How long must I maintain this vocal charade?
It rasps my th
roat.
’

‘You could not speak at all. Play the mute. What a turn-up that would be.’
He laughed and it vibrated through my body, settling
its echo in delicious places. He spurred
his horse into a canter, scattering itinerant drunkards and street laggards and I urged my mount to keep up.

The horse had a
long stride
despite his muscle-bound bulk.
I could imagine him in battle, dancing away from a sword, kicking out with powerful hind-legs as soldiers adv
anced upon him with pikes…
every movement choreographed in his early training
. ‘What is the beast’s name?’

‘He is called Monty. Short for Montaigne.’

He
laugh
ed but I knew it was at my expense
so I shut my mouth, concentrating on
the road.

We approached the city gates as the c
ompany of armed men began to ride out, the sight leaving me breathless. Dawn was
break
ing
and the dar
k shade of night began to weaken as
stream
s
o
f light emerged from the eastern horizon. Weaponry
winked
, basinets and chainmail flashed,
the noise of jingling harness and many
metal-shod hooves reverberating
abo
ve the sound of a waking town.
Fifty rows of men rode two by two, the first ten rows carrying
pennants in Richard’s colours – three golden lions with blue claws and tongues on a red field.
Behind the army rode a mounted division o
f twenty men with black surcoats and an indistinct shield crest
but they and Richard’s cohorts leaped well ahead of the band of merchants and ourselves who brought up the rear, twelve of us in all.

Our pace did not slacken.
We continued at a canter through the bucolic countryside as the dawn light str
engthened from grey to oyster. The thundering rhythm startled birds, and people lifted their heads and stared as we passed.
In the fields, men
stilled their
oxen
from ploughing
and their wiv
es ceased
collect
ing the weeds in sacks or trugs, the seasonal work broken for a moment as they
watched and wondered. The rich tilled
earth
provided
a foil
to the greener fields close by.
I could imagine the scene painstakingly translated on parchment or vellu
m with a skilled hand laying down colour and then transcribing
words that might indicate the seasons or the ho
urs of the day in any month – a
scene in a
book that Guy would love
I was sure.

We had many leagues to cover and I could feel my legs tiring, the inhuman stretch of my thighs across Monty’s
back threatening to unseat me.
Periodically over difficult stretches of the road, when it narrowed or when we approached large trave
ll
ing groups, we wou
ld slow to a walk on the cry
of
a disembodied voice far ahead.
The command would feed back through the ranks and thanking God for the reprieve, I would stand in my
stirrups to stretch my legs.
Once I even thrust one leg over Monty’s wither, jamming my thighs together to try and rest them, but Guy glanced over and frowned and I desisted, groaning as I felt for t
he stirrup and heard the call
to canter on.

The distance we traveled passed in a blur a
nd I lost interest in the
surroundin
gs, discomfort tainting everything.
When we finally halted at midday, barely a single part of my body was
without pain
and I dreaded the moment of dismount, knowing that dressed as a young
man
I must do without
Gisborne’s strong hands to help me. I gritted my teeth and jumped
down, falling against Monty’s damp shoulder.