‘Good morrow, good fellow,’ quoth Sir Guy;
‘Good morrow, good felow,’ quoth hee,
‘Methinkes by this bow thou beares in thy hand,
A good archer thou seems to be.’ Child Ballad #118
‘And when a person seeks the viridity of virtue, the devil tells him that he does not know what he is doing, and teaches him that he can set his own law for himself.’ Hildegard von Bingen. 1166
Chapter One
The bells for Prime began to ring in the far-off chapel of Saint Julien in Cazenay and I had still not slept. I sat by the small window, a plain aperture, my hands cradling my rambunctious son’s chemise. I should have mended it before the candle burned to a stub but had been less than diligent and so I set it aside as William muttered in his sleep. But then the rhythm of his contented breath crept around the room and I offered a quick prayer for my son and his father – I would not offend my beloved Brother John of Saint Agatha’s by giving up on God entirely.
Oh Guy, where are you? Already your son grows and does not know his father. He holds out his arms to Peter and Ulric and throws kisses upon them but not upon you.
There had been no word of Gisborne for months and I shrank a little with each passing hour until I realised such behaviour ill-fitted a felon with a price on her head and so I sharpened my wits and my manner and resolved to become someone on whom Gisborne could rely. We were two outlaws, Gisborne and I – destined to wander far from England’s shores in order to live and the pity of it, the goddamned shame, was that we might not live, let alone wander together.
When the news finally came, it shook me the way autumn gales shake the last of the fruit from the trees. But I would not be bowed, let alone broken. Words came sneaking to us along the labyrinthine intelligence channels Gisborne had created and it was short and pointed.
With the royal alaunts hard on his heels, he had been forced to seek sanctuary in York and by the rules of sanctuary he had then to be tried by an ecclesiastical court. Almost exactly what my loyal and most dear friend, Ulric, had forecast months before.
Such an event as this – the trial of the King’s spymaster – took time to organise and Ulric leaped to horse to make the journey back to England.
‘I would not see him stand alone, Ysabel. He shall know that we are at his shoulder.’
He left in a welter of pebbles.
Horse’s hooves rang like a warning as St. Julien’s bells faded and I stood, my fingers biting the stone sill hard.
Ulric, my confidante, my brother-in-arms.
I knew it was he because my heart warmed and chilled all in one. I thought to run to him even though I could imagine his exhaustion and his travel-pocked face, because I wanted to ask him. I needed to know. And yet fear held me back. Quite simply I was unable to articulate a very simple question.
So I watched him from the window, paralysed by my own insecurity. Watched the shadows as he led his horse to the barn, Peter lighting his way, the torch flaring as they settled the animal and moved to their sleeping quarters.
As dawn slid across the sky in the wake of my friend’s arrival, I prayed that today we would surely find out if Gisborne was alive. I had only to stiffen my spine to hear it from Ulric’s mouth.
William sighed as he rolled over, his eyes opening and immediately searching for me in the shadowy room.
‘I’m here, William. Always here.’
