Gisborne: Book of Pawns (52 page)

‘My Ysabel,’ he said and at that my tears began. ‘What I do, I do for you and for William.’

His kiss burned my palm.

I have lost my heart to you, Gisborne. Be careful with it, I beg you.

We rode up the near side of the steep incline by the side of the waterfall. The goat track we used wound in and out of fern and tree. We were never in sight of each other, each turn coming tightly one on top of the other through dense growth. I was conscious of my little family ahead and I trailed second to last with Gisborne close behind. I thanked God he was near.

Almost at the top I looked back, hidden by the trees. Far below, two men, one with russet hair, together with six men at arms were at the priory gates. The bell for Vespers was tolling and the summer light had softened, the gates remaining unopened until De Courcey, for it was he, yelled loud enough to wake the spirits in the barrows.

The gates of the little priory opened and Mother Mercia emerged. De Courcey spoke. I could imagine that choleric face, inflamed by the hatred he held for me, the woman who had emasculated him before his noble peers. How he and Halsham would enjoy watching me strangle and burn. Mother Mercia replied and De Courcey’s voice became louder although I could not decipher any detail over the water’s plucking and chattering. She bowed her head, tucking her hands into her sleeves and turned to retreat behind her walls, but hated husband mine, he screamed at her, and his men rode to surround her and my hand crept to my mouth in fear for the gentle nun.

I spurred my horse down around the bend, expecting to meet Gisborne, for us to ride to Mother Mercia’s defence. But the next turn appeared … empty of my son’s father and a horrible expectation began to form in my mind.

A horrific wail broke the air as the priory bell’s echo faded. A man in distress, a man who knew there was no hope, who had been caught unawares, who knew the Devil sat behind him.

‘Jesu!’ I whispered as I watched from that bend.

De Courcey grabbed at his neck. Pierced by an arrow, harsh choking sounds filled the air, as even the waterfall’s sound seemed to fade. He was as skewered as a wild pig and I was glad as he slid from his horse, Halsham leaping down to grab at the twitching, bleeding man who was my husband. But De Courcey lay dying, his blood spurting everywhere across the paving stones and I thought of Divine Providence as he gurgled and Halsham became soaked with gore.

The arrow had been a shot from the bow of a master archer and I knew who was the assassin – the man who had trekked behind me on his horse but who like a phantom had vanished and the man who now made my throat close over with fear for him.

‘What I do, I do for you and for William.’

‘Ysabel, we go
now!’
Ulric
rode in behind me, agitated, grabbing my reins and pulling me on.

‘No!’

I looked down at De Courcey’s body as I shouted and Halsham’s gaze turned in my direction. Perhaps he could see me, perhaps he could not, but it didn’t matter. He knew my voice and I knew the price on my head had doubled in an instant. But it did not signify – not really. I just quailed for William’s father.

‘He’ll flee as far as he can and if necessary seek sanctuary,’ Ulric muttered as he grabbed my reins and dragged me after him.

And so we ran far into the dense vales of the Welsh, lost in the trees and tracks unknown to those of Halsham’s ilk. William sat astride Biddy’s horse, her arms around his baby form as he reveled in this rebellious journey, oblivious to the racking pain of his mother.

Gisborne lived, I knew, for that essential connection remained unbroken, but where he would go and how we should ever find him sent my heart into an altered rhythm each time I thought on it.

And there was no one at all to say to me in this time of separation and loss:

‘
And all shall be well, and all shall be well,

and all manner of thing shall be well.’

To be continued…

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Prue Batten is a fantasy and historical fiction writer who lives in Tasmania, the island state of Australia. She and her husband farm a wool-growing and cropping property southeast of Hobart. They farm merino sheep and produce a clip of the famous Australian superfine wool that is sought after in Europe and China. When she's not working with her husband in the paddocks and sheepyards, her less professional interests are embroidery which she calls her sanity saver, gardening, her dogs, boating, kayaking... in fact anything to do with the sea. A university graduate with a Bachelor of Arts degree with majors in Political Science and History and post graduate qualifications in librarianship, in a past life she was a TV and Radio researcher/presenter with the Australian Broadcasting Corporation. Currently working on the second in the Gisborne series,
Book of Knights
, Prue has four books published - three fantasies, all part of
The Chronicles of Eirie
and one historical fiction - the first in the Gisborne series, entitled
Gisborne: Book of Pawns
.

Acknowledgements

 
To Jane V for her copious research in Northwest England and North Wales on my behalf and to she, Patricia and Maria for reading and commenting from the very beginning.

To John Hudspith for his editing, his advice and his wonderfully strengthening wit.

To my husband, Rob, who has faithfully supported me despite my
affaire
with Guy of Gisborne.

And to Milo for being my muse all of his dog’s life. (1997-2012)