Guy of Gisburne- The Omnibus by Toby Venables

Author:Toby Venables [Venables, Toby]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Historical, Adventure, Fantasy
ISBN: 9781849978934
Amazon: B01AV6T51W
Publisher: Abaddon Books
Published: 2016-02-12T00:00:00+00:00

XXXII

Eastchepe

25 May, 1193

THE PAGE WAS running. It was one of Hamon’s boys who spotted him first; Galfrid saw him nudge his captain in the ribs and nod across the crowd. Galfrid followed the boys’ gaze along Eastchepe towards Tower Street, at first seeing nothing beyond a slight disturbance in the throng: sudden movements, hands thrown up, some accompanied by gruff exclamations.

Then he saw the flash of scarlet. Another shove, and it became the red livery of the Prince, almost glowing in the low, early evening sun. Another shout, and from the packed knot of people – through whom he pressed with fearless resolve – the boy emerged, his face as red as his tunic.

His name was Osbert – one of John’s messengers. He was ginger haired and ridiculously fresh faced; had his mother given him up as a babe, she would surely still recognise him now. Anyone could see he didn’t belong – none more so than the ring of ragged urchins gathered outside the door of Widow Fleet’s. As Osbert caught sight of Galfrid and made a determined beeline for him, they eyed him up and down like predators considering their next meal.

“Squire Galfrid!” said the boy, squeezing past the raggedy lads and kneeling in front of their master. He soiled his pristine knee on a scraping of horse dung, and a few of the boys sniggered. Hamon silenced them with a glare.

“What is it, boy?” said Galfrid. Unfazed by either the state of his hose or the half-dozen ragamuffins who now surrounded him, he stood, and – never once taking his eyes off his object – proffered a tiny, even square of white at the end of a poker-straight arm.

“Message for you, sire,” he said, in a clear, strong voice. The boy clearly took his duties seriously. Galfrid was sure he would go far.

“For me?” he said with a frown. He took the flimsy scrap – moist from the boy’s hot palm – and unfolded it.

It was in English – the language of King Alfred, Harold, and everyone in England below the rank of knight. Yet Galfrid, himself of pure Saxon stock, knew almost no one who wrote in it. A few clerks and poets, perhaps. A handful of monks maintaining age-old chronicles set in motion before the conquest. But, as a rule, those for whom it was their native tongue could neither read nor write and had little use for either skill, and those who could, wrote in Latin or French.

In a close, neat hand it said: Find me at the Red Dragon. Nothing else. No name, no other mark of any kind. It offered no clue as to whether this was meant as a code, a riddle, or some veiled reference to their elusive quarry. One quality, nonetheless, rendered it entirely distinct, and told Galfrid all he needed to know – a thing that had nothing whatever to do with the words.

It was written on paper.

Galfrid had not seen paper since Acre, and knew of only one person who used it.

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