Gisborne . . .
I spent time huddled in a corner of the deck, a cloak wrapped round fending off the damp of the ocean. Guy took his share of the watch in the dark hours. Just he, Davey and a skeleton crew whilst the others yawned, snored and filled the spaces around me with their odour.
If I lay down I could hear the sea hissing past the planks of the Marolingian.
‘Ysabel,’ it whispered, ‘Ysabel.’
‘What?’ I felt like shouting. ‘What are you trying to tell me?’ But it just kept repeating ‘Ysabel, Ysabel,’ as though I didn’t know my own name.
I thought about de Courcy and why he chased me. Guy maintained it would be something to do with the titles to Moncrieff, that perhaps my signature was a matter of importance before the transfer could occur. Odd but a possibility nevertheless. There were other possibilities but nothing seemed to sit so heavily as this: Father had signed away Moncrieff. Which brought my thoughts back to the beginning again: why did I matter to de Courcy ? I remembered back to Vasey’s revelation in the army camp. When he told me that Moncrieff was to be ceded, he added an aside: ‘If the gossips are to be believed, there is another little deal on the side.’
How naïve I was to think such an arrangement would be as simple as my father sharing in the mining of river gold. Stupid, stupid Ysabel. No, the little deal on the side was me I was sure. My mad, thoughtless, inexorably weak father had not only given up his estates in payment, I swear that in some way or other, he had given up his daughter like a piece of coin. By the Saints, I hated him. How I wish he had died instead of my mother.
I looked back to the time before Gisborne had arrived at Montrachet and I realized how ignorant and immature I had been. I possessed some useless accomplishments but no experience of life or death and no understanding of the gross side of human nature. Now here I was, swamped by the realities of gambling, deceit and . . . I thought of Wilfred and Harry . . . murder. It was the difference, quite simply between Heaven and Hell.
I sighed and turned over. I lay on a bed of mildewed sail and faced one of the wooden ribs of the ship, reaching out a finger to touch it. It was smooth, as slippery as silk except for that mark there, and another. It was too dark to see but I tried to trace them and in my mind, decipher them. My finger went over and round, over and round. That and the sounds of the boat, the creaking of the planks, the sighing of the wind through the stays and the ever-present ‘Ysabel, Ysabel,’ of the water lulled me into an oddly dreamless sleep.
And so two days passed. Me with my circular thoughts, Guy working as a member of the crew, the sea-fog persisting. If I saw Guy at all, it was as a shape through the mists. He’d be bending to a task, laughing with the crew or in intense discussions with Davey. He would appear and disappear like an enchanted being. Once he glanced up and caught my gaze.
'There was no smile...'
There was no smile, but our eyes met and held and I knew that he, like I, was remembering our night together.
Davey had ordered the sail lowered a few hours after the mists enveloped us. All sound was muffled and we could hear nothing of our pursuers. The men took their place at oars that were well-greased with seal-oil. Guy sat at the third portside oar and when Davey signaled, for no voices were allowed, he pulled with the rest. He half stood, his broad shoulder taking the strain as the oar scooped down into the water and up again. But then the mist drifted across him and he vanished and my heart skipped a beat. It was like being on ghost ship, with shapes appearing and disappearing, a silent ambience with only a faint splash as the oars dipped. The water sighed along the planks but there was no other sound. Ghosts from past and present. I wasn’t sure if I felt intimidated by the pervasive atmosphere.
At one point we heard rhythmic tolling and Davey jumped down to the rowers. He spoke softly but all appeared to hear. ‘Starboard oars pull. Port oars hold.’ The vessel juddered and began to shift slightly to starboard. The port oars joined in, we moved forward a few lengths, then the starboard oars were stilled for one pull and we straightened again.
Davey joined me at the stern. ‘Bell Rocks,’ he said. I knew of Bell Rocks, greedy and hidden beneath a swirl of weed and white water. Death to many a boatsman. ‘Another day and a half and we’ll be off Harwich. We’re making good speed.’
My stomach flipped over. ‘The other boat?’
Davey tapped my arm. ‘Trust Davey, mistress. There’s no one can creep about the Channel like me. There’s some call the Marolingian a ghost ship. I’d stake my life on the fact that they’ve headed directly across the Channel. In fact, it wouldn’t surprise me if they downed sail and tried to sit out the mist. Either way we’ve lost them. Trust me.’
Trust you indeed. What else can I do?
That last night the same soft sea-song sang me to my sleep. A hand shaking my shoulder much later woke me and I could see a sharper light behind the shape. ‘Ysabel,’ a familiar voice said, ‘ Wake you. We’re off the cost at Harwich.’ Guy, always coming at me from secret places.
I sat up as if a bolt of lightning had struck me. ‘The other boat?’ It was becoming a litany.
‘Not in sight. As Davey predicted.’ Guy went to stand and in the daylight that ventured through the mists I could see he had almost grown a beard and that his hair was windblown and knotted.
'He looked exhausted...'
He looked exhausted, shadows under his eyes, his face drawn and yet his manner betrayed little of his tiredness.
‘Guy,’ I grabbed his hand. ‘Stay a moment. I need to talk.’
He squatted down and his fingers laced through mine, my heart swelling. ‘About what?’
‘Me, Moncrieff. Guy, what if I don’t go home? What if I go somewhere else entirely?’
His hand fell away from mine. ‘You would not see your father?’
I could feel my jaw tightening and I grabbed my hair and smoothed it back, twisting it into that all too familiar knot. ‘My father? My father whom I believe sees me as currency? Why would I? I would have been better to stay in Montrachet.’
He looked down at me, a measuring glance and then lowered himself to sit next to me, his back against the rib whose marks had so soothed me.
‘In hindsight Montrachet may have been safer. But you are in England now or near enough and the way I see it, you have unfinished business. Something’s awry in Moncrieff. More so than when Gelis sent me to collect you. How it is connected with you I can only begin to guess but even if de Courcy is about to assume the estate, there are things that are rightly yours. Things of your mother’s, things in your father’s library…’
‘My father’s library?’ A library? Mother had never mentioned that Father had a library. An interest in monastic libraries certainly, and those in some noble houses, but his own?
‘Ysabel, are you listening?’ Guy nudged me and I nodded.
‘My suggestion is this…’
I sighed. I could see it coming…
‘We ride as secretly…’
I knew it, more subterfuge.
‘Ysabel!’ Guy shook my arm.
‘Yes, secretly. Even though I am afraid of de Courcy. Even though it seems he bears me gross ill-will, you want me to return to Moncrieff.’
‘Yes. Even so.’ Guy frowned at me. “Ysabel, you have shown immense courage thus far. We can see this through and then I swear when we know what has happened, we can make a plan and I can see you and your father safe if needs be. To Wales or Ireland, far from de Courcy.’
‘My father can stay at Moncrieff, I care not.’ For a moment I thought Guy would argue but perhaps he thought of his feelings towards his own father and could see the hypocrisy of argument.
‘Then yourself. I shall see you safe.’
‘Guy!’ I flung myself on him, hugging him. ‘You would do that?’ I felt his hand spread across my back, his fingers pressing.
‘Of course. I would never leave you defenceless. We can get word to Gelis and find out what de Courcy has done and then make plans. Once you are safe, I can leave for my next contract.’
Leave? Leave me? I sat back on my heels. ‘You would leave me after all?’
‘Ysabel, I…’
‘Master Guy?’ Davey’s voice drifted toward us from amidships. ‘Can you come, sir. I need you.’
My face twisted, I know it did. It shouldn’t have because I had chanted to myself that I knew which way the cards lay. ‘Go,’ I said, pushing him. ‘Davey needs you.’ I pulled on my coping face, the new Ysabel who was courageous and could tackle anything. I watched him begin to move away and I swear it was as though someone had taken a sword to my whole body and cleaved it in two. ‘Guy,’ I called.
He looked back. The strengthening light illuminating his finely sculpted patrician face.
‘One thing…’
'Yes?'
‘Yes?’ He turned his head slightly to the side, that quizzical gaze that I had come to know so well.
I smiled. ‘I want a bath in Harwich.’
He’s remembering, she thinks but I’m nervous at the amount of trust she puts in Gisborne and what awaits her. … What could be in her father’s library I wonder ..
So many may be’s. Who knows?
Lady Mes, I know it’s crass and presumptuous of me as a mere reader to keep coming on here and picking out bits of your writing to comment on, but I am just so mesmerised by it all and so grateful to be allowed to spend time in your world with your characters –the enchanting Ysabel, and your wonderful interpretation of the enigma that I think of as Messire de Gisborne (and how does one pronounce that???) —that I am struggling to find an appropriate way to show my appreciation. It’s wrong indeed to single out bits of a whole I enjoyed so very much. These just scratch the surface, as always…
I am running out of metaphors — film, embroidery, illuminated manuscripts… All the senses and emotions engaged in so few words. The sea ‘’hissing’’ , the crew ‘’fill(ing) the spaces around me with their odour…’’ And rocks ‘’…greedy and hidden beneath a swirl of weed and white water. ‘’
Ysabel’s awakening to adulthood ‘’the difference, quite simply between Heaven and Hell.’’
And Guy appearing and disappearing ‘‘like an enchanted being’’, and ‘’always coming at me from secret places.’’
Is he telling the truth when you have him promise ot to leave her defenceless? There are things he will find difficult to explain, after all, should de Courcy ever get his hands on her
Poor Ysabel! Already, she tells us,‘’ I watched him begin to move away and I swear it was as though someone had taken a sword to my whole body and cleaved it in two.’’
Guy of Gisborne has a habit of doing that to a girl…
Thank you so much for letting us see this. I can’t wait for the next installment.
When you have time, of course!
Giselle (whose name i love because it is quite my favourite ballet),
Please feel free to do what you do. As a writer its rewarding to see what readers like (or not although the latter is a tough nut to swallow). That way we get to improve on our strengths.
I’ve just committed to the fan blog event in M arch and have tentatively promised a chapter a day for the duration and I am shivering in my boots already!
ROTFLOL!! Not sure you meant it to be hilarious (I know, I have a twisted mind), but the “I want a bath…” just struck me as funny after all of the intrigue and wondering and worrying. Get that girl a bath! She’s been needing one for quite a while and I would think Sir Guy needs one too. But then, it’s manly to smell of sweat, right? But it wasn’t the ending line that I was expecting. LOL.
The library has me puzzling too, iz.
Fav line: “I pulled on my coping face, the new Ysabel who was courageous and could tackle anything.” I know that face personally.
I needed the chapter to lighten and I needed Ysabel to show that she was not affected by Guy’s revelation. The bath seemed obvious as she is filthy after the journey! to be honest I laughed when it popped onto the screen uninvited too! But I left it there:it belonged.
Having read your story from the beginning, we know Guy and Ysabel are actually going to be separated and she’s going to face hardship. We also know they will meet again after years, when she just hates him for what he did. But anything you’ve prepared for us, I’ll accept gladly since you are so good at creating this atmosphere of incumbent danger, at describing and narrating, at conveying feelings and emotions that I want things happen faster, never mind how terrible they are. Especially your Guy, it is simply and perfectly the Guy I have in my mind.
Thank you, Prue.
MG
My ever patient, ever loyal MG.
@Maria I know! But still the anticipation has me trembling.
@Giselle it’s lovely to read someone else gush over Mes!
@NB LOL I had a chuckle too and probably would have mentioned except I read the story in the middle of the night slept and commented first thing AM. I’m wondering IF the library mention is foreshadowing!!
That was a breathtaking read!
Servetus, your reviews always leave ME breathless. You have a way of looking at things that can be so profoundly deep and the sheer simplicity of your words this time means that the story is working better than i could have dreamed! Thank you.
Mercenary…lover…user…hmm. BUT, the good news, there’s a bath in Ysabel’s near future! Huzzah!
Ah, but is he a user really? We shall see.
Just have to research medieval soaps etc to get this bath thing right!
“Just have to research medieval soaps etc to get this bath thing right!”
Now THAT sounds intriguing!!
ROTFLOL, Ann Marie!
Mesmered, I have only just found your blog and this wonderful tale and I have been absolutely captivated, bitterly resentful that RL didn’t allow me time to sit and read the whole thing [so far] in one day, eager to get back to the computer to read more. Thank you so much for it. I find myself feeling a sense of urgent anticipation for the next installment.
As a reader, not a writer, is it presumptuous of me to comment? I think others who have commented actually do write. But… the way you create a sense of atmosphere is spellbinding, as are your descriptions, which draw this reader well and truly into the heart of the story. As a first person tale this is thrilling and you convey such depths of feeling and emotion, never more so than the scene of ‘Ysabel’s awakening’- so skilful but without graphic and gratuitous description.
There are so many phrases that remain in my head from this work, but I’ll quote just one; the one that, for me sums up the enigma that is the fascinating Guy of Gisborne ’always coming at me from secret places.’’
I loved the very clever touch in the way you lightened the end of the last chapter.
I am captivated, truly, and grateful to have found this so I, too, can spend time with your characters.
Hi mesmered,
I’ve read some parts of this blog and I’m glad (for you!) it’s a draft; I saw some minor points of attention.
First: a meal cooked with pepper in a French medieval inn is, most likely, an anachronism; pepper was, in the 12th century, a rare and very expensive commodity even for wealthy people. It’s democratization has been realised by the Portuguese and Spanish during the last part of the 15th century, followed by the English and Dutch.
Second: If I were on a wooden ship and it creaked in it’s hull, I would first search for a life-belt and the emergency-exit. A creaking hull is too dry to last long. What creaks is the rigging; that’s the place too where the wind howls, moans or sighs, depending on the mood of the romantic lovers on board.
I hope to have assisted you in this humble way,
Regards, Han.
Han, thanks for your comment. I knew I could rely on you to pick the holes in the maritime stuff. The creaking of the planks was derived from sailing on my grandfather’s wooden hulled sailboat through my childhood. I used to lie on the for’head bunks on a pile of canvas sail and one could hear the water rushing past the planks, and where the stays were attached to the body of the boat, the planks did indeed creak slightly. As for life-jackets, no such thing in the twelfth century, let alone the ability to swim!
The draft is written off the top of my head and is unresearched, which is why I call it a rough draft. if it goes beyond the blog, it must be reshaped and researched to the highest possible level. Interestingly I knew about the pepper. After all, Australia is part of the world known as the Region or the Asia-Pacific basin and from where a huge number of spices were sourced from the fifteenth century onward.
The thing about the novel Gisborne is that it is based on a legend and to a very small point is therefore fantasy and there is the smallest amount of licence in historical fantasy. THAT SAID, anachronistic writing is awful and is why i reiterate that Gisborne is only an unresearched first draft.
Ah dear mesm,
No need to explain about drafts, I know all the ramifications of writing.
On the creaking and your childhood memories: that creaking came most probably from the rig through the stays (which acted as strings) and was amplified by the wooden hull, acting as a resonance box.
I will try to write an article on the ship of the Cinque Ports too (in the StartedSailing site) because everybody throws them in the same bowl as the cog, which is the biggest mistake one can make about medieval shipping.
I admire your zeal in writing this story, I’m not in fiction!
(And, by the way, Hans is another form for Johannes; my first name is really Han.)
As usual, regards,
Han.
I’ve just discovered your story having read references to it elsewhere. Read all of it in one sitting, I was so riveted. It is truly a wonderful tale and can’t wait to read more. It’s thrilling to find a talented writer who lets us see her draft process.
@judiang hello. Welcome to Mesmered. Thank you so much for your kind review of Gisborne. I can’t wait to get more up there but I have been really flat out getting a former print novel uploaded as an e-book to Amazon. The sequel is dragging at my attention and must be prepared before the end of Februrary, so I am dearly hoping those who love ‘Gisborne… a legend’ will be patient and will stay with Mesmered to await the outcome of the novel. Cheers and best wishes.