In his early years he had been as devout as any pilgrim, and when he was old enough he took a ship and sailed to the Holy Land to protect the last Christian toehold: Acre. He nearly died there, and it was the Templars who rescued him and saved his life. For that, as soon as he was fit again, he had willingly given his life to the service of the Order. When the Order was rounded up on Friday 13 October during the first year of the King’s reign, he had been away on Templar business, and escaped the mass arrests and torture. As such, he was a renegade, and if found he could be executed immediately.
Ach, it was little enough risk. The Templars had been disbanded eleven years ago; the actual arrests were seven years before that. It was very unlikely that anyone would still be about in Paris who could recognise him. The chances were he ran the same risk of being seen and recognised here in London as in Paris. And if the worst came to the worst, he could rely on the protection of his letters of safe conduct.
Yet it was true that if a priest in the Church recognised him and denounced him, those letters would become useless. Even if he were to escape arrest in France, he would no longer be safe in England. There was nowhere where the long arm of the Church could not reach him.
With that grim thought, he turned to make his way back to his room to prepare for the coming day, only to find himself confronted by a tall man with laughing dark grey eyes set in a face burned brown by the wind and sun. At first, he could only gape. Then: ‘Simon! What on earth are you doing here?’
‘The same as you, old friend. I’ve been summoned to aid you in the journey to France.’
Queen’s cloister, Thorney Island
Blaket was already in the little alcove near the gate when Alicia reached it. In her arms she held a lamb’s shank and a skin of good dark wine, and she proffered her gifts before allowing him to take her in his arms again.
With his face buried in her neck, he said, ‘I hate to think of those musicians being near to you.’
‘I could wish I hadn’t told you about them,’ she replied. ‘It makes you so grim, my heart.’
‘If anyone tries to harm you, I shall stop them,’ he said firmly.
‘Do not worry. The man who tried it wasn’t there.’
‘No?’
‘Apparently he was drowned in the city ditch. De Bouden told me just now. The musicians were considering finding a man to take his place.’
He cuddled her closer, but even as he did so he grew aware of a stiffness about her body. ‘What?’
‘The man in the ditch – that wasn’t you, was it? You didn’t kill him because of what he did to me?’ She stood upright, her eyes fixed on him with an immeasurable concentration. He had killed before, as she knew.
‘You think I did that?’
‘Did you?’
‘No. It was not me,’ he said.
‘Good,’ she said, and appeared to melt into his embrace again.
‘Perhaps it’d be best if they stayed behind?’ he wondered.
‘Why, love, are you jealous because they can wind an instrument? Would you prefer that to me? Because you have me, don’t you?’
He grunted and placed his hands on her backside, pulling her nearer. ‘In that case, they can do what they like,’ he said. ‘I’m content!’
New Palace Yard, Thorney Island
It was some little while later that Ricard and the others separated for the afternoon. They each had different tasks to undertake before they left in the morning. For his part, Ricard wanted to make sure that he had provisions – smoked sausages for the journey, some dried meats, and plenty of gut for his strings. A musician never knew where he’d be able to pick up the next supply. And now he had an extra mouth to think of, he thought to himself, glancing down at the boy.
‘You the musician?’ a man asked.
Turning to him, Ricard found himself confronted by yet another messenger in the King’s livery. ‘Yes? What now?’
‘You are to come with me.’
Sweet Mother of Christ, these flunkies always think that their business is so bloody vital, Ricard said to himself as he took the boy’s hand and followed the man round the side of the great hall and in through a small door. He was taken through another hall, through a little door and up some stairs until he had no idea where he was inside the palace complex. The place might have been designed to confuse a body, he thought. ‘Where are we going?’
‘Here.’
A door was opened, and he found himself thrust inside.
‘Sir William?’ he said with some surprise.
William de Bouden was seated at a broad table, his fingers steepled before him. ‘Ah, Ricard de Bromley. And you …’ he added, looking pointedly at Charlie. ‘Well, good day to you. Are you prepared for your departure tomorrow?’
‘Well, there are one or two matters. Mostly ready, yes.’
‘I have heard you were speaking to a servant. A drummer.’
‘The Irishman? Yes, we made some music with him.’
‘He is very good, I understand.’
‘Good enough,’ Ricard agreed, thinking of the rapid drumming of the bodhran. But then he frowned. What was this about? Why would de Bouden wish to speak about the Irishman when he had so many other matters to concern him, not least the safety of the Queen?
He was answered immediately. ‘The Queen liked the look of the man. She knows he is respected as a drummer, and would enjoy listening to him during the journey. If you have space, you could bring him with you. Do you have too many men already?’
‘Well, no, I suppose …’
‘That is settled then. The whims of a queen are not to be lightly disregarded, man. You may go now.’
And Ricard found himself outside the door. With a perplexed, ‘Well, ballocks to that!’ he shook his head, wondering why de Bouden wanted the man with them. He certainly did not believe the story about the Queen asking for him. There must be another reason.
And then he remembered – he hadn’t the faintest idea how to get back outside from here.
Chapter Ten
Feast of Piranus10
Louvre, Paris
The King of France sat back on his throne as the cardinal entered, his robes hissing as the fur trimming swept over the floor. He stopped near the King, bowing but holding the King’s eye as he did so.
There was an arrogance in these men of God that no other would dare display before him, King Charles thought to himself, keeping his features devoid of all emotion. It took an effort sometimes, in God’s name.
This one, Thomas d’Anjou, was one of the worst. Others would at least make some civil display as a matter of courtesy, but this one was full of piss and wind. He had few of the attributes of a diplomat, and believed that anything he said would automatically be taken as the word of God. Arrogant fool! Well, kings could be arrogant too. And Charles was not of a mind to give up his own position in the world just for a man in holy orders who wanted to pretend to have authority over him.
The cardinal looked about him at the knights and dukes surrounding the King, and King Charles gave a shrug of agreement, waving the men aside.
‘Your highness, I bring word from your Holy Father in Christ. The Pope has asked me to communicate his thoughts to you.’
Controlling his impatience, King Charles nodded. ‘Speak.’
‘He believes that the present state of affairs between your kingdom and that of the King of England is a canker that affects the whole of Christianity.’
‘Then he should aid me in my desire to see the king of the English become more reasonable.’
‘The Holy Father would like to see the English and French burying past disputes and coming to an agreement.’
‘I agree.’ King Charles wondered where this could be leading.
‘The Pope will be happy. There is an urgent need for a fresh crusade to wrest the Holy Land from the heathens who have overrun it. We must unite in our love of God to smite them and recover Christ’s birthplace.’
A crusade! That would be a
marvellous undertaking. To lead his armies across the seas to Palestine was the height of a king’s aspiration. ‘I would be delighted to join such an undertaking.’
‘It would permit both you and the English to join together in love of God to do His will. But first there must be peace between your nations.’
‘There will be peace – as soon as my brother-in-law agrees to come and pay homage for the lands he holds from me. He must come here and kneel before me and swear his allegiance.’
‘Perhaps he will. But you should also make allowance for the fact that he is a king in his own right. He deserves respect. Especially if he makes the effort to come here and make his peace with you.’
‘For his realm, I have no ambition. For the lands of mine which I allow him to administer and rule, I expect him to show me the same respect as any knight, any marquis, any duke. Just as he expects of his barons and earls. We are of a similar mind.’
‘Perhaps another embassy would aid the negotiations?’
The King pursed his lips. ‘And who would you have me send? Or do you suppose to tell me whom the English should send to me?’
‘I am sure that you will have heard that the Pope has requested the English to send your sister to you. That way, you would have a friend with whom to discuss this affair.’
‘It is entirely up to the English king whom he decides to send to me.’
‘I know that, naturally. But, if he were to send the Queen, would you be comfortable to negotiate with her?’
‘I have already indicated to the English king that I would.’
‘In that case, I am pleased. Perhaps we can hope to see a successful resolution of this matter before long. And then we may hope to begin to plan for a crusade.’
King Charles nodded and the audience was over. The cardinal bowed again, this time walking backwards all the way to the door out of the hall, showing considerably more respect than he had on the way in.
In the past King Charles’s father, King Philip the Fair, had been able to rely on several well-trusted advisers, but one in particular, William de Nogaret, had been especially dependable. There were few of his stature now, sadly, since his death. It was William to whom Philip had turned when he needed a pretext to expel the Jews and take over their wealth; it was the same William who had written up the accusations against the Knights Templar which had seen them persecuted, tortured, killed, and their wealth confiscated to the benefit of the Crown.
But Charles had some advisers of his own, whose loyalty was beyond doubt. He looked around him now, and beckoned François de Tours.
‘What did you make of that?’
François was older than the King by a decade. He was a lean, tall, ascetic man who spent much of his time, when the King was travelling, in the Île de la Cité, the ancient palace that had grown to become the centre of all administration for the French state. Now he stood and bent respectfully at the King’s side.
‘He plainly wished to see how you would react to the idea of Queen Isabella’s coming here to meet and treat with you in her husband’s place.’
‘So that means that the Pope himself already knows that the English are likely to send her, then.’
‘I should think it likely.’
‘And he is concerned as to how I may respond to her.’
‘I would assume that would be because of her part in the affair of the Tour de Nesle, my liege.’
The mere mention of that episode was enough to make King Charles forget to maintain his equanimity. His face flushed, and he had to clench his jaw a moment to prevent his angry words from spilling out, but then he regained control, his features lost their angry colour, and he could breathe a gentle sigh.
‘I have forgiven her that.’
‘I was analysing the situation, your highness. If I gave offence, I—’
‘No, François. You were correct to mention it. You must always feel free to advise me without fear. I cannot trust your judgement if you are anxious about raising certain matters before me.’
But it was a difficulty, as both men knew. King Charles still had no children. His father had died eleven years ago, and King Charles was the fourth king since then. He was the last in the male line of the Capetian blood. If he were to die without a son, his family would have failed.
If only that slut Marguerite de Burgundy, his brother’s wife, had not been so promiscuous. The bitch took delight in all things, and her position as the wife of the future king of France gave her leeway unavailable to others. But when she was discovered in her adultery her fall was devastating. She was dead within the year – but the damage was already done. It broke his father’s heart, and Philip the Fair was dead a twelvemonth later.
Blanche, Charles’s wife, was found to be guilty along with Marguerite. She was taken from him and thrust into a foul dungeon to rot. She deserved her fate – they both did – because they had put cuckolds’ horns on the two princes, but it was a desperate position for the royal family. Suddenly both heirs had lost their wives. And without a wife, neither could breed.
Blanche’s marriage to him was not annulled for some time. At last, three years ago, it was, and immediately Charles remarried – this time the lovely Marie of Luxembourg. She conceived and bore him a son, but mother and child both died in the birth. Louis, the boy had been named. His second son. The first, poor Philip, had died aged only eight in the year his mother’s marriage to Charles was annulled.
‘Your highness – would you like some wine?’
‘François, no. I am fine,’ the King said. ‘I was remembering my sons.’
‘I am sure that your wife will bear you many strong and healthy boys,’ François said soothingly.
‘I hope so.’ Jeanne d’Evreux was as beautiful as she was young. At only fifteen years old, she was perfect for producing a child. Or so he hoped.
It was odd to think that he was about to marry his third wife; that he had already fathered four children, but all were dead. He mourned them all, but he had a duty as king, and that was to leave his realm in the capable hands of a boy.
Still, it made the visit of his sister poignant. After all, if she had not denounced his first wife, Blanche would probably have whelped more boys for him. His line would be secure. Instead here he was, fighting to find a woman who could bear him his heir and save the line of Capet.
François bent a little nearer. ‘There is one other matter, my liege. The Château Gaillard. The lady has been removed, and all is taken care of.’
The King looked at him with eyes that glittered with anger. ‘All is taken care of?’
There was an edge to his voice which François had never heard before, a thrilling of hatred. ‘As you say, my liege. The lady, and all those who could have told the story.’
‘Good. And now you will never mention that place nor her to me again.’
François nodded and walked from the room.
The cardinal was waiting outside when François arrived. ‘Well?’
‘He is happy that all proceeds.’
‘You told him all?’
‘Only about the garrison.’
‘Did you tell him one man escaped?’
François said nothing, merely stared at him.
‘You know it as well as I.’
‘Cardinal, the man will die. Already men from Les Andelys search the roads between there and his home in the south. No matter where he goes, he will be found. And destroyed.’
‘Good. A heretic like that must be removed, like a rabid dog, before he can infect other good people.’
‘Never fear. He will.’
The cardinal nodded. He felt only an increasing glow within his breast. This embassy would be the culmination of so much effort, with good fortune, and then the hosts could be collected and men and arms would sail once more for the Holy Land. The king of France would command the combined forces of Christendom, and at last Jerusalem would return to the control of Christ’s people.
And the man who had orchestrated all this
would, perhaps, be granted the post of papal representative in God’s holy city.
New Palace Yard, Thorney Island
Ricard grunted to himself, head huddled down under his hood as the rain began to fall again. ‘Sweet Jesus, this bloody weather is enough to make a duck pissed off!’ He pulled his cloak tighter about him and Charlie.
Janin at his side was protectively shielding the bag containing his hurdy-gurdy under his heavy cloak. ‘I don’t know about that, but I’m certain sure it won’t do my strings any good.’
‘Rain is the one catastrophe that helps none of us. We’ll just have to rely on Adam’s piping and our singing if we’re called on to entertain the party.’
‘Philip’s singing?’ Janin asked doubtfully.
‘Hmm.’ Ricard looked over at Philip. He was standing with a scowl of such ferocity, Ricard was surprised the rain had the temerity to continue to fall.
They had been up before the dawn, all ready and prepared to leave, but then when they were about to depart, although the Queen had arrived, the King had not. It seemed that he and Despenser were huddled together in the palace discussing some matters of great importance. Either that, or they were still lying abed, Ricard thought grimly.
Their new companion was a little distance away from them. He had a slight smile on his face, but then, Ricard had always heard that the land of the Irish was as wet as a vill’s pond. He was probably used to it.
‘What about you, Jack of Ireland? Can you sing a tune or two?’
‘Me? I suppose I know a few.’
‘Good. We may need you to save us from Philip’s voice, then,’ Ricard said.
As Philip protested his ability, Ricard narrowly studied Jack from the corner of his eye.
Janin had summed it up when Ricard told the others last night.
‘Well, he can play. Perhaps it was just that – the Queen’s Comptroller wanted a good musician to replace Peter.’
‘And perhaps cats can fly,’ Philip had said. ‘Our friend Peter dies, and then this new drummer is foisted on us? Too much of a coincidence, I’d say.’
The Templar, the Queen and Her Lover: (Knights Templar 24) Page 11