The Templar, the Queen and Her Lover: (Knights Templar 24)

by Michael Jecks

  ‘Look, maybe you don’t like him, but I think his playing is still a lot better than Peter’s used to be. Sorry, I know none of us likes to admit that, but there it is. I think it’s better to be honest about things.’

  ‘Shut up, Adam,’ Philip had said sharply.

  ‘What do you say, Jack? Will you sing?’ Ricard asked now.

  ‘Ah, now you should hear my voice, Ric. I have the purest notes this side of the mountains.’

  So saying, he walked away, whistling. Philip and Janin exchanged a look, and it was Janin who glanced at Ricard with a vaguely confused expression on his face. ‘What do you suppose that means?’

  ‘I reckon it means I’ll be getting the bastard to sing most of the songs on the way,’ Ricard said. He huddled more closely inside his cloak, feeling a drip work its way down at the back of his neck and trailing on to his shoulder. Charlie wriggled and grunted, and Ricard was tempted to snarl.

  He hated hearing his name shortened.

  Saturday next after the Feast of Piranus9

  Dover

  Simon Puttock was relieved to arrive at Dover, although there was a strong sense of revulsion at the thought of once more being forced to board a ship and cross the sea.

  It was not an irrational fear that he held of seafaring. He had experienced all aspects of sailing, and he disliked them. Ships rolled and bucked alarmingly, he had discovered. Even when a man stood up on deck, running the risk every few minutes of a soaking, the fact that the horizon rotated about the prow made him need to heave. Any food he consumed would immediately return and have to be discharged over the side. And when all this was endured with moderate patience, the next disaster would be either an attack by pirates or a shipwreck. Having suffered all of these more or less natural calamities, Simon was not keen to explore the delights of sailing once more.

  ‘There they are,’ he said, pointing to the group nearer the harbour.

  Baldwin looked where he indicated. It had been noticeable that the King and Despenser had travelled much of the way together, while the Queen and her ladies and knights had been kept towards the rear of the long column of travellers. Now, at last, the three were standing together, while Lord John Cromwell listened near the Queen’s shoulder. ‘Lord John is taking his duties seriously, I am glad to see.’

  ‘He would, wouldn’t he? The man is honour bound to protect her, after all.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Baldwin said. ‘But I wonder who picked him? It was unlikely to have been her Majesty.’

  ‘I hope it wasn’t Sir Hugh le Despenser, then,’ Simon muttered. Both knew how poisonous relations had grown between Sir Hugh and the Queen in recent months.

  The sound of laughter came to them, and they both peered at the group.

  ‘Is that the Queen?’ Simon asked.

  ‘I believe so,’ Baldwin said. ‘And she is kissing Sir Hugh!’

  ‘I don’t think I can believe what I’m seeing,’ Simon said.

  Queen Isabella was chuckling and exchanging pleasantries with the King’s favourite, and as they watched, she rested her hand on his arm and spoke to him again. Then she was away, kissing her husband respectfully, and curtseying to him before walking off with Lord Cromwell. The King and his friend watched them as they made their way down to the harbour.

  ‘Perhaps all is well again now,’ Simon ventured. ‘She is travelling in some style, after all. She must have money from the King. Maybe he’s realised her value to him?’

  ‘And maybe it was all a ruse to lull his suspicions,’ Baldwin said. ‘There is something else in her mind, I am sure. She loathes Sir Hugh. I am quite certain of that. The two men in the world whom she hates more than any other are him and our friend the bishop of Exeter. It is inconceivable that she could have so changed her feelings in the last weeks.’

  ‘Well, how has she been when you have spoken to her recently? Are you sure there has been no difference?’

  ‘Simon, you have been with me at every moment on this journey. When have you seen me with her?’

  ‘Never?’

  ‘No. She has been with her women at all times and has avoided being with me or any of the other knights.’

  ‘Why should that be? Perhaps she wishes to remain alone so that she can consider what she must say to her brother?’

  Baldwin looked at him. ‘What is she likely to want to say? She has advisers and clerks aplenty. The only things which they will not be privy to are the loving things which a brother and sister will say when they are meeting for the first time in some ten years or so.’

  ‘Ten years?’ Simon was quiet for a moment. ‘To think of leaving your own land and not seeing it for ten years …’ He looked at the ships in the harbour with a reluctance that bordered on terror.

  ‘Simon, do not panic! We have among the best shipmen in the world here to take us over the sea.’ Baldwin laughed. ‘I do not think that it will take them very long to carry us over the little puddle that separates us from France.’

  ‘It was not only that which worried me,’ Simon said. ‘It was the thought of what is waiting for us at the other side.’

  Chapter Eleven

  Friday before the Feast of St Edward the Martyr11

  Poissy

  Jean had reached this town on his way homewards, before realising that there was nothing for him there. Where was there anything for him to find? His old home was burned to the ground, his wife and child were dead, his father and his brother had both died in the wars trying to defend the honour of his comte – and now that he had failed in the simple task he had been set by his comte, helping to guard an old fort, there was nowhere for him to go. He was homeless, and unless he could persuade his comte that the slaughter of the guards was not his fault, he would be thrown into gaol himself.

  After hurrying to Les Andelys and hearing the comments, escape to Paris had seemed the best option. He should tell someone that Arnaud had gone mad and killed all the other guards. But when he looked at himself, he realised that when he had picked up Guillaume much of the man’s blood had drained on to him. Suddenly, he wondered how another would look at him, a stranger to this area, telling a wild story about someone else who went mad and butchered all the guards, while he alone survived – although smothered in the gore of the dead. It would not look good. Especially since his accent was so different. He spoke the beautiful dialect of the Languedoc, while all the people about here had the harsh twang of Norman French. He was an outsider again, and here he must be viewed askance.

  No, rather than that he would return to his lord and report to him, direct. But in so doing, he would again be open to criticism. Why had he not reported to the nearest town, sought out the King’s officers and ensured that the murderer was found? Explaining that he was terrified would not serve to protect him. He had a duty to perform, and his cowardice had ensured that the criminal had escaped. There was no excuse for that.

  So here he was, in a small town to the north-west of Paris, wondering what he should do to extricate himself from this mess. The more days passed, the more trouble he faced. If he had sought out his lord on the first day, perhaps he would be all right. As it was, he was now a thief himself. At the first opportunity he had stolen a fresh shirt and hosen, while his leather jack had been carefully washed in a stream to remove all the blood. So now he was condemned no matter what he tried.

  At least he had a place to rest his head. The other guards had no heads to rest. And Arnaud was perhaps still on the loose.

  There was one possible silver lining to the cloud, though. Perhaps, if people had found the château and all the bodies, they might think that he was one of the victims as well. They could assume that he had been slaughtered along with Guillaume, Pons and the others. Yes, that was a thought: maybe Jean had died in the eyes of the officials, and was no more. Could he be free, at last, from the taint which had been with him for so long?

  Was it possible? Were the crimes of his past finally laid to rest?

  Boulogne

  It w
as mid-morning when Simon gratefully followed the suit of all the knights and climbed into the saddle once more.

  Dear Christ in heaven! They’d reached France within hours of leaving England, making landfall at Wissant, and the same day the Queen had commanded that they should make their way to Boulogne and give thanks for their safe and swift journey. Well, Simon wouldn’t argue with that. They had arrived in one piece, which was more than he had hoped for when they set off. Almost as soon as the ship pulled the sails up, or whatever the blasted shipmaster called it, there had been a dreadful crack and one of the sails had simply burst. One minute it was a whole sheet, the next there was this almighty report and the thing was in shreds. Apparently it happened quite often. In his post as representative of the Keeper of the Port of Dartmouth, he had heard of such things, but this was the first time he had witnessed it, and he did not enjoy it.

  Still, it was the only disaster on the journey. The sailors ran up and down the lines at either side of the cog, and soon the sail was replaced, and then they were making their way quickly enough, with just a little bucking and rocking to unsettle his belly. He only had a chance to throw up four times before they reached the French shore.

  As soon as they made landfall, he expected to unload the ship and set off to meet the French king’s representatives, but no. Instead Queen Isabella had been determined to see the church of Our Lady in Boulogne, where she made offerings and devotions. The whole town seemed to turn out to meet her and her entourage, and all thirty or so were invited in and given a royal welcome, lodging and food. There the party remained for five days, with no one showing the slightest inclination to get a move on, other than Simon and Baldwin.

  It was not until the sixth day that they received the order to gather up their belongings and leave the town. At last they would make their way to meet the king of France’s representatives.

  Simon was unhappy. ‘Baldwin, you’re perfectly comfortable here, aren’t you? But the people seem … different. Is it their clothes?’

  ‘It is everything, Simon. It’s the clothes, the language, the countryside. Do you not feel that it is special? I think it feels cleaner, more wholesome somehow, than England.’

  ‘What, you mean Devon?’

  ‘No – I was thinking of England near here. London and Kent. They are curious places compared with this lovely landscape.’

  Simon looked about him. ‘What is so lovely about this?’

  Baldwin snuffed the air. ‘The scent of garlic, of grilled fish, of lavender, of wine … all these things and more.’

  ‘You can get all those things in England.’

  ‘True enough, but in this country they seem more natural, in some way. Look about you!’

  Simon did. He huddled his chin down against his gorget and shook his head to resettle his hood over his ears. ‘Yes. It’s very pleasant. Except just now I would prefer to be at home in Lydford with a great fire roaring on the hearth and the smell of woodsmoke and spiced wine to warm my heart.’

  Baldwin said nothing, but smiled to himself for a few moments. Then a picture came to his mind of Jeanne sitting at his own fireside, with Richalda and little Baldwin nearby, and suddenly the vision brought a lump to his throat.

  Pontoise

  Le Vieux was feeling sick again. He had to stop at the side of the road and throw up. That was all his lunch wasted, then.

  ‘Come, Vieux! We have to—’

  ‘Shit! You go on, Arnaud. I am too old for this.’

  ‘You? I never thought I’d see the day you said that!’

  Arnaud was staring down at him with a mirthless grin on his face. He wasn’t bothered by the sight of the dead men. No reason why he should be – as executioner as well as torturer, it would have been a surprise if he had been. Yes, Arnaud was a hard man, certainly, but so was le Vieux. He would not submit to this sudden weakness. He’d seen dead men often enough before. ‘Very well, but I’m exhausted and hungry. You go on. I’ll follow and get myself some plain bread. I’ll see you at the baker’s outside his house. You know it?’

  ‘Of course I know it. I will be there as quickly as I may.’

  Le Vieux nodded and slowly made his way to the bakery. It was some little way from the town’s gate, and there was a bench not far away where the older men of the place were wont to sit in the sun during the warmer months. At this time of year it was mostly deserted, but that was all to the good, so far as le Vieux was concerned. A man had a brazier nearby on which he was roasting small pastries, and le Vieux bought one, breaking it open to let the steam burst out and cool it, eating it quickly, mouth open, to save his lips and tongue from scalding. It was delicious. He sat back contentedly, his mouth full of the flavour of nuts and spices, his belly comfortable, for a while.

  His head was still hurting appallingly, but there was nothing to be done. He would have to wait until it was cured. Perhaps it would help to have his blood let out a little. Maybe he ought to seek a physician or barber in the town.

  There was a thump at his shoulder, and he was startled awake again, finding himself looking up into the eyes of Arnaud.

  ‘Well enough rested, eh? We have much to do.’

  ‘What? Why?’

  ‘To catch that bastard Jean, naturally. If he escapes, there will be trouble for us. We have to catch him, silence him.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Arnaud sighed. ‘Look, do you remember anything?’

  ‘Of course I do! Just because I was knocked on the head doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten what happened! I remember everything! We were guarding the King’s bitch, but when she’d gone, we were all sitting about, and then …’

  ‘Yes. And Jean escaped, and he knew all that happened in the castle. So we have to catch him or kill him as soon as we can before he can tell anyone else about us.’

  Le Vieux nodded with a grimace. Jean knew too much about their actions.

  Arnaud looked up at the sky, then to the north. ‘This weather is going to break soon. It’ll be snow in a couple of days, you mark my words. We have to move fast to tell him.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The Comte de Foix. Our master has ordered us, Vieux.’

  Boulogne

  Fortunately there was much to distract them as they began to make their way on horseback down through the steep old streets, and out into the open countryside.

  ‘Christ’s bones!’ Simon gasped as they passed under the city gateway, and Baldwin could see that he was not alone in shock. Among the English party many were just as surprised to see that there was a large gathering of people here to see the Queen off. Many were knights and squires, all mounted and caparisoned, with gaily coloured flags fluttering in the cold breeze. It appeared that many wished to honour the sister of their king, and the knights and other nobles were to join Queen Isabella’s party.

  Their leader was a tall, powerful knight with the bearing of a man born to command: Pierre d’Artois, a senior member of the French nobility, to whom the other knights and counts submitted. Greying, he was plainly not a young man, but the blue eyes in his brown face were shrewd and confident.

  For the English, to see so many war-like Frenchmen was somewhat alarming. True, they had papers promising safe conduct, but all too often such papers could be ignored. Although there was some pride in the Queen’s face at the sight of such an honour guard, Baldwin was less happy. Poor Queen Isabella had suffered the indignity of having all that made her life pleasant removed from her in recent months, and one thing she had sorely missed was the respect that she had been used to since birth. Under Despenser’s rule, even her children had been taken from her. Now, here in her homeland, she was being treated as a queen once more.

  However, where there were many warriors there were equally many threats. In theory the first was the threat to the Queen herself, but looking about him Baldwin judged that she was safe enough. With the small force of Englishmen surrounding her, any enemy would have to cut through a ring of steel comprising not only Lord John Cromw
ell and his knights, but also the men-at-arms. Richard Blaket in particular was glowering about him ferociously at all the French as though longing to wield his bill. Except the French were all behaving with impeccable courtly manners. There was no possible danger to the Queen from these people.

  No, it was not she who was in the most danger. It was he himself, Sir Baldwin de Furnshill, the renegade Templar. He must look to his own defence before almost anything else. Thus, while quickly glancing about him for any possible danger to Queen Isabella, he was also careful to study all the faces for any which might seem familiar. He had no wish to be arrested by the Church for supposed past offences.

  There were none. Some fellows looked a little suspicious of these English knights, as though considering them little better than supplicants come to beg alms from their king. One in particular was especially haughty in his manner. He looked over the Queen’s entourage with simple disdain, and Baldwin was sure he made a comment – something about it being no surprise that his king had taken back his Gascon lands if this little band was the best the English could produce to serve his own wife.

  The man’s arrogance irked not only Baldwin. He could see that others, even Sir Charles, were eyeing the fellow closely. Baldwin jerked his head to Simon, and spurred his mount to close the distance between them and Lord John Cromwell. If that man was a threat, he was already nullified if all had spotted him. The menace Baldwin feared was the one that had not been seen.

  Lord John was riding with his own squire and a groom, and as Baldwin drew nearer he saw that Sir John de Sapy and Sir Peter de Lymesey were also already close to hand. It was in the way of things that men of war would automatically look to the security of their charge.

  For Simon, seeing such a gathering was petrifying, and he knew only gratitude for the presence of Baldwin and the other knights and Lord John. If there was a threat to the Queen, these men would soon quell it. They certainly looked the part, with their armour shining, and the rattling and clanging of their weapons a constant accompaniment.