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

by Michael Jecks

  Adam sank back, his face bleak. ‘It’s not my fault.’

  ‘So where is he this time?’ Philip asked. He drained his cup.

  ‘God only knows,’ Ricard said. ‘All I know is, he’s bloody dangerous. If there has been some crime up there, I pray someone will catch him and slay him quickly so that we’re all a little safer.’

  Janin was thoughtful. ‘He was strange about that, wasn’t he? I would’ve thought …’

  ‘What?’ Philip demanded.

  ‘I was just thinking: all the men I’ve met who’ve been allied with Despenser have been proud about it. They’ve boasted.’

  ‘I suppose you’ve met a lot of them, eh?’ Philip scoffed.

  ‘Quite a few,’ Janin said. ‘You remember the man in the glovemaker’s house? He was not too secretive, was he? He was determined to have us spy on the Queen, and he told us how.’

  ‘Although he told us to tell everything we learned to some man with a peacock picture,’ Philip said, scowling.

  ‘Who never appeared,’ Janin agreed. ‘Perhaps that was only while she was in England still, and he couldn’t get his comrade to join us out here?’

  ‘For my part, I reckon that fellow Jack is a friend of his, and he had Jack placed with us so that Jack could keep an eye on her all on his own. There was no need for us then.’

  ‘Except,’ Janin said, ‘he had a man who was a competent musician, so he had to find a means of installing the fellow into a troupe of Queen’s musicians.’

  The others said nothing. There was nothing much they could say. All knew what he meant: Jack or an accomplice had murdered their friend Peter in order to ease his route into the Queen’s party. Kill Peter, then Jack could join the musicians.

  ‘We aren’t fighters,’ Philip said, with blatant dishonesty.

  ‘If Jack is one of Despenser’s men, why did his mate have the glover and his wife killed? That man told us the glover was a loyal servant to Despenser,’ Adam said.

  ‘Who else told us that?’ Janin demanded harshly.

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘Did anyone else corroborate what he said about the glover? The man might well have been uninterested in politics for all we know. The mention of Despenser’s name was handy to scare us into being obedient, but that doesn’t mean he told us the truth, does it? I’d guess he was a Despenser man himself, and Jack is too.’

  ‘Which means de Bouden is. He forced us to bring Jack,’ Ricard said, and belched.

  ‘So he was telling the truth when he told us to leave him alone,’ Janin said. ‘He could have had us caught and executed, if he’s one of Despenser’s men.’

  ‘In England he could,’ Ricard said. ‘Maybe we ought to just stay here in France.’

  ‘What?’ Janin shot out. He looked up. ‘Stay here?’

  ‘Become wandering troubadours. With the number of castles in the country, we’d make a good living, I’ll bet. As much wine as you can drink.’

  ‘They’re a bit odd over here, though,’ was Philip’s considered opinion.

  ‘The weather’s warmer,’ Janin mused.

  Adam stared. ‘You reckon this is warmer than London?’

  ‘The summers are longer and warmer,’ Janin amended.

  ‘At least here in France we’re out of the reach even of Despenser’s arm,’ Ricard pointed out. ‘The only person who hates him more than the Queen is the French king.’

  ‘What of Jack?’

  ‘Swyve him with a blunt stick. As soon as we can lose him, I vote we do,’ Ricard said. ‘At best he’s a spy against our queen. I don’t want to aid him in any way.’

  For some minutes the group was silent, drinking slowly, each immersed in his own thoughts. But then Ricard’s fingers began to tap out a beat. Janin watched intently, frowning as he strove to recognise the tune, then nodded, and took up his hurdy-gurdy. Adam pulled out a small whistle and set it to his lips, while Philip began to beat on the tabletop.

  ‘Space for another in your session?’ Jack asked as he entered the room.

  ‘Where have you been?’ Janin asked as they all stopped playing.

  ‘I wanted to learn what all that noise was about. Did you hear it? Apparently some guard has been murdered.’

  Ricard sprang to his feet, and was about to jump on Jack when Jack held up his hand and laughed outright. ‘Not again! No, there was a witness to the attack, a squire. He’s described a Frenchman from the south, wearing a worn leather jack and red hosen. Do I fit that description? No? Then calm yourselves.’

  ‘Why should we?’ Ricard said. ‘We don’t trust you. You suddenly appear, just after our mate’s been murdered … did you have him killed?’

  ‘Me? Christ in a bucket, no! That was our enemy did that. No, I’m your comrade.’

  ‘You?’

  Jack shrugged, but then he stepped nearer their table. In his hand he held his bodhran, wrapped in its leather case. He took it out and showed it to them, then reversed it. At the back of the skin, near the rim where his forearm lay while gripping it, was a picture. ‘Look at that. I’m told it’s a very good picture, although I’m no judge. Ach, I can’t understand pictures and what people see in them. What do you think?’

  Ricard could not speak. The little picture of the peacock was perfect, he thought dully. So this was the spy to whom they were supposed to report. All along, he’d been the spy for the man who’d killed the glover and his wife after Ricard’s drunken fondling in the London tavern.

  ‘Who do you work for?’ he asked.

  ‘Ah, now. That you have to work out. Let’s just keep things all good and professional.’

  It was Janin who asked the one question they all wanted answered. ‘Why show us that now? You could have told us at any time, but you kept it hidden until now. Why?’

  Jack looked from one to the other of them measuringly, finishing with Janin himself. ‘I didn’t need to before. I thought to keep quiet and just stay with you. That way I could keep a close eye on the Queen. But now odd things are happening. The man who died today was one of a small garrison in a castle downriver. As far as I can tell, all his companions have died except one.’

  ‘What of it?’ Janin asked.

  ‘This castle was a prison. It held an important lady, and the men there, so it is rumoured, raped her. It is a foul story. To think that a high-born noblewoman could be thrown into a gaol is bad enough, and the more so when it’s a place like that, but to have the guards rape her too, that is particularly repugnant.’ He held up his hand. ‘I know. I’m getting to the point.

  ‘The thing is, gentles, that the woman who was thrown into gaol went there because of our queen. And that’s a little worrying, because it could mean that the dear lady we serve could herself be in danger. Someone has killed those who harmed this prisoner. So she has some fellows who want to serve her, perhaps. They are punishing those who hurt her.’

  Adam made an impatient noise. ‘What of it?’

  ‘Ah, perhaps I’m making a little heavy weather of my story. They do say it’s a curse of the Irish, after all, never to tell a story quickly when it can be spun out. Well, I’ll try to be brutally swift, then. Just for you. You see, young Adam, if someone is out to punish all those who hurt their lady, and if our queen was the very person who had her imprisoned, it’s not too much of a leap of intellect, lad, is it, to think that our queen could very well herself be next on this fellow’s list. Eh?’

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Back at the Queen’s chamber, Baldwin took little time to explain what had happened. ‘So if you see a tatty little churl from the far south, carrying a poker and clad in worn red hosen and old leather jack, stab first and question him later,’ he said lightly.

  The Queen nodded and showed relief. ‘For a moment I wondered whether there was something a lot worse.’

  She was sitting in a high-backed chair. There were no other chairs or stools in the room, so Cromwell and Baldwin were standing before her.

  Lord John glanced at her. ‘You thought th
e peasants had risen?’

  ‘It is not unheard of, but no – my fear was another fire. Sir Baldwin, that reminds me. How are your burns?’

  ‘Much better since I’ve been using the salve you kindly sent me,’ he said with a bow.

  ‘A curious thing, that,’ Lord John said. ‘I have found no one who can tell why someone should have wished to have de Foix killed. He was pretty universally liked.’

  ‘Except by me, I fear,’ Baldwin said. He caught Cromwell’s eye, and shook his head very slightly. ‘But it is probable that this was just a chance encounter. Someone intended to set off the charge there to tempt men from their tents so that he could enter to rob them, and the Comte happened to catch him in the act. I dare say it was nothing more than that. The main thing is, there was no threat to the Queen, and that is all that matters.’

  ‘It was,’ Cromwell said. ‘But now we’ve had two murders in the space of as many weeks. Surely that is too many for coincidence.’

  ‘I do not see how the Comte de Foix and an ageing prison guard could be related,’ Baldwin said. ‘They must have been unconnected.’

  ‘The Comte de Foix, you say?’ the Queen mused. ‘His territories are in the far south of France, are they not?’

  ‘Yes, I believe so,’ Cromwell said.

  ‘Which is where this little tatty guard came from, I think you said, Sir Baldwin?’

  Baldwin nodded.

  ‘So perhaps the same man was responsible for both deaths? What of the dead guard – did you learn anything about him?’

  ‘Only that he was a guard in a prison-castle in Normandy, near the borders. The Château Gaillard. The man who killed him was from the same garrison.’

  ‘That place!’ the Queen hissed, and looked into the fire’s flames. ‘I would have you leave me, my lord, Sir Baldwin. I am tired.’

  ‘What do you think she meant by that?’ Simon asked a little later.

  He had risen on hearing the noise, but he didn’t know the palace well enough to go haring about the place. Confident that he’d get lost if he tried to find the Queen’s quarters, he took the sensible option of remaining in his room with his sword unsheathed. After all, guards would be pelting up and down passages seeking the source of those screams, and a foreigner with an odd accent would be an easy target. Better by far to remain safely out of the way. It was a relief to hear Baldwin return.

  ‘There was something about the castle which upset her, I think. I do not know why,’ Baldwin admitted.

  ‘And meanwhile there is this strange, scruffy churl wandering the place. Do you think he was there on the night the Comte died?’

  ‘It is possible. There were a lot of strange men and women on the journey here, weren’t there? The hangers-on formed a large train at the rear of the column, and there were all the knights and nobles. He could have been attached to any of their parties.’

  ‘And this other man, the one he killed. He was in the room with Robert de Chatillon? Curious that people near that Robert seem to keep dying. First his Comte, now this guard.’

  ‘I want to learn more about the Château Gaillard. There must be some reason for the two guards to have had a dispute.’

  ‘We could always try to speak to Robert again, I suppose,’ Simon said. He was doubtful. ‘He was not overly keen to discuss affairs with us last time we spoke, though. Do you think he has given up any thoughts that you could have been responsible for the murder of his master?’

  ‘Oh, I think so. I think my inane playing with the black powder was enough to convince him of that.’

  ‘Maybe he thought you were so incompetent that you’d be likely to burn yourself out in the wild at night?’ Simon guessed with a mischievous smile. ‘Just as you did!’

  Paul had passed up the road twice before he decided to give up on the search for now and find a small wine shop.

  The nearest was a scruffy little building that suited his mood nicely. He entered and ordered a jug of the local wine. It was the peasant drink, rough and potent, but that was how he liked his wine. The smooth, sweeter wines on offer in the palace were no doubt more expensive, but he preferred a harsher variety.

  He’d always liked France, since the first time he’d come here with Sir Charles three years ago. That journey was curtailed after they had got into a fight with some locals and killed them all, but it hadn’t affected his feeling for the country. Only for some of the peasants. They were as rude as any others.

  That attack and the consequent flight from France had been exciting, but much of his life had been like that. At first, with Sir Charles in Lancaster, he had only ever been on the right side of the law, but as soon as they found themselves declared outlaw everything changed. They were forced to run from the country and seek refuge in France, where for a while they had survived on the proceeds of Sir Charles’s store of silver and pewter, but all too soon that was expended, and they had decided to try their luck with the Germans. It was said that the colonies in Lithuania were lucrative. Teutonic knights were overrunning the heathen eastern lands and turning them into productive Christian territories, apparently. Except they’d never made it there.

  Instead they had travelled back to England with Simon and Baldwin. They had endured enough wandering by then, and it was to be hoped that the King’s rage against all those who had been loyal to Lancaster would have burned itself out.

  Returning had been a strange experience. At first Paul had reckoned that they would suffer the fate of so many others, and be hanged for their treachery, but they had been fortunate. Apparently only a short while before their return the reign of terror had come to an end. Many said it was the Queen who intervened. She was certainly a kind, gracious lady, so it would be no surprise, Paul thought. Sir Charles reckoned that the King had sated his desire for blood, and one morning awoke to realise what horror he had inflicted on the kingdom. For his part, Paul doubted it. He had enough experience of warriors and rulers to know that those who wielded immense power tended to believe in their right to use it to the exclusion of all other considerations.

  Anyway, they had managed to find themselves billeted in the King’s household at last. Along with many others who had dubious pasts, they had been accepted, and their crimes forgiven. Not that they’d been guilty of many crimes in England. Most of them had been committed in France.

  Which was why he was still a little nervous as he walked the lanes about here. It was near enough to Paris for him to feel that sense of wild danger, as though someone was watching them constantly, ready to call the hue and cry to arrest them both, or kill them. Even though he knew that they should be perfectly safe here, his eyes kept flitting over the crowds walking past.

  No sign of Sir Charles. He would be farther up, nearer the river, if he had kept on walking. Paul hoped he was all right.

  It was a strange thought, but one which had returned to him more regularly recently: if it was bad enough to lose Earl Lancaster, what would he do if Sir Charles were to die? Without his master, he would be as lost as a cork bobbing about on the sea. Sir Charles gave him purpose, his life meaning. Without Sir Charles, he didn’t know what he could do. He was no farmer, and he had no trade. Perhaps, he considered, glancing about him idly, he could start up a wine shop, or take on a tavern in England? There were always people who wanted a drink, and provided he didn’t fall foul of the ale-measurers, it was safe business, too.

  A flash, nothing more, just a brief glimpse of a cloak, and his attention was focused again. He stood slowly, drinking from his cup, eyeing the figure. It was a tall man, with the build of a rich one. Not someone who looked as though he’d ever been forced to go hungry.

  Paul drained the cup, regretfully left the remains of the wine in the jug, and hurried off after his quarry.

  Robert de Chatillon groaned as he levered himself up from his seat. Painfully, grimacing, he hobbled over to the sideboard.

  If anything, the pain was worse now. It felt as though his back was turned against his body slightly, like a bar of st
eel that was bent out of true. Standing and walking were difficult, and even when he lay in his bed of an evening, matters were not improved. The dull pain would always be there, and no matter how he turned or rolled, he would be aware of it. Somehow the fact that it was unchanging seemed to make it more unendurable.

  He poured more wine, hoping it might make a little difference. The knock, when it came, was welcome as a distraction. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Do you remember me, my son?’ Père Pierre Clergue asked as he stepped quietly into the room. ‘Our friends are anxious that our plans appear to have gone astray.’

  Roger Mortimer kept a smile on his face as he walked quickly along the cobbles. He had to be cautious, aware always that any eyes with black suspicion in them might belong to his enemy’s men. There were so many who’d be prepared to slay him and carry his body back to Despenser for a reward – and he had no doubt that the reward would be large. Despenser hated him enough to share his wealth with any man who destroyed him.

  The King, too, was keen to see him dead. It was terrible, that. The man whom he had served devotedly all his life was now seeking to have him killed. All because of the poison that evil whelp Despenser was pissing in his ear the whole time. Mortimer had made it very clear that he wanted to remove Despenser, but that was no more than common necessity. The thieving bastard was ruining the country with his avarice and ruthlessness. Trouble was, just as before with Piers damned Gaveston, the King was blind. He was in love, and nothing his lover did could be wrong in his eyes.

  And therein lay the problem. If only the King would pick suitable advisers. He always selected the pretty men, the ones with the ready charm – for him – and the same love of high fashion and clothing. A man who was merely obedient and honourable didn’t rank nearly so highly in the King’s esteem.

  What was truly insulting was the King’s love of play-acting and peasants. He would much prefer to join a group of churls laying a hedge than get involved in a good boar hunt. He had been known to go swimming, in God’s name, when his knights were off after venison. What sort of example was that?