‘Mine? Perhaps. Why, have you heard her say anything about me?’
There was a sudden abrupt sharpness to the question that somewhat surprised Baldwin. He shook his head. ‘No, but you are known to be a sensible, rational man, my lord earl. And I know that you and she are on cordial terms. She does not blame you for any of her loss of fortune in the last months, does she?’
‘No, thanks to God. She is a good, sensible woman. Always found her so, anyway. Has she had any setbacks?’
‘The course of negotiations has been so fast that we have been able to study every cobble in this yard in some detail,’ Simon said.
‘Ah. So the King is right to be concerned about the length of time spent here and the cost of maintaining this embassy. Anything else giving you trouble here?’
‘We have had some incidents. A French comte, Enguerrand de Foix, was killed one night,’ Baldwin said slowly. There was no need to mention his own proximity at that death. ‘We don’t know who did it, but I should think that some outlaw saw him late at night and took a fancy to his purse or something. Then another man was killed, again a Frenchman killed by a countryman. But last night, more seriously, a man-at-arms was murdered just outside the gate there. He was the servant of Sir Charles.’
‘In truth? Gracious heaven, you have been enjoying a small glut of murders in this fair land, then. And now, if you will excuse me, I think I have an urgent need for some ale in my belly. Is the buttery through here?’
‘Yes, my lord,’
‘There is a man here, a musician called Jack. Tallish, skinny, has an Irish accent. He’s gone to deliver my bags to my chamber. If you see him, tell him where to find me, eh? He’ll be wearing the Queen’s tabard – he’s one of her musicians – so shouldn’t be hard to see.’
‘Of course, my lord,’ Baldwin said, and then watched as the brother of the King made his way to the hall’s entrance, and ducked inside.
Simon pursed his lips. ‘So things improve not at all back at home.’
‘So it would seem. I have to admit, Simon, I would give much to have my wife and family here in France with us now. It is a country where a man could make a good life for himself.’
Simon looked at him in surprise. ‘You think so? You wouldn’t consider finding a lord over here, would you?’
‘There are times when the thought of returning to England fills me with sadness, Simon. The idea of going somewhere where—’
‘Isn’t that one of the musicians?’ Simon interrupted. ‘Perhaps it’s the man Earl Edmund meant?’
Baldwin followed his pointing finger and saw a tall man stalking off towards the Queen’s chambers. ‘I’m not going to run after him now,’ he said. ‘We can tell him when he returns.’
Ricard was reluctant to go straight to de Bouden. ‘We don’t know anything, really. What can we say?’
‘Just that Jack is suspicious, and that you suspect not only him, but his friend too. Don’t have to say anything about him,’ Philip said. ‘Only that he is a stranger, and friend to Jack, so probably as dangerous.’
‘As dangerous,’ Ricard repeated to himself as he made his way on leaden legs to the comptroller’s chamber, holding the hand of little Charlie. They were close to the Queen’s own rooms, and he glanced towards them with a sense that his whole life was unravelling. He felt really pathetic about being sent to talk to her most senior clerk like this. It was demeaning. He wasn’t some magnificent lord or anything, but he had always been in control of his own life, and had known that there was a little place in the world that was perfectly Ricard-shaped. Now, though, he was sensing that his space was growing ever more constricted. There might be room for him for a little longer, but he reckoned that soon he’d be squeezed out. Pop! And there’d be no more Ricard. Not the way things were going just now.
Gloomily he rapped sharply on the door, hoping that there would be no answer, and was relieved when there was no response. De Bouden was always curt and sharp with his ‘Come in!’ but now there was no sound. More confidently, he knocked again, and was about to turn and leave when he heard something from inside. It sounded like a door closing.
‘Master?’ he called.
There was silence for a moment, and he was aware of little Charlie looking up at him with those big blue eyes of his. Trusting, always hopeful. And then a quiet voice called ‘Yes?’
Grimacing, he turned the great ring to lift the latch inside.
‘Hello?’ he said.
There was no light in the room, but there was the scent of a recently snuffed candle, and he was sure that there was a figure at the wall, not far from the shuttered window. A tallish, muscular man, from the look of him. Certainly not de Bouden.
‘What do you want?’
‘I was looking for William de Bouden. I have a message for him.’
‘He has gone for a few moments. I think it would be best if you were to go as well. You don’t want to be here.’
‘Who are you? What are you doing in here?’ Ricard said. His confidence was growing. This man shouldn’t be here, he felt. The quiet tone, his remaining in darkness, both spoke of his need for secrecy. There was something about the darkness in the room that was intimidating. Not scary, but definitely intimidating, yes. Charlie was tugging backwards, away from the room, and Ricard could hear him moaning quietly. It was enough to break any spell. He took a sharp step backwards, out of the room, and instantly that sly little Irish voice was there behind him.
‘Ricard, ah, and I’m glad to see you here. You’ll not be wanting to stay, though.’
‘Jack,’ Ricard spat, startled. He moved further away from the door until he was at the entrance to a narrow, corridor-like alley, which led to the Queen’s chamber. Automatically, he moved into it, away from Jack. ‘I was sent here because of you.’
‘Me? And why would I want to be here, then?’
‘We know that you’re an enemy of the Queen. You have had something to do with the murders, haven’t you?’
‘Me? The thought!’
‘Not just here, either. You helped kill the glover and his wife in London, didn’t you? I dare say you killed Peter too.’
Jack glanced back towards the man in the room as though seeking approval of something. Ricard found himself peering in the same direction, but although the fellow had approached the door, Ricard still couldn’t make out his features. He had a niggling suspicion that he ought to recognise him; he was sure that the man was vaguely familiar, but the face stubbornly refused to come to his mind. And then he suddenly felt himself in danger. He had accused a murderer of his crimes, and there was no one else here to protect him except an accomplice.
‘Sweet Mother of God,’ he muttered to himself. The man in the room was moving towards him now, and when he looked back at Jack he saw that the bodhran player was smiling as he too came nearer. It seemed to him that Jack’s face was full of menace. When he smiled, it touched his lips alone. It never even approached his eyes.
Charlie was pulling away. Ricard gripped his hand and retreated down the narrow corridor, never letting his gaze leave the others. He was tempted to turn and fly, but then he saw that Jack’s attention was gone from him.
‘Musician? What in God’s name are you doing here?’ de Bouden demanded.
Sir John de Sapy was not the brightest man in the King’s household. He had been a loyal supporter of Earl Thomas of Lancaster before the Earl had shown himself to be the King’s enemy, and then the King had caught him and had him executed like a common felon, him and hundreds of his supporters from all over the country, barons, knights and commoners. Not Sir John, though.
There were others like him. Peter de Lymesey was another in the same mould. A man who was not noted for his politeness or intellect, yet when he had been found in the camp of the Earl of Lancaster he had been enabled to regain his honour in the King’s service.
At times Sir Charles had been happy to denigrate them both, because he had always known himself to be superior. And then, more recently,
he had begun to wonder. After all, if they were so stupid, what where they doing in the King’s entourage? And then he had realised the simple truth: they were exactly that – dull-witted supporters who were no threat to the King – or his favourite.
Sir Hugh le Despenser was avaricious, yes. And a murderous, thieving devil who’d kill you to steal your teeth if he could see a potential advantage. But he was not an idiot. He liked to have strong men about him and the King, it was true, but he was also very keen that he should be the first among them. So he always sought out those who were less intellectually able than himself.
Sir Charles could smile at that thought, even now. So Despenser viewed Sir Charles as a fool, then? A man in the same mould as Sir John and Sir Peter? He had made an error there.
‘This man is worth a fortune to the King, don’t forget,’ he hissed to them as they all left the castle. ‘But it doesn’t matter whether he’s alive or not.’
Sir John glowered about him. ‘How do we find him?’
‘I saw him myself before the castle,’ Sir Charles said. ‘I think there’s something keeping him about here. Perhaps he’s spying on the Queen with a view to harming her? Or capturing her? It would be a sore blow to the King, were his wife to be taken by his worst foe.’
Sir Peter smiled easily. ‘Ah. So you have no idea where he is, then?’
‘He is nearby,’ Sir Charles said flatly.
‘You know for definite that the man who killed Paul was Mortimer?’ Sir John said. He had asked that three times so far.
‘It was him. I told you: I saw Mortimer here, outside the castle, and he was walking over this way. Paul was trying to find him, and then he was killed. It must have been Mortimer.’
Sir John shrugged. ‘Could have been anyone. He was out late after curfew, from what you say. Any man could have seen him as easy prey. There are men who do that sort of thing.’
‘It was Mortimer. Paul would have defended himself against any other. He was a capable man-at-arms.’
Sir Peter was more sanguine than Sir John. ‘If there’s any chance it’s Mortimer, we have a duty to find him.’
‘That’s fine – but where in Christ’s name do we start?’ Sir John said. ‘I’ve never been to Paris before.’
‘Nor I,’ Sir Peter admitted. He glanced hopefully at Sir Charles.
‘You don’t need to know the city,’ he said. ‘All that matters is we keep to the nearer alleys. The man is here somewhere, and he must have some sort of interest in the castle. Why else would he dump my man’s body by the entrance?’
‘Very well,’ said Sir Peter. ‘Then we find a place to wait and watch.’
Roger Mortimer bit at his lower lip as the man scuttled away, up the alley past Jack and into the main yard. He was about to motion to Jack to follow and kill him when wiser counsel persuaded him against it. If it were necessary to do anything about Master Ricard, it could be done later. There was no urgency.
‘Your highness,’ he said with a bow.
Queen Isabella was radiant even in this dim light. She wore a black tunic and hooded cloak, like a wealthy widow. At her side was de Bouden, as usual, while behind her walked her lady-in-waiting, that blonde girl. Alice? Avice, or something. No threat to him, anyway, which was the most important thing so far as Mortimer was concerned.
Sweet Jesus, what a life! Only a few years ago he had been among the most valued of the King’s servants, fêted wherever he went within the realm, and feared abroad as a major general of the King’s host. If there was a battle to be fought, the King would send his Mortimer. And now he had to fear meeting people in case he might be sought out and assassinated. He dared not even trust the Queen, a lady who had shown herself to be a friend to him and to his wife.
‘Please, Roger, stand.’
‘I cannot. You are still my queen,’ he murmured.
His eyes were fixed on the floor, but even as he opened his mouth to ask Jack to leave them, he heard the door close softly. Glancing up, he saw that he and the Queen were alone but for the blonde.
‘Roger, rise, I beg,’ she said, but behind the gentle words was an iron will.
He had been brought up in the culture of courtly love, but her tone showed that this was no time for foolish exhibitions. He nodded and obeyed. ‘I am glad indeed to see you again.’
‘And I you. Roger, this farce of an embassy has dragged on long enough. It is not likely that I shall be here for much longer.’
‘My lady!’ he groaned. It was devastating to hear it from her own lips. She was the only true friend he had over here who could influence matters back at home. Isabella was an intelligent woman, and with her support he had been sure that he might have been able to effect a reconciliation with the King. If she was to be called home again, her embassy must have failed, and any possibility of a reconciliation with her husband was effectually closed off. Neither she nor Mortimer could hope to resume their past positions. Communication between them was impossible while the Queen was locked up under the constant watchful eye of those such as Eleanor, Lady Despenser. They needed more time.
‘You know it’s true, Roger. My brother is a sharp man with a mind like a steel trap. No matter what I do or say, he will demand ever more harsh conditions. It is impossible.’
‘You cannot appeal to his brotherly love for you?’
She looked at him very directly. ‘He has no heir. If he was still married to that whore Blanche, he might have had children – sons – by now.’
‘It was hardly your fault that her crimes were discovered.’
‘It would hardly have endeared me to him that it was I who discovered them, nor that it was I who told our father and set in train the destruction of my brothers’ marriages.’
Mortimer nodded. ‘So he will not assist you?’
‘He has indicated as much. And I must obey my husband’s instructions. He will demand my return soon.’
‘Could you not stall him? Why not discuss with the French king an extension of the truce while you continue to negotiate? That way, at least you remain here and we can hope for something else to come to our aid.’
She smiled. ‘Roger, dear Roger. You plan still for a miracle? There can be none, believe me. This whole affair of the invasion of Guyenne has been a ploy. My brother seeks the entirety of the English possessions. He needs England to bow before him.’
‘No English king can bend the knee to him. It would be intolerable.’
‘No English king can hold lands from him, then,’ she said more sharply.
Mortimer bowed his head. He must remember that her loyalties were divided. A large part of her heart was still French. But he needed her help.
He had met her several times now – initially at his own instigation, but recently more often at hers – but he felt as though he was making very little headway. As was she.
What he wanted – needed – was his wife to be freed so that he could have her back at his side again. She had always been with him until his arrest, and he missed her steadying influence. Always kind, always sweet-natured, it was obscene that she should be held in a dungeon at the King’s pleasure.
And he knew that Isabella understood his urgent desire for his companion’s return. She had a similar yearning for her own husband to retake his rightful position with her. Not much hope of that, though. The man was besotted with his ‘dearest Hugh’. She had to know that. Roger Mortimer could feel sympathy for her … no, more than that. They had a deep understanding based on their experiences. Both had been deprived of all they held closest to their hearts: children, spouses, treasure – all that made life worthwhile.
Mortimer had been a contented husband and father, and losing his wife in this manner, knowing that she was incarcerated with only a pittance for her upkeep, was tearing at his heart and soul.
‘My poor lady,’ he whispered.
‘She suffers. As we all do,’ Isabella said quietly.
He nodded, and then looked up at her with compassion in his eyes. ‘My poor quee
n, too.’
Because there was no means for her to recover her husband. They both knew that.
‘There is hope for your Lady Joan,’ Isabella said.
‘And you, my lady? My queen?’
‘I have to live without hope,’ she said bitterly. ‘When I return to England, I return to a gaol cell. I am free while I am here, but as soon as I cross the Channel I cease to be a useful ambassador and become the King’s prisoner.’
‘If only we could cross the seas with a host,’ he said, and clenched his teeth. Then: ‘It would be good to return with men at my back, ready to fight for the realm and evict Despenser. I would be honoured to install you on your throne again, where you belong, Queen Isabella.’
‘I wish it could be so,’ she said sadly.
Roger Mortimer nodded, and both were silent a moment, until Roger looked up, his eyes narrowed and thoughtful. He met her own steady gaze, and each recognised the speculation in the other.
‘Alicia?’ the Queen said after a moment. ‘Leave us.’
Chapter Thirty-Six
Ricard scampered away from the confrontation carrying Charlie, his heart pounding so harshly he felt sure that it must explode from his breast. At the corner of the corridor he turned to glance back and make sure that Jack was not following him. He had a fear that the man might chase after him to kill him even as he reached the castle’s court. Jack had not hesitated to kill before, after all. Ricard was as sure as he could be that Jack must have murdered poor Peter to get himself in on this embassy with the others.
But no: the man was back there still, bowing to the Queen as she slipped past and entered the room with that man whom Ricard had felt sure he knew. Then the Queen’s woman followed her inside, while de Bouden and a guard stood at the doorway with Jack.
He felt sick as he realised that he was safe for now. ‘Christ and all his saints,’ he muttered, and puffed out his cheeks. There must be an easier way to earn a living, he told himself regretfully. Looking down at Charlie, he saw that the boy’s face was smeared with tears and snot, but the lad had stopped his wailing now. Ever since de Bouden appeared Charlie had been making the same low, inconsolable noise, as though one more person coming up behind him was the last shock he could cope with. ‘It’s all right, lad. We’re safe now,’ Ricard said.
The Templar, the Queen and Her Lover: (Knights Templar 24) Page 35