He had approached them as they spoke, and now he rested an elbow on the table at Baldwin’s side, peering at both men as he squeezed his arse on to the bench.
‘You really think the King would pay five hundred pounds to have him killed?’ Simon asked. The thought of so much money was appalling. A daunting sum. ‘Just to carry so much would be a challenge. The weight …’
‘The King would pay a thousand to have the devil removed. All the while he lives, Mortimer is a threat. To the King, to the realm, to all. Do you think he had a part in Paul’s murder, then?’
‘I have no means of knowing. All I do know is that Sir Charles apparently thought he saw Mortimer yesterday. Paul was out looking for him when he was killed. Now Sir Charles and your other two knights have missed their meal. I somehow doubt that they are holding vigil over the body, don’t you?’
Cromwell looked away, chewing at his inner lip. ‘This is mad. They are supposed to be here to help protect the Queen, and they’re running off to try to win a prize.’
‘If so much money is waved before a man’s nose, it is no surprise that he might snatch at it,’ Baldwin said.
Cromwell grunted. He did not meet Baldwin’s or Simon’s eye, but sat staring at the wall, considering. ‘Sir Baldwin, I am concerned. I have the charge of the defence of the Queen during these negotiations, but here I have only myself and you whom I can trust. The others are too careless of her safety. They prefer to seek their own rewards. Well, I cannot surrender myself to such greed. If they treat her in such a disrespectful manner, it means I have to be more wary.’
‘Would you like us to go and seek out the three knights?’ Baldwin asked.
‘No. I cannot afford to lose you two as well.’ He saw the expression on Baldwin’s face and laughed quietly. ‘Nay, Sir Baldwin, do not look like that! I do not accuse you of also chasing the reward, I merely say that I can hardly see to her safety all on my own. If you and Simon were to go and seek the others, I would be here alone. I tell you now, I would not feel safe in such a position.’ He rose. ‘Would you aid me in protecting the Queen, Sir Baldwin?’
‘Of course.’
It was enough. Lord Cromwell nodded and returned to his seat near the Queen, and Baldwin and Simon turned back to their food.
‘Damn their eyes, what do they all think they’re doing?’ Simon grumbled.
‘Seeking their fortune,’ Baldwin said absently. He toyed with some bread. ‘But that’s not the worst, should news of this sort of reward get out.’
Simon gave a low whistle. ‘Oh.’
‘We should keep all talk of such money to ourselves, I think. Think what the average man-at-arms would do for five pounds. If some of the men here realised that there was a man nearby with five hundred pounds or more on his head,’ Baldwin said quietly, ‘just imagine what they might not do to win it.’
‘What, the men here?’ Simon said lightly, but then his smile faded as he glanced about him at the other diners in the hall. Scruffy, hard men, with rough, scarred faces; men whose most fervent desire was for war so that they could loot and pillage.
Baldwin said nothing.
Sir John de Sapy had not taken long to see the flaw in Sir Charles’s idea. It was well enough for them to stay together to try to capture and kill Mortimer, but it would undoubtedly be better were they to separate and keep an eye on different streets and lanes. ‘That way we may find him. If one of us does see him, we mustn’t try to accost the bastard. Just follow him to see where he stays each night.’
‘Good idea,’ Sir Peter agreed immediately, and Sir John looked at him.
Yes. There was no doubt that both had the same idea in mind. If there was the remotest chance, either would kill Mortimer alone and take his head to the King. A bounty would only remain vast while it remained unshared, and any knight would be pleased to receive the sort of sum which Mortimer’s head would bring. It was a simple race to find the man.
Sir John had left them at a corner, and then wandered back towards the castle, gazing about him at everyone he passed. Mortimer’s face was familiar enough to everyone who had spent any time at the court of the King. His features were burned on to Sir John’s memory. And Sir John had immense powers of concentration. Others might see a simple wash of faces, none with any distinguishing features, but he knew that here in the streets was his man. Somewhere. All he need do was walk about long enough, and he would find him.
There was a niggling concern at the back of his mind, though, and that was whether he was looking in the right part of town. If he’d been here in hiding, he’d have picked an area that was as far away from the castle as possible. In fact, he would have fled Paris as soon as news of the English queen’s arrival had been announced. Yet Mortimer was here. Why was that? Must be a damned fool. Especially now that Sir Charles’s man was dead.
He saw a face, but discarded it. No, it was someone he knew, but not Mortimer. He continued on his way, scouring the visages all about, looking hard at any who turned aside as though hiding their features, and staring into any taverns or shops he passed.
‘Sir John? I am so pleased to see you.’
He felt the hand at the cloth of his elbow, and shook it free with that indignant anger any knight must feel at being touched by some churl in the street. ‘What?’
‘It is I, Père Pierre. Do you not remember me?’
Good Friday22
Jean woke with a crick in his neck, which felt as if it had locked solid. It was enormously painful to gain any movement; the slightest tremor in his skull was enough to send a bolt of anguish straight down into his spine and along his shoulder. He had to sit up slowly, his head turned to the right, tilted, straining to contain his mutters of shock and grief. Only when his upper body was upright did he dare to try to move his head again, and then only extremely gingerly.
The weather was warmer now, praise to Christ! Already he could feel the difference in the air as he snuffed it. This was the best Easter gift God could have given him, he felt.
Already, as he cautiously moved his head about, easing the tension in his muscles, stretching his arms over his head and wincing, he could hear the first stirrings from the houses all about. No bells today. This was the day all men remembered Christ’s crucifixion.
He would have liked to join the congregations. It was so long since he had been able to feel comfortable in the presence of the priests amid the flickering candles and slow chanting. All his love of the displays had been eroded as his faith in the Poor of Lyons had grown, and although it was perfectly in order for him to attend church in his village, so as not to draw attention to himself, still he felt uncomfortable. He couldn’t tell whether the priest was an honourable, decent man or not, or whether the service was conducted in the words which God had demanded. Instead, all was spoken in that leaden old tongue, Latin, so that all were denied access and understanding.
Still, he did enjoy the peace of the day. The people, driven to remember the hideous death of Christ, would revel in their silence. Men and women who would usually shout and sing would be drawn to silent contemplation. In Jean’s old church, a large cross would be taken up and wrapped in plain linen, before being installed in a stone sepulchre over the tomb of a man who had been a successful merchant and had paid for the honour of lying beneath the cross each Easter. There would be no Mass on that Friday. Only a steady murmur and mumble as people remembered Christ’s death and Mary’s pain and anguish. A terrible day, but somehow reassuring, because all those taking part knew that on Sunday they would be able to celebrate Christ’s return from the dead.
More than Berengar or the others could manage, he told himself grimly. They were gone for ever.
Drawing his cloak about him, he set off towards the inn where he had seen Arnaud before. He’d waited outside the place yesterday, but there had been no sign of the man. Possibly he would have better luck today.
He trod the streets carefully, always aware that he could be killed at any moment. Jean was a creature of the wild
in many ways, and he felt like a feral animal here in the city. Others walked sublimely unaware of their danger from other men, but not Jean. He had lived too long among the sheep and wolves of the mountains, and for him there were sheep and wolves aplenty here in the city. But the sheep were less self-aware, the wolves more ferocious.
A full street away from the inn, he paused and took stock. There was no obvious danger, no apparent lounger taking a keen interest in him. More important, there was no thin, sallow-featured face staring out at him from a doorway. Jean took care to halt and survey the more obvious places where the executioner could have installed himself, but there was nothing.
He continued onward, his eyes flitting from one window to another, constantly looking for any sign of attention, but there appeared to be no interest in him, and as he approached the inn he began to think that perhaps Arnaud had not realised that Jean knew where he was staying. Of course, it could simply be that Arnaud had seen his danger, and had removed to a different place. That was definitely a risk. But Jean felt sure that it was not so. There was something about the indomitable arrogance of the man who was so used to dealing out death that told Jean that Arnaud would not have thought him a risk. No, Arnaud was probably still here.
So he could catch him.
Baldwin and Simon were up early to join the rest of the castle’s guard at the service in the chapel, and then marched into the hall and took up their bread and cups of water. Fasting was apparently serious on this day. Throughout Lent meals had been provided in the evening after a day of moderate abstinence, but today there was literally bread and water.
The two were about to leave when they saw Sir John de Sapy. Baldwin grinned at the sight of him. He was clearly frozen. ‘A hard night searching, Sir John?’
‘I wonder whether Sir Charles is so besotted with the idea of revenge that he’s not seen the immense difficulties. He is determined to stay out there in the city until he kills Mortimer, and yet there’s been no sign of the man.’
‘Perhaps it was merely a cut-purse, as the French have said,’ Baldwin suggested. ‘The sergent stated as much yesterday.’
‘You think so? I reckon it’s too much of a coincidence that Sir Charles and Paul saw a man they thought was Mortimer, and then Paul died while trying to find him. To me that sounds as if he succeeded.’
‘Perhaps. Except if his search meant that he was wandering the city late at night, it’s all the more likely that he was knocked on the head by a common felon.’
Sir John sneered. ‘Except he wasn’t knocked on the head, was he? He was gutted like a pig. That’s more like deliberate murder, I’d say. Not some chance encounter.’ He bowed and left them.
‘He has a point, Baldwin,’ Simon said. ‘I’ve never known a man killed like that just because he happened to meet a felon in the streets.’
‘Nor have I,’ Baldwin admitted. ‘But did you think that Mortimer was capable of such an act?’
‘He is a traitor,’ Simon said. There was no accusation in his tone; it was a simple statement of fact, so far as he was concerned.
Baldwin nodded. It was the attitude most men would display. Mortimer was guilty of one crime and thus could be guilty of any number of others.
‘Baldwin, don’t you think you should keep yourself hidden? After what Mortimer told you about Despenser’s allegation, wouldn’t it be best for you to be quiet?’
It was something which Baldwin had been considering. His first and most attractive thought was to bolt for the coast, but he had already rejected that. Not only because it would have felt like cowardice, but also because he had agreed to come here to protect the Queen. Were something to happen to her because he had run away, he would never be able to live with the shame. And Mortimer’s expression had also affected him. There was such a depth of misery and self-loathing in his eyes.
Baldwin knew that feeling only too well. The self-disgust that came from continuing to live when comrades were dead; from being alive while loved ones, friends and family suffered – and being unable to help them. It was a foul experience. And now others were going to accuse Mortimer of killing Paul as well. And Baldwin felt sure that he was innocent of that.
Suddenly he had a vision in his mind of the day when his Grand Master, Jacques de Molay, had been executed. A frail-looking old man, his mind somewhat disconnected by the horror of the death to come, he had been a tragic figure. But then, under the shadow of the post at which he would die, he had found the courage to denounce the accusations levelled against him and his Order, to accuse the French king and the Pope of corruption, and to call them to account before the throne of God. The injustice of the destruction of the Knights Templar had coloured every decision that Baldwin had taken since that fateful day.
The reflection stiffened his resolve. ‘I shall try to remain safe,’ he said. ‘But I won’t allow an injustice. If I can prevent that, I will do so.’
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Jean saw him at last. Christ’s balls, but the man had no fear. He could not have realised he was being followed. Sweet Mother of God, how dare he walk the streets like this!
As Arnaud made his way westwards, Jean kept back, his hood up to conceal his face. His hand was already on his dagger’s hilt beneath his cloak, and his eyes moved constantly, warily looking for any man who might be watching him, but he saw nothing.
Arnaud was making his way towards the Louvre, and as he left the city beneath the western gate Jean cast a glance up at the massive white walls of the fortress. The towers shone in the brief flashes of sunlight, and the flags moved sluggishly in the still air.
Jean saw that Arnaud was heading towards the northeastern point of the palace. There was a series of houses here in the suburb outside the city itself, and this looked to be a row of merchants’ properties. Two-storeyed, for the most part, they had shingled roofs and well-limewashed walls that made them gleam as much as the Louvre’s. In the summer, Jean thought, this area must be blinding. Everywhere would shine and sparkle.
It was to the second of the houses that Arnaud went. He knocked on the door, and quickly passed inside. Jean could hear the beam being dropped over the door a moment later, and frowned to himself. He had no idea who lived there. After considering for a few moments, he turned and strolled idly to a shaded area beside another house in an alley that led to a dead end against the city wall. Leaning against the house so that he could watch the door which Arnaud had entered, he gave himself up to a lengthy wait.
Baldwin and Simon met Lord Cromwell at the Queen’s chamber.
‘She is well enough, Sir Baldwin. But I wish I knew where those devils had got to.’
‘We saw Sir John de Sapy just now, but he made it clear enough that he was going to continue to search for Mortimer,’ Baldwin said.
‘In the hall, was he? I shall go and see whether he will tell me where to find the others.’
‘You want us to remain here, then?’ Simon asked.
‘Yes, in God’s name! We must have someone here to protect the Queen.’
When he had hurried off, Simon and Baldwin took stock. There was a bench not far off which Baldwin soon appropriated for his own purposes, dragging it nearer the Queen’s door and seating himself. Simon watched him with a smile, leaning against the wall with his arms folded. ‘Comfortable?’
Baldwin rested his back against the wall and allowed his eyes to close. ‘When you are as experienced in guarding as I, you will know when to take advantage of a comfortable bench.’
‘So efficient guarding means having a sleep?’
Baldwin opened an eye and surveyed him glumly. ‘No. All too often it means staying awake all night. But when there are two, it is better that one stays alert while the second dozes. You can wake me at lunchtime.’
‘Oh, I am so grateful – so that you don’t miss your food, I suppose?’
‘Correct,’ Baldwin said smugly. ‘Now be silent. I wish to sleep.’
Simon grinned as the knight closed his eyes once more and set
tled himself. However, it was only a few moments before the door opened and William de Bouden came from the room. He appeared startled to see the two men on guard, but soon recovered, nodding to Simon and studying Baldwin with some surprise.
A short while after his departure, Alicia appeared in the doorway. She nodded and smiled at Simon. ‘My lady would like some music. Could you send for her musicians?’
Simon soon found a servant and instructed him to find Ricard and the others. After only a few minutes, the men arrived and knocked on the door. Simon noticed that one appeared to be missing. ‘Isn’t there another drummer?’
‘If you mean the bodhran player, he’s not about just now.’
Simon shrugged. He was there to guard against men going in uninvited, rather than monitor men who were supposed to be there and didn’t turn up. He watched the musicians trooping into the room, and resumed the tedious task of observation.
From here he could look straight into the main yard, or to his right along the narrow alleyway that led to William de Bouden’s chamber. Of course William had disappeared inside now, and was no doubt already re-counting the gold and coins in his chests to ensure that there would be enough to support the Queen during her lengthy stay here in Paris. It made Simon wonder how much longer they would be here. Of course they now had the Easter celebrations to look forward to. It was the most important period in the Christian calendar, a time of feasting and fun, and that was enough to make Simon sigh. He missed his wife and the children. As soon as he returned, he was sure, Edith, his little girl, would petition him for a day when she might marry her young man. That would be hard enough. But worse, just now, standing here so many miles from home, was the fact that he missed them all. He wanted to be with his wife Meg, he wanted to see his little boy – in God’s name, he just wanted to be home again. Enough of this wandering about foreign lands. He wanted to be in Devon.
After Easter, how much longer would it take for them to complete these damned negotiations and turn for home again? Another fortnight? Another month? Dear God, there was no way of telling. And all the while, Baldwin was under the threat of death.
The Templar, the Queen and Her Lover: (Knights Templar 24) Page 37