He was shaking his head, feeling an entirely untypical self-pity, when he happened to glance towards de Bouden’s door, and saw a figure slipping out. It was the absent drummer, and Simon gave a fleeting frown, wondering whether the man could have been up to no good in de Bouden’s room, but then he saw de Bouden at the door, quietly closing it. So he hadn’t knocked de Bouden on the head to steal some of the Queen’s money, then. But Simon watched the drummer walk away, wondering what the fellow had been talking to de Bouden about.
Sir John de Sapy grunted to himself as he marched along the lanes and streets. The directions he had been given had been perfectly clear, and soon enough he found the place. A pleasant house in a short lane near the river.
He knocked on the door, and soon a man answered. He glowered ferociously, but allowed Sir John inside, and led him along a dark and noisome passageway to a rear door.
‘Out there. Second door on the left,’ he said, and walked away.
Sir John watched him go with his lip curled. It was disgusting that such a man should dare be so insolent, but it was sadly all too common. Anyway, he had no time just now to teach him manners. He walked out into a broad courtyard. It was cobbled, and the building opposite looked like a stable area, but when he looked along the left he saw the doors. The first and third were closed, but the second was standing ajar, and he walked to it and knocked.
When there was no answer, he pushed gently, and it squeaked softly on its hinges. There was nothing else for him to hear, but something in the atmosphere made his hackles rise. A shiver started in his breast and ran down his spine. ‘Someone walking over my grave,’ he told himself, but not aloud.
There was no light inside. No candle illuminated the room. He stood at the door for a heartbeat, wondering what to do, and then the stench came rolling out like a barrel of filth. It almost knocked him over.
He kicked at the door, and drew his sword as the door swung wide. And then he grunted with disgust as he took in the sight of the disembowelled figure set atop the table in the corner.
It was some while before the musicians began to leave the Queen’s chamber, all looking a little flustered and warm from their exertions. Good for them, thought Simon, who was regretting not wearing his cloak after standing out here for so long.
The last to leave was their leader, who was whistling under his breath and flicking a coin in his hand: spinning it up, catching it, spinning it up, catching it, while his boy watched, transfixed.
Simon shot out his hand and caught the coin in mid-air. The man gaped, while the boy gave a whimper, and darted behind the man, peering up at Simon with anxious, troubled eyes.
‘Hey, give that back!’ Ricard demanded. He put out his hand protectively to the boy’s head.
It was a livre Parisis, Simon saw. He tossed it back, winking at the lad. ‘Your friend, the other drummer. What’s he doing with the Queen’s Comptroller?’
Ricard looked away. ‘He should have been in there with us.’
‘That wasn’t what I asked. I saw him leave de Bouden’s place a little after you got here. Why was that?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘He won’t say because he doesn’t want trouble.’
Simon turned to see who had spoken and found himself meeting the gaze of the heavy-set musician. ‘Who’re you?’
‘I’m Philip.’
‘Why won’t this man tell me the truth?’
Philip sneered. ‘He doesn’t want anyone to know why we came here in the first place.’
‘Philip, just watch your mouth,’ Ricard said, worried by the tone of voice. He recognised it from other times. Philip was getting himself into a fierce mood. He did it sometimes when he was drunk, talking himself into aggression, and all too often getting himself beaten later.
‘Oh, shut up, Ricard. We’ve been worrying and worrying about those two. All the way from London to here, and every day since getting here.’ He spat contemptuously. ‘Well, I’ve had it up to the throat with all this shit! No more!’ He turned to Simon. ‘We were forced to come here. A man told us to come or he’d put the blame for two murders on to us.’
‘What murders?’ Simon shot out. He had taken a half-pace back, giving himself space to draw steel if necessary.
‘Philip – think of the boy, in Christ’s name!’ Ricard blurted.
‘A glover and his wife in a little house in London. The woman was all over Ric here the night before, and we went to her house to sleep it off. Next morning there was this man with us, and he told us that the woman and her man were dead and we’d get the blame if we didn’t do what he wanted.’
‘Which was?’
‘Spy on the Queen and report to his man.’
‘Who?’
‘The very man you say you saw over there at the comptroller’s place.’
‘Is this all true?’ Simon asked Ricard.
What could he say? He was heartily sick of Philip. Truth to tell, he was sick of them all. Jack, Adam’s whining … the only man he was content with was Janin. At least Jan had a brain and didn’t shoot his mouth off in front of law officers. He had a brain all right – he had disappeared. Ricard glanced down at Charlie, apology in every line of his face.
‘I asked you …’
Ricard nodded sourly. ‘It’s all true. The wench was dead, her old man beside her.’
‘You all saw the bodies?’ Simon asked.
‘Yes,’ Ricard swallowed. The memory of the blood was enough to make the gorge rise all over again.
‘Friend, I think you should come and talk to us,’ Baldwin said from behind Simon. ‘This tale sounds most interesting.’
A little after the middle of the morning, Jean saw Arnaud leave the house with another man, this one cloaked and hooded, but familiar for all that.
What was the priest from Pamiers doing here? Jean was confused now, but he was sure of one thing: if he was to have his revenge on Arnaud, he must follow.
Arnaud and the priest were walking at a fair pace. They hurried along westwards, until they came to a group of houses in a street near the river. Here the priest stopped and pointed, muttering to Arnaud. The executioner nodded twice, and then set off in a hurry in the direction indicated.
Jean settled back in a doorway. They were growing to be his favourite place of concealment, he told himself with a smile. From here he could see Arnaud rapping on a door a little way along the street, and then entering. There was silence for what seemed an age after he went in, but then there was a sudden shriek, the door flew open, and a man rushed out into the street. His face was wild, and he stared up and down the way before choosing his direction and bolting.
It was one of the men from the English entourage. Jean had seen this one before – he was a knight, and from the way he gripped his sword in his hands, he was ready to defend himself. Sure enough, a moment later Arnaud came out, a hand to a small cut above his brow. The priest pointed urgently, and Arnaud gave chase, bellowing and roaring that the man was a murderer. A couple of other men joined in the shouting, and soon there was a veritable mob hurtling along after Arnaud.
As they began to disappear round the bend in the street, the priest appeared to chuckle to himself, and then set off after them all, shaking his head as he went. There was something clearly very entertaining in the sight of the Paris mob in pursuit of a felon.
Jean waited until the priest had himself disappeared, and then went in by the door through which Arnaud and the man had exited.
He had seen plenty of death and horror in his life, but even Jean found this one shocking. Robert de Chatillon’s spread body on the table, his belly opened, the blood all over everywhere, spatters on the ceiling, droplets on every surface, and the smell of blood and excrement over all. He covered his face to keep infection away, and hurriedly left.
Once outside again, he leaned against a beam and tried to keep his stomach under control. The sight of that poor man was enough to make him want to throw up everything he had eaten for a week.
/> But there was one thing he was surprised at. The man had been killed very recently, and it couldn’t have been Arnaud, because Jean knew what he’d been doing, and where, for several hours past.
Yet the man had been murdered, and that most hideously, for some purpose. The very man he had thought to speak to, to learn what he could tell about Arnaud and the Château Gaillard, was as dead as the garrison of the castle.
And that thought was a heavy one. All those who had been selected to guard the prison-castle had died, but for him. And he had lived by the purest chance. The deaths were expected, too, because when he last saw that priest from Pamiers, he had been on the wagon with the sergent in Les Andelys.
The priest must hold a clue to what was happening, he reckoned. There had been many deaths already, and he was fearful for his own life, but he must learn what was going on.
Slowly, he began to set off after the hue and cry. However, before he had travelled very far, he started moving more swiftly. Like a boulder, the first few inches were slow, but as the momentum caught him he found himself gathering speed, until at last he was running at full tilt.
He had the impression that today he might learn the truth about all the deaths. He didn’t know how, but he was going to try to find out and then avenge them all.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Ricard sat on the ground near Sir Baldwin, and told his tale. He looked to the others occasionally for verification of the details, but generally even Philip held his tongue. Charlie sat on Ricard’s thigh, looking about him with that childish appearance of innocence and wonder that always amused Simon on the face of his own son.
‘So this lad is the child of the couple you found dead?’ Baldwin asked.
‘Yes. And it was Earl Edmund who told us to spy on the Queen for him.’
‘Why?’
‘He didn’t say. We assumed he wanted information about her. Damaging information. So that he could tell the King. Or Despenser.’
‘I see,’ Baldwin said. ‘But why did you think the Earl would want to do that?’
‘How were we to know he was an earl? All we knew was, he had men outside, he had two corpses inside, and we were stuffed whichever way we looked at it.’
‘The boy,’ Simon asked quietly, ‘did he see his mother and father—’
‘No, I don’t think so,’ Ricard said hurriedly. ‘He was outside. I think he went there himself. Maybe he was told to. He saw nothing, I think.’
‘You’re a big fellow, aren’t you?’ Simon said pleasantly.
The boy met his gaze with a serious frown for a while, then slowly leaned sideways into Ricard’s chest for protection. Ricard absent-mindedly put his arm about him. ‘He trusts me.’
Baldwin nodded, and then he squatted on the ground in front of Ricard and the boy. He met the lad’s eye for a short period, then looked back to Ricard. ‘You have done well with him. He trusts you. But are you sure you have never seen him before? He would appear very unconcerned about his sad loss.’
‘He’s only a boy. Doesn’t hardly speak at all,’ Ricard said.
‘I see. So, Charlie. What is to be done with you? Will you remain with these fine musicians, or are you to find a new home?’
‘Stay with Ricard.’
‘You will be happy with him, you think?’
Charlie sat a little more upright, watching Baldwin closely. ‘Yes. Like Ricard.’
Baldwin nodded. ‘Tell me, Ricard. The man who died from your band – was there any reason you can think of which would explain his death? Moneylenders? Gambling? Whores?’
‘He was a clean-living fellow compared with others, sir. No, I can’t imagine anything like that. He was happy enough with the money we earned playing our music, but his wife wouldn’t let him gamble if she had anything to do with it, and he’d not have bothered with whores. His woman, Marg, was more than enough to keep him happy. No, the more I think about it, the more I think he was killed because of our coming here. I don’t know why, but I think it must have been Jack who slew him in order to make sure he would get into our group. That was it. Earl Edmund wanted us to come here with the Queen, and he wanted to keep an eye on us, so he had Jack kill Peter so Jack could join in.’
‘You told me he had a peacock picture on his bodhran?’
‘Yes.’
‘But he has been very friendly with Earl Edmund?’
‘Yes. Jack and he stood up against Philip and Adam together.’
‘But that makes little sense to me,’ Baldwin said. ‘If the Earl was so keen for you to keep in touch with his man, why would he have your Peter killed? His man would be in touch with you every step in any case. Peter might as well have lived. Then again, why bother to have this Jack installed in your band at all? He could have been a hanger-on of the Queen’s cavalcade.’
‘I don’t know. None of it makes any sense to a simple gittern-player.’
Baldwin rose to his feet. ‘Very well. Many thanks for all that. I hope to be able to speak to you again before long. Perhaps I can even explain it all.’
‘I hope so. I would be grateful just for a little less fog about everything.’
‘I will do what I can,’ said Baldwin, looking over to the gate. ‘What on earth is all that about?’
‘All that’ was a sudden roaring from a hundred throats as Sir John de Sapy hurtled through the gates of the castle and demanded that the gates be locked, the portcullis dropped, before the tide of angry Parisians could storm the whole area.
He gazed back in horror, seeing only a sea of enraged faces. They were bellowing for his blood, calling him a murderer and worse, baying like hounds seeing their prey at the far side of a railing, raging at being unable to bring it down. ‘Dear Christ, what have I done to deserve all this?’
‘Sir John, could you tell me what has happened?’ Lord John Cromwell said with an arctic politeness as he arrived, drawn to the court by the howling and bellowing.
‘I was at a house where a man was discovered dead. They all blame me for it. I had nothing to do with it!’
Cromwell sighed. It was clear enough that the mob was here for a while. They would not withdraw just because Sir John had managed to find his way into a refuge; this was a more deeply seated hatred than that of men for a murderer. This was the tribal loathing of a man who was different, who was a stranger, who was foreign. They wanted more than the chance to arrest him; if these people took hold of Sir John, they would tear him limb from limb.
‘You need to get out of their sight, Sir John. I recommend that you take yourself off to the chapel. In there you can pray for a little understanding from your pursuers. But first: you are sure you had nothing to do with the man’s death?’
‘Absolutely! I just walked in and there he was, his belly opened like a gutted fish.’
‘Who was it? Did you know him?’
‘That man who was with us on the way here. His master was killed?’
‘You mean Robert de Chatillon? The squire?’
‘Yes.’
Lord Cromwell glanced back at the angry crowd beyond the portcullis. ‘What were you doing in his house?’
Sir John shrugged. ‘A friend asked me to go.’
‘Who? What were you to do there?’
Sir John de Sapy cast an eye at the mob. He was reluctant to speak, but if these people were to be persuaded to leave it was obvious that he had to talk. ‘It was a man I met in London. He was a priest to the King of France, and I was introduced to him by Sir Hugh le Despenser. Sir Hugh wanted me to show him the way to a particular place in London.’
‘What did you do?’
‘All I did was show him this house. Nothing else, I swear. Look, I was trying to be accepted back into the King’s household. I needed Sir Hugh to help me; I wouldn’t have had a chance without his aid. So I took the priest to the house he wanted to see. That was all I did.’
Simon and Baldwin had joined them, and Baldwin was listening intently even as he took in the sight of the men and women shouting and
hurling abuse through the stout bars. ‘What house was this?’
‘Just some place in Lombard Street. Nothing special.’
Baldwin snapped around. ‘Lombard Street? When would this have been?’
‘When? I don’t know. About Ash Wednesday, I suppose. Perhaps the Monday of that week?’
Baldwin almost gaped. Then, ‘This priest you say you met. Did you see him again?’
‘He and I celebrated Mass shortly afterwards, and he heard my confession. And I saw him yesterday briefly.’
‘What did he ask this time?’
‘Only that I go to a certain house and deliver a note. But when I got there, the man was already dead. I swear it, Lord John! The man was already dead. I did nothing to him!’
‘Then why are all these folk here?’
‘Another man arrived while I was there. He saw the man and accused me. I didn’t know what to say! I just hit him and ran out and back here.’
‘It was de Chatillon,’ Cromwell said to Baldwin in an undertone. The noise at the gate was beginning to die down, and he felt almost sure that the worst of the crowd’s fury was already past. ‘Look, you get off to the chapel as I said. I’ll see if we can’t calm these people down.’
Sir John nodded, and was about to go when there came a bellow from the gates.
‘LORD CROMWELL! There’s a man here says he’s from the French king, wants to talk to you about some murder?’
Jean caught up with the crowd before long, and as he stared about in the broad space before the King’s castle in the woods, all he could see was an expanse of heads wearing all kinds of hats. The different colours formed a confusing wash in front of him: scarlets, greens, dull ochres and the occasional yellow or pink. One or two were purple, but they were so rare as to hardly show. Instead he found himself seeking out the bare-headed brown of Arnaud.
There was no sign of him nearby. All about him there were only woollen hats, and even when he stood on tiptoe and strained, he saw no one like Arnaud. But the man wouldn’t be here at the back, would he? He’d be up at the front of this mass of people. Jean must get there too. There was no other way to reach him. Jean must force his way through the crowd.
The Templar, the Queen and Her Lover: (Knights Templar 24) Page 38