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

by Michael Jecks

  Sir Peter sucked his teeth. ‘Where’s Sir John?’

  ‘I suppose he’s returned to the castle,’ Sir Charles said shortly.

  ‘The idea of food is appealing. Perhaps, Sir Charles, we would be better served to pay someone to keep an eye open for him?’

  ‘And whom exactly would you trust with such a task?’

  ‘I have my own men,’ Sir Peter pointed out.

  Sir Charles was aware of that. He was also painfully aware that he was without a man-at-arms to support him. If there were a number of men about the place looking for Mortimer, and one of them found him, not Sir Charles, then he would lose all: the chance of revenge for Paul’s murder, and the money that Mortimer’s head would bring. ‘I don’t think it’s sensible to use hired men instead of ourselves. How much would you want to pay them as their share of the bounty?’

  ‘Let us go and find some food, and then we can discuss it sensibly. I don’t know about you, but this weather feels as chill as a Scottish winter to me.’

  ‘You go. I’ll wait here until you return.’

  ‘Do you not think we should consider returning to see the Queen is safe? It would be an enormous embarrassment were she to be in any danger while we were engaged on this hunt.’

  ‘My first duty is to my dead man,’ Sir Charles said.

  ‘Not to your King?’

  The coolness with which the question was uttered was enough to make Sir Charles want to whip out his sword and attack the supercilious bastard right there, but the risk of retribution was enough to stay his hand. Better that he should keep one man on his side, than that he should lose all. ‘You go and find some food. I shall wander down towards the river and see whether there’s any sign of Mortimer there.’

  With an ungracious ‘Very well. Do so, then’, Sir Peter turned abruptly and marched back the way they had come at daybreak.

  Sir Charles gritted his teeth and looked all about him. Apart from a couple of lounging, lazy French sons-of-the-devil up to the north in this road, there was no one in sight. One, a man in a light beige or orange jack, glanced in his direction, but there was nothing to remind Sir Charles of Mortimer in his face.

  Paul must have seen the bastard. He had been down this way, Sir Charles knew. It was the same direction in which Sir Charles himself had seen the man. But what was strange was that there were no decent houses down here. A man like him would prefer a decent place. Unless he was concealing himself in a mean hovel.

  No. That was impossible. Sir Charles wandered southward to the great river, and stood a while eyeing it gloomily. There had to be somewhere that would appeal more to Mortimer. Looking westward, he watched the small boats and merchant ships that plied their trade along the river here. Their sails concealed much of the view beyond the house of Saint-Lazare. This side of the river there were plenty of decent houses, though. Especially fronting the shoreline. Perhaps Mortimer had taken one of them – perhaps to remind himself of his time in the Tower. That would be ironic.

  Sir Charles might be lucky, though. If he were to walk along all the larger riverside houses, he might come across something that indicated Mortimer had been there.

  He spat a curse. There was no point. This damned city was too large. The people here were as numerous as ants in a nest. How could he find one man here all on his own?

  Paul had.

  Well, if Paul could do it, so could Sir Charles. With that new resolve, he turned and found himself face to face with Roger Mortimer and seven men.

  ‘Good day, Sir Charles. I understand you’ve been looking for me,’ Mortimer said. ‘Congratulations. You have succeeded.’

  Chapter Forty-One

  ‘Baldwin,’ Simon said. ‘We’re going the wrong way.’

  Baldwin said nothing. He was keeping his own watch on the sun. They had gone due east to Artois’s house, and from there they had been led south, but now they were walking west, back towards the Château de Bois.

  ‘What are they doing, Baldwin?’

  Simon’s question was soon to be answered. They followed a new roadway, turning right and immediately left, and found themselves at the city gates again. Passing through, they were confronted with the massive white walls of the Louvre.

  ‘Baldwin!’

  It was with a sinking sensation that Baldwin contemplated the beautiful palace. He had ridden past the place many times when he was younger, of course. It was one of those royal châteaux that was a pleasure to behold. He had heard that it had been built in the times of Richard Coeur de Lion, the great English king who had done so much to protect the Holy Land and his estates of Normandy and Aquitaine, but who had died so young in a foolish affray while laying siege to an irrelevant little castle.

  This place would have been a more suitable place to attack. It would have taken a master of siegecraft to force the inhabitants to surrender.

  Now they were walking to the main gate. Over the moat, their feet tramping hollowly on the timbers of the bridge, and then under the gatehouse itself, where their steps echoed strangely, before entering the main courtyard, where suddenly they were confronted with a loud and raucous blare of noise.

  Flags moved gaily overhead, snapping and cracking in the wind, and Baldwin was forced to halt, staring up at the sky, memorising the view, desperate for a last sight of open air to keep with him all the while he was confined. Perhaps the next time he saw the sky, he would be on his way to the scaffold. Would that be Montfaucon, he wondered, or would he be taken to the Temple itself? The Grand Master had been burned on the small isle in the middle of the Seine, the one that lay between the Hermit Brethren’s church and the King’s garden.

  Artois was frowning, casting a long look at him over his shoulder. ‘Come along, Sir Baldwin. We can’t keep him waiting.’

  It was enough to irritate him. There was no need to hurry a man to his death, as though the slow-grinding wheels of bureaucracy mustn’t be put to the inconvenience of a moment’s delay. A sharp rejoinder sprang to his lips, but he swallowed. There was no point in antagonising people. It would only serve to make Simon’s life more difficult. On leaden feet, Baldwin de Furnshill forced himself onward, and climbed the stone steps behind Artois, walking into a large hall. And here, he thought to himself, I shall meet my doom.

  ‘Your royal highness, may I introduce Sir Baldwin de Furnshill, Keeper of the King’s Peace in England, and honoured adviser to King Edward II.’

  It grated. He was being forced to submit to them, while they paid him every sign of respect, as though they seriously intended to give him some form of honour. Still, as Artois and Simon bowed, he thought he might as well follow suit. He bent at the waist as though his spine was broken, but still watched the King closely.

  The King of France was a tall man, slightly taller than Baldwin himself. Like Edward, he was good-looking, with abundant fair hair and the regular features that were so highly prized among his peers. He was clad in silk and velvet, and as they walked in he was standing discussing a falcon with some other men, who looked as though they could well be his falconers. As Artois introduced Baldwin, and then Simon too, the King looked them both over, and then handed his bird of prey to one of the men and motioned to them to leave.

  ‘So, Sir Baldwin, and Bailiff Simon le Puttock. I am glad to meet you both. You have provided some services to my dear sister. Please, would you accept wine?’ He moved from the middle of the hall to a large table, where he already had a large goblet of gold. In moments a servant had filled three more, and brought them to Artois and the friends. At a sign from Artois, Baldwin and Simon stood upright, and Baldwin cast a look over his shoulder. To his astonishment, the other men were all gone. They were alone in this room with the King of France and only a few servants. No one else.

  ‘Artois, have you discussed the matter with them?’ the King asked.

  ‘No, my liege. I obeyed you and told them nothing.’

  ‘I see. Good. Sir Baldwin, I am aware that you wish to speak to a delightful gentleman, Père Pierre C
lergue. May I ask why that is?’

  ‘I think you know, your highness,’ Baldwin said warily.

  ‘Perhaps I do. Could you tell me, though?’

  Baldwin took a deeper draught of the wine than was, perhaps, sensible. He was unused to strong wines, and rarely drank much of any alcoholic drink. Today, though, standing in front of the King, he felt the need of courage.

  ‘Your royal highness, the man Pierre Clergue was present at a house in London when a man and woman were slaughtered most hideously. They were, I think, French. A short while later another man was killed. He was murdered in the London ditch. Then, when we came here, we heard of the murder of the garrison of Château Gaillard, all but two or three men. A short while later, Comte Enguerrand de Foix was killed, then another man, who Robert de Chatillon told us was also a guard at the Château Gaillard. Now we hear that Robert is dead, and so are two others: an executioner called Arnaud, and a guard, also from the château, named Jean.’

  ‘So, from what you say, the good Père Pierre was present, perhaps, at a murder in London. Apart from that, he has nothing to do with anything you have mentioned?’

  ‘Except that Sir John de Sapy was asked by the same père to visit Robert de Chatillon, and found Robert dead. Immediately men assumed Sir John had murdered him, but he denies it, and I believe him.’

  ‘Ah, you mean you trust one of your countrymen more than some loud-mouthed Frenchman?’

  ‘No. I mean I trust my eyes and ears. Looking at Sir John de Sapy, I felt that he was not acting his horror. And he had no reason to kill de Chatillon.’

  ‘So you would take his word against that of the good père?’

  Simon thought that the King looked relaxed. But then he grew a little nervous when he saw the man’s eyes. He smiled as he spoke, and yet there was a thick layer of ice in his blue eyes.

  Baldwin’s voice was equally frigid. ‘My lord king, I accuse no one. I merely asked to meet him. That is all.’

  It was not the words, perhaps, so much as the tone in which they were uttered that made the King’s expression harden. Artois moved a little, although whether to remove himself from danger or to give himself space to defend his king, Simon wasn’t sure.

  ‘I see that your king’s friend was quite right about you, Sir Baldwin.’

  ‘Who? I beg your pardon, your highness, I do not understand.’

  ‘Sir Hugh le Despenser sent me a message about you. I was advised to look at your sword.’

  ‘It is here if you wish it,’ Baldwin said, but now with sadness.

  Simon shot him a look. It sounded as though Baldwin was about to surrender his sword. ‘Baldwin, don’t you …’

  And then he realised. On one side of the blade Baldwin had, in Simon’s view rashly, ordered a Templar cross to be engraved just below the cross-guard. Despenser had seen it once, and now clearly he had sent a message to the King of France to show him that this man had Templar sympathies. It was King Charles’s father who had commanded the arrest of the Order. His son could scarcely do other than detain a man who displayed such a symbol.

  ‘No, Sir Baldwin – do you not know it would be the height of rudeness to unsheathe a sword in the presence of the French king?’ Charles said lightly. And then he smiled. ‘I think you and I understand each other well enough.’

  Baldwin was feeling light. He did not gape openly, but his hand remained on his hilt. ‘You do not wish to …’

  ‘No. Leave it where it is. I am a competent judge of people for myself. And I do not like this Hugh le Despenser. He is no more honourable than any other robber pirate from the Cinq Ports, determined to line his own purse at the expense of anyone else. And yet you appear keen to investigate injustice, even when it may affect yourself. I think that is better. I would prefer you as a friend.’

  ‘Your highness,’ Baldwin stammered, and bowed again. He felt as though a blow from a feather could knock him over.

  ‘You may speak with Père Pierre … I shall consider your request. However, my affairs are my own. If he has overstepped the mark, I will be disappointed, but it is not a matter for you.

  You have no powers to arrest him here in my realm, unless I give you the warrant for it. And I do not. So you may question him, but that will be an end to the affair. Is that clear?’

  Sir Charles woke again in a dark chamber. There were shutters drawn, because he could see chinks and slits of light from outside, and he was strapped to a bench, arms behind his back, ankles too, so that his whole body could be exposed, were they to rip his tunic and shirt open. Suddenly he had a memory of how Paul’s body had been cut from groin to breast, his entrails exposed to the air, and he felt a cold terror infect his bowels.

  ‘Ah. Awake? Glad to see it. So, you are Sir Charles of Lancaster, then? I have heard much about you.’

  ‘And I you, Mortimer.’

  ‘You are angry. I don’t know why. Unless it’s your man?’

  ‘I will have revenge for that!’

  ‘Sir Charles, let me remind you that you had ordered him to hack off my head and feed my body to the fishes in the Seine! I don’t think you could blame me if I’d decided to treat him in a similar fashion. However, more to the point, I didn’t. And I don’t intend to kill you either.’

  ‘Then why have me trussed like this?’ Sir Charles spat. ‘You think I’ll be more amenable if you hold a knife to my belly?’

  Mortimer looked at him blankly a moment. Then, ‘Oh! No, but we don’t have any chairs here. Strapping you there seemed safer for us. However, you are unarmed. Wait!’

  A pair of men threw open the shutters, and then walked to Sir Charles. In a moment or two he had been released, and he could sit up, massaging his wrists and elbows. Looking over at Mortimer, standing comfortably a short distance away, he calculated how easily he could spring upon the man.

  ‘Yes,’ Mortimer said. ‘I didn’t bring you here at some trouble to myself just to kill you. You are the sort of man who could be very useful to me – once you get over your desire to see my head on a spike in London.’

  He paused, eyeing Sir Charles speculatively. ‘I am to leave here tomorrow, which is the reason for my urgency. You won’t be able to catch me where I am going, so do not bother to try. I swear to you on my wife’s life that I had nothing to do with your man’s death. We caught him, and yes, we did beat him to learn why he was after me, but apart from that we did nothing. There seemed little point in antagonising the English delegation over him, and I do not wish to upset my host in this country either. No, I prefer to keep friends where I may. I do not have so many that I can afford to lose any more.’

  ‘Then what do you want with me?’ Sir Charles demanded.

  ‘I want you to pass on a message to Sir Baldwin de Furnshill. Tell him this: the man and woman in London were originally from Normandy. They were cook’s maid and her husband, a leather worker at the Château Gaillard, and I think they took something from there when they left for England.’

  ‘What, a treasure?’ Sir Charles asked, this time more politely. A man who could tell him about a rich winning should not be insulted.

  Mortimer looked away, through the unshuttered window, out to the Seine. Then he gave a sad little smile. ‘You may not think so, but I do. I think Sir Baldwin will too. Tell him, this treasure is one of pride, rather than joy.’

  Château de Bois

  Jack was in the courtyard when Simon and Baldwin returned to the Château de Bois. He looked at them as Baldwin pointed to him, and then the two strode across the area to him.

  ‘Aha, lordings, I am glad indeed to see you,’ he said. ‘And there was me thinking I’d be looking for you half the night.’

  ‘Shut up, fool!’ Simon grated. He took hold of Jack’s shirt and pushed him back against the hall’s wall. ‘You have to start answering some questions, I reckon.’

  ‘Happy to do so, Bailiff, but if you strangle me, you may find the answers a little hard to comprehend.’

  ‘You work for Earl Edmund or Mortimer?’
Simon demanded.

  ‘Now there’s a hard one. I suppose for Mortimer first. But then, a man takes his friends where he finds them, doesn’t he?’

  Baldwin nodded. ‘He had the sign of the peacock, Simon, remember? That was what Ricard said. And the peacock is the sign of Mortimer.’

  ‘Is that true?’ Simon asked.

  ‘Oh, yes, sir.’ Jack shrugged. ‘So I was told to hold it.’

  ‘Why did Earl Edmund get involved in all this?’

  ‘For that, you’ll have to ask him. I keep other men’s secrets.’

  ‘What are you doing here, then?’

  ‘Now? Packing. You see, I am not popular with the men here. The musicians don’t seem to like me, no matter what I do. So I think I may as well be off. I’ve never done anyone any harm.’

  ‘They think you killed their friend in order to take his place in their band.’

  ‘Did you ever hear anything so silly? Why would I do that? They had already agreed to pass me any information I wanted. I had no need to hurt anyone. No, I did nothing to him. But when the place became free, I thought it’d be a useful berth. And it meant I could keep a close eye on the Queen without too much trouble.’

  ‘Who did kill Peter, then?’

  ‘Aha, now. That’s a good question. I don’t know for sure. But I do know this: Despenser has a nice property just near the ditch. It’s called the Temple. I’m sure you know it.’

  ‘Why would he kill Peter, though?’

  ‘The fellow Peter was not a good companion to his mates. You see, I’ve heard that he himself went to Despenser with the news that his friends had been blackmailed by Earl Edmund into joining the Queen again. I’d have thought Despenser would be taken with the idea, but perhaps he was out of sorts that night. Or doesn’t trust a turncoat.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Baldwin said. But there was a glint in his eye which told Simon that he had worked out something else. ‘But who told you that?’

  ‘Earl Edmund himself. There are many in the palace at Westminster who trade in secrets. He had his sources.’