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

by Michael Jecks

  Feeling jaw, belly, and breast, Ricard was glad to be unable to discern any apparent harm. The man had been angry, but had not started anything. Even so, that was the point at which his memory of the evening became unclear. And now the only damage appeared to be his head. That bastard son of a hog who brewed the ale in the Cardinal’s Hat must have mixed something in with his hops.

  Belching, he watched Janin roll over and lie still again, a beatific smile spreading over his face. ‘Wake me when it’s time to get up.’

  ‘It is now, and your vielle is underneath you. You’ll break it.’

  ‘Shite! Shite! Shite! The strings’ll be buggered!’

  Janin’s sudden urgent scrabbling to rise to his feet was enough to make Ricard grin to himself again. He gazed about him, trying to remember how he had come to this closed yard, and where his companions could have got to. The sunlight, grey though it was, was enough to make him wince. There was a man who had led them here, wasn’t there? Someone from the tavern?

  The woman had been foreign. Not happy talking English, from what he could tell. She’d said she was a cook, hadn’t she? Ah, yes. That was it: she’d been a cook’s maid in a castle, lost her job there when the kitchen staff were all thrown out, and came over here to London. Bloody foreigners coming over and making all the men regret being already married – she had one hell of a body on her, though. He could remember that! Lips that could suck the sap from an oak tree, thighs that’d crush a walnut, bubbies like bladders … Ah! Yes!

  He wondered sadly how his evening had ended. She wasn’t here now, that was for certain. Suddenly his hand clapped over his purse, but he could breathe easily. It had not been emptied.

  ‘Where are we?’ Janin asked plaintively.

  ‘Good question. We were at the Cardinal’s Hat, which is just off Lombard Street, but this doesn’t look like it.’

  Janin nodded, gazing about him. ‘When did we leave the place?’

  ‘If I could remember that, I might remember when we came here,’ Ricard growled.

  ‘There was that woman,’ Janin remembered. ‘Her husband turned up.’

  ‘Yeah, but he didn’t hit me,’ Ricard said absently.

  ‘Only because the other fellow knocked him down.’

  ‘Which fellow?’

  ‘The one behind him. He called the man some name or other and felled him.’

  ‘Hmm. Good. I think.’ Suddenly he felt nervous. ‘Let’s get going, eh? We have a job to do.’

  But Janin had the tail of an idea now, and he was refusing to let it go. ‘That was it, wasn’t it? You had that wench on your lap, her old man tried to hit you, and someone else hit him, so we drank some more until those bravos appeared.’

  ‘There are times when talking to you gives me a headache,’ Ricard said. He pulled some timber aside from a pile at one wall, glancing behind to see whether the others were hiding.

  ‘What was the man’s name?’

  ‘Hmm?’

  Hearing a rumbling, Ricard peered up towards a low doorway. The door, like the rest of the yard here, was partially hidden by trash that had heaped up before it, and he had to clear some of it, sweeping it away with his boot, before he could peer inside.

  There, snuggled together, he saw Philip and Adam. A loud snoring seemed to imply that Peter was behind them. As his eyes grew accustomed, he saw that there was a pair of boots near Adam’s head. Carefully cradled in Adam’s arms was his trumpet.

  It gave him a pleasing idea. He took hold of his horn, and licked his lips, then drew a deep breath before blowing a blast that would have served, so he felt, as the last trump.

  Adam’s eyes shot wide and he sat up, looking more like a corpse than ever; Philip tried to sit up, but his greater height caused his head to slam into the upper lintel of the low door, and his eyes snapped shut with the pain as he bent down to rest his bruised forehead in his hands. The boots disappeared from view, and Ricard was pleased to hear a complaining whine from the Waferer.

  ‘Morning, boys!’ he called with satisfaction.

  ‘The man? What was his name?’

  ‘Which man?’

  ‘The one who felled the woman’s old man. Didn’t you know him?’

  ‘No. Should I have?’

  This was less a yard, more a grubby little alleyway, Ricard considered. Sweet Christ, but his head was bad. His belly felt as if he’d been drinking a tanner’s brew of dogshit and piss – faugh, he daren’t fart or belch. Both ends felt equally hazardous, damn his soul if they didn’t.

  There was a little mewling cry, and he frowned. It seemed to come from nearby, and he set his head on one side, peering about him. Bending, he saw a loose slat in the side of another little building – probably a hutch for a dog or a chicken, he thought, but when he peered inside the figure he could just make out was an entirely different animal.

  Church of St Martin-le-Grand, London

  Père Pierre Clergue was pleased when the man appeared at last. He had been growing a little anxious.

  ‘Mon sieur, I am glad to see that you were successful. Please, viens! Viens ici!’

  He watched the man halt. ‘How do you know I was …’

  ‘You have the … the appearance of a man who has done a great thing for the Pope and for his friends. You have done a marvellous thing, mon sieur.’

  ‘It feels as if I have done a terrible thing.’

  ‘That is so often the way of things, my friend. Now, no need to tell me more. Let us kneel and pray.’

  ‘You will hear my confession?’

  ‘You can tell me anything you wish, but my lips will be sealed, naturally. And I know what I asked of you, so all is well.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, all is well. Just as you asked.’

  House in Lombard Street

  A door slammed behind Ricard, and he turned to see a vaguely familiar man striding towards him.

  He looked older, perhaps five and forty years, and although Ricard had no idea what his name was, the face was teasingly recognisable. Probably from the night before, he told himself bleakly.

  ‘Good morrow, friends,’ the man said.

  Returning his greeting, Ricard eyed him narrowly. He was dressed well in expensive cloth, with a fine hat and liripipe on his head. Ricard was certain he’d never seen him before, but the man’s carriage was a little alarming. He looked like a fighter. With a rush of tingling anxiety, Ricard wondered whether his memory of the previous night was even more faulty than he had realised; whether this was the man who was married to the wench he’d fondled on his lap the previous night. No, in Christ’s name, this sort of fine fellow wouldn’t want to listen to them playing in a lowly tavern. He’d have commanded them to go to his house, if anything.

  ‘Master Ricard, I am glad you are well. The weather has not been very clement, I know. Is there anything you need?’

  ‘No. We are well, master.’

  Inwardly, he was cursing, slowly and very imaginatively. The man had the graces and accent of a high-born lord. They all had the same interest in fashionable clothing, the disdainful expression, the contemptuous sneer when they spoke to men like him. And of course, the leetle bit of the French accent. When together, these arses only ever spoke French, as if it was something special. Well, Ricard and the others spoke English like any God-fearing Englishman should.

  Still, it only proved that this man thought himself important. He had that snide, devil-take-you look in his eye that said he knew he could buy hundreds just like Ricard and his band. Well, devil take you, Ricard thought to himself, and may he bugger you with a thousand demons!

  He had already turned back to the little hutch. Inside he had caught sight of two anxious blue eyes, and he was keen to tempt the boy or girl, whichever it may be, to come out. The walls looked weak enough; easy to pull apart, he was sure.

  The man interrupted his thoughts with a pleasant smile. ‘Good. Good. Now, before anything else, you will want some food, I am sure.’

  ‘That would be welcome indeed,’ Rica
rd said, suddenly courteous. If this fool was going to be feeding them, Ricard was prepared to be thoroughly polite. Damn silly French accent, though.

  ‘Through here.’

  Ricard led the others through a doorway into a small parlour, and from there to a tiny shop front. ‘You a glover?’

  ‘Not really. My work with skins is less … elevated.’

  The man was denigrating his work. He had some marvellous examples of glovemaking on shelves all about the shop. Still, his eyes showed a lack of interest in discussing the matter. They glittered, almost with revulsion, Ricard thought.

  There was a basket full of small loaves and some sausages. Peter, Adam and Philip fell on the food like wolves on a deer. Ricard and Janin were a little more hesitant, both feeling that hot, sweaty sensation that sometimes ale could bring the next morning.

  ‘I would be grateful for a little help from you all,’ the man said.

  Ricard paused in his eating. There was something about the way he said that which made his hackles rise. ‘Yes, well, you’ve been very generous, friend – giving us space out in your yard and breakfast and all – but we have to get back to work.’

  ‘Oh, I know. Yes. You are the Queen’s musicians, aren’t you?’

  Janin and Philip exchanged a look. They had all played for her once. It had been a good day, too. But a long while ago.

  Ricard saw their wooden expressions. ‘Oh, yes, we’re called that, right enough.’

  ‘Well, all I’d like is for you to help me to help her. That’s all. Just keep an eye open for me, and when there’s something that seems odd, or you feel that she might be in danger, let me know.’

  Janin lifted his eyebrows. He was the one Ricard thought the brightest of them all. He’d once had a little training in Latin, and could read some things. Now he looked on the brink of being alarmed. Peter Waferer was unbothered by it all. He scooped another mouthful of sausage into the gaping maw that appeared between moustache and beard and chewed with his mouth open. Janin looked at Ricard and shook his head slightly. Not much, but it was enough to reinforce Ricard’s impression. There was something in the man’s tone that warned them all.

  ‘Sorry, master, can’t do that,’ he said with conviction. ‘We were found doing that, our lives would be forfeit.’

  ‘But this country can be a very dangerous place. You would be doing her a service.’

  ‘Aha.’ Ricard gave a dry laugh without humour. ‘Yes. For us it would become a very much more dangerous place if we tried to spy on her. So: no.’

  ‘It would be a great shame if you didn’t. News of your actions last night might become known.’ There was something else in his tone now. It was near to rage, Ricard thought, watching him. No, couldn’t be. Ricard hadn’t ever seen him before, so why’d he be cross with a bunch of musicians?

  He smiled broadly. ‘What, doing a little show for the guests at a tavern? When’s that been against the law?’

  ‘I am sorry to say that the man whose wife you were pawing is a well-known figure, and even those who dislike him and his master recognise that there is a law against killing a glover just because you like his wife. There’s a biblical reference to it, I think.’

  Ricard had no rejoinder to that. His world had just fallen apart. The man had stood and walked to a little door, which he drew open. At his feet, just inside the doorway, was the body of a man. Ricard stepped forward on weakened legs and stared. The glover had been beaten to death. A short way from him was the woman from the tavern, her skirts lifted over her bared breasts, her eyes sightless. And blood. Lots of blood.

  ‘You …’ Ricard’s clawing hands reached out to the man, but he was already a couple of paces away, and now his sword was out, and he stared down the length of it at Ricard, the point unwavering at his throat.

  ‘You will help me and serve.’

  Château Gaillard

  Blanche was forced to pull the blanket about her shoulders again. It was soggy at one corner, icy to the touch, and foul with filth, but after ten years here in the cell she was uncaring. Once, she thought, she might have been revolted by the sight, the feel, the odour, of such a piece of material. Any man who tried to offer her a similar thing would have been whipped. So she thought, anyway. It was hard to remember. The noise of the water dripping down the walls, the scurrying of small paws, distracted her.

  When first incarcerated, she was convinced that her life would soon end. Her sister-in-law had succumbed in no time. It was less than a year before poor Marguerite was dead. The happy, frivolous young woman with the cheeky smile and love of beauty had died, so Blanche felt, because of the destruction her actions had caused.

  Was it true, this? Had there been such a woman as Marguerite? Was she just a figment of Blanche’s imagination? A chimera, a false memory that had no basis in fact? Sometimes it seemed to her that there was no life outside these walls. There was nothing beyond the rough-hewn rock. Her life had been lived here for ever. It was easier to believe that, somehow, than to think that once she had been the wealthy, comfortable daughter-in-law of a king.

  She clutched at the rosary at her waist. No. It was real. She was real. Marguerite had been too. They had both been brought here as punishment for their adultery, their heads shaved, their bodies stripped and clad in these rough garments. Blanche had survived a decade, submitting to all the indignities, while poor Marguerite had quickly yielded to the horror of their new situation. Her end was hastened by the news of her husband’s cruelty when she was told that he had disinherited their daughter, Jeanne, in the belief that she had been fathered by another man in the course of Marguerite’s adultery. That was what had killed her, as surely as a dagger, Blanche reckoned: the knowledge that her infidelity had ruined the life of her only surviving child.

  So many years ago. All that time spent here in this gaol. One third of her life – a whole third! Two-thirds had been joyful, spent in exuberant pleasure-seeking, until that disastrous day when she and Marguerite and even little Jeanne, Blanche’s sister, had been arrested for their adultery. In a wife of a prince, adultery was treason, for it compromised the royal line.

  Her breast convulsed again with sobs. For the life she had lost, for the crime she had knowingly committed. For all that had happened to her – and because she could not forget the shame, the guilt, the pain, the suffering as the small ruby beads rattled through her fingers.

  Chapter Two

  Queen’s chamber, Thorney Island

  The request was brought to her by Richard Blaket, one of the guards at her cloister. At least Queen Isabella knew she could trust him. He was always enthusiastic in his service to her. In the past he had been pulled two ways, loyal to his king and to the Queen, but more recently she had seen a subtle change. It was ever since he had fallen into a passionate affair with her lady-in-waiting Alicia.

  ‘His royal highness would be grateful if you could visit him,’ Blaket said now.

  ‘You mean my husband?’

  He smiled as though she had made a witty remark. ‘Of course.’ But as he spoke, his eyes flitted over her shoulder to Alicia.

  Isabella glanced at the ladies-in-waiting, then rose, settled her skirts, and paced slowly after him.

  At least Blaket treated her with respect. Only a couple of days ago, a squire in the great hall had remained sitting when she entered. It had astonished her. The man saw her clearly, but remained on his arse!

  There had been a time when no man would have dared such impudence. When she was living in France in the court of her father, Philip IV – God rest his soul! – no man would have thought to be so disrespectful to her. If he had dared, he would have learned swiftly that the royal family was quick to punish such behaviour.

  But that was France. Here, she reminded herself, she was the hated symbol of a foreign power. All seemed to look on her as a spy, from what she had seen: daughter of the French royal family at a time when the French had retaken the English provinces in Guyenne. And her husband was not of a mind to protect he
r.

  It all began with the argument over a new bastide which her brother sought to establish at Saint-Sardos. No permission had been sought from the English king for the construction of the little fortified town, so the local populace rose against the French officers seeking to protect the builders. There was a sharp altercation, an affray, and afterwards a French sergeant lay dead on the ground. It was just the pretext her brother needed to invade. He sent in his best general, Charles, Comte de Valois, to pacify the territory, and now King Charles occupied England’s last assets in France.

  The consequences for Isabella were high, because the King acted on the advice of those two reprehensible, dishonourable churls, my Lord Bishop Stapledon and Sir Hugh le Despenser. Her shameful treatment was all at their behest, yes, because Bishop Stapledon wanted her lands and mining rights, while Sir Hugh wanted to curb her authority and her influence on her husband – Sir Hugh’s lover.

  So her lands and privileges were confiscated by the King, her husband; her children were taken from her; her freedom was curtailed; her seal was removed to prevent her communicating with anyone unless with the King’s permission; her household was disbanded and dispersed, with all her French servants arrested. She was a queen in name alone; more truly she was a prisoner, guarded at all times by Sir Hugh le Despenser’s wife, like any felon in a gaol. Except a felon could expect a rope to end his confinement. She wondered what Sir Hugh planned to end her captivity.