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

by Michael Jecks

  ‘You wished to see me, my lord?’ she demanded as she entered the Painted Chamber.

  It was a huge room, eighty feet long and twenty-six wide, with a ceiling that rose some thirty feet overhead, studded with beautifully decorated paterae. On the walls were scenes from the Gospels, while the two great windows in the northern wall illuminated the chamber with a dull, gloomy light. The opulence of the gilt and silverwork was enough to take away the breath of many visitors. Today it gleamed in the light of the candles and the fire. The feeble glow from outside did little to brighten it.

  King Edward II stood before the fire, his hands clasped behind his back. Isabella ignored the esquire and the two clerks at their table near the first of the windows, and marched to her husband.

  He looked older, she thought. The lines had been carved deeper into the flesh at the sides of his mouth, and his cheeks looked sunken. His blue eyes were still bright and shrewd, though, and although his long face was grim, he still possessed the aura of power which had always been his mark. And the undeniable handsomeness.

  ‘You are aware of the situation with your intolerable brother,’ he began.

  Isabella bridled to hear her brother denigrated in this manner, but before she could draw breath King Edward was continuing, spittle flying from his lips in his rage.

  ‘He has sent me three ultimata. If I wish to retain my lands in France …’ His voice was strained, as though he was close to choking, but he recovered himself and lifted his chin. ‘If I wish to have them returned to me, perhaps I should say, then I will have to submit to his will. I must go to France to pay homage to him for those lands, and hope that he will later deign to let me have them back. It is intolerable that he should make such demands upon me, a king!’

  ‘What has this to do with me?’ Isabella asked coldly.

  ‘Woman, I need an extension of the truce which presently exists. I cannot submit in a moment to such demands. He must be made to see that. I have to have an ambassador to whom he will listen.’

  ‘Then send one.’

  ‘I shall, madam, I shall,’ he said coldly. There was a look of suspicion and doubt in his eye. ‘I have chosen you.’

  Château Gaillard

  Down here deep in the rock beneath the castle’s walls, not even a breath of wind could penetrate. The air was always damp, cool and noisome, even in the hottest summer.

  No soughing breeze could venture here. There were times she had wished that she could have been incarcerated in a high chamber in a tower. At least there she might have the consolation of a view of fields and woods; the feel, perhaps, of sunlight on her flesh. And the smells! Smells of hay, of flowers, even of the dry, hot winds of summer. There would be consolation in the freezing gales that howled from the north and east. Just to sense the air moving over the hair of her skin would be better than this eternity of cold, moisture-laden stillness. The only smells she ever detected here were those of the sweat and foulness of her gaolers.

  They could be kind, though. One had comforted her when she had heard of her husband’s attempts to have her marriage to him annulled, the Pope refusing to permit it. When she had been brought here, she had scarcely been eighteen years old. The very idea that she could be thrown into a cell like this had never occurred to her. It was so far from her experience, she had never imagined that she could be forced to live in such a place. And yet, perhaps that was all part of her dream? Maybe there was nothing beyond these walls. She had been born here, perhaps, raised here in this chamber in the rock, and she had invented all the memories of dancing, feasting, loving … that was easier than to think that it was as a young woman she had been brought here, and she would die here. And better by far that she should not think of her child. Her child was lost to her now.

  She heard the rattle of locks farther along the corridor, a shocking, startling sound that shook her from her reverie. Any disturbance here in the cells was a distraction to be welcomed, no matter what it presaged. Blanche eased herself up to a crouch, her legs and back aching, head tilted to hear the better.

  A door was thrown wide, and she heard the tramping of booted feet along the stone floor, the rattle of chains, the low mutter of men’s voices. And then her door was opened, and a leering, bearded face peered in at her.

  ‘It’s your time, woman. Get up!’

  She rose to her feet slowly, her hands flat against the rough stone wall.

  The man held out his hand, all four fingers curling back to the palm in the universal sign of beckoning, but she was as nervous and flighty as an unbroken mare.

  ‘My child?’ she asked as firmly as she could, but even her own ears told her how her voice quavered, and her hand went to her rosary for comfort. It was made of beads of ruby, a wonderful gift. The last her husband gave her before she squandered his trust … his love. It was the only item she had been allowed to keep when she was brought here, for her chaplain insisted that she must be permitted her beads. It was her sole possession.

  ‘You are to be set loose from here, my lady,’ the gaoler said, ignoring her. His lip curled into a grin, but there was a sadness in his face. He would miss her.

  Holy Mother Mary, but she hated this man. Even more than her husband, who had not defended her when she was left here to moulder, she hated this man.

  But there was one whom she hated more even than him. More than any other person, Blanche detested the bitch who had caused her to be arrested with her sister and sister-in-law, and thrown into this cell. The woman who told the King of her suspicions about the three royal wives and had them followed until their guilt was transparent to all.

  That bitch, the she-wolf, Isabella, queen of England.

  Queen’s chamber, Thorney Island

  Back once more in her chamber, the Queen sat at a cushioned seat set into one of the tall lancet windows, and gazed out at the river.

  ‘My lady, was there anything interesting he wanted to speak about with you?’ Lady Eleanor asked after some moments.

  Queen Isabella was careful to give the appearance of surprise at hearing the woman’s question. ‘You mean you were not already made aware of the suggestion? I am shocked, Lady Eleanor.’

  It was difficult to restrain herself after so many months of living with this foul woman. At first she had tried to befriend Eleanor, the King’s niece as she was, and included her in many festivities and parties. For a long time, she had never berated her for laziness or foolishness, although God alone knew how many occasions there had been which justified sharp rebukes. Eleanor had always been a welcomed guest, no matter what the hour, no matter how great the annoyance of the interruption. All that changed when she married that arch-deceiver Sir Hugh le Despenser.

  When he first came into their lives, it was as a paid informer for the barons. They kept him in the King’s household in order to try to curb any independent action on his part, which they all wanted after the years of Piers Gaveston. After the latter’s death at the hands of a small party of barons, Despenser had gradually become more and more essential to the King, and the King began to trust no one but him. All those who had been his most loyal servants had been forced from him. Even his greatest general, Roger Mortimer of Wigmore, had been driven into near rebellion, and had helped the Lords Marcher with their sudden attack on the Despenser territories which Sir Hugh had taken from others by force or by deception. There was nothing he coveted which he would not grab.

  Poor Mortimer. He had been ousted from the King’s side, then kept in the Tower until he broke out in such a spectacular fashion, riding for the coast with two allies and escaping to France. All because Despenser looked upon him as a mortal foe – Roger Mortimer’s grandfather had killed Despenser’s on the field at the battle of Evesham fifty or more years before.

  So, just as the King had found Despenser installed within his household, so too did Queen Isabella have the Despenser’s own spy in her household. All her maids had been replaced by Lady Eleanor’s friends and accomplices. Any new lady-in-waiting had to be a
pproved by her. And meanwhile, all the Queen’s letters were perused by her before being sealed by the Queen’s own seal, which Eleanor held about her neck at all times.

  ‘Obviously the King would not discuss private matters with me,’ Lady Eleanor said coolly.

  The Queen’s response was more tart. ‘I am surprised. I had thought that your husband would have kept you informed about their business, my lady. Especially when it is so important for the realm.’

  Lady Eleanor went white on hearing that. She pursed her lips angrily, but said nothing more, merely gathered up her skirts and flounced from the room.

  ‘You defeated her there. She must grow tired of constantly being bested by you!’ Isabella’s maid Alicia chuckled, rising from her stool and walking to her mistress when she saw the finger beckon. ‘My lady?’

  ‘Prepare yourself, Alicia. We are to go to France to my brother’s court. I am to be the King’s ambassador.’

  Alicia gasped and clapped her hands, and then was still, her eyes thoughtful.

  The Queen nodded. ‘Yes. The King still refuses to go to pay homage to my brother. But he is king of France – it is unthinkable that my husband should evade his feudal duty. He must go at some point.’

  ‘Yet Lady Eleanor’s husband …’

  ‘Hugh le Despenser will oppose my husband’s journey with all the skill and persuasion he can muster, and that devil has much of both. He is as crafty and mendacious as any politician. But that may give me an opportunity he has not considered,’ she added pensively.

  ‘He means to do you harm,’ Alicia said sharply.

  ‘Harm me? What harm could he do to me in my brother’s country? I shall be safer there than here in my adopted home.’

  ‘If an unscrupulous enemy wished to harm you, he would find his task that much easier in France, my lady,’ Alicia insisted.

  The Queen was already looking once more out through the window at the Thames and did not answer. There was no need to. She knew it already.

  Queen’s cloister, Thorney Island

  Alicia was cautious about how she made her way from the Queen’s chamber to the door that led from the cloister to the Queen’s private little garden. Crossing the sweet-smelling camomile lawn, she reached the gate at the far side. There she knocked quietly twice, then once more.

  Immediately the gate opened and Blaket peered in, his face wreathed in smiles. ‘Alicia, my love, my heart, my life. Come here!’

  ‘My!’ she gasped when he had embraced her for long enough. She set her fists against his breast to push him away. ‘If this is how you respond to a scant half-day’s separation, I’ll have to be careful not to leave you for a day.’

  ‘You mustn’t leave me for so long. That would be torture,’ he said, but in his eyes there was a darkness and no flippancy.

  ‘Not just for you.’

  ‘Ah, you don’t love me as much as I love you,’ he said.

  She cocked an eyebrow and set her head to one side. ‘So we are into competitive lovemaking now? My lord, I love you more than you love me.’

  ‘No, I love you most.’

  ‘Possibly true, then. I will not get into an argument,’ she said shortly, drawing away and smoothing her skirts.

  ‘What? Is there something the matter?’

  ‘It is said that our lady may be travelling soon.’

  ‘And you will be going with her?’

  ‘Don’t look like that, my love,’ she said softly. ‘We would be back as soon as possible.’

  ‘Would she take a guard with her?’

  Alicia smiled. ‘If she has any say, she will know which guard she can trust, won’t she?’

  It was a relief to hear her say that with that sweet smile on her pale face. He pulled her to him again and held her tight, saying nothing. He had proved himself to the Queen in the last weeks. No service had been too much for him. And now all he wanted was to remain with her when she went.

  With Alicia, too, of course. She was his lovely, lively little bird. A wonderful smile, a warm, generous spirit, those bright blue-grey eyes that lit up his soul – life would be hell without her. ‘Thanks to God for that. I can’t let you go to France alone.’

  ‘I scarcely think I’d be alone. Not with the Queen, her clerk, her chaplain, her honour-guard of knights and men-at-arms,’ she declared archly.

  ‘No. Of course not.’

  She frowned quickly. ‘How did you know it was France?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘I told you we would be travelling, but you just said “France”. How did you know?’

  ‘Do you really think there are any secrets here in the King’s palace?’ he asked and chuckled.

  She smiled in return, giving him a hug. It was that, then, which had made his eyes anxious and black. Little surprise. Everyone knew how potentially dangerous a journey to France could be, especially now with war hanging over both nations like a cloud of brimstone.

  Chapter Three

  Lombard Street, City of London

  ‘Interesting,’ Janin said. ‘So now we’re suddenly the Queen’s Men, are we? That’s a snappy name for a band like us. Except we’ve nothing to do with her just now.’

  ‘It’s hardly the way I’d have wanted to have things go,’ Adam said. He turned to the scowling Ricard. ‘Why the hell did you have to start pawing that woman in the first place?’

  ‘Shut up talking like that! You’re talking daft,’ Philip said. ‘If she’d gone to your lap and started getting you all sweaty, you’d have done the same thing.’

  ‘It’s not the point, though, is it?’ Adam demanded. He stood square to Ricard, hands on hips.

  Ricard looked up from the small figure before him as though noticing him for the first time. ‘No. It’s not. You’re right. The point is, some murderous bastard’s got his fist on my jacket and he won’t be likely to let go until he has all he wants.’

  ‘We’re not even anything to do with the Queen, though, Ric. What the hell are you going to do?’ Peter Waferer asked plaintively.

  Ricard ignored him. ‘Who are you?’ he asked of the boy.

  ‘Charlie Chatty.’

  ‘Charlie Chatty, eh? A good name,’ Ricard said.

  He was at a loss as to what to do with the child. If he was right, this little lad was the son of the woman who’d been murdered last night. The woman who’d died, apparently, just so that the flash git there could blackmail him and the boys into spying on the Queen. The child looked only about three years old, if that. He could walk, talk a fair bit, and judging by his bright blue eyes and sandyish hair he was healthy enough. Thanks to Christ they hadn’t taken him out before the man had left the house. He had insisted on speaking to Ricard, alone, and when he had gone Ricard had made his way to the hutch. The mite had screamed at first when he pulled the side away, and shrank back at the wall as though expecting to be killed, but after being given some bread and a sweet cake he had come along with Ricard happily enough. Every so often his eyes clouded and he looked about him anxiously, but then he would glance up into Ricard’s face and, God help Ricard, he appeared comforted by him. So now he had this additional little parcel of work clinging to his belt. The thought of the lad’s mother’s body in that foul chamber was enough to make him want to spew, so he was determined not to desert the boy, but that left him with the question of what to do with him.

  ‘Did you hear me?’ Peter demanded.

  ‘Yes, all right? Look, you’re a King’s Waferer – don’t you have some access to the palace? To the Queen? Could you …’

  ‘Not a chance. I’d do anything to help you all, but I can’t bugger about. I’ve got a wife, kids to look after. I can’t take a gamble on my job.’

  ‘No more he can,’ Philip said heavily.

  ‘How about one more kid?’

  ‘Do me a favour, Ric! Look at the brat! What would my wife say, eh? She’d ask where the hell I’d got him, then kick my arse from Eastchep to West for keeping a slut on the side and bringing my bastard home with me!’<
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  Janin watched and listened to their gloomy conversation. Their mood was grim at best. The sight of the two bodies, one ravished, both stabbed and beaten to bloody death, was enough to make any man’s stomach turn. Worse to find the child there too. Of course, more to the fore of their collective minds was the fact that were they to fail in the command given to them, they would end up in a similar manner to the lad’s parents: slain and thrown to the dogs.

  Their host had smiled at them coldly as they gathered about him. Ricard in particular was eager to break his head. He had been attracted to that woman, and to see her destroyed so utterly was shocking. They hadn’t just slashed at her, they’d beaten her about the face until she was almost unrecognisable. Janin, the most reflective of the band, was thinking carefully as they surrounded the fellow, his sword still at Ricard’s neck. ‘Ric – if you were going to blackmail a little mob like ours to do your will, would you go into a room with them and let them into your secret there, all alone?’

  Ricard had been breathing hard and fast, his mouth closed. Gradually his face lost its bellicose flush, and he became more rational. ‘Where are his men?’ he had demanded.

  Their host had answered. ‘Outside. There are two over the road there. I can see them from here through the window. Look for yourself. If you try to harm me, they will see. If they sound the alarm, the hue and cry will be here in moments. And people will find some musicians who were very loud and rowdy last night, and tried to rape a respectable woman, a Madam Thomassia, whose husband Guy was lately a man-at-arms in France. And anyone who breaks in here to rescue me will find you here with that same man and woman, both dead. They are not fools. Two dead when you had shown such interest in them last night,’ he said contemptuously. ‘Oh, and they’ll find me: a nobleman, who will denounce you. For those murders. Do you think you could escape the rope? Or perhaps they would think up a better way to kill you. The London mob can be most inventive.’