When the barons finally grew so disaffected with the repellent Gaveston that their rage could not be controlled, and he was slaughtered, it was to her that the king turned for sympathy and comfort. And for a while, for a little while, they were truly husband and wife, a fruitful union that gave her four children – the princes Edward and John, and then Eleanor and little Joan, her darling. In those years Isabella had felt her life was fulfilled. She had a merry companion in her king, and a contented little family.
But then the King developed a passion for this latest favourite, Sir Hugh le Despenser.
The man whom she would wish to see dead.
‘Your highness, your servants.’
She smiled at her husband’s men, the men whom Despenser had selected to watch her every step of her way on the return to her homeland, and managed to fit a graceful smile of welcome to hide her revulsion.
New Palace Yard, Westminster
‘So what do we do about him, then?’
Ricard looked at Adam with exasperation. ‘Look, I’m not going to leave him behind with someone I don’t know. Poor bratchet!’
‘Be a bleeding sight poorer if he comes with us to France and dies from the food or something,’ Adam said.
‘He comes.’
‘Fine. You thinking to use him to replace Peter?’ Janin asked reasonably.
‘Come on! Peter was good with the tabor, I know, but we don’t need a man with a tabor to make our music.’ Ricard looked down at Charlie. The child was resting in the crook of his arm as they spoke. He seemed a remarkably contented little boy. Thank God he hadn’t seen his parents in that state, even though he had been scared enough of something to bolt from the house and hide in the hutch. Was it the noise of Ric and his mates turning up late at night? They hadn’t been that loud, had they? But they’d all slept through the murder of the man and his wife. They’d been pretty ruined, then. And this little boy had been woken by them, probably, and sought the only safe place he knew, somewhere he played regularly, no doubt.
‘It was his harp I’ll miss most,’ Janin was saying. ‘You remember how he used to be able to get that crispness from his strings? Very good.’
‘He was all right,’ Ricard conceded, stung. ‘But I think I can play my gittern well enough to make up for it.’
‘I didn’t mean …’ Janin protested hopelessly, but there was no point apologising. Ricard was upset, but so were they all. ‘I just miss him, that’s all.’
‘We all do,’ Philip said.
‘And tomorrow we’re off?’ Adam asked again.
‘That’s what the comptroller said,’ Ricard acknowledged.
The day before, he had been taken to William de Bouden, the Queen’s Comptroller.
‘We shall be leaving in two days. Prepare your men to be in the New Palace Yard at dawn with all their instruments packed for a journey.’
‘Where are we going?’
De Bouden was a square-set man for a clerk. He had a gruff manner, with steely eyes that brooked no nonsense. ‘You honestly mean to say you’ve been walking about the palace with your ears closed? The whole place is discussing the Queen’s mission to her brother. Are you deaf?’
‘I just wasn’t sure where in France we’d be going.’
‘To see the King. But perhaps I was mistaken. Have you been to France?’
‘Um. Well, no.’
‘But you can read a map of the land? You know where towns are?’
‘Um.’ Ricard grinned helplessly.
‘Then why do you want to know? You will be travelling with the Queen, that is all. And you will be careful to ensure that your other musicians are well behaved and don’t misbehave on the way. We have letters of safe conduct, but they won’t protect a randy stallion who tries to mount a French filly. Is that clear?’
Ricard could still remember that freezing stare, as though the man was gazing through his flesh at all his innermost desires. Someone must have told him about the way the men had behaved last time they’d played before the Queen. He could kick Peter for what he had tried. Poor bastard. ‘They’ll be—’
‘Good. Now go! I have a thousand little matters to sort before we leave.’
Ricard shook his head now at the memory. The man had dismissed him with a wave of his hand and turned away instantly as though refusing to become concerned with any matters relating to the musicians. Hardly surprising. The fate of Ricard’s motley little group was irrelevant to him. He had provisions, travel arrangements and route planning for a group of thirty to forty men and women to see to, as well as the headache of all the horses, wagons and carts which would be needed to transport the necessary victuals and other supplies to Dover or wherever they were going to sail from.
There was nothing much else for them to do just now. All their instruments were here with them, as usual. His old citole was beside him, ready to be wrapped first in a soft cloth, then in an oiled blanket to protect the strings and the wood.
He had always been inordinately proud of the device, ever since he had first seen it. It had been in a small workshop back in his home town of Bromley, and his eyes had been drawn to it immediately. The wood had a lovely sheen to it, giving the body a golden glow. It had the shape of a young woman’s figure, with the broad hips at the base, with a slender waist and narrow upper section. From here the neck projected, leading to the large head in which the four keys holding the strings were inserted. He stroked the neck gently. The instrument had been with him for almost fifteen years now, and it was still his proudest possession, which was why he would never take it to a tavern like the Cardinal’s Hat. Too much risk of some drunken arse trying to break it in a place like that.
Carefully setting Charlie down on the bench beside him, he picked it up and started to strum. He always found that music aided his thoughts, and just now his thoughts were black – as he knew his friends’ were.
Peter the Waferer had never been a particularly close companion of his. The man was always a little over-arrogant about his position in the King’s household – a man who could command an income with the kitchen staff and still earn a little more from his ability on the tabor was, so he thought, a man of some substance. He didn’t make too much of it, but every so often he would make some little comment or other, and Ricard usually felt that it was directed at him. It pained him to hear it.
A man shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but Peter was, truth be told, probably the one from the band whom he would miss least. He was always thinking of his family – fair enough, true, but no good for a team like theirs. And he wasn’t that essential. There were only a couple of tunes where they needed his kind of drumming.
‘What’s that tune?’ Janin asked, eyes narrowed as he listened, his head set to one side like a hound.
Ricard hesitated. In truth, he didn’t know what he was playing. Perhaps a mixture of songs he had heard or played in his life, or something he’d heard so long ago it was outside his memory. ‘Call it “Peter’s Tune”, or “The Waferer’s Biscuit”,’ he said with a grin.
‘That’ll do for me,’ Philip said, tapping his knee in time to the music as Ricard began to play again.
Janin eased his hurdy-gurdy out of its leather bag and set the rosin to the wheel. Soon the three were playing, and Adam drew a grimace and reached inside his tunic, pulling out his little whistle to join in.
As usual, a small gathering formed about them as they played. Music was always a comfort to those who had little else to help them relax. A pair of young women lifted their skirts and started to dance to the music, and one carter held out his elbows to them both. They linked arms, and were soon swinging around together, laughing and shouting as they whirled about.
One man in particular was lounging near the alehouse at the gate, Ricard saw. He watched them all for some while as they played, and then strolled towards them as the dancing fragmented, one girl giving up and tottering away breathlessly, dropping exhaustedly on to a stool.
When Ricard felt that they had played
enough and exhausted that tune, he glanced over at the others, indicating it was time to end. Janin nodded back at him, Philip closed his eyes in acknowledgement, and Adam grinned, his lips still about his little whistle. After one more round of the tune they all stopped together.
There was a sudden burst of applause, and Ricard stood to take a bow. He swept off his hat, intending to hold it out for a collection, but folk saw his move and began to leave hurriedly before they could be asked to donate. All except the man Ricard had noticed. He remained, although he ignored the proffered hat.
‘Very good. You lot play well together. You could do with another drummer, though.’
‘We had one. He died.’
‘Oh, that was your friend, was it? I heard about a man found up at the London ditch.’
‘Someone killed him up there.’
‘He was drowned in the shite, wasn’t he? Why’d someone do something like that to a fellow?’ the man wondered aloud.
Ricard didn’t like this conversation. He replaced his hat on his head and turned away to put his citole back in the bag.
‘Have you found anyone to replace him?’ the man asked.
Ricard gazed at him. He had an odd accent. He certainly wasn’t from round here, not from London – and not from Surrey or Kent, as far as he could tell. The fellow was not overly tall. He had calm grey eyes, a pleasant smile, and crows’ feet that showed he was a man who enjoyed life. His grey hair was cut short in the old fashion, and he was cleanshaven. His clothes were clean, his linen shirt so spotless it was almost painful to look at. ‘Why are you so interested?’
‘I was thinking, if you needed another drummer, perhaps a bodhran player could come along with you?’
Ricard eyed him up and down, considering. He was about to answer when he heard a call from the hall behind him, and they were called to the Queen’s presence.
Chapter Eight
Queen’s chamber
Baldwin smiled as he was introduced to the other men in the chamber, but inside he was still anxious. If only he had been able, he would have remained at home with his wife and their children.
But no man could refuse the King’s summons with impunity. He had demanded Baldwin should come here, so Baldwin had complied. At least he had Edgar, his sergeant from those far-off days when he had been a Knight Templar, to stay in his manor with his wife and ensure that she was safe. His son was causing him concern, though. The lad would not suckle as children should, in Baldwin’s experience. Like any other rural knight, he had bred many animals, and he knew as well as any other husbandman what a young creature needed. A boy like Baldwin needed plenty of milk, and while he refused to suckle from both breasts he was not gaining as much as he ought. While Jeanne was reluctant to admit that her son was not feeding enough, she accepted that he might be able to do better, and Baldwin had instructed Edgar to enquire as to whether there was a woman in Crediton who would be willing to act as nursemaid and wet nurse to his little boy. That way, perhaps he could ensure not only that his son received adequate sustenance, but that his wife was given some time to rest and would suffer less from exhaustion.
He should be there, though. It was ridiculous that he should be drawn over to London now, with the likelihood of being sent to France to escort the Queen, when his duty meant remaining at the side of his wife.
Except no man had any duty which could take precedence over the interests of the King, of course. All were the King’s subjects, and owed their lives and wealth to him.
The others here were a mixed bag, though, he thought as he studied them.
William de Bouden he knew by reputation. The shortish, thickset and glowering ginger-haired comptroller was, so far as he knew, honourable and reliable. He had been the Queen’s Comptroller before, and Baldwin had heard that she was furious when he was removed from his post. However, all her friends and servants were taken away from her at the same time, so her rage at his departure was probably only an indication of her general discomfiture, rather than at this specific man’s removal.
One of the King’s better generals was going to lead the Queen’s diplomatic party: Lord John Cromwell. Tall and dark-haired, with narrow features but bright, intelligent black eyes, he had been Lord Steward to the King’s household for some while, and although he must have felt the same concern as barons like Mortimer before the supposed rebellion of the Lords Marcher three years ago, he had remained true to the King. Baldwin wondered at that. He had himself stayed constant, but the doubts had been terrible.
There were three other knights in the room being granted their brief audience with the Queen, and one was familiar: a tall, fair, handsome man with the haughty blue eyes of one who knew that the world existed to amuse and satisfy him – Sir Charles of Lancaster.
Baldwin had met him with Simon while they were travelling on pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela, and he had been with them on their return when they had been shipwrecked off the island of Ennor. Sir Charles had been a loyal vassal of the Earl of Lancaster, but when the Earl had been killed after his ill-conceived opposition to the King, Sir Charles had been left without a master. Like so many other homeless and rootless knights, he had left the country to travel abroad, seeking fame and fortune in the only way a chivalric man could, at the point of sword or lance. But even there his attempts to gain some prestige and honour failed. Now, however, he had clearly become less a mercenary, more a respected household retainer of the King. He wore the King’s own badge at his breast.
The other two, so Baldwin learned as they were introduced, were Sir John de Sapy and Sir Peter de Lymesey. Neither was known to him. Sir John was a man of middle height, with a square face and calm grey eyes, while Sir Peter was a little taller, more of Baldwin’s own build, but with a strangely rectangular face and dark eyes under heavy brows. Both stood with their hands on their swords, and bowed only cursorily. At least Sir Charles bowed like a knight honouring a lady, Baldwin thought as he also bent at the waist. However, when he straightened up again, he saw that amusement in Sir Charles’s eyes, and wondered whether the ostentatiousness of his reverence was purely to conceal his cynicism about the lady’s position. All knew about Despenser’s hold on the King.
‘Ah, Sieur Baldwin de Furnshill, n’est-ce pas?’ the Queen was saying, and Baldwin urgently bowed again, returning his attention to her.
‘Your highness,’ he responded, also in French. It was fortunate that he, like almost all knights, was multilingual. Every man who served the King must learn the King’s first language, French, as well as the common English tongue. In Baldwin’s case he must also speak some Latin for conversations with the clerks in his courts and with the men of the Church, and he had been forced to pick up some of the old language that was still so common about the west of Devon and Cornwall. In comparison with that, the French of this lady was a great deal easier.
‘You are alone here? Your friend the bailiff is not with you?’
‘My lady, I came here alone, I fear.’
It was true enough. He would have given much to know that his old companion Simon Puttock was at his side. There were so many dangers he could conceive during this mission to France. It would have been comforting to know that Simon was with him.
‘You should have asked him to join you, sieur.’
He bowed without answering. When he glanced about him, he was pleased to note that Sir John and Sir Peter were muttering quietly to each other as they looked at him. Clearly they were wondering who this stranger might be.
It was curious, he felt, that when there were so few knights up and down the country – perhaps two thousand all told – it was possible to be met at every turn by a fresh face. For his part, he was sure that he had never met these two, but that was little surprise. After all, he was a rural knight from the wilds of Devon with no interest in the goings-on at court. He spent his days seeing to his livestock, hunting, and increasingly being involved in the day-to-day affairs of the local courts, both as a Keeper of the King’s Peace, and as
a Justice of Gaol Delivery. That was enough to keep him busy.
More recently, and against his will, he had been elected as a representative of his county in Parliament, although he had been forced to attend only one meeting so far. When he was coming up to London more regularly he would be forced to get to know many more men like these, no doubt.
As the introductory audience finished, and Baldwin was able to leave the room, he reflected on that fact. The idea of meeting more of his peers was not comforting.
As the men left her, Queen Isabella eyed them closely. That keeper, Sir Baldwin, was known to her after the investigation he had conducted into the deaths in the palace earlier in the year, and if she didn’t trust him totally, she was at least as sure as she could be that he was an honourable man.
It was the others about whom she was nervous. Her comptroller, William, was well known to her, of course. He had been with her for many years before the King removed him. Now she had demanded his return, and she felt fairly comfortable that he was loyal still. He was her man. The same could not be said for Cromwell and his other three knights. De Sapy, she thought, looked shifty – the sort who would change allegiance as the wind changed; de Lymesey she did not like. He had a directness of staring that made her feel as though he was undressing her. Not quite disrespectful enough for her to complain, but there was that sexual note in his eyes. She would not dare trust him alone. Lancaster himself she was quite certain of. He was a mercenary, and entirely untrustworthy. So, if she were to offer a bribe to de Sapy, he might be reliable enough for a while, she thought. And that was the best she could say about them.
Now the lower orders were being trooped in to her. The cooks, the clerks under de Bouden, some guards, and finally a band of musicians.
The Templar, the Queen and Her Lover: (Knights Templar 24) Page 9
