All had brought their own horses, of course. Each knight had brought a destrier with him, and for the beginning of this journey to Paris all were mounted upon their mightiest beasts. Now Simon could see why. The Queen’s company might number only some thirty-one people, but with four knights and one lord sitting high over all others on their great horses, haughtily looking about them grim-faced, few would have been bold enough to attempt any sort of action against the Queen.
However, even as he considered that, Simon realised that one face was missing. Although Sir John and Sir Peter were already with Lord John immediately behind the Queen, Sir Charles now was not. When Simon looked for him, he saw the knight over at the flank, as though riding along in parallel with the Queen’s party, but not a part of it. It made Simon wonder again about the man.
Simon and Baldwin had first met this handsome, tall, elegant knight while the battle at Boroughbridge was still a painful memory. Earl Thomas of Lancaster had been accused of treachery by the King, his armies chased about the country until he was forced to surrender. And after that came the appalling retribution.
In the past, men who committed the disgraceful crime of raising arms against their king tended to be punished with a degree of tolerance. They might be imprisoned in the Tower, then forgiven, so long as a fair ransom was paid and a fine against their lands imposed. This was not so in the case of the King’s cousin, Thomas of Lancaster. He had not merely raised an army with the intention of subduing his lawful king, he had deliberately insulted the King’s best friend and adviser, Sir Hugh le Despenser. The two men, Lancaster and Despenser, were determined to snatch whatever power and money they could. And Thomas lost.
Earl Thomas had been the richest and most powerful man in the country save only the King himself, and the King was determined to make an example of him. The Earl was executed shamefully, without consideration of his position, and before his body had cooled the reign of terror began.
Any men-at-arms, knights or even barons who were thought to have been allied to Earl Thomas were hanged, drawn and quartered, bloody sections of their bodies boiled and tarred before being despatched to all parts of the kingdom to be put on display at the gates to the King’s cities as a permanent reminder of the punishment that would be meted out to any who dared challenge his authority. The country was filled with the stench of rotting corpses.
And one of the good earl’s senior knights was a certain Sir Charles of Lancaster.
Sir Charles had been a most devoted knight of Earl Thomas’s household, so he clearly had no place in the England that was ruled by the men who had executed his master. He had fled to France, and eventually come to rest in Galicia. When Simon and Baldwin returned homewards, he had joined them, hoping to find some new lord to serve. He declared himself heartily bored with foreign lands. There were not enough tournaments and wars to pay his expenses. Better to give up the mercenary life.
It was that aspect of his career which had given Baldwin the most concern, Simon remembered. Baldwin had always had a powerful dislike of men who served for cash. He had been brought up to believe in a life of service and duty. Mercenaries who would go wherever the money took them were the enemies of all that was good and honourable.
Now, Sir Charles looked like a man who was at the edge of the company so that he would be able to ride off at a moment’s notice if danger presented itself. But then, when Simon cast a suspicious look over the crowds again, he noticed that Paul, Sir Charles’s man-at-arms, was not near his master but instead towards the rear of their column, and on the other side of it. So one was at each flank, ready to warn the lord of any threat to them all, and probably in a better position to protect the Queen than many of the others who huddled nearer her.
After all, Simon told himself, Sir Charles was one of the King’s household knights now. His days of mercenary warfare were over.
Or so Simon hoped.
Chapter Twelve
Feast Day of St Edward the Martyr12
Pois, France
Ricard was no nearer even liking the man as he sat frowning in the pre-dawn greyness. All about them there was the noise of men striking camp, knocking down the great beams that supported the tents, pulling up the pegs, some shouting for more trunks to store the blankets and drapery, others bellowing for help to fold the heavy canvas, while grooms saw to the horses. Donkeys brayed their protests, dogs barked, and only the Queen’s tent was an island of calm as she ate a sedate breakfast and prepared herself for the continuing journey.
‘He can bloody sing, though,’ Janin said placatingly.
‘I don’t think that’s all there is to it,’ Ricard countered. ‘Look at the way he behaves! Disappearing like that just when we were supposed to be entertaining the Queen.’
‘Look, truth is, I never really liked him much,’ Adam said. ‘I think we ought to try to get on with him now, though.’
‘You never …’
Ricard was too shocked by the blatant dishonesty of the comment to do much more than gape, and it was left to Philip to snort: ‘You are a prick, Adam. You know that?’
‘Sod you, Philip!’
‘Shut up, both of you. The fact is, we were all asked to go and play yesterday, just for the Queen and Lord John, and he wasn’t here.’
He kept himself very much to himself, this Jack of Ireland, and wandered off at the worst possible times. Ricard would have dearly loved to know where he came from, and why it was that William de Bouden had wanted him to join their little group. There must be some reason for it.
Last night was the worst, though. They’d all been summoned to entertain the Queen because there was some local dignitary visiting whom she had wanted to impress, and Jack had just – gone! He could have melted into the surrounding countryside, except there was bugger all for a man to melt into. Hardly even any trees just here, where they were camped. That was why they’d picked the site, of course, but it still made things that much more confusing.
Not only confusing. Bloody irritating! Ricard and the lads had played their fingers raw, so it felt, with a good few tunes which the Queen declared she had never heard before, and there were some knights there who’d been tapping their feet rather than chatting as they usually did, the heathens, and smothering the sound of any music with their laughter. No, last night they’d listened, as though they couldn’t help it. In some way, Ricard wondered whether it was partly the first tune he’d struck up – the one they’d called ‘The Waferer’ in honour of Peter. It seemed suitable, somehow, as if they were bringing a bit of Peter with them on this great journey of theirs. Not that it was the happiest of occasions for them. They were hemmed in by dangers, so he felt.
So he’d gone to see William de Bouden as soon as he’d had a chance, and what had he said? Only ‘The man is a member of your troupe. Nothing to do with me. You brought him, so you deal with him. If you’re unhappy with his performance, you should discuss it with him. I have enough on my plate.’
But there had been no sign of the man.
It was full dawn when Adam looked up and pointed. ‘There he is.’
‘Where the hell have you been?’ Ricard demanded as Jack strolled casually towards them.
‘I found a lovely, lively little French whore. Why?’
‘We were supposed to be singing to the Queen last night, and you weren’t here.’
‘I am sure you will have done well without me.’
‘Perhaps we’d have done better with a drum-player,’ Janin said irritably.
‘You had Philip there.’
Ricard saw that this was not productive. The man was not exactly laughing at him and the others, but neither was he giving way or apologising. Instead he appeared to be preparing himself for a fight. Yes, he was! He was happy to fight them all, from the look of him, rather than submit to responding to their questions. The fellow must be demented!
‘Where were you?’
‘I have told you.’
‘No, you just said you were with a French wench.
Who? Where did you find her? Where did you go to lie with her?’
‘These are all interesting questions, but I’m afraid I have much to do. I haven’t packed my things yet.’
‘It’s all right. I packed your stuff,’ Adam said, and had the decency to look ashamed as all the other men of the group turned to stare at him. They’d agreed Jack would have to do it himself. It wasn’t as though he’d tried to endear himself to them even remotely since their first meeting with him.
‘Why, thank you, Adam. That’s good to hear. You are a real friend.’ Jack smiled at Adam, and when the smile was not reciprocated, it broadened until Jack looked close to outright laughter. ‘Well, lordings, I’d best be preparing myself, eh? I’ll see you on the road.’
‘That bastard,’ Philip snarled. ‘Why don’t we just push him under a cart’s wheels?’
‘Because if we tried to, we’d have to explain his death to William de Bouden. You want to do that, when we’ve enough problems already, what with those two dead in London?’ Ricard returned. ‘No? Then get your gear together. I don’t like it any more than you, but we’re stuck with the shit.’
They stopped late in the morning to rest their beasts and take a brief meal, and Baldwin and Simon found themselves near to the Queen’s favourite guard, Richard Blaket.
‘How is the Queen?’ Simon asked. All knew that Blaket was wooing one of the Queen’s maids, the blonde called Alicia.
‘She grows ever more keen to see her brother, I think. Nothing will give her greater satisfaction than meeting him and feeling that for once she’s truly secure,’ Blaket said, his dark eyes moving over the men around them. His air of lowering truculence had not diminished.
The other two nodded. There was no need for any of them to suggest that she was safe enough with the knights provided for her escort. Only Baldwin was sufficiently independent to be determined to protect her no matter what. The others were all creatures of Sir Hugh le Despenser.
Simon nodded towards a man walking to the woods at the side of the clearing. ‘He one of her musicians?’
‘Yes.’
‘Friend, you sound less trusting of them than you do of the French,’ Baldwin chuckled.
‘One of them once molested my Alicia.’
‘He would be a brave man, who tried that against her will,’ Simon said lightly.
Baldwin was about to laugh, but something in Blaket’s expression made him hesitate. ‘She was all right, though? There was no rape?’
‘No. She assures me that she was perfectly all right. It doesn’t make me look on them with a joyful spirit, though.’
‘Naturally.’
‘The one who did it is dead now, anyway.’
‘Really?’ Baldwin asked sharply.
‘Yes. He was drowned in the ditch outside the city. In London, I mean.’
Baldwin winced. ‘A nasty way to die.’
‘Ach, a man like that, he probably deserved it. Climbed into some girl’s bedchamber, I expect. Her father found him there and did it to him.’
‘When was this?’
‘Day or two before we set off. Why?’
‘Just curiosity.’ Baldwin smiled.
It was that same afternoon that Baldwin had his argument.
At first it was little enough. He had been riding along gently, his mind wandering slightly, as any rider’s will after several days in the saddle, his hips automatically swaying with the horse’s gait, his body fully accustomed to the dip and roll, when there was a sudden explosion of noise behind and to his left.
His rounsey, a dependable, stolid creature generally, was as startled as himself. The large bay jerked to the right, almost unseating Baldwin, and was about to plunge when Baldwin jerked his head back into line. If a horse the size of this one decided to charge off through all the people in the column, his steel-shod hooves could kill someone.
Hearing a laugh, he turned to see a knight grinning amidst a small cloud of evil-smelling smoke. Even from here Baldwin caught the whiff of brimstone. About the man were his men-at-arms, a couple of ostlers, a short, smiling priest and some others. All appeared hugely amused by his reaction and near-fall from his horse.
It was that same Frenchman whom Baldwin had noticed at Boulogne. He was strong and well muscled, with a neck that was almost an extension of his head, it was so thick. Like Baldwin, he too was bearded, and he had a scar that reached down from his ear to his jawline. When he laughed, Baldwin could see that his front teeth were little more than stumps. The man had been a fighter, and had taken powerful buffets, from the look of him.
‘Mon sieur, you have me at a disadvantage.’ In the past Baldwin had always felt that the French language lent a certain air of gaiety and elegance to what might otherwise have been tedious discussions. Just at this moment he was less convinced. It felt a barbarous language if this fellow was born to it.
‘That is true, Sieur Baldwin,’ the man said, and made a mocking bow, one hand at his breast. ‘I am Enguerrand, the Comte de Foix. Pardon me if I respond slowly, but it is a little difficult to comprehend the words as spoken by you English. Your dialect and the pronunciation, they make it very hard, you understand?’
Baldwin felt his face blanch. He was too angry to be cautious. At his age, insults were seldom received, and even more rarely noted, but this man had deliberately snubbed him, and now he chuckled again with his friends. More, Baldwin had lived in Paris for long enough to recognise a provincial accent. He affected his best Parisian tones.
‘Perhaps so, mon sieur. I understand your difficulty perfectly. I also find your dialect hard. Perhaps that is because I am unused to rural language? Or possibly it is your teeth,’ he added more quietly. He did not wish to provoke the man too harshly.
‘Nom d’un chien!’ The Comte de Foix flushed a deep mauve colour, and spurred his horse to join Baldwin, but even as he did so, Sir Charles of Lancaster suddenly appeared between them.
‘Sir Baldwin, I do believe you are taking over my responsibilities here. Isn’t it my duty to be the cantankerous, disputative fellow, and yours to be the rational, sensible justice from the country?’
‘Mon sieur!’ de Foix cried with genuine anger. ‘I must insist you apologise for that ill-thought comment!’
‘Mon sieur, what ever can you mean?’ Baldwin said with icy calm. ‘I thought especially carefully before speaking. I would not wish to think that I could upset you unintentionally.’
‘Caution, Sir Baldwin,’ Sir Charles muttered. He looked over at Lord John Cromwell, who was watching with keen interest. Cromwell nodded and motioned to Sir John de Sapy.
De Sapy was an arrogant fellow at the best of times, but he was undoubtedly a good fighter. Still, Baldwin had no need or desire for others to join in a battle on his behalf. ‘I can manage this man,’ he hissed at Sir Charles.
‘I am sure you can. However, I am less certain that the Queen’s party can cope with the whole of France, old fellow. You can scrap as much as you like, and as far as I am concerned you can wipe out the whole of France. Yes. But beforehand, please wait until I’ve reached a safe location, eh?’
De Foix was still riding alongside, but, prevented from reaching Baldwin by de Sapy and Sir Charles, he gave a sneering gesture, and trotted back to his companions, as though to say that Baldwin was not worth fighting.
‘Ignore him, Sir Baldwin,’ Sir Charles said. He spat over his left thigh, from where he could keep an eye on the French knights.
Baldwin had fought often enough, but he did not like to be forced to retreat from an insult. He held de Foix’s eye for a while, keeping his face expressionless. Looking away at last, he caught sight of Pierre d’Artois, who was watching them closely. Baldwin inclined his head stiffly, and Artois did not acknowledge him, but pulled his horse’s head about and trotted away
‘Yes. That is fine, Sir Charles,’ Baldwin said quietly. ‘I can do my best to avoid him, but he may be able to do even better at seeking me out. And I shall not surrender to a man such as he.’
‘I think the fellow over there enjoys unsettling Englishmen. He had a hand gonne of some sort, I think, and set it off as Baldwin rode past. Nearly had Sir Baldwin on the ground.’
‘A gonne, eh? I’ve seen them a few times. Interesting toys.’
‘Aye. Damned noisy, though. It was foolish to set it off as a man was riding past.’
‘Unless he wanted to provoke.’
‘Why should he?’ Sir Charles frowned.
‘I don’t know. But he seemed to know Sir Baldwin’s name, didn’t he?’
Simon was blissfully unaware of the altercation. He too had heard the noise, but had no idea what could have caused it. It sounded like a hammer striking an anvil very hard. No: worse than that. He had once been in a smithy when the old devil had wanted to shock him. The man spat on to his anvil when Simon wasn’t looking, then held a red-hot bar over the spittle, and hit it with a six pound hammer.
The resulting explosion had been much like that noise: an enormous crack which had almost made Simon leap from his own skin. But there was no anvil here on the march, and Simon was wondering what could have made such a loud noise when he saw Paul, Sir Charles’s man-at-arms. Paul had been with Sir Charles from very early on, when the knight was still with Earl Thomas of Lancaster.
‘Paul – how goes it?’
‘Well enough.’
Paul was an unlikely-looking warrior. He was shortish, and plump, and had almost black hair with white feathers at either temple. From the Scottish March, he spoke with a soft Scots accent, a lilting, pleasant sound, which did not match the quizzical expression he commonly wore.
‘So, tell me, what are you and Sir Charles doing in the King’s service again?’ Simon said. It was the question he had been burning to ask. The last he had seen of Sir Charles, the knight was returning to England with a view to trying to beg pardon for his crimes as a loyal supporter of Earl Thomas of Lancaster.
The Templar, the Queen and Her Lover: (Knights Templar 24) Page 13
