There were some men already standing in a group, talking loudly, and Simon made his way to them quickly. ‘Let me through! Baldwin? Baldwin!’
‘Simon, my Christ, but that flame seared my eyes!’
‘What flame?’ Simon asked. Peering closely, he saw that Baldwin was sitting hunched, his face frowning, eyes squeezed tightly shut. Simon took his hand, and helped him up. Peering closely, Simon could see that there were black powder marks on his friend’s face, and his beard looked as though it had been singed. ‘You reek of the devil, Baldwin! Can you see me?’
‘I don’t … yes. Yes, I can. Thanks be to God! I saw flames coming towards me, Simon. Huge yellow flames which scorched my face. I was blinded for a moment …’
‘You are sure you are all right?’
Baldwin put out his hand shakily and took hold of Simon’s arm. ‘Help me walk, Simon. My legs feel as though they’re made of aspic! I do not think they will support me. In Christ’s name, I never thought I should be so …’
There was a muttering behind Baldwin, and Simon saw torches approaching. Men were gathered together in a group, and Simon was alarmed to see that the men were bending down over something. ‘Christ’s ballocks, Baldwin! What have you done?’
‘Me? What do you mean?’ Baldwin demanded, blinking wildly, but he could hear the footsteps approaching solemnly.
‘Sieur Baldwin, what explanation do you have for this?’
‘Sieur Pierre?’ Baldwin asked. ‘Is that you?’
Sieur Pierre d’Artois peered at him. A servant with him was gripping a large flaming torch, and he held it up as the ageing French knight stooped slightly. ‘What has happened to you?’
It was left to Simon to try to explain. ‘He was attacked by a flame… they burned his face, look.’
‘He has been attacked by something,’ d’Artois agreed. He looked up as a heavy tread announced the arrival of Lord John Cromwell with Sir Charles and Sir John de Sapy. ‘My lord, mes sieurs. We have an embarrassment.’
Lord John bent to peer into Baldwin’s face. Baldwin was still blinking furiously to try to clear his eyes of the stinging grittiness. It felt as though someone had thrown a handful of hot sand in them. He had been fortunate, he knew, but he wasn’t prepared to let anyone else know that.
‘I agree. This is an outrageous state of affairs. When an English knight, here to guard the Queen, with plenteous letters of safe conduct, is assaulted within the camp, it makes for a grave situation indeed.’
‘It must have been the Comte de Foix,’ Baldwin grated. ‘The flames; I am sure that they were his black powder. He set it off as I drew nearer him. He wanted to embarrass me!’
‘You see?’ Lord John said. ‘Where is this comte?’
Sieur Pierre looked at him. ‘You are right. It is very grave. Especially since the Comte is dead.’
Chapter Fourteen
Robert de Chatillon stared down at the body with mixed feelings. This had been his master, his mentor and the source of his livelihood, and although he was never a greatly affectionate lord, yet he was the man who had taken on Robert and maintained him. Without Sieur Enguerrand, Robert was unsure what might happen to him.
However, it went further than a lack of affection. The Comte de Foix was a powerful magnate, a man fully aware of his importance and his place in the world. He had provided food and clothing for Robert, and in return Robert had given him his service, but there was no love in the relationship. Theirs was the companionship of a feudal lord and his servant, nothing more.
Still, it was hard to lose a master, even when he had not been kind or particularly generous. There was a void in his place, a void in which all was uncertain. Robert had no family to which to turn, and he was not convinced that the Comte’s wife would want any reminders of her husband. He had been cruel to her, too. Thus it was that even as he bent a leg at the side of the corpse, he was not certain what his feelings were for this man, who had provided for him during his life, but without grace or gratitude. His tongue had been harsh, and, when he found a fault or a weakness, he took pleasure in exposing it to all.
‘Stand aside!’
Pierre d’Artois was behind him, and Robert scrambled to his feet as the great lord peered down, motioning to men to bring their torches lower that he might study the body more closely. ‘Did any man here see what happened?’
Beside him was the Englishman, the Lord John Cromwell, and he gazed suspiciously at all the men present, rather than staring down at the body, his cold, grey eyes as keen as a hawk’s as he studied the expressions of those nearby.
No one answered, and soon Pierre’s attention left the body and rested on Robert. ‘You were his escuier. What was he doing out here in the middle of the night? Did he have to rise from his bed each night?’
‘No, my lord. He was never wont to get up. He would sleep through the night without difficulty.’
‘Then what was he doing here?’
‘I don’t know. I was asleep. But I am not aware of any reason for him to come here.’
‘Very well,’ Artois said, and turned his attention back to the body, shaking his head and grunting. ‘So perhaps someone bethought himself that this was a stranger, possibly a danger to the Queen, and killed him.’
He would have continued, but now there was a soft voice from behind Robert, and he bowed low even as he turned to face her: Isabella, queen of England.
‘My Lord Cromwell? There has been a disturbance?’
‘This man has died.’
‘And it would seem,’ Pierre d’Artois added silkily, ‘that one of your knights may have had a part in his death. I noticed earlier today that Sir Baldwin and he had been arguing, and now, within a few hours of their cross words, one is dead.’
The Queen gazed over to where Simon and Baldwin stood. ‘I know this knight personally. He would not be guilty of an underhand or dishonourable action, of that I am sure.’
‘My Lord Cromwell, would you have him come here, please?’ d’Artois asked.
Lord Cromwell nodded and beckoned to Simon, who brought his friend with him.
Baldwin was still shaky. His legs were unreliable, and he felt as though he had been riding in a tournament, his heart had been pounding so hard. Now it was calming a little, and he could look down at the body dispassionately, noting the position of the arms and legs, the relaxed expression on the dead man’s face. Nothing odd there. Most corpses had the appearance of calmness. He thought it was the way that the muscles loosened and settled once the energy of the soul had left the body. His eyes passed over the face to the throat. In the flickering torchlight, the pool about his neck looked black on the snow. He had been right: de Foix had drowned in his own blood as his throat was cut. Then, from the look of it, he’d been stabbed as well. A dagger protruded from his breast. And then his eyes locked on the hilt of the knife, and his hand shot to his belt. With some disbelief, he looked down at the empty sheath.
The dagger planted in the man’s breast was Baldwin’s.
Morrow of the Feast of St Edward the Martyr13
Pois, France
It was a cold, cold morning. The sky was leaden with the heavy clouds covering it, and all looked up, fearing more snow.
Robert had not slept well. Since the discovery of the body, his mind had been unable to disengage from the overriding consideration that his own future was in the balance. Ideally he should ride back to Foix with the body, but in the absence of a murderer, he thought that he should ride with the Queen’s party to the King with the body. If nothing else, the matter could be discussed before the King.
No one had confessed to the murder, but Robert was sure that there was something shifty in the English knight’s eyes when he was questioned by Artois. Artois was considered one of the King’s most intelligent knights, a man with courage, but also a shrewd mind. Often he could read a man’s heart and see what lay within. And today Robert wanted him to study Sir Baldwin and see what he uncovered. There had to have been something. Robert had n
ot been with his master all that day, but he had witnessed the anger and heard the brief but sharp exchange between the two on the road. He’d asked Baldwin about that the night before, in front of Artois.
‘The argument? Yes, we had some words, but it was nothing that could justify my slaying him. He did something that made a noise and scared my horse. That was all.’
‘What did he do?’ Artois had asked.
It was Robert who had been best placed to respond. ‘My lord, the Comte had been demonstrating his new hand-cannon. He fired it and the sound disturbed this noble knight’s horse. But I believe this knight was significantly discommoded by the sound. Perhaps he sought to take revenge on the man who had so scared his mount?’
Artois had nodded, his eyes on Baldwin. ‘Do you know whose dagger that is in his breast?’
‘It is my own. Someone must have stolen it earlier.’
‘You expect us to believe that?’
‘Yes.’ Now it was the other man, Lord John. ‘You do not forget that we travel under the protection of your king? This man is as safe and as free as he ever has been. He knows that, and there is no need for him to dissemble. If he says it was taken from him, you have to believe him.’
Artois had ignored the lord. He had gazed fixedly at Baldwin. ‘I saw you with this man earlier. I ask you: did you have any part in his death?’
‘I did not. He disturbed my horse, and we spoke briefly, but there was no threat in me.’
‘He did not fire his cannon at you?’
‘My lord, I do not know what this hand-cannon is. We do not have them in England, so far as I know.’
‘Really?’
The disbelief in his tone had been plain to all about them. Robert, though, was intrigued by the detail which no others appeared to have noticed. ‘Was there not a loud report here tonight?’
‘I was scorched by the flames he threw at me,’ Baldwin had admitted.
‘You certainly have the appearance of a man who has been burned by a cannon’s flames,’ Artois had agreed.
‘You say his cannon was here?’ Robert had asked. ‘But where is it now?’
That was a question which no one had answered last night. It was not lying near Enguerrand’s body, that was all anyone would say. Now Robert looked over at the racks of weapons at the rear of the tent. The gonne was there, on its long pole.
There was a scratching at the tent’s opening, and he turned to see a pair of scruffy churls waiting. He was ready to shout, but the bellow died as he recognised them. ‘What do you two want?’
Arnaud smiled. ‘Is that any way to welcome us back?’
Neither Simon nor Baldwin had slept since returning to their own tent late in the middle watches.
‘Simon, I swear I do not know how my dagger came to be in his breast,’ Baldwin said again as the sun rose and the walls of their tent lightened. He was lying back on his rugs, a cloak over him as he worried at the problem.
‘You are safe, anyway. Even Artois accepted that while you are a member of the Queen’s retinue, you are safe from prosecution.’
‘Yes. Even if all consider me guilty of murder in the middle of the night.’
‘I am sure the Queen doesn’t.’
‘No. She did graciously confirm her trust in me.’ Baldwin nodded. ‘But how did my dagger come to be used to kill him?’
Simon grunted. ‘I suppose you are sure that it was yours? Not merely a similar one?’
‘I took my dagger before leaving the tent, and the sheath was empty when you found me. No, there is no doubt.’ Baldwin scowled again with the effort of memory. ‘I remember that I had it with me – I took it out when I first heard the noise. And then there was the flash … the cannon … and I was blinded. I covered my eyes … I believe I must have dropped it then, but I cannot remember.’
‘So the man took your dagger and stabbed the count as he came closer.’
Baldwin could hear the doubt in his voice. ‘Either Foix was dead already and my knife thrust into him to throw suspicion on me, or he was not there, and hurried up after hearing the cannon go off, only to be stabbed.’
‘It seems unlikely. You always say that you dislike coincidence – here you propose that you and he, the only two men who have argued on this journey, should have met by chance in the middle watches, and a murderer happened by and fired a hand-cannon at you, then took your dagger and killed de Foix. He took your dagger only because you happened to drop yours after his gonne was fired. And he missed you, although he was close enough to singe your beard.’
‘Worse than that – the killer had no reason to guess that I would be up from my tent in the night. I do not believe it myself. If I was sitting in judgement over my own case, Simon, I would not consider my evidence credible either.’
‘No. It means someone knew you had a problem with de Foix, that he saw you get up from your tent, and already had the gonne prepared. He discharged it, scorching you, grabbed your dagger when you dropped it, and could then go and stab de Foix.’
‘Put like that, it hardly makes more sense,’ Baldwin said heavily. ‘It’s light, Simon. Let us go and see whether there is anything else we can learn.’
Simon nodded, and followed his friend outside. In the chilly light, he sucked in his breath at the sight of his friend’s face. ‘In Christ’s name, Baldwin! You have been speckled with flame.’
‘It feels as though someone has flung a panful of cinders at me,’ Baldwin said ruefully, gingerly touching his cheek, his brow and his nose. ‘The effect was most disconcerting.’
‘Yes. That I can easily believe,’ Simon said. His friend’s face was raw in some places. ‘It’s a miracle your eyes are all right.’
‘There is a little residual pain, but not much,’ Baldwin said. He squared his shoulders and set off towards the place where de Foix’s body had been the night before.
Under the orders of Artois, the body had been gathered up last night to protect it from marauding animals. Baldwin had been too tired and fractious to argue, although he did bitterly point out that any evidence in the area was likely to be lost in the dark. Artois had given him a not friendly stare for that comment, and Simon had hurriedly led him away.
Now it was plain that his words had been all too accurate. The whole area about the body was trampled into a mess of mud and broken stems of grass. Baldwin looked at it all in silence, before grunting in disgust. Still, he crouched down and peered at it closely for some little while.
‘Nobody found the gonne last night, did they?’
‘I don’t think so. I didn’t see it myself, but I’m not certain what it would look like.’
‘It was a cylinder of metal set atop a length of wood. Probably ash or beech, I would think. The pole was thrust into the rear of the cylinder, so it looked like one long staff, thicker at one end than the other.’
‘How long was the length of wood?’
‘About two and a half feet. And the cylinder itself was another foot or so long, I think. I saw it only the once, when he was discussing the explosion with me. Then I had no idea what it was, but a hand-cannon makes sense. It was like that.’
‘And it went off, burning you like that?’ Simon asked dubiously. ‘Surely, even if it was only a tiny cannon, there would have been a small stone or something in it. Shouldn’t it have hit you when it went off? Did it just miss you?’
‘I don’t know,’ Baldwin said. He could remember the scene again. ‘I saw the man as though crouched on the ground, and then there was a flash and flames were rushing towards me.’
‘That is all you recall?’
‘I seem to …’ He closed his eyes to aid his memory. ‘Perhaps there was a small glowing ember of some sort.’
Now he thought about it, he was almost sure he had seen a little red glow before that enormous burst of flame. And a sizzling line, like an incandescent, spitting snake. ‘Come with me!’
‘This is where you found me last night?’
They had stopped at a slight hollow in th
e ground. Nothing much, and in the snow it would have been hard to see, but there was a muddy puddle at the bottom which showed its curvature, and Baldwin could see where he had stood, then fallen, his hand prints showing distinctly in the mushy snow at the upper lip. And then he saw the blackened mess.
‘There was no gonne, Simon. The fellow simply set fire to a pile of black powder on the ground,’ he said. ‘That was why I was uninjured.’
‘But why would someone have done that?’ Simon said, hunkering down and prodding at the black residue.
It had lain on a flat board, a half-inch-thick plank of some light wood about three feet long. Simon ran his finger over it. There appeared to be a groove cut into it from one end to the other, and where the black residue was thickest there was a distinct hollowing, like a shallow dish.
‘This board would keep the powder away from the damp,’ Baldwin said musingly. ‘And the depressions would hold the powder in one place to be fired.’
That would make sense, so far as Simon was concerned. He had heard of black powder, the strange, explosive material that was used to fill the lethal cannons that hurled rocks at walls. Siege trains in the hosts of any king must always have their cannons now, no matter the fact that the damned things seemed to be the invention of the devil. From all he had heard, they were more dangerous to the labourers who loaded and fired the hellish things than to the enemy. But the powder was as temperamental as a girl on the cusp of puberty. Like his own daughter – although now she was a little older, thanks to God, she seemed to have calmed a little …
No. He must concentrate on the matter at hand.
Baldwin was frowning with perplexity, he saw. ‘Baldwin? What is the matter?’
‘Look at this, Simon. Whoever put this here was intending some mischief. What was it, though? Did he intend to disturb the camp, and perhaps put the Queen in fear of her life, or did he intend to waylay someone?’
‘And when you stumbled into him, he saw an opportunity, took your knife, and when someone else came to see him, stabbed him to death?’ Simon guessed.
The Templar, the Queen and Her Lover: (Knights Templar 24) Page 15
