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

by Michael Jecks

  Other men had nothing like these problems. They could work at their jobs – farming, working in markets, peddling wares of various types – and never get into this kind of mess. But here he was, an innocent in a foreign land, trying to mind his own business, and what happened? He was forced to protect and guard a man who was spying on the Queen.

  Casting another look behind him, he frowned. But if the man Jack was actually in the pay of the Despenser, surely the Queen’s Comptroller would have nothing to do with him? Everyone knew that the Despenser and the Queen hated each other. You didn’t have to be a musician in the palace on Thorney Island for long to see how they loathed each other. So Jack surely wasn’t with Despenser.

  Shite – perhaps he was truly on the side of the Queen. That would be very embarrassing.

  Ricard wanted nothing to do with either of them. No. Instead, he made his way along the alleyway to the farther end. What he wanted was a good pot of ale. With that in mind, he hurried down to the hall’s bar, over in the buttery, and was about to enter when he saw the other man.

  ‘Christ in chains!’ he swore. Charlie looked up, but said nothing. Didn’t even hide his face, so he must be over the worst of his shock. Ricard wasn’t, though. Ach, he’d be buggered if he’d go in there with the man who’d been in that room in London, the man who Philip and Adam said had been with Jack. Who the hell are you? he wondered, but just then some French guards shoved past him. He saw the man’s head turn towards the door, and ducked away before he could be spotted.

  Disconsolately, he wandered up the corridor from the buttery to the main door leading to the yard. Here he stood a moment, looking about, wondering where to go and what he could do.

  What he really wanted was ale, but the idea of going back in there and drinking under the gaze of the man who’d seen to the murder of the glover and his wife in that little house was enough to make him feel like spewing. Better to go and find a tavern outside somewhere, but even as he had the thought he heard voices behind him, and throwing a look over his shoulder he saw the man walking towards him.

  Hurrying out, he was about to run across the yard to escape when he heard a man calling to him. It wasn’t the man behind, but someone else in the court itself. Staring about him wildly, he saw the knight, Sir Baldwin, sitting with his companion the bailiff. The two were all but inseparable. At least he’d heard only good reports about them both. They appeared honourable, and they’d not allow some stranger to stab him to death without doing something.

  With that reasoning giving him confidence, he crossed to them. ‘Sir?’

  The knight looked at him, then at Charlie. ‘A handsome boy. He is yours?’

  ‘Um. Not really. He’s an orphan, and I thought it’d be best to save him from any further pain.’

  ‘Pain?’

  ‘His parents were murdered.’

  ‘Oh … Are you well, musician? You look badly flustered, like a man who’s been caught in a murder himself!’

  That word was enough to send his spirits tumbling again. He remembered the threat the man had made: if the band didn’t help him, Ricard would be accused of murder. The two bodies were there … but that was ages ago. A month – no, two? – since. The bodies may still be there, but who’d prove he had been? He was surely safe. Except he couldn’t be sure.

  ‘I ate some meat that was off, I think,’ he said.

  ‘I see,’ Baldwin said, and appeared to lose interest, to Ricard’s relief. ‘Anyway, a man is looking for a musician. I don’t know if it was you. Ah, there he is. My lord! Is this the man you meant?’

  ‘Him? No. There is another man, I think his name is Jack. It was he I sought,’ the Earl said. He looked at Ricard as though daring him to speak about their last meeting. ‘Do you know where Jack is, fellow?’

  Ricard licked his lips and nodded. Silently he pointed towards de Bouden’s chambers, and watched with relief as the Earl nodded and walked off to see Jack.

  ‘Are you sure you are well?’ Simon asked Ricard.

  Well! It was hardly the word he’d have used to describe his fluttering heart and empty, roiling belly. ‘Yes. Yes, I am well. But that man – do you know who he is?’

  Baldwin grinned. ‘He is the King’s brother. Earl Edmund. Do you not know him?’

  Later, when he had found a quiet corner outside a tavern where he could sit and drink from a jug of wine, Ricard looked down at Charlie, playing happily in the dust with some other children, and then rested his head in his hands and closed his eyes. If he had been a little younger, he would have wept for terror. He had no idea what to do. All he knew was that he stood to make an enemy of the Queen or of the King’s brother, no matter what he tried.

  He must be cautious, else he would find himself like Peter, thrown into a midden with his throat cut.

  Jean sat in a doorway and pulled his cloak more tightly about him. The weather was more clement than it had been, but it was still very chill here in the shade of the tall buildings. How he longed for the summer, and long days with the sun high overhead. But perhaps he would be dead before those days arrived.

  He ground his teeth as he thought how close he had come to killing Arnaud. And then those interfering fools had got in his way and stopped him from succeeding. The damned sons of—

  No. There was no point in getting bitter about them. They saw a man who was about to commit a murder and stopped him. That was all. Ach, but the roaring voice had cut through his bowels like a dagger of ice. He’d felt as though he would die with the shock of it. He’d stood there with his knife in his hand, and hesitated just long enough for the cursed Arnaud to slip aside, and then he’d been forced to flee himself, before those two men could catch up with him. One against a rat like Arnaud was one thing; to stand against Arnaud and two men-at-arms was quite another.

  Looking up, he saw that the sky was darkening. Soon dusk would fall, and another day would be over, and his quest for revenge against Arnaud would be deferred for another day.

  It was the only thing that lent spice to his life, now, this search for Arnaud. The man deserved to be killed for what he had done. Poisoning the minds of men like le Vieux against him … it was so unjust! He’d never done anything to Arnaud that he knew of. He’d hated the man – but most who served as executioner were detested. That was hardly to mark him out. What had led Arnaud to seek to hurt him? Presumably just the fact that he had seen the attack on Berengar and knew what Arnaud had done to the other members of the guard at Château Gaillard. Slaying them all, all but himself and le Vieux.

  And that was the interesting thing: why did Arnaud do that? At the time, Jean had assumed that it was his evil soul demanding blood. But if that were so, what had stopped him killing? There were those who could kill without passion, perhaps, but if a man lost his reason and killed like that for no purpose, he could no longer be considered human. He was no better than a dog with the rage. A creature which must be destroyed, because there was nothing else to do with it.

  But then a strange, niggling thought began to insidiously work its way into his mind.

  What if there had been some motive other than madness which directed Arnaud to kill all the men of the guard?

  No. That was impossible. He was just mad, and killed without reason.

  Yet there was that strange detail: le Vieux had survived. The two of them had known each other before Jean had met either of them, that much was obvious. They had been prone to talk to each other, and the way that they reacted to each other when they first rescued Jean from gaol had shown a kind of mutual regard. If anything, it had shown that le Vieux was the more senior in rank as well as age.

  Le Vieux. A man with all the signs of military service, and Arnaud the executioner. Both taking men like him, like Berengar, like Pons, rescuing them from long terms in gaol and giving them all a chance at a new life, serving the Comte de Foix at Château Gaillard. The Comte, Jean’s old master. And yet the château was surely no part of the Comte’s territory? It was far from his own compté. So w
hy was de Foix arranging for the guards up there?

  It was not something which had ever occurred to him before, but now the strange illogicality of his presence in the château seemed important. Just as important, perhaps, as the reason for Arnaud’s sudden attack. That, its very irrationality, seemed particularly curious. He had never demonstrated murderous inclinations towards the guards before then. Yes, he was a cruel, vindictive, bestial man, but he had not shown any sign of wishing to harm his companions at the castle. Why should he have suddenly gone berserk just after their prisoner had left the place?

  Then there was also the stranger who had been in the room when le Vieux had suddenly attacked him. That man, who had drawn his own sword against Jean, even though they’d never met before. He looked like a noble. Who was he?

  ‘Come on, Ricard. It can’t be all that bad,’ Janin said.

  ‘You don’t reckon? How much do you want to die?’

  Adam grinned, and Philip snorted. Philip said, ‘There’s nothing so bad we can’t—’

  ‘That man, the one you saw today with bloody Jack? The man in London, who killed the glover and his wife? That one? You know who he is?’ Their bafflement gave his sarcasm a sharpened edge. He was almost satisfied to see how they shook their heads. ‘The King’s brother. The Earl of Kent. That’s who. Edmund of Kent. So all this time we’ve been trying to upset and remove the man who’s been put here by the King’s brother.’

  Janin leaned back on his stool and puffed out his cheeks.

  They were in their own little chamber in the castle’s outbuildings, a draughty room with stone walls on two sides, partitioned with wattle and daub on the other two. The plaster had cracked and fallen away to show the withies in many places, a delightful aspect which gave Charlie plenty of scope to exercise his skills at demolition. He was there now, prying away pieces of plaster and telling himself a story about it as he went, while water seeped in from the courtyard about his feet. Still, at least the musicians had a place of their own where they could sit and talk in peace. Not that there was any comfort in that just now.

  Adam was pale. ‘So he’s the King’s own man, this Jack?’

  Janin gave a harsh bark of laughter. ‘Oh, no, Adam. Not necessarily. The King hates his own wife, and his brothers are not close allies of his, any more than his cousin was.’

  ‘Cousin?’

  Ricard shot him a look. Even a lad like Adam should have known that much, damn his heart! ‘His bleeding cousin, yes. Earl Thomas of Lancaster, the man who raised an army against the King and was captured and hanged for his pains! Hardly the action of a close relative.’

  ‘Even so, that’s a cousin, not a brother …’

  ‘Half-brother,’ Philip said shortly. ‘Different mother from the King. And the King doesn’t trust him since the French invaded Guyenne. The Earl was in charge there. He was responsible for the duchy and it was him signed the truce they’re trying to renegotiate now.’

  ‘So he’s not the flavour of sweetness to the King just now,’ Ricard noted with grim satisfaction. ‘That’s marvellous. He’s bitterness incarnate to the King, and it’s his man you two tried to jump.’

  ‘We weren’t to know,’ Adam protested weakly.

  ‘You should have bloody guessed! Now what we’ve got is a little problem, boys. Is this Earl Edmund working to the King’s advantage here, or his own?’

  ‘Surely he’ll be here with the King’s approval,’ Janin said thoughtfully.

  ‘Maybe so,’ Ricard agreed. He picked up his citole and strummed pensively.

  Philip said, ‘But what does that mean to us? So what? He’s possibly the King’s enemy, so we only have to tell the King’s men and we’re all right.’ He stood as though to make for the door.

  ‘What it means is, we may have made an enemy of Jack, which makes his master think we’re his enemies too,’ Ricard said scathingly. ‘And that is not a position which gives me any great comfort.’

  ‘Did you speak with the Queen or her clerk?’ Janin asked.

  ‘No. No time. I was jumped by Jack and this other man before I saw de Bouden.’

  ‘Then the first thing you should do is tell the Queen all about the Earl, Jack, and the other man,’ Janin said with certainty. ‘That way, at least our own lady knows we’re on her side. If anyone tries to lie about us and say we were acting for anyone later, we can show we’ve told the Queen about this. We did what servants should.’

  ‘Right,’ Ricard said, his heart plummeting. He saw again Jack’s face, heard the cold voice from de Bouden’s chamber, saw the Queen entering … ‘Wait! She knows the man in de Bouden’s room. De Bouden brought her there, and Jack was outside with de Bouden to guard while she was inside.’

  ‘Was it the Earl in there?’ Philip asked.

  ‘No. He was in the buttery when I went there. It was someone else.’

  Philip nodded, scowling. ‘Well, you should tell her anyway. And see if you can learn who the man in the chamber was. It could be worthwhile knowing that.’

  ‘Why?’ Ricard asked.

  ‘Why?’ He looked nonplussed for a moment or two. ‘If the Queen’s having funny little meetings with someone, don’t you think it’d be worth knowing? I mean, we’re the Queen’s Men, aren’t we? If she’s having negotiations on the side with someone, it could be dangerous.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Janin demanded. ‘It’s nothing to us who she sees.’

  ‘Oh no? Think on this, Jan. If she’s seeing someone and the King himself knows nothing about it, is he going to torture her to find out about it? No. But he may well torture someone else.’

  ‘If we don’t know—’ Adam began.

  ‘We’ll still be tortured. They don’t stop because you say you know nothing,’ Philip spat. ‘Don’t you know anything? Look, if Despenser thinks there’s something to be found out from you, he’ll have the skin cut from your body, the bones broken, the nails ripped away, and he won’t stop until you do tell him something. Saying you know nothing just means he’ll carry on. Torture isn’t about finding out someone’s got nothing to tell – it’s about making them tell anything. Everything. If she’s seeing someone, I’d prefer to be able to tell the King, Despenser or whoever, exactly who it was, how long she saw him, and whether they met once or plenty. She’s the Queen. She can’t just go into a room and meet with men alone.’

  Ricard looked towards Janin. Both shook their heads in disgust, but there was little either felt he could say. For Ricard’s part, he merely wished he was away from here. The only consolation was that when little Charlie had seen the Earl, it had made not the slightest impact on him. Either he was so young he had not recognised the man who had killed his parents, or maybe he’d forgotten him. It seemed odd to Ricard that the little fellow could have forgotten the man who had so scared him at the time, but perhaps it was natural. The lad was very young, after all. Maybe he didn’t think like an adult.

  At least it meant the boy wasn’t upset and screaming just now, Ricard thought, just in time to see Adam’s recorder being used to prise away another chunk of plaster.

  ‘Oi! Charlie, no!’

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Cromwell saw Baldwin and Simon in the main hall when they were all seated for their evening meal. He passed by their mess on his way to the top table, where he took a seat not far from the Queen, his eyes on Baldwin as he sat.

  ‘He is hoping for some good news, I think,’ Simon said.

  ‘He can continue to hope, then,’ Baldwin said. ‘We have learned nothing of any use today.’

  ‘We know he was there,’ Simon said quietly.

  Baldwin nodded. Mortimer was never far from his thoughts just now. ‘Yes. And he denied the attack. Which may mean nothing, of course. The man had good reason to defend himself against Paul. The fellow was after a bounty, after all. He would have stabbed first and asked questions later, wouldn’t he? Mortimer would have been within his rights to remove such a threat.’

  ‘But you don’t think h
e did?’

  ‘If he had done it, I feel sure he would have told us.’ Baldwin shrugged. ‘Why hide a justifiable defence? He’s a warrior. Surely he’d just say, “Yes. It was me. That fellow was going to kill me and take my head to the King, and I acted in self-defence.” It would be understandable, truthful and, over here, he would be acting within the law, I feel sure. Why hide something that was not a crime?’

  ‘Who else could have wanted him dead?’

  ‘Perhaps it was merely a foolish argument in the street? Or perhaps a whore’s master, who sought to take more than Paul felt fair? There are so many reasons why men are killed in city streets. And here, of course, we are in a foreign land. He may have offended someone without realising it.’

  ‘Paul? He was always more astute than his master,’ Simon said.

  Baldwin nodded slowly, his eyes moving about the tables. ‘Yes. Paul would always be wary of upsetting people, whereas Sir Charles was far less cautious. Where is he now?’

  ‘Perhaps in his room … and perhaps with Sir John and Sir Peter.’

  Baldwin grunted. ‘He’s told them, hasn’t he? They’re all three trying their luck, hoping to catch Mortimer.’

  ‘It’s no surprise, is it?’ Simon agreed. ‘How much would his head be worth?’

  Baldwin admitted to being baffled. ‘The man was one of the King’s closest friends and advisers, his best general. I should think he’d pay almost anything to have him killed.’

  ‘What, a hundred pounds?’

  Baldwin looked at him steadily. ‘At least five times that, and he’d still think it a bargain. And if Mortimer ever dared to return to England, he’d find the rewards notified to all the sheriffs in the land. He wouldn’t be able to march a step without the bounty hunters aiming their arrows.’

  ‘No more than the man would deserve, either,’ Lord John said.