He began elbowing people out of the way. Some grumbled; a few dug their elbows into him, or kneed him as he passed by. One man on his left almost managed to fell him with a deft blow to his leg that all but killed it. The only way he could remain standing was by grasping the jerkin of the nearest man to his right, who turned to spit at him, but then offered him some help when he saw Jean’s trouble.
‘Make way! This man’s hurt!’ he roared, and grudgingly people began to part for them both.
It was a slow progress through the reluctant crowd. Nobody wanted to move and let someone else get a better view. Still, Jean’s saviour was a large man, for all that he was short, and his stentorian voice ensured that people realised there was someone coming through who needed help. Gradually they made their way towards the castle, where Jean could see the folks roaring and shouting at the portcullis. Behind it was a small guard of men in breastplates and helmets with polearms of different types. Men were gathered nearby, but they appeared to be watching uneasily, and not doing anything that might upset the crowds.
And then he saw him.
Arnaud was at the right of the portcullis, shouting and pointing, clenching his fist and waving it in the air, bellowing at his neighbours, rousing them to greater effort and noise. Jean saw him turn towards him, and dropped his chin quickly, hoping that he hadn’t seen him. Then he heard shouting and noises of a different sort. There were disconcerted calls, and when he risked a glance, he saw that behind him there was a man on a great destrier, a knight with all the pride and haughty contempt of his class. Jean loathed him instantly.
The man was safe even in this mêlée. Jean could see that all about him was a great ring of polearms, their sturdy wooden shafts standing at an angle to guard him. It would take more than a rabble like this to penetrate his defence, Jean could see.
Looking forward again, he stifled a moan of disappointment. Arnaud was gone!
The fool! He thought he could surprise Arnaud, did he? The executioner to the King was not some ignorant cretin to be slain by the knife of a peasant from the Comté de Foix.
Arnaud allowed himself to be drawn back into the crowd by the action of all those who were striving to push forward. He kept his head low, and as he went he took off his scarf, binding it carefully so that he could wrap it about his head like a cap. Soon, he felt comfortable enough to look up. There, a scant five yards or so from him, was Jean. Arnaud ducked his head down once more, and began to make his way at an angle towards the man. It was not easy, but soon he felt he was close enough. That was when he looked up and saw that Jean was staring straight at him.
It was the act of a moment. He drew his knife, holding it good and low, and then, when a man moved, he was in. The executioner never saw it coming. He was there, staring with pure hatred at Jean, and then Jean lunged forward, as much as he could in the press, and felt his knife slide in under Arnaud’s jack. At the same time, Arnaud’s own dagger slipped in so smoothly that Jean was scarcely aware of its progress until he felt the blade scrape on his lowest rib.
If he was to die, he would make sure that his assailant did too. He jabbed with his fist, shoving up as hard as he could, trying to use the edge of the blade to cut upward into Arnaud’s body, but the knife had turned in his grasp. As the pain began to spread from his belly to his chest, he started to panic. His knife wouldn’t move. He tried to twist it and turn it, but the thing was hard to shift. It was only when Arnaud started to drop to his knees, dragging clear of the knife, that Jean understood that both of them were dying.
Suddenly there was a shrill scream. Then a series of muttered curses, and the men all about grabbed the pair of them. Arnaud, Jean saw, had a feral, brutal expression fitted to his face, his teeth bared in anger and anguish, and even as he registered the curious ferocity, Jean realised that his own face probably reflected the same emotions.
They were apart. Jean had Arnaud’s knife still in his belly, and he looked down at the hilt with near disbelief. Sinking to his knees, he found that breathing was hard. His own dagger clattered to the ground as he opened his hand, and then he let himself fall forward to all fours, breathing shallowly, the stabbing agony spreading all over him. So this was what death felt like, he thought.
There was a liquid drooping sensation, like a lover slipping from his woman’s body, and he heard a little metallic rattle as Arnaud’s weapon fell from him. The whole of his belly felt like a bladder of boiling water, stinging and heavy. His head was heavy too, like a lump of rock at the end of his neck. Impossible to hold aloft. He must allow it to dangle. The cobbles were smooth under his hands. They looked so comfortable compared to this hideous exhaustion. He let his elbows bend, and closed his eyes as his cheek approached the stone of the roadway.
Pierre d’Artois had ordered his men to force a way through the crowd to the portcullis, and then allowed his mount to walk easily between the lines of polearms to the gate. The guards manning it saw who it was who approached and scrambled to get the great shutter lifted to allow Artois to enter, while behind him his men held their weapons horizontal, trying to clear the space immediately in front of the castle.
He looked about him as he entered the main grounds. ‘My Lord Cromwell. I hope I find you well on this fine morning?’
‘I am always happy when I meet you, my lord.’
Artois allowed himself a small grin at that. He glanced back at the crowds being shoved and cursed back. ‘You have many guests this day.’
‘There was a murder, and some mistakenly assumed it was one of my knights who was responsible.’
‘I had heard so. And who was the knight so accused?’
‘Sir John de Sapy.’
‘I see. You are sure of his innocence?’
Cromwell hesitated only a fraction of a second, but it was enough for Artois to raise a corner of his mouth sardonically. ‘You are that sure?’
Before Cromwell could comment, Baldwin had attracted his attention. ‘My Lord John, it would appear that someone is hurt out there.’
Artois stared back over his shoulder. His men were forcing the crowd away from the entrance to the castle, and as the tide of Parisians washed backwards, two bodies were exposed lying on the ground.
‘You there! Go and bring those two men in here. Hurry!’
Chapter Forty
Baldwin had not realised who it was who lay on the ground, but as the first men brought in the pale, blue-grey-faced figure of the King’s Executioner, he frowned quickly, and then peered out at the second man being brought inside.
‘The man from Poissy,’ he breathed. ‘Simon, this is the man who killed the old fellow and hurt Robert de Chatillon.’
Simon gazed at the two men. ‘I wouldn’t worry. I doubt that either is likely to last long.’
Artois had heard their words. ‘You say this man was at Poissy, Sir Baldwin? Can you be sure?’
‘I am certain of it. I saw him walking with the man who was killed there. The other man was being hunted by him. Why would that have been?’
‘You must ask them, if they ever recover,’ Artois said. ‘Now, Lord Cromwell. This man de Sapy. It has been suggested that he was responsible for the death of Chatillon. I have to decide what to do about this allegation.’
‘Who says he is guilty?’ Cromwell demanded.
‘A man of the highest reputation, I fear. A priest from the south, who happens to be a friend of one of the King’s own advisers. You may have heard of François de Tours? No? He is held in the very highest regard by the King, and the accuser is his own chaplain, Père Pierre de Pamiers.’
‘Would it be permitted to speak to this père?’ Baldwin asked.
Artois looked at him steadily for a moment. ‘I suppose that might be possible.’
‘Then I should be grateful if you could arrange it.’
‘And what of his accusation?’
Lord Cromwell sighed. ‘I swear to you that de Sapy shall not leave this castle until he is shown to be innocent. If he is not, he is still protec
ted by the safe conducts I hold, and I expect them to be honoured. However, I would send him back instantly to England were he discovered to be guilty.’
‘That is well.’
‘If you will both excuse me,’ Baldwin apologised, ‘first, my lords, I think I should arrange for these two men to be taken to a place of healing. They will most certainly expire here.’
Both men nodded, and Baldwin began to arrange for men to carry Jean and Arnaud indoors to the little chapel.
De Sapy was already inside, kneeling and praying most assiduously at the altar, when Simon and Baldwin entered, Baldwin directing the men carrying the biers to opposite alcoves from where the injured men could see the cross. ‘And please bring wine and water for them,’ he urged the men as they deposited their burdens.
Simon and he spent a while checking both men. There was little they could do other than try to cool their brows, but even with such action Baldwin was unsure that either would recover consciousness, let alone revive enough to recover. Still, he and Simon waited until Peter of Oxford arrived.
‘Dear God in heaven!’
‘I do not think it will be long before they meet Him,’ Baldwin said. ‘Sadly these two had an altercation in the road outside there.’
‘And came to blows?’
‘Yes. We saw this one hunting the executioner yesterday morning, and although he got away that time I think he tried the same assault today, but this Arnaud was able to defend himself.’
‘I will do all I may for them,’ Peter said, and bent to pray at the side of the nearer, who happened to be Jean.
Baldwin and Simon walked away a short distance as Peter finished his prayers and took up a cloth to begin washing the faces of the dying men. Blood was leaking from their biers on to the floor.
‘Sir John,’ Baldwin said. ‘I could not help but overhear what you told Lord Cromwell earlier. You took this priest to a house in Lombard Street?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
He rolled his eyes. ‘You know how it is. My Lord Despenser asked me to, and I wanted to remain in his favour. I was trying to become rehabilitated.’
‘And he told you what he wanted at this house?’
‘All he said was that there was a French couple in there. That was all.’
‘A couple?’
‘Oh, he mentioned a boy as well, I think.’
‘What did he do to them?’
‘How should I know? He asked me to take him to the house, and I did. Then I waited outside.’
Baldwin remembered the look of horror on Ricard’s face. ‘He came out with blood over him, didn’t he?’
‘He might have done.’
‘And you heard later of the murders, didn’t you?’
Sir John looked at him steadily. ‘I was asked by Sir Hugh le Despenser. I didn’t trouble myself beyond that. It was his will, and I was helping him.’
‘I see,’ Baldwin said. He withdrew slightly, then shook his head, spun on his heel and walked back down the nave towards the entrance. On his way, he stopped at Jean’s side. ‘Peter, I believe this one is dead already.’
Sir John happened to look across as he spoke. His face hardened, and he pointed at Arnaud on the other bier. ‘That man! He is the one who came in and accused me in Chatillon’s room!’
‘Arnaud, the executioner?’ Baldwin muttered. ‘What was he doing there?’
Ricard was out in front of the hall, playing catch with Charlie. He tossed the ball gently, and the boy, chuckling uncontrollably, holding his hands firmly unmoving in front of his chest, shrieked as the ball landed in his palms and rolled out on to the dirt.
Baldwin smiled to see the lad’s delight. As Ricard retrieved the ball again, and returned to attempt to teach him how to catch once more, Baldwin walked to him.
‘Master Ricard, I do not know whether my suspicions are correct, but in the name of all that matters to you, keep this boy at your side no matter what. You understand? You must not let him out of your sight, and never allow any man who is French to look after him. Yes?’
‘Certainly, Sir Baldwin. But why?’
‘I am not sure. But it is possible that this little boy holds the key to all these murders,’ Baldwin said.
As he walked away, leaving Ricard looking at the boy with a bemused expression on his face, Simon muttered, ‘Baldwin, what do you think is happening here? What secret could that little boy hold?’
‘He may know who it was who killed his parents,’ Baldwin said. ‘And that could itself be dangerous for him. Worse, though, is my concern that he might be the target himself.’
‘Who’d want to kill a little boy?’
‘There are many who would like to kill the children of powerful men and women, Simon,’ Baldwin said. And then he glanced back at Charlie, who was giggling as he tried to catch again and failed. He scampered through the dust to grab at the ball, and as Ricard watched fondly he swung his arm, and carefully hurled the ball over his head and behind him some six yards. ‘And anyone who tries to hurt a lad like that deserves every pain the demons in hell can inflict.’
Arnaud felt the cloth at his brow, but his mouth was so dry, his lips felt gummed together. He tried to speak, but a calm voice told him to be still. Too tired to even think of opening his eyes, he moaned softly. His entire belly felt as though someone had filled it with boiling lead. It was an enormity of anguish, and he was sure that he must soon be dead.
He could remember every thrust of that dagger. It was lucky he got his blow in first. He had been quicker than Jean. His knife had slipped in as easily as a blade spearing a leg from the fire. Soft pressure, smooth and lovely. He’d seen the recognition in Jean’s eyes as soon as he’d started to rip upwards, slicing through the man’s guts – and then he’d felt it himself. That snagging, parting, wet, foul sensation that meant Jean’s own knife was reaching up through his vitals.
‘Père … je voudrai mon père …’
‘Easy, friend,’ Peter said. He recognised enough French to understand the man’s demand. ‘I am a chaplain. You want me to hear your confession?’
‘No, my own … my own father. Own priest.’
Peter gave an understanding nod. Sometimes men wanted their own priest. It was natural enough to want the man who’d seen them every day, for every Mass through their lives. ‘Who? Where? You haven’t much time, my friend.’
Arnaud’s eyes opened. He looked down at his belly, and his eyes widened. He had killed often enough to know a deadly wound when he saw one, and the slow pumping of his blood from the great gash meant he had little time indeed.
With a shudder of horror, he closed his eyes and began to make his full confession.
It was the middle of the afternoon when a man came to the Château de Bois, clad in a tunic that bore Artois’s insignia, and asked to speak to Baldwin.
‘Sir, my lord asked me to fetch you. You wish to meet the Père Pierre Clergue?’
Baldwin shrugged on a cloak. The weather was warm enough, but there were some grey clouds on the horizon that threatened an unpleasant change before long. With Simon at his side, he set off after the man.
Their journey took little time. Soon they were in a broad courtyard, where Artois waited for them. ‘Good afternoon,’ he said courteously enough, bowing, but there was a reserve in his voice.
‘The father?’ Baldwin said, looking about them.
‘He is not here. He’s only a short way away. Come with me,’ Artois said, and set off. Baldwin and Simon glanced at each other as they followed him, but both were thinking more of the men behind them than the one in front, because as soon as they started walking twelve men-at-arms took up station immediately behind them.
‘I hope Artois has honourable intentions,’ Simon muttered.
‘If he has not, there is little we can do about it now,’ Baldwin responded.
Besides, he thought, what other intention could Artois have? The man had nothing against Baldwin or Simon so far as they knew. And yet the men behi
nd them were a constant reminder that they were a long way from home and any possible aid. The tramping of their boots sounded like the drumbeat of an executioner’s escort, and Baldwin could not stifle the grim apprehension that grew in his breast. When he glanced at Simon, he could see that his companion was in the same mood, but neither felt it necessary to speak. They trudged on behind Artois, both dully aware of their danger.
But it wasn’t Simon’s danger. Baldwin knew that. It was he who had been a Knight Templar, who had not submitted to the Pope and the French king when the Order was disbanded, and who was now legally an outlaw evading justice. If caught, he could expect to be hanged or burned at the stake.
Baldwin could see in his mind’s eye his wife and their children. His beautiful little Richalda and his tiny son. Somehow, even as he was thinking of them, the face of Charlie kept intruding. It was irritating at first, seeing that little boy in his mind’s eye, but then he welcomed it. Charlie would serve as a happy image of what his own son might look like one day. And if he was to be held in a prison soon, at least that boy’s face would be there in his head. No matter what else happened, he would keep Charlie’s smile with him. A little picture like that was worth much to a man in gaol, he had heard.
It was a shame to think that after almost ten years in England, living quietly and happily down in Devon, he was to die here. There was something about Artois’s silence that assured him that Mortimer had been correct: his secret had become known, and now he was being marched to his doom.
‘Simon, I’m sorry,’ he said quietly.
‘Hmm?’
‘Where do you think they’re taking us?’
Simon’s face showed his bewilderment. ‘What, now? To see the priest, aren’t they? Do you think they’ll offer us something to eat?’
Baldwin found it impossible to say more.
Sir Charles had encountered Sir Peter twice today, but neither had enjoyed any fortune. ‘I will try nearer the river,’ Sir Charles said the second time they met.
The Templar, the Queen and Her Lover: (Knights Templar 24) Page 39
