The Templar, the Queen and Her Lover: (Knights Templar 24) Page 17

  ‘De Bouden? He’s the Queen’s own comptroller, for Christ’s pains!’

  ‘The Queen hasn’t had her own household in a while, has she?’ Janin noted. ‘If de Bouden was put in charge of things for her here, surely that’s more to do with Despenser than her own choice.’

  ‘Oh, in God’s name, if you’re so damned scared, then we won’t. I just thought it would be safer for all of us if we knew what the hell the bastard was after.’

  ‘And that we ought to jump him to find out,’ Philip said. ‘But how can we do that when we don’t even know where he is at night?’

  ‘He walks with us during the day,’ Janin pointed out.

  ‘Yes,’ Ricard said, ‘and when we halt he helps us get the tent up, doesn’t he? So that’s what we’ll do. We’ll jump him tonight before he runs off and disappears for the evening.’

  Jean awoke with the chill settled deep in his bones. The cold was clean and dry, but none the less freezing for all that, and he had to blow on his hands to warm them before he could even think about leaving his little shelter and beginning to prepare a fire.

  At least he had been safe enough here. His thick leather jerkin and the old frayed cloak had been enough, with the protection from the wind that the walls afforded. Now, with a small fire lighted, he could take the worst of the chill from his hands and arms.

  It was curious, the way that a man would seek a fire before any other comfort. He had learned when a lad that a shepherd who kept moving needed fewer clothes, felt the chill less, than an idle, indolent one. And later, when he was a grown man, and fought, he never felt the cold. When marching across the mountains to pass into other villages, or travelling down into the snowy valleys, he still survived with a good leather jerkin and cloak, while others, merchants and men of their kind, rich, pampered, Catholic men, would shiver and complain from within their furs and expensive velvet clothes. They were the swiftest to call for a halt, a fire, and a heated drink. Well, for Jean, the most delicious drink in the world at this time of year, for a man living in the wilds, was a pot of warmed water made from ice melted over a fire. Fresh, clean, and invigorating.

  Only when he was sure that the fire was lit and he could start to feel the warmth did he rest on his haunches and begin to take stock again.

  Yes. He was safe enough. The last days had been a panic, what with the discovery of Arnaud’s insane murders, and then bolting as he had had to. But surely now he was secure, because if everyone thought he was dead anyway, they wouldn’t bother trying to find him.

  It had been many years since he was last safe from instant arrest. Once it had been the murderous devils under that cool, calm, outwardly kind Bishop Jacques Fournier. At least the man gave the impression that he was actually interested in his victims. He didn’t merely arrest them, torture them quickly and pass them on to the waiting executioners. There were plenty who would do exactly that, after all.

  Fournier was a man who saw it as his duty to destroy every aspect of their heretical faith. He arrived without the apparent desire to execute many people. That was itself refreshing for the Waldensians of the area. Why should they be burned at the stake, anyway? What was their crime? Their faith was no less Christian than any other. They believed in preaching, they believed in the same seven principles of the Catholic faith and the sacraments, but they did not believe in Purgatory. That was a mad invention of a venal pope, so Jean’s father had told him. And it was matters like that, matters of deep philosophical significance, that had made the whole Church turn against them.

  But what was Purgatory? It was a Catholic invention that allowed corruption and greed to rule. If there was Purgatory, there was an opportunity for the living to pray for the dead, and if they could pray, they could pay the Church to help them do so. Masses for the dead could have little impact – a man was judged by his life, not by the number of Masses that were paid for by his last will. And Indulgences were nothing more than an appalling proof of cynical avarice on the part of the Pope and his bishops. Who could think that paying money into a religious body like the papacy could influence God? No, that was a purely human matter, not something for God.

  God would not be impressed by His people today. That was why the Holy Land had been lost to Christendom thirty-odd years ago. When Acre fell in 1291, it was proof, if any were needed, that God had lost all love for Christians. How could He have allowed the land of His son to be taken over by the heathens who now inhabited it? If the Christians had been more honourable, less sinful, more obedient to His will, they would still own the kingdom of Jerusalem and all the other Crusader lands. But no, the Christian faith had fallen into shame and ignominy. Priests would take money and concubines, and with felons and sinners holding Masses supposedly in honour of God, was it any surprise that the faithful should start to emulate them?

  For Jean’s family and the other ‘Poor of Lyons’, it was crucial that the Mass should be held by those who were without sin. Those who were pure, who were uncorrupted by the world, should officiate at the religious services. What benefit was there for a man or woman who received the sacrament from a corrupt priest? None. Only a virtuous man could intercede for their souls. Even a woman who knew the correct words was better than a priest who was sunk in dishonour.

  His breakfast completed with a handful or two of flour mixed with water and roasted on sticks, he rose. If there was no need to worry about where he went, he would have to make a choice. In the past he would have bolted southwards, back towards the warmer lands and the mountains, those places where a man might live free and safe, away from anyone. No need to wear the yellow cross on his back to mark him out as a heretic, so long as he avoided towns. He should be safe enough.

  Except, if he were seen, it could be still more dangerous for him. Fournier had tried to avoid killings, but he might have gone. The man in charge now could be more dangerous. The idea of being captured by someone more fervent than Fournier didn’t bear thinking about. Men like that would break limbs and kill peasant folk without a qualm, and order wine to celebrate the destruction of a soul afterwards.

  South was his own homeland. He missed the high mountains, the bright sunshine, the deep blue skies, the freshness of the pastures in springtime, the flowers, the cold, clean streams … his wife and family.

  If all he had there was his memories, there was little point in worrying about it. Better to go somewhere else.

  Sir John de Sapy was delighted to learn that at last they were going to be riding on. He had little interest in the route they were taking; all he wanted was to reach Paris, complete his mission, and rest with some of the whores in the wine shops that abounded in the city.

  ‘You don’t seem keen to get there?’ he enquired of Sir Charles of Lancaster.

  ‘Hmm? Have you been to Paris?’

  ‘No. It is a place I have heard much about, though. The French sluts are supposed to be more inventive than the wantons from Aragon.’

  Sir Charles glanced at him. His eye was amused. ‘You have not been there either, then?’

  Sir John was defensive. ‘I have travelled widely in our kingdom. I’ve not had the opportunity or inclination to wander farther.’

  ‘Then you will see and learn much.’

  Sir John frowned quickly. He was of an age with Sir Charles, so he was unsure how to take the man’s insouciance. There was an arrogance in his manner that implied a degree of experience which Sir John could only guess at. ‘You have been there before – what were your impressions?’

  Sir Charles smiled openly at that. ‘How to explain?’

  How indeed. The last time he visited Paris, he had been a renegade, a fugitive from the wrath of King Edward II. He was only one of hundreds who fled the kingdom in order to save their lives, terrified of the King’s retribution. They had supported the man he loathed more than any other, Lancaster, and once he had executed him, the King set upon any who had served him. Hundreds were captured and executed as traitors, their limbs and heads decorating spikes all over
the realm, and the few who escaped, like Sir Charles, were glad to find a country where they could live awhile in safety.

  Never one to seek peace for long, Sir Charles heard of some who were planning to return to England by rescuing Roger Mortimer from the Tower of London. They thought that this mighty general could perhaps save both England and them. Mortimer was known for his courage, his intelligence, and his integrity. It was his relentless campaigning in Ireland which had protected that part of the kingdom from Edward the Bruce’s invasion, thrown the Bruce back, and finally led to his death.

  But when Sir Charles got to Paris, those who declared themselves co-conspirators were so inept and foolish that he had soon realised that there was no possibility of saving Mortimer. Better by far to save himself, because it was plain even to Sir Charles that such a group must have been deeply infected with the King’s spies. And a man who was known to the King as a member of the conspiracy was likely to have a very short life expectancy on returning to England.

  He was in Paris for long enough to lose all his money and his plate to the pawnbrokers. Everything was so expensive, and no matter how much he or Paul, his man, tried to haggle, the prices appeared to remain high for a foreign gentleman in that city. In the end they were forced to leave. And then they had got into a little trouble at an inn, when a fight started. It was long ago, now, but the memory still rankled. A swarthy little toad-like shite had spat at him, and he and Paul had killed him and his friends.

  After that, there had been a certain urgency about leaving the area before anyone could catch up with them, and they had made their way to Galicia, to Santiago de Compostela, which was where he had met Simon and Sir Baldwin.

  ‘All I would say is, dicker like hell for anything you want to buy. Last time I was here they tried to fleece anyone with an English accent in Paris,’ he said after a moment’s consideration.

  ‘What about the women, though?’ Sir John demanded.

  ‘I was talking about the women,’ said Sir Charles.

  Jack was aware of their looks long before they sprang their attack. If only all enemies were so transparent.

  They had reached a town called Pois, and here they were allocated rooms in a tavern, while most of the other members of the honour guard, and the Queen herself, were given rooms in the better inns.

  It was a nuisance that the entourage was always so spread about. Jack had been hoping that all their halts would be in larger inns so that he and the others would always be billeted near the Queen and the maids. It was next to impossible for him to keep an eye on her while he and the others were housed over a half-mile away. The distance was no trouble, naturally, but it was difficult to cover it without being observed by the watch. Every time he walked about in daylight, he was aware that he was different from the locals. His dress, his looks – even his ruddy manner of walking – set him apart. The folks here dressed more flamboyantly, they were darker of hair and skin, and Christ’s teeth, they all swaggered as though they were God’s own gift to the land. In contrast, his gait was as sober as his clothing. Dull, dull, dull. And it added insult to injury that that should mark him out as different. Usually, it would make him stand out not at all. He would fade into the background, unnoticed. Not so here.

  Ah, he caught a glimpse of Philip circling round behind him. Meanwhile Ricard was right in front and trying to hold him in conversation – that was a first. Did they really think that they could jump him?

  Philip began his move in a lumbering manner, just as Jack would have expected. Probably the most dangerous of them, and clearly the most ruthless, Philip was still built more like an ox than a greyhound. He was not built for speed. Where was the boy? He must have been left with someone else.

  Jack turned, almost audibly sighing when he saw that Philip was still a couple of yards away. ‘Did you mean to surprise me?’ he asked.

  His contempt turned to indignation when his legs were suddenly yanked from under him, and he was thrown to the ground. Only his elbows stopped him from bashing his face on the rough timbers of the floor, and that did not improve his temper. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘It’s what you’re doing that we mean to learn,’ Philip snarled.

  His anger was plain enough, but Jack was not about to surrender without a battle. He was on the ground, his face pressed to the boards, and Janin and Ricard had his arms. Adam or someone was on his ankles, holding them together. All in all, it was a remarkably successful assault for a bunch of pathetic, incompetent musicians. Which made it doubly humiliating for a man like him.

  ‘So? What now?’

  Ricard was at that moment staring at a rope which lay on the table some feet away, and mouthing to Janin that he should try to reach it. He looked down at his captive. ‘What?’

  ‘What do you intend to do with me? Torture me? Pull out my nails? Or just break my legs? Sirs, this is uncomfortable.’

  ‘We want to know what you’re doing here,’ Philip said. ‘And yes, if you don’t answer, I’ll be happy to tap splinters under your finger- and toenails. It’s up to you.’

  ‘I am travelling with you and playing music, of course. What else have you seen me do?’

  ‘Nothing – because every time we stop for a night, you disappear.’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘Nothing. Perhaps. But the fact that you were so enthusiastically pressed upon us makes us all a little nervous,’ Ricard said. The rope was still on the table, and Janin was paying him no attention. ‘Why was de Bouden so keen for you to be a part of our band?’

  ‘You’d have to ask him that. All I know is that you were coming over here, and I was asked to travel with you to aid in the defence of the Queen.’

  ‘Who by?’ Philip demanded, simultaneously with Janin’s: ‘By whom?’

  Janin peered round at Philip, who studiously ignored him. ‘Eh?’

  ‘That is for you to guess.’

  ‘No. It’s for you to tell us,’ Ricard said, and looked at Janin for approval. He felt quite proud of the way that had come out. He sounded quite firm, he thought. Firm and definite. Then Jack’s next words burned any pride away like acid.

  ‘Since if I tell you, it’s likely you could be killed, I think it’s for you to guess, don’t you? I wouldn’t want Charlie boy to be orphaned again.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  Beauvais

  Baldwin and Simon were glad to be installed in a large, comfortable bed. The previous night had been uncomfortable before the adventure of the explosion and Enguerrand de Foix’s death, and sleepless thereafter, so a bed with a real rope base and a soft mattress over it was an almost undreamed-of luxury. It was worth the risk of lice and fleas to sleep in comfort again.

  ‘How’s your face?’ Simon asked.

  ‘Not too bad. The Queen’s salve helped.’

  ‘It was good of her to bring that stuff to you.’

  ‘Yes.’

  It had been late in the morning when Alicia appeared before them on a little mare.

  Baldwin had bent his head to her courteously. He had liked the Queen’s lady-in-waiting when he first met her in London. ‘My lady.’

  ‘My queen saw how dreadfully scalded you were after last night. She thought a little of this salve might help you,’ Alicia said, holding out a small pottle of some thick juice.

  ‘The Queen?’ Simon repeated, awed.

  ‘She was once burned badly,’ Alicia said by way of explanation. ‘She found this mixture always soothed her and took away the pain.’

  ‘I see. That is most kind of her. Would you give your lady my deepest thanks.’ Baldwin bowed. He could remember hearing that ten or eleven years ago Queen Isabella had been caught in a fire in a tent, and her arms had been dreadfully scarred. She still suffered from burns, it was said.

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Do you find the journey pleasing?’

  Alicia gave a small smile. ‘How could I fail to? We are out of London and away from all the trials and sorrows that place has br
ought us.’

  ‘I only pray that our queen may find more ease when we are returned,’ Baldwin said with feeling.

  ‘That is not likely,’ Alicia said with a regretful shake of her head. She graced them with a smile each before riding away to rejoin the Queen.

  ‘She meant Despenser?’ Simon said.

  ‘Of course. He poisons all whom he meets,’ Baldwin said.

  ‘But if the Queen succeeds in her mission, that will surely put her back in the King’s favour?’

  ‘Does he have favour for her any more?’ Baldwin had responded.

  Now, though, as he sat on the edge of the bed and contemplated the candle burning on its spike set into the wall, he wondered whether he was being unreasonable. Maybe he was doing his king a disservice by assuming the worst of the man. After all, King Edward had fathered four children on this woman. If she could return to England in honour, with a treaty that did not shame him, would that not make him respect her again? And when a man respected a woman, love was surely never far behind. Possibly this would be the making of them both.

  There were only the two options: if the Queen failed to win back the Gascon territories her standing would be destroyed, for if she could not even benefit the King in his dealings with France she was of little value; but if she managed to win back Guyenne and agree a peace, then the whole reason for her marriage to King Edward would be confirmed, and she could go home to England with her head held as high as the skies.

  And yet …

  The few times Baldwin had seen her during this ride, her excitement, her apparent repressed glee, had been a little out of place. It must be that she was glad to be free again, he thought.

  He would have mentioned it to Simon, but when he turned to look at his old friend, he saw that Simon was already asleep.

  Baldwin blew out the candle and lay staring up at the ceiling. All he could see was the body of Enguerrand, Comte de Foix, the blood forming a cushion for his head on the snow. Two dead men already, he told himself. The musician in London, as Blaket had said, and now the Comte.