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

  Marguerite, the older of the two, was thought to be more responsible, and was thrown into a freezing cell in the Château Gaillard. She survived a short while, but the cold and poor diet put paid to her in a matter of months.

  The second was Blanche, wife of Charles. She too was thrown into a dungeon at the château.

  It is said that she was made pregnant by her gaoler, and gave birth to a child in 1323. A little while before that, while she was pregnant, her marriage had at last been annulled, and in 1325 (I think – the sources grow a little vague over precise details) she was allowed to move to the convent abbey of Maubisson. Here she survived only one more year, dying perhaps because of the damage done to her constitution over the previous eleven years of incarceration.

  So – was her gaoler her enthusiastic lover? Did she welcome the attentions of any man, no matter how lowly? Or was there a plot set in train by the French king or his courtiers to have her proved adulterous so that the Pope would be forced to annul the marriage? Could someone else have had a similar desire to see the marriage annulled?

  I do not know the truth. However, it is all too easy to sit in judgement after some seven hundred years and take the 21st-century view. What would it be? Well, first that it was shocking that these two women should have been so appallingly treated for their sexual misdemeanours. Second, that clearly the poor woman in the cell would never have courted the attentions of a mere castle gaoler.

  And yet …

  These people lived in a different era. The two princesses were guilty not merely of betraying their own husbands. That was unforgivable enough. But they had committed a vastly worse crime: they had risked the bloodline of the kings of France. So heinous was their offence that it may have helped kill off the reigning king, Philip IV. Then, because of the women’s behaviour, their existing children had to be rejected by their fathers (presuming, of course, that the princes involved were the genetic fathers, which was the concern and doubt).

  By a sad twist of fate, the princes concerned all proved to be short-lived. By 1328, all had died, and there were no male heirs. The Capetian line had died out. That led to the election of the first of the Valois kings of France, which itself contributed to the Hundred Years War, because the English had a claim to the French throne through Isabella. However, the French refused to consider her and her descendants’ claims. It was not surprising. Edward probably thought of himself as a Frenchman, but all the French thought him English. They would not have him.

  So the adultery of these women was to have far-reaching consequences for hundreds of thousands in the coming century. Perhaps if they had remained obedient and chaste, European history would have followed a different course. It is an interesting speculation.

  Michael Jecks

  Northern Dartmoor

  April 2007

  Prologue

  Candlemas

  In the eighteenth year of the reign of King Edward II2

  Alehouse in Southwark

  Sir John de Sapy looked up as the door opened, anticipation lightening a face that had been full of trouble.

  The last years had been unspeakable. Christ’s blood, but a man was hard pushed to survive just now. Even friends of the mightiest in the land could be brought to destruction, the realm was so stretched with treachery and mistrust.

  He had been a knight in the King’s household until seven years ago, but then, when Lancaster was in the ascendant, he had switched allegiance and joined the Earl. Except the Earl had successfully squandered all his advantages, and ended up being executed by the King his cousin after raising a rebellion.

  ‘The arse,’ Sapy muttered.

  There were few things more surely calculated to irritate Sir John than a man who promised much and then died leaving him in trouble – and he had been in trouble ever since the damned fool had gone and got himself killed. Sir John had been declared an outlaw, had had all his livings stolen from him by the King’s men, and now he was without funds, family or prospects. The only hope he had was that his brother, Sir Robert, who was still in the King’s household, might be able to help him to return to favour.

  The door opened again, and for the second time he looked up eagerly, but there were two men hooded and cloaked in the doorway, not one, and he turned bitterly back to his wine. Robert wouldn’t come. He knew it, really. He’d hoped and prayed that his brother would forgive him his foolishness in trusting that churl’s hog, Earl Thomas, but how could he? To forgive John would be to open himself to the accusation of harbouring a traitor. In the years since the battle of Boroughbridge, which saw the final destruction of Earl Thomas’s host, hundreds of knights and barons up and down the kingdom had been taken and summarily executed, many of them for minor offences committed on behalf of the Earl. For a man who supported one of the Earl’s followers, and aided him in hiding, the punishment would be worse.

  No, this was pointless. He was wasting his time. His sodding brother could hang himself. John wouldn’t sit here all night like some beggar seeking alms. If his brother wasn’t going to help him, he’d find someone who would. There were barons in France who’d welcome the strong arm and ruthlessness Sir John exhibited.

  He was setting his hands on the table to push himself up when a hand fell on his shoulder. ‘Brother, stay there.’

  ‘Robert?’ Sir John was torn between irritation at the lateness of his brother’s arrival, and immense relief that he had come at last. It made him feel less alone. ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘This is someone who’s going to assist you, I think,’ Sir Robert said. ‘Meet Father Pierre Clergue. He would like your help.’

  ‘My help?’

  ‘Yes, mon sieur. Your help in seeking a heretic!’

  Sunday, Quinquagesima3

  Château Gaillard, Les Andelys, Normandy

  The cell was tiny. Like a coffin. And she was sure that, were she not rescued from this hideous half-life soon, it would become her tomb. A woman of only eight or nine and twenty years, she had already lived long enough. The idea of death was not so dreadful. It would rescue her from this living horror.

  Sometimes she dreamed that she had been to visit this fortress before she had fallen from grace; perhaps she had even stayed here once, although not down here in the filth and the cold. No – then she had been installed in a great chamber in a lofty tower that stood high overhead. But if it were true and not some dream that had been sent to torment her, then it was so long ago it might have been a different life. In those days, she dreamed, she had had servants of her own, maids, rich clothing, and an entire household to see to her needs. She had been pampered, beautiful – royal.

  As a princess, she had lived in great towers and palaces. There had been wonderful food to eat, jewels to decorate her fingers and throat, carriages drawn by the finest horses. Her clothing was all crimson and velvet lined with fur, shot through with golden threads, and when she retired to her chamber she could fall on to a bed that had been made for her, the sheets smooth and soft, the mattress filled with down, while quilts were settled over her to keep the chill away. All who heard her would submit to her slightest whim. Men desired her; women loved her.

  When she fell from grace, Blanche de Burgundy might as well have died.

  In many ways she had.

  The Cardinal’s Hat, Lombard Street, London

  ‘Oh, shite!’

  Ricard de Bromley ducked as the jug flew past his head and smashed against the lathes behind him. There was a burst of wild laughter from the front room of the tavern, and he glanced at his companions quickly.

  ‘What now?’

  Adam Trumpeter was in no doubt. ‘We get out of here. There’s no point trying to play to them in there. Listen to them!’

  Janin, a tall skinny man in his late twenties who wore his long, greasy dark hair in a thin queue tied with a thong, peered round the doorway with his amiable face fixed into a look of nervousness. ‘I don’t think we’d be welcomed.’

  ‘Welcomed?’ Adam was an older man by
fifteen years, barrel-chested and with a belly like a sea-going cog’s massive rounded prow. Under his hood, he scowled, his leathery features lined and wrinkled like an old alaunt’s. ‘They’re likely to rip our arms off and beat us with the soggy ends.’

  Ricard set his jaw and sneaked another look. ‘They said they’d pay us twelve pennies each,’ he said mournfully, his moustache drooping as though to signal his disconsolation.

  At the mention of money, it was Peter the Waferer who pulled the group together, as usual. He was always the one who kept an eye on the finances and mediated between fights. ‘I’m not giving up on twelve pennies for any number of rowdies,’ he declared. He took up his tabor, settling a small cudgel on his wrist, bound there by a strip of leather. ‘If they want to stop me, they can try.’

  He marched in, his arrogance settling the noise inside almost as soon as he pushed in with his tabor in one hand, a recorder in the other. A dexterous man, he could play the two simultaneously. With his tabor, which was one of those smaller ones which a man could carry with ease, he made a daunting figure, standing there blocking the doorway. With the unconcern of a man who knew that his master would be greatly displeased were he to be harmed, Peter strode to the farther side of the room and placed his tabor on the floor so that the royal insignia could be clearly read on his breast. Alone of the band, he was a genuine servant to the King.

  The others looked at each other for a moment. Ricard shrugged, then picked up his gittern. ‘Can’t let him get all the money.’

  Adam wore a look of resignation on his greying features. ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you,’ he said as he hefted his trumpet.

  Last to make his way in was Janin. He tossed his head and sent his long ponytail over his shoulder. Then he squared his narrow shoulders and followed them inside.

  Queen’s chamber, Thorney Island

  Queen Isabella rose from her prayers and nodded to Peter, her chaplain, before walking from the chapel and making her way to her chamber.

  The weather was foul today. As she glanced out through the tall lancet windows, she could see the rain slashing down into the turgid waters of the Thames, making the river froth and boil. Certainly not the weather to be going abroad today.

  Abroad. There was a word imbued with many meanings. To a peasant it could mean any foreign place – a vill some twenty miles away or a different kingdom. To her it could mean walking in the garden, perhaps riding with her hounds, or even travelling to her favourite manors – Eltham or Castle Acre. In truth, she would be happy anywhere just now. If she could only go away, escape this highly decorated prison that was the palace of Westminster.

  When she had first come here, she’d been delighted by it after staying in the Tower of London for a while. That was a fortress, constructed to keep the London mob subdued, and had the creature comforts of a stable, as far as she was concerned. This palace at Westminster was different; this was built with comfort in mind.

  King Edward I, her husband’s father, had constructed the Queen’s chambers and decorated them to meet Queen Eleanor’s stringent tastes. Even the other rooms were magnificent. She had heard tell of the King’s Painted Chamber when she was still living in France, a mere child. All knew of the wonderful paintings that covered the walls of that massive bedchamber.

  In truth, the palace here was one of the most marvellous she had ever seen. As daughter of a French king, Isabella could admit to herself that this place was as glorious as any fortress owned by her brother the king of France. And yet now it was repellent to her: it was nothing more than a gilded cage in which she might sing or flutter, but from which she could not break free.

  She might die here.

  Louvre, Paris

  As he walked along the great corridors, Roger Mortimer was reminded constantly of how low he had sunk, simply by looking at the expressions of the men all about him.

  There had been times when the idea of coming here would have been so inconceivable that it would have been laughable. Only three or four years ago he would have deemed such a suggestion to be ridiculous. Ridiculous! The word was a poor tool for him. It could not convey the depth of feeling he had now, walking behind these squires, hoping to meet with the King.

  He hadn’t been here long. When he first fled England, escaping from the Tower under sentence of death for plotting treason, he had made his way to Normandy. There he’d been able to live for a while without being troubled by his new enemy – England’s king, Edward II, Mortimer’s old friend. Men were sent to seek him in Wales and Ireland, both countries Roger knew well, and as the days dragged into weeks the King and Despenser both grew distraught.

  Mortimer’s concerns were focused on his children, and his dear Joan. When he escaped, King Edward had immediately set to persecute any of his friends, allies or family who were within reach of his hand. Roger had heard that Joan had been taken from her home and installed in a royal castle in Yorkshire, and all the men of her household had been removed and made destitute. Most of his children had fared still worse – his sons thrown into prison, his daughters incarcerated in secure priories, with less money to live on than a criminal in the Tower.

  But there was good fortune. First, he was still alive, and so were they. Then Geoffrey, his third son, had been in France at the time of his escape, and so had avoided the fate of his siblings. He was the sole heir to Joan’s mother, who had owned some of the de Lusignan lands, and had very opportunely expired just before Mortimer’s escape, so through Geoffrey Roger had access to money while he was in France. Then again, the French could see the advantage in pulling the tail of the English king while they could. Which was good – but Mortimer had no illusions about the longevity of their interest in him. Once the matter of the Guyenne duchy lands was settled, his usefulness would be over, and his life worth little once more.

  His heart’s desire was revenge upon the King and Despenser, and to see his wife and children released from their incarceration. How he could manage that, though, was the matter which tormented him just now. He had already attempted to assassinate Despenser and the King by the use of magic, but the sorcerer involved had been betrayed, apparently, by his own assistant, and there appeared to be no other means of settling the score. Rack his brains though he might, there seemed nothing to be done.

  The guards halted and opened the door, and Roger Mortimer entered the long hall of the Louvre, bowing instantly at the sight of the King.

  Like his father, Charles IV was known as ‘the Fair’ already. It was curious to think that the kings of both France and England should be singularly tall, well formed and handsome, but perhaps it was simply proof of God’s approval of them both. At his side was a watchful falconer, while nearby was his most trusted adviser, François de Tours.

  ‘Lord Mortimer. I am grateful that you could come to see me at such short notice.’

  ‘It is an honour to be summoned, my lord. How may I serve you?’

  The King had been studying the cold-eyed killer on his gauntleted wrist, but now he passed the creature back to the falconer and pulled off the thick leather glove. ‘I am sure I will find a way,’ he said drily. ‘However, for now, I wish to speak of other matters. You have been most useful to me recently. Your presence has been invaluable in my negotiations with King Edward. However, soon you may become an embarrassment. You will leave Paris.’

  ‘Where would you have me go?’

  ‘You do not question my command?’

  ‘My king, you are master of your realm. If you tell me I must leave your side, I will obey.’

  ‘A shame that more of my men do not show the excellent good manners you hold in such abundance,’ the King commented. He beckoned a servant, who hurried over with a jug and goblet. The man bowed low as he held out the poured wine. King Charles took it and sipped. ‘Yes. In a little while I think that the Queen my sister will come to negotiate the truce in Guyenne. It would be difficult were you to be here still when that happened.’

  Mortimer said nothing. His failed
assassination attempt would make his appearance in court rather troublesome. That much was obvious.

  ‘There is another matter, though,’ the King said. ‘The Queen, I believe, has been generous towards your good lady?’

  The simple mention of his Joan was enough to bring a lump to Mortimer’s breast. His lovely Joan, thrown into a prison for something that was nothing to do with her. She was innocent, as innocent as his daughters. And they’d all been imprisoned because the King would only listen to the sly insinuations of that son of a whore, Despenser. ‘Your sister has been most kind, your highness. She has interceded on my wife’s behalf, I know. I only hope that Joan realises how much she should thank her highness. Without the Queen’s aid, I do not know what would have become of her.’

  ‘Perhaps she feels a certain guilt for all that she has caused to happen to other wedded couples,’ the King said with an edge to his voice.

  Chapter One

  Monday before Ash Wednesday4

  Lombard Street

  Gradually, Ricard de Bromley became aware of his surroundings as a fine drizzle fell on his bearded face. He grunted to himself, and then groaned more loudly as he tried to climb to his feet. ‘Not our best one, boys,’ he muttered.

  Beside him was Janin, his body curled into a ball about his vielle. Will prodded at him with a finger. ‘Jan? Are you dead?’

  ‘How’s my … ?’

  ‘It’s fine. Get up.’

  There were some memories of the evening before. Ricard could distinctly recall certain moments – the arrival of a massive jug of ale, leathern pots provided for the musicians; a great bull of a man standing and singing a song so filthy, so bawdy, that Ricard had immediately tried to consign it to his memory for use in another venue; the first little fight between some young apprentices in a corner as they tried to force their way into the tavern and were repulsed; the woman who wandered over and sat on his knee, intimating that she would be happy to relieve him of some of his money by relieving him. God, yes! She’d the body of a practised whore, and her smile was as lewd as that of any Winchester Goose, but her accent was odd. Not English, certainly. Called … called Thomassia, that was it! She sounded more like one of the wenches from Guyenne; her husband … Shit, her husband was there. Guy…