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

  ‘You are?’

  Lord John Cromwell gave his name easily enough. He was used to speaking with kings, and he bowed low and respectfully, gruffly introducing the other men from his party. De Sapy was careful to bow low, as was Peter de Lymesey, but Sir Charles, Baldwin saw, was less reverential in his approach. He bowed, but in an almost perfunctory manner, which made some in the chamber eye him suspiciously. For his part, Baldwin bowed as low as he would to any king. There was no point in making a show of rudeness. It could all too easily make an enemy of a ruthless man in the lands where his power was absolute.

  ‘Sir Baldwin de Furnshill,’ Lord John intoned.

  ‘I am delighted to meet you,’ the King said in that soft voice of his. His tone was light, but Baldwin had the impression that it would carry clearly a great distance.

  ‘I believe you have all looked after your queen, my sister, well. I am most grateful to you all for that. If there is anything you require while you stay here in Poissy or in Paris, let my servants know and I will ensure that they will provide it for you. You are all my honoured guests.’

  He had turned to return to his throne when the doors opened at the far end of the hall, and the Queen stepped in.

  She was clad in black, a dress rather like a widow’s, Baldwin thought, and then his mouth twitched cynically. No fool, she would have carefully considered what to wear before entering. This was designed to make men question her state of mind. Everyone knew of Despenser’s relationship with her husband, and wearing widow’s weeds would allow them to appreciate the depth of her own disgust and shame.

  The King stepped forward as she entered, and taking her hand asked how she fared, how her journeys had been. ‘Welcome, my fair sister!’ She attempted to kneel before him, not once, but three times, at each occasion held up by him. ‘You are my sister, my equal. You shall not kneel for me.’

  Baldwin saw the tears running down her face as the King led her to a seat and installed her, commanding wine and sweetmeats for her, and for all his loyalty and devotion to her, he could not help but reflect that she was a more consummate actor than any he had seen displaying his craft on a wagon at the miracle plays each year.

  ‘Well?’ Simon demanded as Baldwin walked out into the yard later. As a mere yeoman, Simon had not been invited to the audience. Not that he cared a whit. As far as he was concerned, kings were above his usual rank of companion, and he was content to leave such people to Baldwin’s acquaintance.

  ‘It was tedious. The Queen met her brother. That is about it.’

  ‘What did she say? Was he excited? What is he like?’

  ‘She said hello. He was happy as any monarch who now holds the secret to upsetting a rival; and he is tall, handsome, and as ruthless and avaricious as any king,’ Baldwin said.

  ‘Ruthless and what?’

  ‘Simon, he has one interest and one interest only. He is a devoted Christian, and he is determined that he shall become the Holy Roman Emperor. His only rival for the position has already been excommunicated, I hear, so he is likely to win that race. And then no doubt he will launch a new crusade. I think that is what he desires above all else.’

  ‘And meantime, if they get on so well, then with fortune we can leave here and get back home before too long?’ Simon said optimistically.

  ‘Perhaps so,’ Sir Charles said. He had followed Baldwin from the room, and now stood at the bottom of the steps to the hall. ‘I should not hold out for that to be very soon, though, old friend.’

  ‘Surely, if he still loves his sister, he will not refuse anything she asks for?’

  ‘Simon, dear fellow, that is what we must hope will happen if he wants peace with the English. It has little to do with his sister’s wishes, though. If she were to win what she desired, we’d be in great trouble, and would be forced to remain here a damned sight longer.’

  Simon frowned. ‘I don’t …’

  ‘What the king of England wants is his territories returned, at no cost, and without having to pay homage to King Charles. What King Charles wants is any pretext to keep the lands and force the English king to pay allegiance to him. What the Queen wants is somebody to remove and preferably execute Sir Hugh Despenser so that she can return to her husband again.’

  ‘But the French have no power over whether our king turfs Despenser out.’

  ‘Quite so. Which means that the Queen must be disappointed. Will that make her keen to assist her husband? I somehow doubt it. No. You have to pray that the self-interest of the French will make them try to force our king to agree to accept back his lands, while still coming here to pay allegiance for them.’

  ‘But he won’t,’ Baldwin said. ‘The last man he would ever trust is his brother-in-law.’

  ‘Why?’ Simon asked, baffled.

  Sir Charles sighed slightly, glancing at Baldwin as though unbelieving that any man could be so far behind the realities of the nation’s politics. ‘Simon, the two of them are neighbouring kings. Both wish to lead Christendom. That means that they hate each other. It’s not helped by the fact that the English still rage about the French stealing Normandy from us; now they want to steal Guyenne. They are dishonest and unreliable.’

  ‘You do not like the French, do you?’ Baldwin asked mildly.

  ‘When dead, they make tolerable companions,’ Sir Charles said with chilling amiability.

  ‘Baldwin, you don’t believe all that, do you? I mean, we’ll be home again early in the summer, won’t we? It shouldn’t take long for the Queen to knock together some sort of deal with her own brother, will it? They love each other, after all.’

  ‘Simon, I don’t know what he feels towards her. You have heard of the matter of the silken purses?’

  ‘I think so, but I don’t know …’

  ‘There was a meeting in France some ten or eleven years ago. The Queen, our Queen Isabella, was there, and she met her father. Now she had given some purses to her sisters-in-law a while before. They were all embroidered in silk, so easily recognisable to her. Imagine her feelings when she saw them, not in her sisters-in-law’s hands, but bound to the belts of some knights with whom they were dancing.

  ‘She worried about the matter for some little while, I expect, but her conscience wouldn’t let her be. She decided she must tell her father, for if these women were committing adultery it was not only a matter of cuckolding their husbands, it meant that they could be compromising the succession of the royal line of Capet. They could be raising bastards to take the crown. That was enough to make her, a daughter of that royal house, bridle. She told her father, he arrested the men concerned, and they died as any man would, guilty of such an appalling crime.’

  His tone was reflective, precise, unemotional. Simon knew that although Baldwin was a firm believer in justice, he also detested unnecessary cruelty, to man or beast. He knew the necessity of eating, but he preferred his venison to be killed swiftly and cleanly. That was why he maintained a good pack of hounds and raches, to bring down game quickly and kill it cleanly.

  ‘The women, though, were made to suffer still more, perhaps. The two women who were found guilty of adultery were imprisoned in the Château Gaillard. One was her brother Charles’s wife. He has been unfortunate. Some little while ago he managed to have his marriage to her annulled, and I think he rejected any children she’d borne in case they were sired by another. The second wife died in childbirth last year, I believe, and now he hopes to marry again. Given those circumstances, Simon, how glad would you be to meet your sister again? How keen would you be to grant her any favours?’

  ‘But the fact that the favours she craves are to please her king? Surely the king who is Charles’s closest neighbour must have some impact?’

  ‘I think I need not reiterate the words of Sir Charles,’ Baldwin said lightly. ‘Consider this, Simon: the man is already insulting King Charles. He has accepted as his own closest adviser and friend a man whom King Charles has declared outlaw. Sir Hugh le Despenser robbed French shipping for a whi
le when he was exiled from England. Taking him as a close confidant is a gross insult. Just as is King Charles’s response in taking in and protecting our king’s worst enemy, Roger Mortimer. The two have no desire to help each other. No, I think that King Charles will have all the English territories, and our mission here is a farce. I do not know why I agreed to come!’

  Jean gave up for the day. He had been inside the town, watching the gates carefully to see if there was any sign of Arnaud or le Vieux, but as he wandered the streets it became clear that, if the two were here, they must be staying in the palace itself.

  Well, no matter. He could be patient. There was plenty of time. He found lodgings in a mean little chamber not far from one of the town’s gates, and settled down to sleep. But his dreams were not good. He woke, stifling a scream, as once more he saw Arnaud and Berengar running from the castle, and walked down to find the bodies outside the guard rooms again. And he wept for the men who had been slain by that madman, Arnaud.

  He must kill Arnaud.

  Saturday before Palm Sunday18

  Poissy

  To Baldwin’s relief Simon’s worst fears were not realised.

  From the day that Baldwin had spoken to de Bouden, Simon had maintained a cold silence. To him, it was clear enough that they should make Lord John aware of de Bouden’s meeting, but when Baldwin had spoken to the Queen it was clear that no useful purpose could be served by doing so.

  ‘You say that my clerk spoke to Roger Mortimer?’ she had asked.

  Baldwin had nodded. ‘He would not say what they discussed.’

  ‘I am distressed to hear this,’ she said.

  ‘Would you like me to tell Lord Cromwell?’

  ‘No!’ she snapped, eyes blazing. ‘I would ask that you obey me, sir knight.’

  ‘My queen, I always try to do all to serve your interests,’ he protested.

  She gave a short smile. ‘Rather than my husband’s, eh?’

  ‘I hope I can serve both equally.’

  ‘That I doubt. However, my annoyance is not with you, Sir Baldwin. It lies with de Bouden himself. He should have told me that you saw him.’

  ‘I …’ Baldwin had closed his mouth. She had not said that de Bouden should have told her that he had met Mortimer, but that he had told Baldwin about meeting Mortimer.

  ‘Yes. You comprehend, I think?’

  ‘When did you first begin to negotiate with Mortimer, your highness?’

  ‘That is none of your concern … and yet, why not? Roger Mortimer has been known to me for many years, Sir Baldwin. And when I was last staying in the Tower, I visited him there. The poor man has seen all he has built up over the last years removed from him. Believe me, I know how loss of privilege and lands and respect can hurt a man or a woman.’

  ‘I am sorry.’

  ‘You are not the man who took away my possessions and gave me a pittance to live on. Yet I thank you for your words. You are a kind man, Sir Baldwin. Yes, but worse than what was happening to Mortimer, I also knew of his poor wife, Joan. My husband had her arrested too, and imprisoned. She is allowed only one mark a day for food and expenses. One mark a day! Their children have been taken from her and imprisoned, all but Geoffrey who is here in France.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘No. You cannot, Sir Baldwin. You cannot know what it is like to be taken from your home, to have all your pretty little possessions stolen away, to be forced to become a beggar, and you cannot understand – no man can comprehend – the horror of having your children taken from you. All else is bearable, my sir, but to have your children stolen from you, to be refused permission to see them, to hold them … that is cruelty beyond torture.’

  He could recall so clearly the brightness in her eyes as she spoke. She knew about the pain of loss. Baldwin was tongue-tied standing before her as the tears formed and trickled down her cheeks. In his heart he wondered how his own wife Jeanne would cope with the destruction of their family, with seeing their little manor broken up, their belongings taken away to be sold or destroyed, and her children torn from her embrace, to be carted away, perhaps never to be seen again. All because of offences caused by their father – offences of which they were entirely innocent.

  ‘I shall not tell Lord John, my lady,’ he had said stiffly.

  ‘Lord Mortimer is a good man, Sir Baldwin. He has a loving wife who misses him dreadfully, and he her. You know that in all their married life, he never left her? When he was sent by my husband the King to fight in wars all over the King’s lands, he always took Joan with him. She and he are devoted.’

  Her eyes were distant, a woman considering the fortune of another. A cause for jealousy, perhaps, but all Baldwin could see was a whimsical respect. Or a sadness for the love she had not felt for so many years.

  ‘Sir Baldwin, I know what it is to have a lover taken from me. I know how Joan must feel to know that her marriage has been ravaged. Her husband was stolen from her by the fiend Despenser, may he rot in hell! Despenser has done the same to me. He is the third person in my marriage. I know how poor Joan feels because I have suffered the same fate.’

  ‘I think I now understand you better, my lady,’ he said. And for the first time, in his heart, Sir Baldwin de Furnshill cursed the king who could have ordered such injustices.

  Chapter Twenty

  Jean had seen nothing of them. The little store of coin which he had in his purse was all but used up, and now he was husbanding the remainder by working in a little cookshop not far from the palace gate. The money was poor, but he could eat as many pies as he wanted while the cook was in the front of the shop, and there was enough to pay for his room and buy a cup or two of wine each day.

  He couldn’t stay here for ever, though. The whole town was full of talk of the protracted negotiations which were continuing here between the King and the English queen, she who was his sister. Not that it meant there was too much love between them. She had new loyalties now, to her husband, her son, and her adopted country. So the haggling went on, and meanwhile the men who had travelled here with her were all closeted up in that palace. And all he wanted to do was get to see le Vieux and explain what had happened so that they could both overwhelm and kill that madman, Arnaud.

  It was ironic that he should have come to this conclusion now. In the past, all the while they had been guards at the Château Gaillard, he had loathed Arnaud for what he had done to Agnes and Raymond.

  Jean had known many men who had killed. He had done so himself. When a man joined his lord’s host, he must expect to be sent to fight; unless he went with the intention of dying, he must expect to kill. But that was in hot blood, when the energy fizzed in a lad’s arms and legs, when he shouted, his heart warmed by the thought of standing with friends and comrades in defiance of another’s will. It was easy to kill when a man ran at you trying to cut your throat.

  Others were put in the hideous position of having to kill in cold blood. He was fortunate, he’d never been forced to that, but he knew other men who had. Men who’d been told to execute prisoners, thrusting a sword down into their bodies while they knelt with hands and feet bound, like cattle waiting to be slaughtered. Yet that was removing dangerous enemies. Even that was more acceptable than the actions of a man like Arnaud.

  An executioner could show pity, sympathy, compassion or even regret. Any display of that nature was good for the heart of the victim. And no one would wish to be killed by a man who had no feeling at all. That would serve only to denigrate the entire life of the condemned. Yet there was one worse possibility – a man like Arnaud.

  Jean had seen him. Yes. He’d seen him when Agnes screamed and wailed in the flames. It was inhuman to kill a woman in that way. Worse than bestial. The law must be upheld, of course it must, but to kill like that, in a way specifically designed to terrify, was no form of justice.

  Some executioners went out of their way to prevent too much suffering. Jean had seen them: men who cast a rope about the throat of the victim, so that as
the flames crept higher they could strangle the man or woman before the pain became unbearable. Others came to their duties with fear; weakly souls, these, who would cause the prisoners untold anguish because they detested what they must do. Often they would be drunk, intentionally overindulging in wine or ale so as to be incapable of feeling when they set the pyre alight.

  Arnaud was that worse type, though. He gloried in killing. He enjoyed it. He would go to the executions with a smile on his lips. He would listen with delight to the pleading of the condemned; he would laugh and caper in appalling mimicry of their death throes; he would revel in their horror.

  Jean had been arrested within hours of Raymond’s death. It was one of the few things in his life he had done for which he could be proud, standing up in the tavern and declaring Raymond and Agnes innocent. But it had cost him dear. Christ! So dear.

  Sir Charles was in the main court before the castle’s hall when he saw the man.

  Many men would have bellowed for guards, demanded that the fellow be arrested immediately, or, more shrewdly, slowly sidled away to seek for more English knights to help capture the man. After all, Roger Mortimer was no felon by French law.

  But Sir Charles of Lancaster was an astute, thoughtful man. Years of wandering after the destruction of his earl’s host at Boroughbridge had made him cautious about over-hasty action. Especially when it came to French sensibilities. He had been overwhelmed in a tavern because of some French peasants who were insulting him. He’d killed them all, with Paul, his man-at-arms, and a Portuguese man they had met. Since then he had been a little wary of bringing attention to himself.

  He saw Mortimer leave the court and walk out through the main gate. Strolling as though idly, he followed the man out into the town itself, and was doing well enough, until his careful passage was obstructed by a cart that happened to shed its load in a narrow part of the street. Immediately people blocked the way, and he could only stand and curse quietly. Coming to a quick decision, he turned round and made his way back to the castle.