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

  Steps came down the cobbles, and he stirred himself silently. He had been dozing with his eyes open, but at the first sound he was wide awake. Soon he could make out the shape of his informer.

  The man scurried along the alley like a rat walking down a corridor of cats. His eyes were all over the place, as though he expected to be jumped on at any moment. Quite right, too. The bloody fool should have had a couple of men with him. But then, as Paul knew, he would have been a still more attractive mark. A man who walked abroad at night was a possible target to a cut-purse. A man who walked at night with two henchmen was clearly guarding something of value, and so was still more attractive.

  He pulled the door open and slid inside around it. The hinges were rotten, and the door scraped badly on the ground, opening only about halfway. Orange candlelight flooded out into the lane, to slip to a knife-blade as he tugged the door closed after him.

  It was only a matter of a few minutes before the door was opened again, and then the man hurried out and set off up the road to escape back to the Queen’s household. Paul watched him with a slight frown on his face, wondering what could have made him hurry so urgently. Then he pressed himself back into the darkness as the door opened again. Three men came out and stood in the lane looking up and down for a few moments, before two more figures emerged. One was a tall, well-favoured man, a cap on his head, pulling gloves on as he came. He stopped in the doorway, looked about him, nodded, and then marched off after the messenger, his guards fanning out behind him.

  Paul pursed his lips. This would clearly not be so easy as he had hoped. He would have to have some help. He nodded to himself, and as the men disappeared round a curve in the lane, he left the shadows, peering up after the group.

  As soon as he began to trail quietly after them, the door of the inn scraped again. Too late, he saw his peril, thinking to leap back to the shadows.

  ‘So, master. You were wanting to see our lord?’

  Two men, both with swords drawn, blocking his path that way. He turned to flee up the lane, but even as he turned he saw the men back at the corner. Roger Mortimer made a gesture with his hand, and the four men with him began to walk slowly towards Paul. He put his hand to his sword, but before he could grasp it he felt the two behind him jump forward. One took his sword arm; the other beat him about the head, three, four times, with the hilt of his own. Paul stumbled, but could jerk his elbow upwards, and he felt it crunch against a nose. That caused a short curse, but then there was a hideous crashing thud against the back of his neck, and sparks were thrown up in front of his eyes, sparks that pinwheeled about before his gaze as he toppled forward to rest his face on the cobbles.

  ‘Who do you work for?’ The voice was calm, but determined.

  ‘I work for no one.’

  ‘You were seeking me. The messenger told us. He at least was loyal. Who do you work for, the King? Are you with him?’

  ‘I was just looking for a pot of wine! You lot attacked me,’ Paul protested.

  ‘You have two choices. A fast death or a slow one. Slow will be painful. Tell me who you work for, and you will not suffer. Refuse, and I will see to it that you have a bad death.’

  Paul tried to clear the fog in his head. The back of his neck was on fire, with flames of pain searing the rear of his skull. It was hard to think straight, and he certainly couldn’t think fast enough to save himself. ‘I don’t …’

  ‘Take him back. Question him. Find out all he knows, then kill him,’ Mortimer said. ‘Sorry, friend. I don’t have time for this.’

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Thursday before Good Friday21

  Château du Bois

  The next morning William de Bouden was early at his sheets of parchment, yawning regularly. There had been a storm in the night which had left the whole area damp. As far as he could tell, he was sleeping in a room which faced the wind. The shutters had rattled and banged all night, the rain sluicing in through the slats, the wind was blowing so hard, and the water had pooled on the floor inside. It left him unable to sleep, with the result that he was crotchety and petulant this morning. Still, he was nothing if not assiduous in his duties, so while he grumbled to himself, he continued counting the money.

  Some people thought that so long as the Queen was in France there would be no need of a formal accounting, but they were dolts. The simple fact was, the King had allowed her a budget to come here as ambassador, and he, William de Bouden, the Queen’s Comptroller, had a duty to ensure that the money spent was all accounted for. Before he had left England, he had been given a thousand pounds by the King, but Edward had known that more might be needed, so William had a letter allowing him to draw on the house of the Bardi in Paris. Not that he wanted to pull out too much from there.

  Still, the Bardi were competent – very competent – bankers. And the first rule of banking was, as William knew only too well, to keep a careful eye on those who borrowed. To do that, they maintained some of the most efficient spies in the world. That was how they kept themselves briefed on whether a man had enough money to justify a loan, or whether someone had become a bad credit risk.

  They scared him.

  William had been given the post here by the King because he knew the Queen. Until the King had dissolved her household, William had been her treasurer, but now that he had this new post Edward appeared to believe that he would be automatically loyal to him. Yet no, he was not. He had been the Queen’s man for years, and just because the King ordered him away and then gave him his job back changed nothing. He was still the Queen’s man. There was such a thing as loyalty, in God’s name.

  But in royal politics there was little in the way of trust. That was why William was convinced that the Bardi had been paid to keep an eye on him and the Queen. There was a man who appeared to be watching him wherever he went. It had scared him half to death when he had been accosted by that knight in Poissy, and it was even worse when Queen Isabella confronted him with his confession to Sir Baldwin that he had been talking to Roger Mortimer. That had gone down like a bucket of cold sick. Still, as she agreed a little while later, at least it demonstrated that they had one ally among the knights who made up her guard. Or if not an ally, at least someone who was prepared to remain loyal to her interests over here.

  It was ridiculous, frankly, that anyone could look on Roger as any sort of threat. The man was an old friend of the Queen’s. William had been in her service long enough to know perfectly well that she and Roger had met plenty of times when she was still happily married to her husband. Roger had visited her often. Nothing suspicious; it was always with his lady, Joan. Joan and Queen Isabella had got on well, and Mortimer was utterly devoted to his wife. She went with him on all his travels, even when he was marching with his warriors in England, Wales or Ireland. They were one of those terribly rare things, a man and wife who were genuinely in love.

  Made it all the worse to see him like this. Now he was a pale reflection of his earlier self. William had seen him in those days when he was the King’s most trusted general, but now he was a renegade, a traitor. Untrusted and despised by the king he had served for so many years, he was eking out a living, kept in the background by the French king in case he might become useful at some point in the future, but really a prisoner. He could not leave the French king’s protection. To do so would make him nothing more than the target of every cut-purse, draw-latch and robbersman who was bright enough to see how much bounty his head could bring.

  It was enough to make a man sigh in sad reflection, of course. He did so now. The mere thought of all that cash, just waiting for any fortunate fool to claim, was enough to make any man of moderate ambition sit back and think of all the fine clothing, the wine, the food, that such treasure could bring. It would be as much as, maybe, a hundred pounds. Good God, a hundred pounds …

  With cash like that a man would be free indeed. But William did not have a hundred pounds. He didn’t have two pounds of his own. Only a matter of a few hundreds of the
Queen’s money which was all that remained of her thousand. When that was exhausted, William would have to go to the Bardi. Not until then, though. Best to keep away, especially while the Queen was set on meeting Mortimer every so often.

  He opened the great steel-barred chest with the huge key he held about his neck, and began checking the money. Satisfied that it all still tallied with his calculations, he closed the lid and relocked it, listening to the great bolts sliding into place.

  It was his morning’s duty, and now, duty done, he could consider his other tasks. But even as he was seating himself once more at his table, there was a knocking at his door.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Master. There’s been a murder! An Englishman is dead!’

  Sir Charles had been in the hall when the men began to scurry about.

  ‘Something happen?’ he murmured to Baldwin at his side.

  ‘It rather looks like it,’ Baldwin responded, looking up.

  ‘They are all quite busy. Anyone might think that they were fearful of an assault on the city.’

  Simon sipped his weak wine and beckoned a servant. The man was one of the French servants set to watch over the English guests and ensure that they were comfortable, and the fellow came to Simon with a wary expression in his eyes, as though expecting to be assaulted. Simon smiled at him. ‘What is the alarm?’

  ‘There is a man dead.’

  ‘What, here in the castle?’ Simon asked. There were too many deaths, he thought to himself. This whole embassy could end in disaster.

  Sir Charles shrugged. ‘What of it? Many die each day. In castles as often as in a city or the countryside. What did he die of? Fall in a well? Fall from a wall? I suppose he was drunk?’

  ‘Non, mon sieur.’ The servant explained that the poor fellow had been stabbed.

  Baldwin cast an eye about the room. There was a suppressed excitement about the men present. It was not like the anxiety which was the normal companion of a corpse, in his experience. No, it was more like the thrill of watching someone else who would shortly be distraught as the news of a loved one’s demise was delivered. ‘Who is it?’

  There was no answer to that question. The servant gave them to understand that someone would be there to tell them more as soon as he had learned all he might.

  Sir Charles was smiling as the man left them, but Baldwin rose. ‘I wish to see the Queen and assure myself that she is safe. God forbid that this dead man might be one of her entourage, or even one of the knights with us here.’

  ‘You think it might be Sir John or Sir Peter?’ Sir Charles asked. He felt that Baldwin’s concern was a little overdone. ‘Sir Baldwin, there is nothing to fear. It’s probably one of the grooms. Nothing more than that. We can soon hire a fresh one, if need be. Please, sit, and do not trouble the Queen with a matter which may well be completely unimportant.’

  He watched as Baldwin stood, undecided. Then Baldwin saw Sir John de Sapy walk into the room with Sir Peter de Lymesey and Lord Cromwell. The sight of the three of them made up his mind. ‘Is there no one with the Queen?’ he demanded rhetorically, and was gone. Simon rose and hurried after him.

  ‘Where are they going?’ Cromwell asked.

  ‘Sir Baldwin has very chivalrously gone to the aid of the Queen in case she is downhearted to hear that someone has died,’ Sir Charles said with some amusement. ‘Do you know who it is who has been killed?’

  ‘Has no one told you?’ Sir John said, his face registering his surprise.

  Lord Cromwell was the man who stepped forward and rested a hand on Sir Charles’s forearm. ‘I am sorry, Sir Charles. It was your man-at-arms – it was Paul.’

  The Queen left them both in no uncertainty about her feelings. She was perfectly well, and if they had not run to her chambers and woken her with their infernal knocking, she would still be blissfully unaware that anyone had been harmed, let alone someone from her delegation.

  ‘So who was it?’ Simon wondered.

  Baldwin was unable to answer, but as they left the Queen’s chamber and could look across the yard towards the entranceway they saw a throng of people. ‘Perhaps the answer is out there.’

  ‘You think so? It looks a little dangerous.’

  ‘It is just the street people of Paris looking at a corpse, I think,’ Baldwin said, but he joined Simon in splashing through the muddy puddles towards the gate.

  Simon gasped when he caught sight of the dead man’s face. ‘Christ’s ballocks, Baldwin, that’s Paul!’

  ‘Dear Christ! If you see Sir Charles, keep him away, Simon.’

  In the roadway near the castle’s gate the throng of people stood watching while a man in sergent’s uniform studied Paul’s corpse. He was asking questions that seemed to go unanswered. ‘I said, did anyone see him dumped here?’

  There was no response from the people gathered there. Simon could understand enough of the local accent to follow the questioning and the lack of answers from the folk watching, and could sympathise with the poor official trying his best to find the killer.

  When he had clearly given up hope of getting any information from the people standing about, and returned to his study of the body, Baldwin stepped forward. ‘I do not know if I can help, but I have had some experience of murder and seeking felons in my own lands.’

  ‘I would be very grateful for any aid,’ the sergent said. ‘But I fear that this is one of those killings which will go down unsolved.’

  ‘Do you know anything at all?’

  ‘As you can see for yourself, he was beaten, and then stabbed. The wound was a cruel one, up from his belly, and straight into his heart and lungs, I imagine. A quick enough death for the poor devil. Not that he would have looked on it as that, I suppose. Nobody saw him die, nobody heard him die, nobody saw a killer – in short, nobody knows anything at all. Hardly surprising, since anyone who saw the man who did this could expect something similar to happen to him.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘This was a professional killing.’

  ‘There is no possibility that it could have been a common cut-purse?’ Simon asked.

  ‘I shouldn’t think so,’ Baldwin answered. ‘He’s been too badly beaten up. And since when did a cut-purse kill a man like this?’

  ‘Oh, God,’ Simon said, and turned away from the corpse. He had taken a glimpse, and that was enough.

  Paul lay on his back, arms outspread, legs sprawling. The whole of his stomach area was a reddened mess, with blue-grey coils of intestine pulled out and smeared with blood. A thin, oil-like slick of blood pooled over all the puddles in the roadway. Some had coagulated, but much was so diluted with the rainwater that it could not, and merely gave its own pink coloration to the water.

  ‘Yes,’ Baldwin said as Simon retched. ‘The poor fellow suffered first.’ He was about to bend to study the body more closely when the cry made him stop.

  ‘Paul!’ Sir Charles shouted, and would have run to his servant had Simon not grasped him first and pulled him back. It was a relief to be able to move away from Paul’s body and have something – someone – else to think of.

  ‘Wait, Sir Charles. Let Baldwin see if he can learn anything from him first.’

  Sir Charles was incapable of coherent thought, let alone speech, and he struggled at first to free himself.

  In the fog of his horror, he did not appreciate that it was Simon and one of the guards from the gates to the château who were holding him back. He roared with anguish, and at one point even tried to reach for his long dagger to cut the pair of them off him, sensing them as enemies trying to stand between him and his man, but Sir John de Sapy was already there, and pulled his hand away. ‘Wake up, Sir Charles. Wake up!’ he bellowed, and slapped at Sir Charles’s face, once, twice. ‘Sir Charles! You are being stared at. You have made yourself an object of scorn. Control yourself!’

  Sir Charles came to himself. He stared, appalled, at Sir John, but then his eyes slid back towards the body. Sir Baldwin was at Paul’s sid
e, respectfully kneeling, and he glanced back at Sir Charles with an expression of such infinite understanding and sadness that Sir Charles knew at once there was no hope. He sagged in the arms of his restrainers, head hanging, feeling as though his own life was ending. A dreadful lassitude came over him, and he felt an urge to spew over the pavement.

  How could he waken from this nightmare? Paul – Paul his loyal servant from the days when they were both living in the service of Earl Thomas of Lancaster; Paul who had gone with him into exile rather than be captured and slain by the King’s men; Paul who had been with him when he was forced to leave Paris and take pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela; Paul who had with him been forced to the island of Ennor – in all the long months of wandering, the only man who had remained his devoted servant and friend was Paul.

  He had learned to cope with the loss of so much. All his wealth and lands had gone when Earl Thomas had been taken and executed, and gradually during his exile he had grown accustomed to the steady, slow diminishment of his pride as time and again his attempts to find a new lord had failed. Eventually he had sunk so low as to demean himself by offering himself as a mercenary – the lowest form of life. Yet all through those dreadful days, at least he had enjoyed the company of his servant, guard, cook, procurer – Paul. And now he was gone, it felt as though there was a terrible hole in his breast. The man whom he had valued above all others was dead, and now Sir Charles was entirely alone. There was nothing and no one to fill that gap.

  ‘I swear that I shall find the man responsible and cut his heart out,’ he said thickly. The words gave a little consolation – just a little – and he was able to stand upright again, pulling his arms from the two at his sides, and forcing his chin up. He remained standing in the same place, unsure whether to trust his legs to take him the short distance to his man’s body, but unable to draw his eyes away as Baldwin shook his head, stood, and made his way back to join them.

  ‘Sir Charles, I am truly sorry.’