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

  ‘He is dead?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did they make him suffer?’

  ‘I am afraid so. He was beaten before being killed.’

  ‘Thank you for your candour, Sir Baldwin. I appreciate that. Excuse me, I must go and arrange for my man’s burial.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Baldwin and Simon watched as Sir Charles walked stiffly towards the body.

  ‘He is devastated,’ Simon said, his voice hushed.

  ‘He will manage,’ Baldwin said harshly. ‘We do.’

  Simon shot him a look. His companion was gazing after Sir Charles, but his eyes scarcely appeared to see him. There was an inward-looking emptiness in his face, as if he was thinking of that time, less than ten years before, when he too had been forced to witness the death of men who had been very dear to him.

  Lord John Cromwell swore as he stumbled over a loose cobble. ‘In Christ’s name!’

  This was the last thing the mission needed. The embassy was doomed, damn it, and he was the man who was going to be called to account by the King and Sir Hugh le Despenser when they returned. No one else. It could hardly be laid at the Queen’s door this time. No matter how much the King hated his wife, the idea that she was responsible for such a breach of security as allowing one of the embassy’s men-at-arms to wander the streets and be captured by someone was absurd. That was all Lord John’s area of interest. His fault.

  Diplomacy was fraught with dangers, naturally. When two great kings negotiated matters of such vast importance, there were always factions who sought to assist or thwart. In this case, there was such a preponderance of vested interests on the French side, with barons determined to get their hands on the English king’s lands, properties and wine production down in the province of Guyenne, that it was hardly surprising that someone sought to destroy the English mission.

  And how better to destroy it than by embarrassing the English? Kill off an Englishman, and you instantly create tensions between the two negotiating teams.

  He reached the oaken door to the Queen’s hall, and stopped a moment to draw breath. There were two guards here, both from his own entourage, and he nodded at them before reaching forward and opening the door.

  ‘Your royal highness.’

  A sword swung in front of him, and he would have grabbed for his own were it not for the surprise of Blaket’s blade-point at his chin. ‘Get that away,’ he snarled.

  ‘Where have you been?’ the Queen demanded as Blaket withdrew his sword without apology.

  She was standing close to her fireplace, a book in her hands. A short distance from her was the blonde, Alicia, while Alice de Toeni and Joan of Bar were a little further away, close, as though they had been discussing matters themselves.

  ‘Your highness, I’ve been talking to the men at the gate, making sure of the facts.’

  ‘What are they?’

  ‘The dead man was one of ours. He was a man-at-arms who rode with Sir Charles of Lancaster. The knight doesn’t know when he might have died, but apparently this man Paul was out last night. Probably out seeking the …’ He quickly decided not to speculate on what kind of woman the fellow was hunting for. ‘Anyway, he was captured, I suppose, and robbed and killed.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘How killed? Someone put a knife to his belly and paunched him like a rabbit.’

  ‘I see. And you have examined the body?’

  ‘No. I left Sir Baldwin de Furnshill to do that. He is experienced in such matters. But I suspect that there is little likelihood of finding the man responsible. There are so many alleys and lanes between here and Paris. The body was placed outside the gates at some time during the night, so it could have been anyone. Not necessarily someone from within the castle.’

  ‘A killer from the city?’

  ‘It is said that the city is less vigilant about the walls and gates than it might be. It has not been attacked in the last hundred years.’

  ‘But you are sure that here in the castle we are secure?’

  ‘It is my own men who guard this place, my lady,’ he said with a trace of coolness. ‘I trust them.’

  ‘So you are sure it was someone from without the castle. Who would want to attack a man like him? Was he rich?’

  ‘No, not at all. I think it was an opportunistic assault. The fellows saw him, bethought themselves that this was a stranger to the town, a foreigner, and therefore an easy mark. Perhaps he had a few pennies on him, but nothing more than that, I should think.’

  ‘Then it was not possible that this could have been a deliberate attempt to damage the talks between the king of France and me?’ she asked sweetly.

  ‘I am sure it could not have been, your highness.’

  ‘You are? I am glad. I should hate it to be only me who has considered such eventualities,’ she snapped. ‘And pray, what is your conviction based upon?’

  ‘Why would a man from the French delegation wish to kill a person of no consequence? Surely, were they to try to damage our embassy, they would have killed a knight, or myself. Not some unknown man-at-arms.’

  ‘Tell me, my lord: we are here because my brother invaded Guyenne, are we not?’

  ‘Yes. Because of the affair over Saint-Sardos.’

  ‘Quite. And when that little war over Saint-Sardos began, was that not over the death of a French official?’

  ‘Yes. The French marched into Guyenne and began to build a bastide, and when the locals stopped them, it grew ugly, and a Frenchman was hanged.’

  ‘What was his name?’

  Cromwell looked at her blankly. ‘Eh?’

  ‘What was this man’s name? After all, we are here to negotiate a peace as a result of that war, but you say that a man of no consequence has died. That is a relief.’ Her tone rose and her eyes flashed with anger as she finished, ‘And yet, my Lord Cromwell, this whole war began because a man of no consequence – a nonentity – was slain! And you tell me not to worry, that this man is unimportant? Do you think that solitary dead Frenchman was unimportant too?’

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The Queen’s Men were all still abed when the summons came. A man banged on the door, and Charlie squeaked with fear at the sound, hurling himself at Ricard and burying his head in Ricard’s breast. ‘Hey, little man, little man, calm down!’ he said, stroking the boy’s head and back. Charlie clung to Ricard like a small limpet, though, hiding his face.

  It was a man like this, then, someone who knocked loudly, who had scared this little fellow more than any other. If he had to guess, Ricard would reckon that the boy had not seen his parents die, but he couldn’t ask. It would have been too shocking if the boy had admitted seeing his mother raped and murdered. No, Ricard couldn’t put that question. So far as he knew, Thomassia, her husband, and the Queen’s Men had arrived at her house some time about dusk or later, and the musicians had repaired to the garden almost immediately. So perhaps a little while later Charlie had heard a knocking at the door, and went down to see his parents arguing, or being threatened, and went to hide in the hutch. That would make sense.

  Only, didn’t boys who saw their parents being threatened usually go to them for protection? If a man was upsetting them, surely the lad would go to his father?

  Who could tell how a little boy like this would react?

  The messenger was summoning them to the Queen. Her demands must have speedy responses. He took up his gittern as the others quickly gathered up their own instruments, and hurried with them to the Queen’s chamber.

  Panting as he ran with them, Adam scowled to himself. He’d told them all. It was clear as the nose on his face that this ‘Jack’ was a dangerous fellow. Plainly not a real musician, no matter what he damned well said. No, he was a danger to them all, he was. A murderer. And probably not just some killer-for-money, either, but a much more dangerous type, one of those who killed for Despenser.

  There were few men in the kingdom whom Adam feared as he feared Despenser. Who wouldn’t? De
spenser was the most powerful, the richest, the nastiest, the greediest bastard in a country where instant gratification was the norm for knights and their kind. Didn’t matter that some poor devil stood in their path. Any obstruction was there to be removed. A husband of the wench they fancied? Kill him. A widow who owned good property? Kill her. A musician who stood in the way of a man being sent to spy on the Queen? Kill him. And that was why Peter was lying in a grave now, just so that bloody Jack could make the journey with them.

  That sign of the peacock was all very well. What did it mean, though? Just that the man had access to a decent artist who could colour a picture on a skin. There were plenty of men who could do that kind of work. Didn’t need to be an honest man. And the fellow who’d suggested that they should look out for a man who’d have that sign wasn’t necessarily a friend to them. He’d just killed a glover and his wife, after all. Life was cheap, but there was no need to execute someone for no reason like that. Sweet Mother of God, no!

  ‘Hurry up, Adam!’ Ricard snapped.

  They were trotting over the courtyard now, but when they reached the middle they were halted by French guards with their polearms levelled to hold them back.

  ‘Christ! Are we arrested?’ Adam squeaked.

  ‘God’s ballocks, just shut up, you fool!’ Philip grated. ‘Anyone would think you’d been off and killed Paul yourself. What’s the matter with you?’

  Adam glowered at him. They were all on edge, obviously. It had been bad enough when they had to leave England after Peter’s murder, but to have first that Frenchman killed on the way here, and now their own countryman slaughtered outside the castle, well, it seemed to show that things were getting worse. Made a man wonder if he’d be next. In God’s name, he didn’t want to see any more blood. It had been bad enough in the house in London. That poor woman’s body lying there like a discarded bloody rag. It was enough to make a man throw up. Certainly made him spew.

  Oh, shit. That’s why they were being held up.

  Adam stared, lip curled in disgust, as the bloody body was carried past on a bier. Four men carried Paul’s remains, all in French uniform, and Adam wondered why, until he realised what a diplomatic disaster this could be. Sir Charles of Lancaster walked along behind the body, eyes fixed on the corpse like a man staring into hell.

  As soon as the cortège had gone by, the nearer guard lifted his bill, and the musicians darted past. Ricard was in front, and Jack almost at his side on his long, loping legs. It made Adam feel a flash of anger that the man should be up there in front. Should be him, or maybe Philip or Janin, at Ricard’s side, not this interloper.

  He glanced back at the bier, and for an instant he could have sworn it was Peter there. The boots were the same, the clothing was much like an old tunic Peter used to wear for different musical events, and there was a tatty old green cloak covering much of him that was so like Peter’s it was uncanny. And then he nearly fell over. The bier was being manhandled at the door to the chapel, and had to be tilted slightly to make it through the doorway. As the men eased it inside, one of the corpse’s hands fell away, as though to point. And when Adam looked ahead, he knew perfectly well what was being pointed at.

  It was the murderer – Jack. The man who had appeared after Peter’s death, and who was here to spy on the Queen. The bastard! How could they all play music with the man who’d killed their mate?

  After passing by the guards, they reached the Queen’s chamber at last. And as Ricard installed the boy at the rear of the room with a wooden ball he had fashioned himself, Adam eyed him with contempt.

  Ricard was weak. Since Peter’s death, he’d been confused and undecided about everything except taking this little brat everywhere with them. He was useless; couldn’t even see how dangerous Jack was.

  He’d speak to Philip about Jack. Philip was still a man. He’d help kill the bastard.

  Baldwin joined Simon at the bar in the buttery of the castle’s main hall, and both drank deeply as soon as their beer arrived.

  ‘Baldwin, are you all right?’ Simon asked.

  ‘I am perfectly well,’ Baldwin said.

  Simon studied him briefly. He didn’t want to thrust his nose where it could be bitten off, but he was worried about his friend. ‘It was a dreadful murder.’

  ‘Paul’s? Oh, I don’t know. The man was a known killer, who has murdered plenty in his time, I dare say. Do not forget, Simon, that he was a mercenary when we first met him. A man like that is not going to change his habits. Who can tell, perhaps he was trying to rob someone himself?’

  ‘Baldwin, that is hardly likely.’

  ‘He was never the most communicative of companions. He was a close confidant of Sir Charles, but I would put him no higher than that in my own esteem. For me he was only an acquaintance, and not a welcome one.’

  Simon was nonplussed by this cold analysis. ‘But surely his death should be investigated?’

  ‘Yes. Without a doubt, but that is what concerns me. It is a question of what may be learned.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Baldwin looked at him very directly. ‘I am an ageing cynic, I think, but I find it hard to understand why a member of this embassy should be set upon late at night. He was not wealthy, and his clothing spoke of poverty. A poor man might attack someone like him for his boots or cloak, especially in this weather, but nothing of the sort was taken. And there are reasons to suspect that it was no poverty-struck man who killed him.’

  ‘You are meandering, Baldwin,’ Simon said with a slight chuckle. ‘What are you on about? Why not a poor man? His purse was taken.’

  ‘All I mean is, no one who wanted a good purse would bother with his. A successful cut-purse would take his victim’s money without the victim’s knowing, so it was no professional thief. A poor man wanting better clothes would steal boots or cloak, shirt or hat – but none were taken. Only the purse. A felon might kill if he saw a well-filled purse, but Paul never had one. So who did attack him?’

  ‘A chance encounter, and someone was fearful of being assaulted, so struck first?’

  ‘Paul was many things I disliked, but I respected him for one thing: he was a highly competent man-at-arms. A man would be justified in being nervous of him, but if he sought to draw a weapon at speed Paul would have had his own out first. He was a thoroughly competent fighter. We have both seen that. In any case, this was surely the action of more than one man. Someone must have held him while the second opened him up. Unless, of course, he was already dead when the belly was slit?’ He mused a moment, eyes narrowed.

  ‘Then who could have done it?’ Simon asked.

  Baldwin drained his drink. ‘That is what concerns me.’

  Lady Joan of Bar winced as the nondescript group of musicians appeared and took up their places. The Queen, damn her, was taking up all the warmth of the fire, with that young hussy Alicia attending to her, and the rest of the room was chilly. But no matter. So long as those two were comfortable, all the other women could go and hang. The Queen wouldn’t give them a thought.

  The men looked at each other and then struck up a melody. One of those infernal dance tunes they played so often. It grated on her nerves, for she had heard it many times already on this embassy. Gracious Mother, if only the fools could learn something a little more interesting, or at least something that had a little more sobriety. This constant tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, plink, plink was beginning to make her feel like screaming ‘Enough!’

  She had been brought up to a more genteel lifestyle. The granddaughter of King Edward I, she felt all of her thirty years today. True, since divorcing her foul, cruel, capricious and sly husband, John de Warenne, a man for whom the term ‘brute’ might well have been invented, she had found her life growing easier, but then she had been thrown back into the politics of the realm by her uncle, the King, and told to keep a close eye on the Queen during this embassy.

  It was not a duty she relished. Her cousin Eleanor had monitored the Queen in England, which had n
ot been onerous but was very time-consuming. It was that, Eleanor had said, which made the journey to France so undesirable to her, much though she loved France.

  Joan was unconvinced. In her opinion Eleanor had other reasons for wishing to avoid this duty: first and foremost was the fact that she had been acting as unofficial gaoler to the Queen for the past four or five months. She had taken custody of the royal children – all except the heir, Edward – and was in charge of Isabella’s seal, so that all letters must be passed to her to be sealed. The Queen was allowed no secrets. And here they were in the French capital, where the Queen’s brother was king. He would be able to make Eleanor’s life uncomfortable.

  There was another thing, of course. While Eleanor protested that she adored France, and would dearly like to visit it again, she knew that her husband, Sir Hugh le Despenser, would be unable to accompany her there. His actions some years before, when he had been exiled from England and turned pirate, had caused some friction between the French and him. There was the matter of the shipping he had captured, the men he had killed. He dared not visit France, and without him Eleanor would be reluctant to do so.

  Which had all conspired to see to it that Joan was forced to come. Well, at least Isabella was congenial company generally, and more so since arriving here in France. She could converse with all about her with a gay easiness that was entirely out of keeping with what the lady Joan had known in England.

  Yes. It was strange to see someone who had been so downtrodden only a short while ago flower into this vibrant, beautiful woman again. She was more or less of an age with Joan, but when Joan had seen her in London before departing for the coast, she had been unrecognisable. She looked like Joan herself before that blessed year of 1315, when she had at last managed to dispose of the Earl of Warenne and regain her freedom. Seeing the back of John had been marvellous. Joan could imagine no better moment in her life. And it was sad to think that this queen, this wonderful, attractive woman, should be similarly afflicted while in the presence of her own husband.

  At least that was one thing about these accursed music-killers. Queen Isabella appeared to relish their playing. God alone knew how she could tolerate it, but she seemed to like it. Well, the poor woman was here to work her will on the embassy. As soon as that was over, she would be taken straight back to England by Lord John Cromwell, and her peace would be shattered. She would be held once more in the miserable Tower in London, or at the palace on Thorney Island. There she would have her seal taken away once more, and she would be held under the guard of Eleanor.