The Templar, the Queen and Her Lover

Chapter Twelve

Feast

Day of St Edward the Martyr ¹²

Pois, France

Ricard was no nearer even liking the man as he sat frowning in the pre-dawn greyness. All about them there was the noise of men striking camp, knocking down the great beams that supported the tents, pulling up the pegs, some shouting for more trunks to store the blankets and drapery, others bellowing for help to fold the heavy canvas, while grooms saw to the horses. Donkeys brayed their protests, dogs barked, and only the Queen’s tent was an island of calm as she ate a sedate breakfast and prepared herself for the continuing journey.

‘He can bloody sing, though,’ Janin said placatingly.

‘I don’t think that’s all there is to it,’ Ricard countered. ‘Look at the way he behaves! Disappearing like that just when we were supposed to be entertaining the Queen.’

‘Look, truth is, I never really liked him much,’ Adam said. ‘I think we ought to try to get on with him now, though.’

‘You never …’

Ricard was too shocked by the blatant dishonesty of the comment to do much more than gape, and it was left to Philip to snort: ‘You are a prick, Adam. You know that?’

‘Sod you, Philip!’

‘Shut up, both of you. The fact is, we were all asked to go and play yesterday, just for the Queen and Lord John, and he wasn’t here.’

He kept himself very much to himself, this Jack of Ireland, and wandered off at the worst possible times. Ricard would have dearly loved to know where he came from, and why it was that William de Bouden had wanted him to join their little group. There must be some reason for it.

Last night was the worst, though. They’d all been summoned to entertain the Queen because there was some local dignitary visiting whom she had wanted to impress, and Jack had just — gone! He could have melted into the surrounding countryside, except there was bugger all for a man to melt into. Hardly even any trees just here, where they were camped. That was why they’d picked the site, of course, but it still made things that much more confusing.

Not only confusing. Bloody irritating! Ricard and the lads had played their fingers raw, so it felt, with a good few tunes which the Queen declared she had never heard before, and there were some knights there who’d been tapping their feet rather than chatting as they usually did, the heathens, and smothering the sound of any music with their laughter. No, last night they’d listened, as though they couldn’t help it. In some way, Ricard wondered whether it was partly the first tune he’d struck up — the one they’d called ‘The Waferer’ in honour of Peter. It seemed suitable, somehow, as if they were bringing a bit of Peter with them on this great journey of theirs. Not that it was the happiest of occasions for them. They were hemmed in by dangers, so he felt.

So he’d gone to see William de Bouden as soon as he’d had a chance, and what had he said? Only ‘The man is a member of your troupe. Nothing to do with me. You brought him, so you deal with him. If you’re unhappy with his performance, you should discuss it with him. I have enough on my plate.’

But there had been no sign of the man.

It was full dawn when Adam looked up and pointed. ‘There he is.’

‘Where the hell have you been?’ Ricard demanded as Jack strolled casually towards them.

‘I found a lovely, lively little French whore. Why?’

‘We were supposed to be singing to the Queen last night, and you weren’t here.’

‘I am sure you will have done well without me.’

‘Perhaps we’d have done better with a drum-player,’ Janin said irritably.

‘You had Philip there.’

Ricard saw that this was not productive. The man was not exactly laughing at him and the others, but neither was he giving way or apologising. Instead he appeared to be preparing himself for a fight. Yes, he was! He was happy to fight them all, from the look of him, rather than submit to responding to their questions. The fellow must be demented!

‘Where were you?’

‘I have told you.’

‘No, you just said you were with a French wench. Who? Where did you find her? Where did you go to lie with her?’

‘These are all interesting questions, but I’m afraid I have much to do. I haven’t packed my things yet.’

‘It’s all right. I packed your stuff,’ Adam said, and had the decency to look ashamed as all the other men of the group turned to stare at him. They’d agreed Jack would have to do it himself. It wasn’t as though he’d tried to endear himself to them even remotely since their first meeting with him.

‘Why, thank you, Adam. That’s good to hear. You are a real friend.’ Jack smiled at Adam, and when the smile was not reciprocated, it broadened until Jack looked close to outright laughter. ‘Well, lordings, I’d best be preparing myself, eh? I’ll see you on the road.’

‘That bastard,’ Philip snarled. ‘Why don’t we just push him under a cart’s wheels?’

‘Because if we tried to, we’d have to explain his death to William de Bouden. You want to do that, when we’ve enough problems already, what with those two dead in London?’ Ricard returned. ‘No? Then get your gear together. I don’t like it any more than you, but we’re stuck with the shit.’

They stopped late in the morning to rest their beasts and take a brief meal, and Baldwin and Simon found themselves near to the Queen’s favourite guard, Richard Blaket.

‘How is the Queen?’ Simon asked. All knew that Blaket was wooing one of the Queen’s maids, the blonde called Alicia.

‘She grows ever more keen to see her brother, I think. Nothing will give her greater satisfaction than meeting him and feeling that for once she’s truly secure,’ Blaket said, his dark eyes moving over the men around them. His air of lowering truculence had not diminished.

The other two nodded. There was no need for any of them to suggest that she was safe enough with the knights provided for her escort. Only Baldwin was sufficiently independent to be determined to protect her no matter what. The others were all creatures of Sir Hugh le Despenser.

Simon nodded towards a man walking to the woods at the side of the clearing. ‘He one of her musicians?’

‘Yes.’

‘Friend, you sound less trusting of them than you do of the French,’ Baldwin chuckled.

‘One of them once molested my Alicia.’

‘He would be a brave man, who tried that against her will,’ Simon said lightly.

Baldwin was about to laugh, but something in Blaket’s expression made him hesitate. ‘She was all right, though? There was no rape?’

‘No. She assures me that she was perfectly all right. It doesn’t make me look on them with a joyful spirit, though.’

‘Naturally.’

‘The one who did it is dead now, anyway.’

‘Really?’ Baldwin asked sharply.

‘Yes. He was drowned in the ditch outside the city. In London, I mean.’

Baldwin winced. ‘A nasty way to die.’

‘Ach, a man like that, he probably deserved it. Climbed into some girl’s bedchamber, I expect. Her father found him there and did it to him.’

‘When was this?’

‘Day or two before we set off. Why?’

‘Just curiosity.’ Baldwin smiled.

It was that same afternoon that Baldwin had his argument.

At first it was little enough. He had been riding along gently, his mind wandering slightly, as any rider’s will after several days in the saddle, his hips automatically swaying with the horse’s gait, his body fully accustomed to the dip and roll, when there was a sudden explosion of noise behind and to his left.

His rounsey, a dependable, stolid creature generally, was as startled as himself. The large bay jerked to the right, almost unseating Baldwin, and was about to plunge when Baldwin jerked his head back into line. If a horse the size of this one decided to charge off through all the people in the column, his steel-shod hooves could kill someone.

Hearing a laugh, he turned to see a knight grinning amidst a small cloud of evil-smelling smoke. Even from here Baldwin caught the whiff of brimstone. About the man were his men-at-arms, a couple of ostlers, a short, smiling priest and some others. All appeared hugely amused by his reaction and near-fall from his horse.

It was that same Frenchman whom Baldwin had noticed at Boulogne. He was strong and well muscled, with a neck that was almost an extension of his head, it was so thick. Like Baldwin, he too was bearded, and he had a scar that reached down from his ear to his jawline. When he laughed, Baldwin could see that his front teeth were little more than stumps. The man had been a fighter, and had taken powerful buffets, from the look of him.

‘Mon sieur, you have me at a disadvantage.’ In the past Baldwin had always felt that the French language lent a certain air of gaiety and elegance to what might otherwise have been tedious discussions. Just at this moment he was less convinced. It felt a barbarous language if this fellow was born to it.

‘That is true, Sieur Baldwin,’ the man said, and made a mocking bow, one hand at his breast. ‘I am Enguerrand, the Comte de Foix. Pardon me if I respond slowly, but it is a little difficult to comprehend the words as spoken by you English. Your dialect and the pronunciation, they make it very hard, you understand?’

Baldwin felt his face blanch. He was too angry to be cautious. At his age, insults were seldom received, and even more rarely noted, but this man had deliberately snubbed him, and now he chuckled again with his friends. More, Baldwin had lived in Paris for long enough to recognise a provincial accent. He affected his best Parisian tones.

‘Perhaps so, mon sieur. I understand your difficulty perfectly. I also find your dialect hard. Perhaps that is because I am unused to rural language? Or possibly it is your teeth,’ he added more quietly. He did not wish to provoke the man too harshly.

‘Nom d’un chien!’ The Comte de Foix flushed a deep mauve colour, and spurred his horse to join Baldwin, but even as he did so, Sir Charles of Lancaster suddenly appeared between them.

‘Sir Baldwin, I do believe you are taking over my responsibilities here. Isn’t it my duty to be the cantankerous, disputative fellow, and yours to be the rational, sensible justice from the country?’

‘Mon sieur!’ de Foix cried with genuine anger. ‘I must insist you apologise for that ill-thought comment!’

‘Mon sieur, what ever can you mean?’ Baldwin said with icy calm. ‘I thought especially carefully before speaking. I would not wish to think that I could upset you unintentionally.’

‘Caution, Sir Baldwin,’ Sir Charles muttered. He looked over at Lord John Cromwell, who was watching with keen interest. Cromwell nodded and motioned to Sir John de Sapy.

De Sapy was an arrogant fellow at the best of times, but he was undoubtedly a good fighter. Still, Baldwin had no need or desire for others to join in a battle on his behalf. ‘I can manage this man,’ he hissed at Sir Charles.

‘I am sure you can. However, I am less certain that the Queen’s party can cope with the whole of France, old fellow. You can scrap as much as you like, and as far as I am concerned you can wipe out the whole of France. Yes. But beforehand, please wait until I’ve reached a safe location, eh?’

De Foix was still riding alongside, but, prevented from reaching Baldwin by de Sapy and Sir Charles, he gave a sneering gesture, and trotted back to his companions, as though to say that Baldwin was not worth fighting.

‘Ignore him, Sir Baldwin,’ Sir Charles said. He spat over his left thigh, from where he could keep an eye on the French knights.

Baldwin had fought often enough, but he did not like to be forced to retreat from an insult. He held de Foix’s eye for a while, keeping his face expressionless. Looking away at last, he caught sight of Pierre d’Artois, who was watching them closely. Baldwin inclined his head stiffly, and Artois did not acknowledge him, but pulled his horse’s head about and trotted away

‘Yes. That is fine, Sir Charles,’ Baldwin said quietly. ‘I can do my best to avoid him, but he may be able to do even better at seeking me out. And I shall not surrender to a man such as he.’

Sir John de Sapy trotted alongside Sir Charles of Lancaster. ‘What was all that about?’

‘I think the fellow over there enjoys unsettling Englishmen. He had a hand gonne of some sort, I think, and set it off as Baldwin rode past. Nearly had Sir Baldwin on the ground.’

‘A gonne, eh? I’ve seen them a few times. Interesting toys.’

‘Aye. Damned noisy, though. It was foolish to set it off as a man was riding past.’

‘Unless he wanted to provoke.’

‘Why should he?’ Sir Charles frowned.

‘I don’t know. But he seemed to know Sir Baldwin’s name, didn’t he?’

Simon was blissfully unaware of the altercation. He too had heard the noise, but had no idea what could have caused it. It sounded like a hammer striking an anvil very hard. No: worse than that. He had once been in a smithy when the old devil had wanted to shock him. The man spat on to his anvil when Simon wasn’t looking, then held a red-hot bar over the spittle, and hit it with a six pound hammer.

The resulting explosion had been much like that noise: an enormous crack which had almost made Simon leap from his own skin. But there was no anvil here on the march, and Simon was wondering what could have made such a loud noise when he saw Paul, Sir Charles’s man-at-arms. Paul had been with Sir Charles from very early on, when the knight was still with Earl Thomas of Lancaster.

‘Paul — how goes it?’

‘Well enough.’

Paul was an unlikely-looking warrior. He was shortish, and plump, and had almost black hair with white feathers at either temple. From the Scottish March, he spoke with a soft Scots accent, a lilting, pleasant sound, which did not match the quizzical expression he commonly wore.

‘So, tell me, what are you and Sir Charles doing in the King’s service again?’ Simon said. It was the question he had been burning to ask. The last he had seen of Sir Charles, the knight was returning to England with a view to trying to beg pardon for his crimes as a loyal supporter of Earl Thomas of Lancaster.

‘We never raised pennon or steel against the King,’ Paul said. He kept his eyes fixed ahead as though musing to himself, rather than speaking to a companion.

‘But you were thought of as an enemy. We all saw the devastation of the country after the death of Earl Thomas. Knights from every county were hanged or beheaded … I heard there were more than two hundred, all told. And the killing carried on for months. Yet you are back in the King’s service?’

Paul tilted his head and shot a look around him. ‘Look, you see that knight with my master and Sir Baldwin? Sir John de Sapy? He was a household knight along with us in Earl Thomas’s castle at Pontefract. Listed as a rebel in ’22, he was. Now look at him. You know what got him his position here? He’s a friend of Despenser. That’s got him back in the King’s favour. And Peter de Lymesey? He was one of Earl Thomas’s men too. Now, though, he’s a respected man in the King’s household.’

‘But how?’

‘You think the King has so many loyal knights, he can afford to lose men like these? They may not be the most reliable compared with some others, but while the King dispenses largesse, they’ll be there with him.’

‘And you?’

‘I’m easily pleased. All I crave is a bed at night and enough money to fill my belly.’ Paul grinned and patted his belt. ‘It takes some filling now.’

Simon laughed aloud. ‘So does mine. At least during this journey we appear to have access to the best victuals in the land.’

‘Aye, that’s true enough.’

Paul was a good companion. For some while he and Simon spoke of matters that concerned them, from the sudden chill that both felt, perhaps a precursor to snow, to the best means of protecting leather from the ravages of a journey like this. If a scabbard was to protect the sword within, its leather needed good and careful treatment. It was as easy to be silent in his company, though, and soon the two men rode along without speaking, content to let the countryside pass by them.

Not until much later did Simon see the man who strode onwards so forcefully, and wonder about him. He had not noticed the musicians specifically since his talk with Richard Blaket — they were merely a band of men who happened to travel in the same part of the column as the servants, and were not particularly relevant to him — but now he watched Jack of Ireland with some puzzlement. The man moved like a man-at-arms, not a musician, for all that he carried a drum wrapped in leather and waxed linen on his back. There was no sword at his belt, only a long knife like the ones the Welsh men carried, but he looked the sort of fellow who would be adept with either sword or axe. ‘Paul — do you know who that man is?’

Paul followed his pointing finger, and gave a dry smile. ‘You miss little, Bailiff. I have seen him, yes.’ He stopped and studied Simon speculatively for a moment. ‘There are men you get to recognise after a while. Some, the more honourable ones, are the men you see in the King’s service and in his hall. Others, though, you see on the outskirts of things always.’

‘I don’t understand you.’

‘Oh, I think you do, Bailiff. The King has one household. There are others near him who have their own. And if a man didn’t trust the Queen, he’d want a spy in her camp, wouldn’t he?’

‘I see,’ Simon said coldly. Clearly the man was one of Despenser’s.