The Templar, the Queen and Her Lover

Chapter Thirteen

Arnaud was in little doubt when he saw the van of the column that this must be the party in which his master was travelling. ‘Look!’

Le Vieux lifted his eyes to the horizon, squinting into the bright sunshine. ‘Yes, I see them.’

There was no need to hurry. The Comte would soon be with them. Men on horseback were trotting along easily, their ladies rocking along in a group together behind them on their specially trained amblères, while the provisions and essentials were brought along behind them in the great wagons and carts. It was a magnificent sight. To see the richest people from the two kingdoms, all displaying their wealth in their bright clothing and the quality of their wonderful dresses and tunics, was something that not even le Vieux had experienced before, and the two men stood quietly, a little overwhelmed, as the great party drew nearer.

It was when the first third of the column had already passed them that Arnaud saw their master and darted in amongst the people and horses to reach him. He pushed a donkey from his path, making the fellow leading it snarl at him, but Arnaud was used to the attitude of others towards him. No one ever showed him any sympathy, which was part of the reason why he never gave it to anyone else. He was content with his own company, and had no need of companions. He could sit back with pleasure with a knife and some wood, and whittle. His delight was to invent, especially tools that would aid him in his chosen profession — torturer and executioner.

‘My lord? Comte de Foix. I have news from the château for you.’

His lordship was not happy, from the look of him. His dark eyes were flashing with rage, and he was pale, which was never a good sign. Arnaud looked up at him with interest. The Comte was usually so cool and collected — this temper might mean that Arnaud would have a job to do for him soon, with any luck.

‘Follow on with the baggage. See me in my tent this evening. I won’t talk now.’

Woods south-east of Pois

Jean shivered in the cold night air. This was the worst night of his life, he was convinced.

At first, he had been content to spread his blanket under the stars, well wrapped in a thick cloak with a heavy second blanket over the top, but then the dampness had started to fall. At first it was only the light drizzle that would irritate but not kill a man. Now, though, light, soft flakes of snow were slipping through the air, their very touch a stinging threat.

He had lived through worse. When a lad, he’d been a shepherd in the mountains back in his homeland of Languedoc, and there, in the winter, he had been accustomed to the dangers of the snow. On occasion he had seen the aftereffects. It was not unusual to find a man huddled into a foetal shape in the morning, all warmth gone from him, all life fled. Sad, but it happened every year, especially among the youngest and the oldest.

Jean had been lucky. His father had been a sensible man who had taught him how to make himself safe in the worst of weathers. There was no point in having a son and then leaving him to endure a Spartan existence on the mountainside without allowing him the most rudimentary protection. A little knowledge went a long way to secure a man’s life, after all. That was his father’s opinion. Later, when they went to war together, when there was nothing left for them in their home town, that education was very useful. Now it was still more so.

He rose and looked about him. He was on a hillside. A short way up the hill was the roadway which led from Beauvais to Pontoise and on to Paris, but he had chosen this hillside because it was well covered with small trees. Ideal for a man who needed fire and shelter.

Grunting reluctantly, he rose, folded his blankets, and began to hunt around. Soon he had selected two little saplings which were standing close together. If he’d been less lazy earlier he could have saved himself this grief now, but there was little point in reminding himself that he had grown lax. Better to simply get on with things.

He gathered up a long pole and set it to rest on corresponding branches to form a lintel. Then he started collecting more branches. These he set aslant on his lintel to form a lean-to roof, the open doorway facing away from the wind and safe from the snow. More boughs leaned against this roof to form walls, and finally he could gather some leaves and throw them over the top. He didn’t need too many — there was no need for the roof or walls to be waterproof or insulated. The snow itself would soon achieve that. However, he was not going to suffer frostbite unnecessarily. Looking about, he persuaded himself that no one else would be foolish enough, or desperate enough, to be out in this weather, and began to gather up twigs and dead branches. It took him a little while to gather enough, and then he had a stroke of luck when he stumbled over a length of wood. It was a sapling which had fallen, dead, and was well dried. Pulling it back to his shelter, he began to break it up into sticks and constructed a small fire. He took out flint and tinder, and soon had a tiny flame, which he tended assiduously. It took an age, or so it seemed, but at least the act of fetching and carrying the wood had kept him warm, and now he could sit back a little and enjoy the flames that licked up from his improvised hearth.

Yes. His father had taught him well. But then, all those who were condemned heretics had to learn to survive. This was just one of the sets of skills he had been forced to learn as a follower of Waldes.

Peter from Oxford, the chaplain, had finished his last service of the day, and was cleaning his portable altar when he saw the cloaked and hooded figure wandering about the place.

‘You are the chaplain?’ the man asked.

‘To the Queen, yes,’ Peter said warily. He didn’t know this man. His face was unfamiliar, and any sensible man of God was also cautious. There were enough footpads who were prepared to break into a church to steal what they might. A bold one could easily knock a man on the head and take his plate and silver.

Not that this little fellow looked too dangerous to him. He had the appearance of a mild monk. Small in stature and amiable in appearance, the chubby fellow was all smiles. ‘I wonder, would you welcome the companionship of another priest on your way?’ Opening his cloak and bringing out a large skin, he added, ‘I have a warming drink of burned wine, if that will aid your decision, Father.’

Peter smiled and set aside his little altar. ‘Father, it’d be a pleasure to have you with me. What may I call you?’

‘Pierre. Pierre Clergue.’

‘That little arse wants his backside leathered,’ Baldwin grumbled as he rolled himself in his blanket in their tent.

‘I think you have made your feelings perfectly clear,’ Simon said with a low snigger.

‘You didn’t see his face, Simon.’

‘I don’t need to. I saw yours,’ Simon said. ‘Talking of faces, did you see William de Bouden’s today?’

‘What of it?’

‘He was like a man who’d eaten a bowl of sloes.’

Baldwin winced at that thought. ‘Why should that be?’

‘I think he’s chewing through the money faster than he had hoped.’

‘The Queen was given a large sum, I think. The King finally gave in and allowed her a decent sum for this embassy.’

‘Well, you wouldn’t think so to look at her comptroller.’

‘Maybe so. At least he’s a decent fellow, not like this Comte de Foix.’

‘Him again?’ Simon grunted despairingly.

‘He was thoroughly dishonourable,’ Baldwin muttered. ‘I should have allowed him to challenge me. It would have saved much time.’

‘Baldwin, from what you’ve told me, the fellow was twenty years younger than you — possibly more. I don’t think that it would save much time to seek out a suitable site for your burial, and it most assuredly wouldn’t have made my journey any faster to have to go to your home to explain to Jeanne how it was that you died.’

‘Oh, so now you don’t think I can protect myself against a young brute like him?’

‘What was it made that noise, anyway?’

‘The noise? I don’t know. I have never heard an explosion like that before. It was a curious thing — like a small cannon.’

‘I did see some smoke,’ Simon said thoughtfully. ‘But that was all. It reeked.’

‘Yes. I smelled brimstone,’ Baldwin said. ‘Ach, there’s a root under me.’

‘Move, then,’ said Simon, content in the knowledge that his own bedspace was comfortable. At least they had the benefit of good tent canvas overhead. It was considerably better than being stuck out in the open. He could hear the tiny pattering of snow hitting the material. It was like the sound of individual grains of sand … no, it was quieter, softer, more soothing.

‘I do not expect much in the way of sympathy, luckily,’ Baldwin grumbled.

‘That may be as well.’

‘However, you are fortunate to be younger. A man of my decrepitude also has to contend with the tribulations of old age. Such as a weak bladder!’ Baldwin said, rising. He eyed his sword, but it seemed foolish to strap on his war belt. Still, he did not like to wander about a camp without any means of defence. After pausing, he took his dagger and held it in his hand as he ducked beneath the awning, then stuck it, sheathed, into his belt.

It was darker than he had expected. This late in the evening, only a couple of fires were lighted still. The others had been put out for safety. Some years ago, when the Queen was here with her husband on another diplomatic visit, her tent had caught fire, and she had been badly burned about the arms as she tried to rescue some trinkets — jewellery and other valuables. The injuries had affected her for years afterwards, and she had been most insistent on camp safety during this journey. Which was why Baldwin kept stumbling into discarded items of camp trash or almost tripping over guy ropes in the dark.

The area he was heading towards was a ditch between two fields. There were bushes and trees on the farther side of the ditch, which gave a useful marker to him now as he made his way somewhat unsteadily over the rough ground, icy and snowy as it was. Then he found himself at the lip, and lifted his tunic to make his own mark in the snow before sighing, hitching up his hosen again, pulling down his tunic, and setting off to return.

A small cry made him pause. There was a short gurgling sound, rather like a mill’s leat chuckling over stones, except there was none here. The river was at the other side of the camp. Baldwin looked about him sharply, wondering if it was another man writing in the snow, but he saw no one.

That noise was all too much like another he knew well: a man trying to shout when his throat was filling with blood from severed arteries. Baldwin had heard it too often ever to be able to forget it. He felt his scalp move with the atavistic fear that affected any man, no matter how old, when hearing another slain in the darkness. But Baldwin had been well trained. Although he wanted to return to the tent, to Simon’s companionship and safety, he was a knight, and, more than that, he was here to protect his queen. He would prefer to be damned for eternity than submit to night terrors.

He gripped the hilt of his dagger and pulled it free of the sheath, then started to make his way towards the place from which he thought the sounds had come, although the going was tough, and reaching the place quietly would be extremely difficult. Rather than fall over guy ropes again, he took a wide berth around the tents and made for the source more cautiously.

The noise had seemed to come from the small stand of trees that marked the edge of a little stream. Baldwin had noted this, as he had noted the lie of all the land as they arrived. One aspect of his military training while in the Knights Templar was always to make careful observations of the ground near a camp, and never had it proved so useful.

Beaten into the soil here, was a pathway, and he followed along the track until he came closer to the trees. Once there he slowed, listening intently.

There was little to hear. From all about there came the muffled snores and grumbles of a camp at night. In the short pauses between, when the wind blew from the north and took all such sounds away, there was nothing at all, only the soft, insistent sussuration of snowflakes settling on the ground, like a gentle hissing. A horse whinnied, a dog barked, and a man muttered, cursed and rolled over, trying to get warm, but there was nothing else.

Baldwin closed his eyes to hear the better. The clouds were so thick and low, there was no light from the moon whatever. Not a stray gleam shone in the midst of the clouds. His eyes were all but useless. Slowly he crouched down, frowning, wondering whether he could have been mistaken when he had thought he had heard something. He took a step, his foot crunching on a patch of ice, slipping into the puddle beneath, the mud squelching, and stood utterly still.

There was a sound there … there! He set off more quickly. The man was moving quietly, but his passage would conceal Baldwin’s approach. And then he saw something ahead. It was a man, bent down, so he thought, and there was a little spark of light in his hands. He called out, and ran on, but the man was up and away in the darkness, and Baldwin saw a short flash, a sizzling burning, and then there was an appalling explosion, a vile gout of fire, like raw energy. Flames gushed towards him from the ground, searing his eyes and leaving him blinded, and he screamed as he turned away, falling to the ground, his hands over his eyes, trying to squeeze out the vision of hell leaping towards him.

The screams woke Charlie first, and he shot upright, staring about him wildly, adding to the noise with his own shrill cries of terror.

‘Jesus and all the saints! ’ Janin burst out, springing from his bed. ‘Ricard? Are you all right?’

All the musicians were together in the one tent, and as Ricard held little Charlie close to him Philip stared about him blearily, gathering tinder and striking a spark. As it glowed, he was able to light a taper, and then looked round at the other faces.

Looking at Jack’s bedding, Ricard summed it up for them all. ‘So where has the little shite got to now?’

In his tent, Peter of Oxford woke gradually. The screaming and shouting on all sides was enough to startle him, but he had been so deeply asleep, ready to wake before dawn to celebrate Prime, that it was hard to gather his senses.

‘Do not panic,’ came a voice, and he was about to bellow for help when he realised it was his guest, Pierre Clergue.

‘Father! Do you know what has happened?’

‘No idea, my friend,’ Clergue said. He was at the tent’s flap, and now he turned to peer out. ‘An alarm of some sort, but probably just a squabble over a game of merrills.’

Simon heard the detonation and the scream from his friend, and threw off his blankets. He tugged on his boots, pulled a cloak over his shoulders, and grabbed his sword before hurtling from the tent.

There were some men already standing in a group, talking loudly, and Simon made his way to them quickly. ‘Let me through! Baldwin? Baldwin!’

‘Simon, my Christ, but that flame seared my eyes!’

‘What flame?’ Simon asked. Peering closely, he saw that Baldwin was sitting hunched, his face frowning, eyes squeezed tightly shut. Simon took his hand, and helped him up. Peering closely, Simon could see that there were black powder marks on his friend’s face, and his beard looked as though it had been singed. ‘You reek of the devil, Baldwin! Can you see me?’

‘I don’t … yes. Yes, I can. Thanks be to God! I saw flames coming towards me, Simon. Huge yellow flames which scorched my face. I was blinded for a moment …’

‘You are sure you are all right?’

Baldwin put out his hand shakily and took hold of Simon’s arm. ‘Help me walk, Simon. My legs feel as though they’re made of aspic! I do not think they will support me. In Christ’s name, I never thought I should be so …’

There was a muttering behind Baldwin, and Simon saw torches approaching. Men were gathered together in a group, and Simon was alarmed to see that the men were bending down over something. ‘Christ’s ballocks, Baldwin! What have you done?’

‘Me? What do you mean?’ Baldwin demanded, blinking wildly, but he could hear the footsteps approaching solemnly.

‘Sieur Baldwin, what explanation do you have for this?’

‘Sieur Pierre?’ Baldwin asked. ‘Is that you?’

Sieur Pierre d’Artois peered at him. A servant with him was gripping a large flaming torch, and he held it up as the ageing French knight stooped slightly. ‘What has happened to you?’

It was left to Simon to try to explain. ‘He was attacked by a flame… they burned his face, look.’

‘He has been attacked by something,’ d’Artois agreed. He looked up as a heavy tread announced the arrival of Lord John Cromwell with Sir Charles and Sir John de Sapy. ‘My lord, mes sieurs. We have an embarrassment.’

Lord John bent to peer into Baldwin’s face. Baldwin was still blinking furiously to try to clear his eyes of the stinging grittiness. It felt as though someone had thrown a handful of hot sand in them. He had been fortunate, he knew, but he wasn’t prepared to let anyone else know that.

‘I agree. This is an outrageous state of affairs. When an English knight, here to guard the Queen, with plenteous letters of safe conduct, is assaulted within the camp, it makes for a grave situation indeed.’

‘It must have been the Comte de Foix,’ Baldwin grated. ‘The flames; I am sure that they were his black powder. He set it off as I drew nearer him. He wanted to embarrass me!’

‘You see?’ Lord John said. ‘Where is this comte?’

Sieur Pierre looked at him. ‘You are right. It is very grave. Especially since the Comte is dead.’