The Templar, the Queen and Her Lover

Chapter Twenty-Four

Palm Sunday ¹⁹

Next morning, Jean woke with a sore back and a stinging hand. The fight had used muscles which were not accustomed to hard effort, and they were all complaining in unison.

It took him some moments to remember where he was when he opened his eyes. The curving ceiling of the undercroft spread overhead, while the barrels on his right were entirely out of place in any bedchamber he had ever used. The wall on his left was strange, too. He was more used to the sight of lathes and plaster in recent weeks. Even at the Château Gaillard, the guard rooms were all thin-walled. The castle itself might be built of strong rock, but not the outlying servants’ quarters.

Then he remembered the previous night, the assault by le Vieux, the mad, panicked flight along the corridors and passages until he reached this undercroft, miraculously avoiding all the people on the way. He looked about him again now as he clambered to his feet. It was cool down here, but not so cold as the nights on the mountainsides all those years ago when he had been a peasant and met his first traveller.

Oh, to be in the mountains again. It had seemed such a hard life in those days, but at least then he had been able to rely on himself, without having to worry about politics or the lies of anyone else threatening his life. He should have stayed there, but the lure of money tempted him away into the service of the Comte. His father had heard about the possibilities of largesse, and he’d persuaded his sons to join him, all making the long, arduous journey with the Comte’s men up to the far north, where the weather was cooler, and the land terribly flat. And there they had fought alongside the Comte to defend French lands against the rebels.

The bastards were infernally lucky. No one looking at them would have thought that they could have survived. After all, they faced the might of Christendom’s most powerful king, with the massed arms of the best equipped cavalry in the world. And what were they? Merely peasants. Fullers, weavers, butchers, all men with filth under their fingernails. Untrained rabble. That’s what the men in the French host were told. Robert Comte d’Artois himself came along to tell everyone that the battle was already won, before a French horse had so much as trotted in the general direction of Courtrai.

Even now Jean wasn’t entirely sure what the fight was all about. He’d heard that those Flemings were rebelling, but he didn’t know what they were rebelling about. Still, they’d bottled up the French garrison in the town, and now the men of Ypres, of Bruges and God alone knew where else were all lined up in front of the walls.

His father had been to other battles, and he laughed when he saw their position. ‘Look at them! The fools have the town’s walls behind them to their right and rear, and the river blocks their escape to the north! They couldn’t have picked a worse position if they’d tried!’

It was true. Jean and Bernard had looked at the enemy and could see, even they, untrained and unblooded, that the land gave all the advantage to the French cavalry. Oh, there were a couple of obstacles, two small streams, and some other minor distractions — rocks and such — but for all that, the knights should be able to form up in no time, and once they did they’d be able to thunder at the gallop towards the Flemings, and no man, none, could face that. Jean’s father told them, and he’d been in plenty of battles: ‘When you have a mounted man-at-arms riding at you, you can’t defeat him. You can dodge and try to run away, but if he wants you, he’ll prick you with his lance. You can’t save yourself on the flat. On this sort of field they’ll have no chance at all.’

At first it seemed he was going to be right, too. It all started a little before noon. Jean and his brother and father were with the crossbowmen, and moved forward with the bidauts and shield-bearers to a position just short of the streams, where they settled down to exchange bolts with the enemy. Initially it looked as though many on either side would be slain, but then the Flemings began to give way. It seemed they didn’t like the look of the horsemen forming up behind the French crossbows, and chose to retreat before they could be cut off.

It had seemed an auspicious moment. With a shout, the French crossbowmen began to hurry forward, firing as they went. Bernard was unused to the bow, but he managed to loose all his bolts early on, and he was one of the first to reach the streams and yell his defiance. It was as he turned to grin at Jean that Jean heard the loud, wet sound of a cloth hurled against a rock, and knew in his heart that it was Bernard. A long bolt had been fired at him from a great artillery crossbow, and had penetrated his leather jerkin with ease, the heavy wood slamming through bones and muscle of chest and arm until only the last few inches remained. Bernard fell, a thick bloody mess erupting from his mouth as he tried to call to Jean. He was already dead, Jean knew. He couldn’t breathe, because of the blood in his lungs, and the quarrel that had destroyed his whole upper body. Instead he fell back, thrashing about on the ground.

But the first of the men were wading through the water now, yelling and screaming their defiance, calling the Flemish peasants to come on, if they dared, cursing them, insulting their mothers and sisters, shouting that they would steal all their belongings by nightfall. However, the Comte d’Artois bethought himself that this was a good time to launch the main assault. If all the crossbowmen made it over the water, they would be easy prey for the Flemings. That was what Jean heard later, anyway. As it was, all he knew was that the standards suddenly appeared before the Comte’s bataelge. Almost immediately there was the bellowed command for the foot soldiers to retreat, and they needed no second warning. The terrible sight of those men and horses approaching was enough to send all who could rushing to escape. A few were trampled by the knights — as was poor Bernard’s body.

The Flemings saw the horses, too. They retreated into close-packed lines, each bristling with the sharp tips of lances, all butted carefully into the ground.

Jean could see that some of the horses were refusing to jump the streams. It was almost comical to see the knights spurring their mounts, trying to scold them into obedience, but the simple fact was that although the stream was only some four yards wide it was broad enough to deter a heavy war horse hampered by all its armour and a massy knight. Still, in short order the knights were over, and they began their charge.

Any remaining Flemish crossbowmen in front of the lines took out their knives and cut through the strings of their bows, rendering them useless, before hurling them down and scurrying for safety.

‘Poor fools!’ Jean heard a grizzled old warrior declare. ‘They’ll be cut to pieces.’

By now the horses were kicking up so much rubbish that to keep an eye on them was like watching a salmon in a vigorous river. All Jean could see was the line of horses making for the rebels like a living wave, ready to wash all from its path. As he knew, all the men on those horses had been trained from the age of five or six in the use of weapons to kill. And the Flemings? They’d picked up the nearest tool, probably, and like as not didn’t even possess a helmet. It would be all over in a short space of time.

He waited to see the line of bristling steel points waver, but couldn’t see over the top of the knights. Still, no man could stand before an irresistible foe like that. No one could. It was a rule of war.

The horses were rearing now, and he could hear the sounds of war; the neighing and shrieking, of thundering goedendags, the fearsome Flemish war-hammers with their long handles, the clatter and crash of swords, pikes and lances, the rattling of mail, the screams of terror and agony. And then he saw some of the horses pushing forward in the centre. The breach in the Flemish line had been effected at last.

‘The beginning of the end,’ his father muttered, pulling a grass stem from the ground and chewing the sweet, blanched part. ‘Soon over now. Best get moving.’

The other crossbowmen slung their weapons and made their way over the water, ready to carry out the foot soldier’s duty, using their long knives to put the wounded enemy out of their misery. It was the part which Jean had most dreaded beforehand. He had killed enough sheep to be able to do so without letting the poor creatures suffer, but that was different from killing a man. A man could look up and plead. He didn’t want to have to slay a man begging for his life. Now, though, since seeing his own brother’s horrified agony, all sympathy was flown. He wanted to kill Flemings. He hoped to be able to, to see a man pleading with him for his life, because Jean would pay no attention. He would kill and keep on killing until they were all dead. No mercy, no compassion, no sympathy for the rebels who had killed his brother.

There had been a fresh charge. They saw it over on their right, a pounding wave that broke farther through the line of pikemen. It gave them all a burst of enthusiasm. It was bound to crush the Flemings. Nothing could withstand that sort of onslaught. They said that one knight in his armour was worth at least a hundred ordinary warriors, and this was why.

And then he saw something that made his entire body shiver. He saw a French knight wheel round, dart back towards him, and then turn to gallop at the line once more.

‘What’s he doing?’

‘Just giving himself some space,’ the grizzled warrior said, and spat. ‘Give ’em that. These Flemings know how to fight.’

Jean nodded, but even as he turned to watch, he saw a small group of Flemings rush forwards. Three had the dreadful goedendags, hideous sledgehammer-like weapons set on seven-foot poles — some even longer — and he saw one swing, then the others, all at the horse’s head. There was a little puff of red smoke from beneath the horse’s armour, and although the knight swung a long sword, he couldn’t reach them. The horse collapsed to kneel, and the hammers again slammed into its head, but already one of them was turning to the knight himself. Then pikes were stabbing up under his helmet. Even as the horse began to fall to one side, Jean saw a jet of blood squirt from between the breast plate and the helmet. The knight dropped his sword, and scrabbled with his gauntleted hands at the blade in his throat, but it was too late. He could expect no quarter, and even as he tried to prise himself free the hammers rose and fell, and he disappeared from view.

There was the sound of horns, a blaring, raucous noise, and he turned to see the last bataelge trotting down towards the streams. There they stopped and waited, their flags and pennons flying merrily in the breeze.

The Flemings nearest saw them, and Jean saw them challenging the knights, daring them to come on. ‘Father, are you sure we should …’

‘What?’

The foot soldiers with them were aware now that not all was going as they had anticipated. Their forward trot had slowed, and some of the men were watching the little scene on their right.

When the taunts and challenges failed, some Flemings started to cross the river to attack the French, and as they reached the other bank Jean felt a hideous heaviness form in his belly.

The main body of French knights wheeled, and rode away, their shields still on their backs. A few apparently felt so revolted by the idea of leaving their comrades on the field that they charged forward, only to fall to the hammers and pikes.

And then they were all racing away before the Flemings could reach them. They ran as though the hordes of the devil himself were behind them; they ran as though hell would take any who dithered. And then some knights came through the foot soldiers, fleeing the slaughter among the Flemish lines. Jean saw the knight who, enraged, terrified, and desperate, hacked at the men of his own side who stood in his path as he tried to escape. Jean saw his sword whirling, saw it slice down, and watched with a kind of disinterested fascination as the tip appeared at the other side of his father’s body, sweeping around and out. He continued to watch, all feelings dulled, as his father’s body toppled, his head rolling away, the lips bared, the teeth clicking together pointlessly.

Ah God, yes, Jean had endured enough of war. The terror, the running away, the appalling realisation that the men who had been a part of your life since birth were gone for ever, and there had not even been time to say ‘Farewell’ or ‘Godspeed’. All were terrifying in their own way. And then the relentless hunting down, the horror of being prey to a pack of marauding humans. It was hideous.

And it was all happening to him again; all over again. If he allowed it.

Well, he wouldn’t. He was going to stop this. Someone had lied about him. Someone had deliberately set him up. He would find out who, and why. And if possible avenge himself.

Wednesday before Good Friday ²⁰

Paris

There was a lull in the negotiations during the new month, and Baldwin found himself growing more and more irritable as the days passed, eager to be home. He wanted to see his wife and children again. Already it felt as though he had been idle for too long, when he could have been in their company. This enforced indolence was grating at his patience.

He had thought he must be back at Furnshill by the middle of the summer. It was not that he had promised it to Jeanne; more that he had promised it to himself. The King, when asking him to come here with the Queen, had intimated that he had made it clear to her and to Lord Cromwell that he expected their business to be completed by then, and wanted the Queen to hurry home. It was never explicitly stated, but the clear implication was that he did not trust her while she was away from his side. And of course the mission to France was growing ever more expensive.

The cost would not have been diminished by the state entrance into Paris two days ago. Baldwin and Simon had been there to witness the Queen’s arrival, as befitted members of her guard, but although Baldwin had glanced at her he had spent more time watching others in the roads, ensuring that there was no enemy of the King or herself in the throng. Simon had not been so conscientious. As she rode in towards them, Simon had simply stared. He was not alone. Her appearance induced awe.

Flanked by the Comte de Dammartin and the Lords de Coucy and Montmorency among others, she cut a dashing figure astride her horse, clad as she was all in black velvet. Simon could only guess at the price of such a wonderful garment. It was layered, and so long that only the tips of her riding boots were visible. Her headdress was so modern that Simon did not even know what it was termed, and he had to ask Alicia. She was happy to inform him that Isabella was wearing crespinettes made of gold fretwork dangling from a narrow fillet. Simon nodded knowingly, not knowing what such items were. All he knew was, the Queen looked glorious and utterly beautiful.

But now they had been in Paris for two days, and still there was no possibility of returning home. Negotiations had continued, and even as the King prepared the Easter feasts, letters had been sent back to England with the main proposals. The Queen had carefully prepared each, and Baldwin had no doubt that they would show how hard she had been working on Edward’s behalf. Meanwhile she danced, feasted, and generally enjoyed herself. If she had a care in the world, it was carefully hidden.

Simon, for his part, was enthralled by the city. ‘It is not so great as London, of course, but you cannot deny that there is a certain … liveliness to the place.’

Baldwin cast a dull eye over him. ‘You think so? A dunghill is also full of life.’

Simon glanced at him. ‘Come, friend. What is the matter?’

‘I used to live here. I will never be able to forget the horror. It was here in Paris that I witnessed the execution of my Grand Master,’ Baldwin said quietly. There was a rasping quality to his voice that spoke of his emotion, and Simon grunted and looked away.

He ought to have remembered. There should have been no need for Baldwin to explain his mood, for Simon knew his history. A Knight Templar until the dissolving of the Order, he had witnessed his Grand Master being burned to death on a pyre for so many alleged crimes, the world had been appalled to hear of them. And yet, even as he died, he asserted his innocence and the innocence of the Order. Ever since they had arrived in the capital, Baldwin had grown increasingly grim, and Simon should have realised it was this that was on his mind, rather than some mere petty annoyance at being apart from Jeanne.

‘Where did it happen, Baldwin? I have heard that the execution grounds are at a field outside the walls.’

‘You mean Montfaucon. That is where most died, I suppose. It’s up there. North-east, roughly.’

The two were walking about the Châtelet, near the river, and Simon could see his friend’s eyes turning every so often back towards the Louvre where they had left Queen Isabella.

‘That is fine!’ exclaimed a voice behind them, and both cast glances over their shoulders to where Sir Charles was standing with a new sword in his hand, sweeping it through the air with satisfaction. Paul was perched on a trestle nearby, eyeing his knight’s antics with a sour expression.

‘At last!’ Baldwin muttered, and Simon grinned.

They had come here with Sir Charles and his man Paul as soon as the Queen had told them that she had no further use for them that day. Usually Baldwin would have remained nearby, but by now his temper was all too plain, and the Queen had instructed Lord Cromwell that she would be happier were the ‘grim and despondent’ knight given some little time to wander the city and soothe his bitter spirit. Sir Charles had suggested that they might come here, to the area of the city where the armourers plied their trade, for, he explained, he had a need of a new riding sword. His old one had been dropped during their journey here, and a cart had rolled over it, bending the blade severely.

‘Yes. Try the balance on this, Sir Baldwin.’

‘I am sure that you are more than capable of assessing the quality yourself, Sir Charles,’ Baldwin said evasively.

‘Hah! If you are sure. Then I shall take it myself.’ So saying, he began to dispute the price with the armourer, and once they were both content, Sir Charles pulled the coins from his purse and handed them over.

The armourer pulled a face and shook his head. ‘Livres parisis, mon sieur. Celui-ci sont livres tournois.’

Sir Charles smiled gently. ‘Sir Baldwin, you’re so much more competent at this, would you mind assisting me?’

‘He is telling you that those coins are livres from Tours. He wants coins of Paris. There are about four Paris pounds to five Tours, and he is telling you that the price was fixed in Paris, so he wants Paris livres. You owe him another quarter.’

Sir Charles’s smile spread and he took a small step forward, the sword now pointing at the armourer’s throat. ‘I see. And could you explain to this gentle that I did not fall from a boat on the Seine this morning? I know a fair price, and I know when I am being shorn for my fleece. Kindly explain that to him.’

Baldwin looked away, then shook his head. He spoke rapidly, in a manner which Simon could not follow. The bailiff was used to many of the dialects of France now, having dealt with many Frenchmen during his time at the Port of Dartmouth, and could even understand the strongly accented language of the butchers of St Jacques, but Baldwin’s speech was incomprehensible to him.

The armourer scowled, but finally nodded. ‘Oui.’

‘Pay him one eighth more,’ Baldwin said. ‘He’ll accept that.’

‘Another eighth?’ Sir Charles asked as though deliberating.

‘It is up to you. It is a very good price for a sword of that quality. He has been reasonable, and he is still trying to be so. However, if you wish, you can instead test your steel.’

Sir Charles allowed a passing confusion to mar his elegant features. ‘Test it? You mean stab him?’

‘No. I mean, if you are wearing your cuirass, you will have a chance to test its strength against this man’s friends, who are preparing their crossbows to fire at you, should you try to harm him.’

‘Are they within reach?’

‘Sir Charles, I am no knave. This man has asked a reasonable price. I would not attack him or those who seek to protect him, just because you want a bargain. If you want cheap goods, seek them elsewhere. If you want this blade, pay the price and be thankful you have acquired so splendid an example of Parisian craftsmanship.’

‘I think you have a point,’ Sir Charles said after a moment’s thought. He nodded to himself, and then relaxed, allowing the sword to fall to point to the ground. ‘I should be most glad if you could tell this gentle that I shall be glad to pay the full price in livres Parisis. As you say, craftsmanship is worth its price.’