The Templar, the Queen and Her Lover

Chapter Twenty-Five

Paul watched his master pay and followed him as Sir Charles set off after Sir Baldwin and Simon.

Sir Charles had not spoken to him much in the last few days. The ridiculous way in which he’d managed to lose Mortimer had unsettled them both. It wasn’t something Paul had ever done before. Stupid, stupid bloody thing to do — let him climb up into a hayloft and thence into the grounds of a private house. Soon as he’d seen where the man had gone, Paul had gone to the door to demand to be allowed inside, but there were plenty of guards there to prevent him. He’d even considered calling Sir Charles, but it was plain enough that even with Sir Baldwin, Sir John and Sir Peter, and even Lord John Cromwell too, they’d not be able to get in and capture the bastard without people hearing and stopping them. So he’d been forced to give up, and Sir Charles had been distant. Disappointment was not an emotion Sir Charles enjoyed.

There had been no sign of the traitor since that evening. Probably keeping his head down, in Paul’s view. Still, he’d be looking out for him now. There was a possibility that a man like him would be so arrogant, he’d think himself safe from attack in the French king’s capital. Well, let him show his face, and Paul would introduce him to a whole new experience — a sharp knife, and a swim for the headless corpse in the Seine.

‘What was the point of that?’ Baldwin grumbled a little later as they walked away from the Châtelet, up the road known as the ‘Grande Rue’.

‘He would not wish to be seen to succumb to any form of trickery,’ Simon reckoned. ‘He is an enormously vain man, Baldwin.’

‘True enough — but to try to gull an armourer in a place where armourers congregate is foolish in the extreme. All could see him dickering like a wife buying fish, and all could see he desired the sword, so what was the point of calling attention to himself like that?’

‘I do not pretend to understand the behaviour of knights,’ Simon said with a grin. Then, ‘So where does this road go? I do not think I have been along it as far as the walls.’

‘It takes you up as far as the Porte Saint-Denis. From there you can look north towards the plain of Saint-Denis.’

‘What is up there?’ Sir Charles had paid, and now he walked at their side, a happy smile on his face, his left hand resting on the new sword. Paul wandered at his left flank, a man-at-arms to the last, his eyes wary as he kept an eye on the people thronging the streets.

‘Simon was asking earlier about the place of execution, the hill called Montfaucon. It is up there.’

‘I have heard of this place,’ Sir Charles said. ‘The people of the city often go there, I understand. A curious place to sit and chew on a leg of chicken.’

‘It is good that people should remind themselves of their own mortality,’ Paul muttered.

Simon controlled a grin. Plainly the man had similar feelings to Baldwin about his master’s negotiating stance.

Baldwin was walking a little faster now, and Simon cast a look at him now and again as they marched up the Grande Rue. Baldwin had lived here, as Simon knew, in the great fortress of the Temple. That lay to the north of the city walls, so he had heard, and it was there the Knights Templar had been held and tortured, and many had been killed, before the Pope took pity on the survivors and suppressed the Order.

This city held many sad memories for Baldwin. It seemed peculiar to Simon that the man would want to head up this way, towards the focus of all the misery and horror of those days, but then he understood. This was not only the place where his Order had been destroyed, it was also where they had lived for hundreds of years in glorious isolation from Paris itself.

Passing beneath the Porte Saint-Denis, a fortification that shocked Simon when he saw the outer face: set into the wall at ground level was a large, glazed window! He stopped and gaped at it, before pointing and calling the attention of the others to that incongruous feature.

‘This city is too great to be attacked,’ Sir Charles explained. ‘Have you ever seen so magnificent, so ostentatious a place? It would be worth sacking, but what host would dare to attempt to march on such a town?’

‘When was it last assaulted?’ Simon asked.

‘More than a hundred years ago,’ Baldwin said shortly. ‘In their arrogance the Parisians believe themselves impregnable. No city is so safe that it may give up all its defences without tempting an enemy.’

Simon nodded, but the others were already walking onwards.

Here, the road was still lined with small houses. When Simon asked Baldwin, he was told that the city limit was in practice farther to the north, where the rue met the foul stream called La Pissotte, into which all the refuse and sewage was thrown.

Baldwin took them eastwards, pointing to some towers looming over the houses, and Simon realised that this was the Temple — the most important building for Baldwin’s Order outside the Kingdom of Jerusalem itself.

It was a vast fortress. Standing slightly isolated in marshy ground, it reared up a little like the Tower of London, but apparently taller. There were round turrets at each corner, thinner, smaller ones in the middle of the wall facing Simon too, and each was roofed with a conical cap, flags fluttering from every one. It was a strange-looking place, which gave Simon an impression of elegance and beauty, with its stark, spare lines. This was a building constructed for function, and that function was defence and intimidation.

Not that it had achieved its aim. Simon was glad when Sir Charles gave it a cursory glance, and remarked, ‘I should not like to stay there. It looks like a gaol. Let’s walk on and see this place of execution. I assume that’s it there?’

Simon followed his pointing finger and frowned. There was, only a matter of a few hundred yards away, a flat, almost uninhabited area through which their road passed, which held a low rise in the ground to the north and east. At the top of the hillock was a curious construction. ‘Are they building a house up there?’

Baldwin’s voice was cold. ‘No. Not a house.’

They carried on, and in a few minutes they were standing at the base of a series of some sixteen large rock pillars. Some were already in position, but others lay on the ground, and there were cranes and windlasses all about, and scaffolding set up to assist in the erection of the massive structure. Part of it had been completed, and now Simon realised what its purpose was, for across the top of the four upright blocks lay a thick beam of wood. Dangling from it were fifteen men.

‘The idea was that this hill should be visible from most of the city,’ Baldwin said. He was peering up at the men. None had a broken neck; all had been gradually throttled as they hanged. Now their features were unrecognisable. They had been so badly attacked by the crows and other carrion birds that all were pecked to uniformity. The ropes suspending them creaked and groaned as the bodies swayed.

‘How long do they stay there?’ Sir Charles asked.

‘Until another batch arrives to be hanged,’ Baldwin said. ‘Then they’re brought down and cast into a grave over there.’

‘No women,’ Paul commented.

‘It would be indecent to hang women,’ Baldwin said cynically. ‘So they are buried alive instead.’

It is a sad place, Simon said to himself. He had never been good in the presence of death, and he averted his eyes from the noisome group, forcing himself to look at the scaffolding which supported those pillars which had not yet been set in place. A man was walking about with the labourers, instructing them, casting words about him like darts, expecting each to hit its mark. From the look on the faces of the men with him, Simon seriously doubted that more than a few would succeed.

‘Good day to you, master,’ Baldwin said slowly.

The man seemed to notice them for the first time, and he scowled. He was a good-looking fellow, with shrewd, intelligent dark eyes. Although he had a narrow face, there was nothing of the ferret about him — he was more of a greyhound, Simon thought. A low, but strong, narrow head and slender shoulders, but a powerful torso and well-muscled arms. Now he had his head set low as he eyed these strangers.

‘And to you,’ he said at last, his attention on Paul, who was returning his stare with fixed intensity.

‘You are rebuilding this gallows?’ Sir Charles enquired.

‘I am Pierre Rémy. I have been set the task of constructing a new gallows with stone.’

Simon nodded towards the site. ‘How many pillars are there?’

‘You are not Parisian? Ah, English?’ He appeared reassured by their agreement, as though a Parisian who was unaware of the law was suspicious. Ignorant foreigners were a different matter. ‘Ah, you look at this, and you realise that you are in the presence of the gallows of a great leader of men. It is all a matter of rank. A lord is permitted a gallows with only two uprights. A baron may have four, but the King can have sixteen. These will be set in four rows of four, so the King can hang sixty-four men at a time. And with the whole built in stone, it will last for a hundred years. Much less maintenance than a normal gallows.’

Sir Charles was nodding, and Simon could understand the logic. He had seen that the Tavistock gallows which executed the felons of the abbey’s ecclesiastical court had recently had to be replaced. The damn thing was growing dangerous, and could have collapsed in a bad gust of wind with a body on it.

Baldwin alone appeared unimpressed. He stood staring at the gallows with a sardonic expression. When Simon gazed at him, he saw that there were tears in his friend’s eyes.

‘Are you all right, Baldwin?’

The knight waved away Simon’s enquiry. ‘You should be cautious, friend. All too often a man can be executed while declaring his innocence.’

‘No one would willingly go confessing his sins, would he?’ Rémy laughed.

‘The most innocent might,’ Baldwin said.

‘I am sure I am safe enough. I haven’t committed a crime.’

Simon was watching the men who were supposed to be building the gallows. One in particular caught his attention. He was an ill-favoured fellow with a thick leather jerkin, and he was laughing to himself as he carried a ladder towards the line of corpses. ‘Who is he?’

‘Arnaud? A King’s Executioner,’ Rémy said dismissively. He appeared to have little time for the man. ‘He’s got some more prepared for their last dance. Has to make space for them.’

As he spoke, Arnaud reached the gallows. He set the ladder against the beam and climbed until he was at the same height as the dangling bodies. Seeing the men on the ground watching him, he stared back for a moment before shrugging to himself and starting to cut through the rope holding the most decomposed figure.

Baldwin glanced up, his eyes narrowing slightly. ‘He looks familiar, Simon. Where have I seen him before?’

‘Him?’ Simon stared at the man on the ladder. ‘I don’t know … are you sure?’

‘His is not the sort of face a man could easily forget — and nor is his style of dress all that common. No matter. It can hardly be important,’ Baldwin said.

Simon could not pull his eyes from the sight of the man’s knife sawing through the old hemp until the rope began to fray, the body jolting and spinning faster. He shut his eyes and looked away, only to see that there was a party of crossbowmen at the nearer pillar, watching the body. There was a crack like the hand-cannon of the Comte de Foix, and the rope parted. The body fell like a sack of coal to thud into the ground, and to his horror Simon saw that the bone of one thigh was thrust through the softened meat of the leg, protruding vertically while the soggy sack of bones and flesh lay back untidily. It was a revolting sight, but the archers apparently thought it a source of immense humour.

‘Why are they here?’ he found himself asking.

‘The archers? To stop witches coming here and stealing the felons’ hearts to make their philtres and potions. The bitches would steal the skin from your back if you were swinging up there, my friend,’ Rémy said. He noticed a man hauling on a rope at the far side of the site and swore to himself, running at the man and bellowing.

‘Well, lordings, I think we may return to the city, eh?’ Sir Charles said with a disdainful look about him. ‘Until they bring the next wagonload of men ready for their execution, there’s little enough to see here.’

‘Yes. Quite right,’ Baldwin said. Simon was reluctant to speak. He was still averting his eyes from the fleshy mess lying on the ground as Arnaud went to it, eyed it contemplatively, and then grabbed a bare foot and started to haul the body away to where the mass grave was. It was the leg with the bone sticking up, and as Simon watched he saw the dark, rotting skin at the groin begin to tear as Arnaud pulled. He turned away quickly, hearing the man swear a short while later. From the corner of his eye he saw Arnaud walk to the pit and toss in the leg, before returning to collect the remainder of the dead man.

When they had left, Arnaud leaned against a pillar and watched them as they wandered back to the city. He wiped the blood and muck from his hands on to his leather jerkin, and sat back to wait for the man he had been told to kill. No one he knew, just someone who’d irritated the King or someone.

He often held the power of bringing death, but Arnaud had only once had the power of bringing life. He missed the feel of the child in his arms. Killing was easy, but creation, that was different. There were times when he wished he didn’t have to concentrate on only the one.

Shame le Vieux was gone. The old twit was a good companion. They understood each other, and it was always hard to lose a friend. Arnaud hadn’t had too many of them in his life. He’d thought that Jean was going to be a mate when they’d met. They came from the same part of the country, down in the Comte de Foix’s lands. Of course, some people disliked Arnaud just because of his job. That was stupid. Everyone appreciated the order that the law brought, and if there were laws, someone had to carry out the punishments. And Arnaud was good at his job. He knew he was. Anything that was well done was good for all. It must give God delight to see a man excel at his duties, so why should Arnaud not take pleasure in his skill?

There was little more satisfying than achieving a good death, one that made all the crowds howl. Some men took pride in their carpentry, others in the quality of their clothes-making, or their ability with a horse. Well, Arnaud was no different. He enjoyed just the same pride and satisfaction as they.

Sometimes he thought he was like a player with the mummers. They would don odd clothes, disguises to hide their real personalities, and in the same way he would often sport a hood to conceal his features. After all, the people weren’t there to see him, but to watch the spectacle of an execution.

Some of his victims were bold, and stood resolutely, as though daring any in the audience to laugh or make sport with him; others whimpered, wet themselves, soiled themselves, fell and rolled on the ground. They were the more rewarding ones, Arnaud felt. They showed people the true result of their misdeeds. If they broke the King’s laws, they would suffer the torments of Arnaud’s punishments. Terror was important. Without fear of the consequences, any man would dare to act the felon.

Back up the ladder, this time to throw a fresh rope over the beam. As he did so, the nearest body was caught and turned slowly in a gust of wind. The face, leering and bloated, skin blackened, came to peer at him as though it was studying him from its empty eye sockets.

Arnaud grinned. He patted the face’s cheek and giggled. ‘Don’t worry. Soon have another companion for you up here!’

Roger Mortimer was not at the Louvre, but at a small inn nearby. It had been made abundantly clear to him that the King preferred him to keep well out of the way and avoid any diplomatic incidents. The last thing he wanted was to endanger the discussions directly. That would mean two kings wanting his head, and that was not a good idea. No, far better that he should keep to the shadows and away from the negotiations.

Not that it was easy. He had always enjoyed cordial relations with the Queen. Isabella was a kind woman, understanding. . sympathetic. She understood what it was to lose a love. Of course, in Roger and Joan’s case it was an enforced separation by that madman the King. More or less the same for her, actually. The King had separated himself from her.

It was hard to conceive of a man who could have started out in life with so many advantages and squandered them so swiftly, he thought. The King had enjoyed the love and devotion of a loyal wife; he had the benefit of a country which had endured too many wars and wanted only peace, a strong barony which would support its king no matter what, and in the space of only a few years he had lost it all. He had destroyed the faith his barons had held in him and in the office of the crown, he had lost the trust of the people by passing too much money and treasure to his lovers, and he had even managed to alienate his wife, the mother of his four legitimate children.

Mortimer should know. He had been one of King Edward’s most devoted servants. Christ’s bones, he’d been to Ireland to fight the King’s wars, he’d supported Edward against all his foes, and yet he still got kicked in the teeth when the King decided to give all his trust to Despenser instead. What was the point of a man’s risking his life and livelihood for a king, if that same king showed no loyalty to him? A man had a right to expect his king’s largesse, but in Roger Mortimer’s case the King had worked to deprive him. Gradually, all authority was passing to Despenser and Walter Stapledon, and in the end Mortimer would be killed. There could be no other outcome.

The evening was drawing in. Soon it would be time for his meeting. He rose from the fireside, glancing about him. There were four men with him tonight, and as he passed out from the room to the roadway they followed him. Then, with one before him, one behind and one either side, he set off towards the Louvre.

It was a marvellous castle, this. The powerful Philip-Augustus had constructed it in the days when his great enemy, Richard Coeur de Lion, had threatened. This was the point where Richard was most likely to attack. Later, when the city walls were built, the castle was left outside them, so that Philip-Augustus should always retain the capacity for defence without concern for the people of the city. But Roger was not going straight to the King’s great castle. In preference, he was walking to the secondary seat, the Château du Bois, which lay within a short walk to the west. Here, in the gardens which surrounded the castle, the King was wont to wander. It had been a place of especial pleasure for all the kings since Philip-Augustus, a place of rest and relaxation, where the hunting was second to none.

He reached the city walls and passed out with his men. Now they bunched together about him a little more closely. Any man walking out in the wilds at this time of night was at threat of attack, and the fact that Roger Mortimer had more enemies than most was a cause for extreme caution. He kept his own hand near his sword hilt.

The houses had come to fill the gaps between the walls of the city and the Louvre, and now they had rippled out beyond, so that the Château du Bois was an island of calm in a sea of small houses. True, to the south was the great castle of the dukes of Brittany, but the houses lapped even about that. There were so many who were keen to live in this greatest city in Christendom, that any space must inevitably be filled.

‘I am here,’ he muttered at the gate to the Château du Bois. The gatekeeper at the postern gate nodded, eyed the four guards, then opened the gate. Mortimer hesitated, then slipped through, almost expecting to receive a blade between the ribs as he did so.

‘Your royal highness,’ he breathed, bowing low.

‘My lord,’ Queen Isabella responded.