The Templar, the Queen and Her Lover

Chapter Three

Lombard Street, City of London

‘Interesting,’ Janin said. ‘So now we’re suddenly the Queen’s Men, are we? That’s a snappy name for a band like us. Exceptwe’ve nothing to do with her just now.’

‘It’s hardly the way I’d have wanted to have things go,’ Adam said. He turned to the scowling Ricard. ‘Why the hell did youhave to start pawing that woman in the first place?’

‘Shut up talking like that! You’re talking daft,’ Philip said. ‘If she’d gone to your lap and started getting you all sweaty,you’d have done the same thing.’

‘It’s not the point, though, is it?’ Adam demanded. He stood square to Ricard, hands on hips.

Ricard looked up from the small figure before him as though noticing him for the first time. ‘No. It’s not. You’re right.The point is, some murderous bastard’s got his fist on my jacket and he won’t be likely to let go until he has all he wants.’

‘We’re not even anything to do with the Queen, though, Ric. What the hell are you going to do?’ Peter Waferer asked plaintively.

Ricard ignored him. ‘Who are you?’ he asked of the boy.

‘Charlie Chatty.’

‘Charlie Chatty, eh? A good name,’ Ricard said.

He was at a loss as to what to do with the child. If he was right, this little lad was the son of the woman who’d been murderedlast night. The woman who’d died, apparently, just so that the flash git there could blackmail him and the boys into spying on the Queen. The child looked only about three yearsold, if that. He could walk, talk a fair bit, and judging by his bright blue eyes and sandyish hair he was healthy enough.Thanks to Christ they hadn’t taken him out before the man had left the house. He had insisted on speaking to Ricard, alone,and when he had gone Ricard had made his way to the hutch. The mite had screamed at first when he pulled the side away, andshrank back at the wall as though expecting to be killed, but after being given some bread and a sweet cake he had come alongwith Ricard happily enough. Every so often his eyes clouded and he looked about him anxiously, but then he would glance upinto Ricard’s face and, God help Ricard, he appeared comforted by him. So now he had this additional little parcel of workclinging to his belt. The thought of the lad’s mother’s body in that foul chamber was enough to make him want to spew, sohe was determined not to desert the boy, but that left him with the question of what to do with him.

‘Did you hear me?’ Peter demanded.

‘Yes, all right? Look, you’re a King’s Waferer — don’t you have some access to the palace? To the Queen? Could you …’

‘Not a chance. I’d do anything to help you all, but I can’t bugger about. I’ve got a wife, kids to look after. I can’t takea gamble on my job.’

‘No more he can,’ Philip said heavily.

‘How about one more kid?’

‘Do me a favour, Ric! Look at the brat! What would my wife say, eh? She’d ask where the hell I’d got him, then kick my arsefrom Eastchep to West for keeping a slut on the side and bringing my bastard home with me!’

Janin watched and listened to their gloomy conversation. Their mood was grim at best. The sight of the two bodies, one ravished, both stabbed and beaten to bloody death, was enough to make any man’s stomach turn. Worse to find the child theretoo. Of course, more to the fore of their collective minds was the fact that were they to fail in the command given to them,they would end up in a similar manner to the lad’s parents: slain and thrown to the dogs.

Their host had smiled at them coldly as they gathered about him. Ricard in particular was eager to break his head. He hadbeen attracted to that woman, and to see her destroyed so utterly was shocking. They hadn’t just slashed at her, they’d beatenher about the face until she was almost unrecognisable. Janin, the most reflective of the band, was thinking carefully asthey surrounded the fellow, his sword still at Ricard’s neck. ‘Ric — if you were going to blackmail a little mob like oursto do your will, would you go into a room with them and let them into your secret there, all alone?’

Ricard had been breathing hard and fast, his mouth closed. Gradually his face lost its bellicose flush, and he became morerational. ‘Where are his men?’ he had demanded.

Their host had answered. ‘Outside. There are two over the road there. I can see them from here through the window. Look foryourself. If you try to harm me, they will see. If they sound the alarm, the hue and cry will be here in moments. And peoplewill find some musicians who were very loud and rowdy last night, and tried to rape a respectable woman, a Madam Thomassia,whose husband Guy was lately a man-at-arms in France. And anyone who breaks in here to rescue me will find you here with thatsame man and woman, both dead. They are not fools. Two dead when you had shown such interest in them last night,’ he saidcontemptuously. ‘Oh, and they’ll find me: a nobleman, who will denounce you. For those murders. Do you think you could escapethe rope? Or perhaps they would think up a better way to kill you. The London mob can be most inventive.’

Ricard had glanced at Peter, who was standing at the open window staring out. He had looked back at Ricard and nodded.

The man’s plan was straightforward enough. He would lose the bodies if the musicians did what they were told, but if theyfailed the law would soon be after them. They would never know peace again. They would become outlaw.

It was Adam who had asked the obvious question. ‘What makes you think you could persuade people that we did these murdersin a day, let alone a month or more?’ he scoffed.

The man smiled with a sly confidence. ‘The glovemaker in there was a loyal servant of Sir Hugh le Despenser. He will be sureof your guilt, and your fate will be just as certain.’

‘You think you can tell him that? He’d as likely run you through. Sir Hugh le Despenser trusts no one,’ Ricard scoffed.

‘He doesn’t trust me, no. I am no friend of his. Still, he can’t hurt me.’

That had been definite enough for Ricard. Everyone in the realm knew of Sir Hugh, the avaricious friend of the King. He wasruthless and determined. Any man who harmed him or his friends must look to his back. There was little safety when Sir Hughbecame your enemy. And this fellow, whoever he was, had enough poise and assurance for ten. He was not joking. Just lookingat him, you knew he was telling the truth. He knew Despenser. And he had men. This was no footpad.

Now, sitting here and reflecting on that appalling meeting, it was Ricard himself who asked the question that was troublingJanin. ‘If he killed the man and his wife, then he’s not a friend to Despenser, is he? He said as much. A loyal Despenserman wouldn’t kill another Despenser supporter, would he?’

‘You think so?’ Peter Waferer said, his head low. ‘Despenser would kill his mother if he thought it’d win him a new manor.His men are the same. They think nothing of killing like this. No, you may be sure that he’s a man of Despenser, and that we’re all in danger now. Us, and my family.God! My wife! My children! How could this have happened?’

‘How can this be so, though? If he was really known to Despenser,’ Ricard said, ‘wouldn’t he have been at court? Surely you’dhave seen him, Peter?’

‘Hah! Do you know how many men come through the palace gates every day? It’s a small city of its own, and I’m only a waferer,when all is said and done. I may wear the King’s tabard, but I’m a kitchen knave, and when I’m working I don’t see the facesof all the King’s guests. A kitchen knave is hardly best placed to study them.’

‘Well, keep your eyes open in case you do see him up there, in God’s name!’ Janin said, still very rattled. ‘We need to knowwho he is.’

‘I’ll see what I can learn,’ Peter said.

‘What can we do?’ Janin demanded. He looked to the leader of their group, then down at the lad standing in front of Ricard. He had takenup a little ball, and was rolling it experimentally over the floor, frowning intently.

Ricard sighed and shook his head. ‘First, I suppose, we have to see whether we can wheedle our way into the Queen’s good books.Any ideas?’

Château Gaillard

It was much later when Jean stopped dead on the steps from the curtain wall, appalled by the sound of anguish from the tower.

The scream was unsettling, but here in the château it was all too common to hear the demented shrieks of the imprisoned orcondemned. The sound travelled widely about the great tower, shivering on the breeze, the only part of the prisoners thatcould escape the five-metre thick walls.

There was something about this cry, though, that gave him pause. He had been strolling about the upper curtain wall, keeping aneye out every so often, but scarcely worrying too much. The land about here was pacified after a hundred years of French rule.No, his duty was to keep his eyes and ears open to the risk of an escape from within the prison.

Now, even as he looked down into the main court area about the great keep, he could see the small party making their way fromthe stairs that led to the cells. There was a pair of guards in front, leading a tattered and thoroughly dishevelled woman.That she was one of the prisoners was known to him. He had seen her plenty of times before. With her shaved head and sackclothtunic, she was the one whom the guards discussed with lowered voices. Someone had told him that she was a very important prisoner,but no one had elaborated on that snippet. For his part, he hardly cared who she might be. As far as he was concerned, ifsomeone was here, it was because they had committed an offence which merited the punishment.

There was a shriek, and Jean watched, dumbfounded, as the woman tried to drag herself free of her guards, but they grippedthe manacles at her wrists and yanked her back towards the gates. In the poor light down there, Jean was unclear what happened,but it appeared that she was trying to go towards the chapel. Not that she could hope to succeed. The two guards were soonhurrying from the place, the woman dragging her feet between them, turning to stare behind her, wailing pitifully. It quiteruined any remaining vestiges of calmness which Jean had enjoyed.

After the gate had been secured once more, the timbers dully thudding into their sockets in the frame, Jean moved away fromthe wall. It had been an unpleasant sight, that poor woman being dragged from this place of misery and incarceration. Evennow he could hear someone else weeping in despair. No doubt another prisoner was mourning the loss of his freedom. As he descended the wall ladder, he was glad toleave the noise behind. And then, as he entered the outer court, he stopped.

‘Sweet Mother of God,’ he murmured.

Before him, sprawled at the base of the wall near the chapel, Arnaud, the executioner and torturer, was sobbing uncontrollably.

Queen’s chapel, Thorney Island

Peter the Chaplain was happy that night as he polished the cross and then bent to sweep the floor.

Brought here by John Drokensford, the bishop of Bath and Wells, Peter had been given the duty of chaplain to the Queen asa means of atoning for his crimes, but now he had the feeling that his services would shortly become unnecessary. Bishop Johnhad intimated that soon his time here would be done, and perhaps a small church could be found for him not too far from Oxford,the place of his birth. That was enough of a reward for him. He would go there, grow vegetables, keep a dog, and honour andpraise God every day.

He finished his cleaning and made his way to his small chamber, where he took up a lump of cheese and slice of bread. He waschewing hungrily when a man arrived from the Queen.

‘You are wanted, Chaplain.’

He swallowed and eyed the man with a passing coolness. ‘I’m eating. Nothing’s that urgent.’

Nor was it. He had learned that if little else in the years since he’d killed his woman’s murderer.

He had run away from his church with the wife of one of his parishioners, hoping that they would be able to hide themselvessomewhere — perhaps even make their way to France and find a rural refuge there. And one morning Peter woke beside his naked woman to see her husband above them with a great sword. It swept down, and she died, but Peter wrestledthe weapon from him and stabbed him again and again, the blood flying in a fine spray at first, then in filthy gobbets.

Over the years he had grown to understand the depth of his own offence. Her death, her husband’s, both were on his hands.They were his responsibility. And fortunately Bishop John had persuaded him that he could find peace and salvation: firstby protecting another innocent woman from her husband. That was why he was here at Thorney Island — he was trying to helpBishop John look after the Queen’s interests.

‘It is most urgent, she said,’ the messenger insisted. He looked near to tears.

In the end, the chaplain took pity on him and set his bread aside for later. Walking swiftly, he went with the man to theQueen’s rooms.

Later, he returned to his own chamber and stood a moment looking all about him with an air of sadness. He felt like a travellerwho was about to launch himself on a desperately dangerous journey; one from which he might never return.

He looked finally at the lump of bread still sitting on the barrel. A corner had been taken by some rodent while he had beenout. Rats were everywhere, even here in the King’s palace. He shrugged. After all he had just heard, he had lost his appetiteanyway.

Instead of sitting and eating, he went to the long chest in the far corner of the room. Here, under his vestments, he foundhis sword. It was the one which he had taken from the husband to kill him. The sword he had defiled with its owner’s blood.

Now he drew it and hefted it in his hands thoughtfully. Soon he might be forced to use it again.

Château Gaillard

Later, when he stopped for a cup of hot wine at the brazier in the corner tower, Jean asked le Vieux about Arnaud and thatscene after the woman’s departure. Le Vieux was the oldest warrior there, and easily the most experienced, which was how hehad lost his left arm and his right eye. The empty socket appeared to gleam as he gazed up at Jean. ‘Him? Arnaud of the glowingtongs? Forget that bordello’s whelp.’

‘But he was so sad to see the woman leave.’

‘I would be too. There are few tarts in Les Andelys for a man like him. The torturer? Even the sluts would turn their nosesup at the man who could later stamp them with the fleur-de-lys for doing what he wanted.’

‘He was rutting that bitch?’

‘Hah! You shouldn’t speak of the lady like that. Not where others might hear you.’

‘She was just a rich woman, wasn’t she?’

‘Not “just a rich woman”, no. She would have been our queen, lad, and don’t forget it.’

‘Mother Mary’s … And Arnaud loved her?’

The old man shrugged emphatically. ‘When a man has sired a pup on a bitch, he will feel something for her, even if it’s notexactly love.’

‘He fathered a child on her?’ Jean said, aghast.

‘Aye. Poor thing died two weeks later, but it made him mad about the woman. Still is, I expect,’ he added thoughtfully.

‘Is that why she pulled towards the chapel?’

Le Vieux shrugged expansively. ‘Perhaps. Maybe she wanted to pray for a good journey.’

‘The baby wasn’t buried there?’

‘Buried? No, it was left out for the wild animals, I think. It was illegitimate — no priest would give it the last rites orbury it in consecrated ground.’

Chapter Four

The Temple, London

Sir John de Sapy entered the great gate that gave on to the broad court.

This was his first time here in the London Temple. Once it had been the headquarters of the most powerful and wealthy religiousorder in the country, but since the destruction of the Temple it had lain empty, confiscated by the King. Now the Pope haddemanded that all such property should be passed on to the Hospitallers, but this area had been retained by the King — untilrecently.

Sir Hugh le Despenser had taken it instead.

Sir John saw the men at the doorways, and tried to control the sensation of nervous prickling at his back at the thought ofall those in here who would be happy to draw steel and push it into him, were they told that he was the enemy of their master.He willed his legs to carry on none the less. He was a knight, and no one would scare him off.

There was a door in front of him, and a man opened it for him. He held Sir John’s gaze as the knight approached, but Sir Johnwas starting to become irritated by the attitude of all the watchers about the yard. He stopped, lowered his head and staredtruculently at the man. Gradually the other fellow began to look uncomfortable, and finally he looked away.

Satisfied, Sir John continued. As he drew level with the man, he was ready with his hand on his dagger’s hilt. If the otherso much as twitched a finger, he was ready to draw his blade and kill the bastard … but the man gave him no cause. He entered, and the door closed behind him.

‘Sir John. I am glad you could come.’

It was a small hall, with a pleasing tiled floor. There was a chimney with a fire roaring in the hearth, and by its lightSir John saw a cold-eyed man sitting on a stool. It was Sir Hugh le Despenser.

‘Sir Hugh,’ he said, but his throat had closed up, and the only noise that came out sounded as if he was being slowly strangled.

It was enough to bring a cynical grin to the Despenser’s face. He was a man committed to his own profit and pleasure, andhe ruled through a mixture of utter brutality and largesse. Those who were his friends waxed in the bright glow of his approval.Those who were not his friends waned. He liked to see men afraid. It showed that they respected his position.

‘You have been of service to me, Sir John.’

‘I am glad.’

‘Until lately you were outlawed. That will cease immediately.’

‘You can persuade the King to pardon me?’

Despenser stood and walked to a narrow table at a wall. He took up a scroll and tossed it over to him. Sir John opened itand looked at it helplessly.

‘It is your pardon,’ Despenser said flatly. ‘And to ensure that your return to the King’s household is fully appreciated,I have some legal documents you can witness for me.’

I don’t know how to thank you,’ Sir John stammered.

‘We shall think of a way,’ Sir Hugh said. He eyed Sir John thoughtfully for a moment. ‘Perhaps you could join an embassy forme. Your help was appreciated by Père Pierre. Perhaps you could go and see him. He tells me that the church of Sainte Katerinein Paris has the most wonderful Mass to celebrate Easter. Perhaps you should go and enjoy it.’

Ash Wednesday ⁵

Furnshill, Devon

Sir Baldwin de Furnshill, Keeper of the King’s Peace in Devon, was startled awake at the shrill scream, and was already on his feet, hishand reaching for his sword, before he realised what had woken him.

In the corner of the room, swathed in warm blankets and a cloak, sat his wife, who gazed at him with exasperation. ‘Baldwin!’

‘Ah — I am sorry, my love,’ he declared, dropping the sword’s blade back into its scabbard. Pulling a thick blanket from thebed, he threw it over his shoulders and padded across the floor to her side, kneeling with an elbow at her thigh.

‘Good day, Baldwin,’ he said softly to the small body in his wife’s arms.

Baldwin, his son, stared back at him short-sightedly, his wizened little face comically ancient for his three and a half months.

‘He still finds it hard?’

‘We both do,’ Jeanne responded, exhausted.

Baldwin put his hand on her shoulder. He was anxious for her. This was their second child. Richalda had been somewhat troublesomeoccasionally, but both had assumed that this one would be easy. They knew how to bring up a baby; they had done so once. Thesecond time would be perfectly straightforward.

But little Baldwin was not to be so accommodating as Richalda. Where she had cooed gently when she woke, Baldwin screamed;when Richalda was hungry, she had sucked the pap with urgent enthusiasm, needing no assistance — little Baldwin spent one month drinking from one breast and weeping when the other was presented, and the following monthdrinking from the other and ignoring the first. And he was awake at regular intervals through the night, while sleeping happilythrough the day. Although his father would never have confessed it to his wife, he would rather be left in charge of a wildbear without stick or steel to protect himself than be left alone for half a morning with this little boy. Love him he certainlydid, but he also loathed and detested the child on occasion. The thought of being solely responsible for him filled him withdread.

‘Did he in the end?’ Baldwin asked, stifling a yawn.

‘Yes. As soon as you jumped from your bed like a man with a rat on his backside, the poor little chit burped.’

Baldwin eyed his son sombrely. Every meal he took led to screaming, or so it seemed most of the time. It was simple enoughto cure him — a series of gentle pats on the little devil’s back always did the trick — but the immediate effect was shockingin the extreme. For one with such a small frame, the monster could generate a huge amount of noise.

Now, though, having woken both parents and, from the sounds behind the house, the hunting pack too, little Baldwin appearedto think that he had achieved all that could be expected of a fellow, and was breathing gently, eyes closed. Jeanne rose andcarried the precious bundle to the little cot beside the bed, carefully installing him before climbing into their bed again.She patted the blanket beside her, and he returned to it, putting an arm about her.

Yes. Little Baldwin was taking his toll on her. Jeanne’s hair was thinner, and her face was pale and drawn, like one sufferingfrom a long starvation. He had seen people with that look — the women and children at Acre as the siege set in. And then,when the plagues took hold, they too gave women the same bright eyes and anxious, strained appearance. Baldwin was fearful that this son, this cause for celebration, could become a disaster for him. For losing his Jeanne would be a disaster,a catastrophe from which it would be very difficult for him to recover. He dreaded the very thought.

‘Careful, husband. You will crush me!’ Jeanne whispered.

He kissed her gently on her forehead, but did not let her go. Instead he sat still, arm around her shoulder, until he heardher breath grow more regular, and then remained there, watching the sun light the cracks in the timbers of his shutters.

The messenger in the King’s tunic arrived not long after they had breakfasted.

Michael’s Cross tavern, Westchep, London

After the service that marked the beginning of Lent, they gathered again to discuss their predicament. Only a fool would havebeen keen to meet again, Philip thought to himself, but as he sat waiting the others gradually drifted in.

This was a good little alehouse. It was little more than a low undercroft running alongside the road, with a wide window givingout on to the people hurrying past. Once, so Philip had heard, it had been a large building, but then about fifty years agothe church next door, St Mary-le-Bow, had lost her steeple, and it had crashed through this neighbouring property. Well, theplace had to be rebuilt after that, so it was one of the newer, brighter buildings in the road.

Philip had taken a seat on the bench at the window, and he welcomed Janin, Ricard with the boy, and then Adam. The tavernhad a young maid at the bar, and she smiled to see the boy. Soon Ricard had deposited him with her and joined the others.

‘Not managed to lose him yet?’ Adam asked.

Ricard was quiet awhile. He had an appalling sense of responsibility for the boy. Somehow he felt guilty that the lad had lost his parents. It wasn’t his fault that some mangy arsehole son of a feral tom cat had killed the glover and his wifeto get at Ricard … and yet somehow the blue eyes staring at him made him feel guilty. He held his tongue rather than tryto explain.

There was no sign of Peter.

‘He won’t come if he’s a brain,’ was Janin’s view. ‘He has two daughters to think of.’

‘Aye. Not like you, eh, old man?’ Adam teased Ricard.

They all smiled at that. It was one of the jokes they were wont to hurl back and forth in their casual banter on normal days.Ricard was known to be the most prolific of them all, and had fathered seven children all told, five of them still living.But today was not a normal day, and the smiles soon dried.

‘Yes, well, some of us have the strength to achieve greatness. There’s nothing showy about me.’

‘That’s true,’ Adam said, speaking into his ale.

Ricard scowled. ‘Just size ain’t all, is what I meant. You have to know what to do with it too, and I have plenty of skill,you see.’

‘Yeah. You showed that with the wench on Sunday night,’ Philip said quietly.

‘Shite, you always have to bring things down to your level.’

‘Yes. Well,’ Janin said quickly, but not fast enough.

Philip looked up steadily. ‘My level may be low, but so was killing her and her old man.’

There was a sudden silence. Then Ricard flushed angrily. ‘You mean you think I did that to them?’

‘Who else could have? I’ve been thinking about it, and that fine fellow wasn’t there in the tavern, was he? But the two hadbeen dead a while. That smell … they were so cold. They hadn’t just died that moment.’

Janin was staring at him with a frown on his face. ‘You mean to say you reckon Ric murdered them both? On Sunday night when we were that pissed we could hardly walk? Don’t talk wet!’

‘It couldn’t have been Ricard,’ Adam agreed dully. ‘Look at him! When he’s drunk, he sits down and giggles to himself. Henever attacks people or hurts them.’

‘And I didn’t on Sunday night,’ Ricard said.

‘Not even if you were so drunk you can’t remember what you did?’ Philip said nastily.

‘Look, if I was that drunk, I’d not have thought to wash myself afterwards. Whoever did that to them must have ended up lookinglike a butcher,’ Ricard said sensibly. ‘There’s no blood on my clothes, Philip. It must have been him, whoever he was.’

‘So what’ll we do?’ Janin said.

‘I’ve been reckoning. I think that there’re places where people would pay to hear good music and singing. We could try somewherea little further from here. I don’t know — York, or Lincoln …’

‘York!’ Adam burst out with horror. ‘You ever spoken to a man from there? They all talk funny! Can’t speak real English, and youtry to make them understand what you’re saying, and they all go dumb, like you’re speaking Flemish or something. York!’

‘Well, we can’t just walk up to the Queen and say, “Look, your Maj, we’re a bit hard up for money just now, and by the way,you look like you could do with a decent bit of music to cheer you up, so how about it?” can we? Talk sense!’

‘I think you’re mad if you reckon that wandering that far away is going to do us any good. No, I vote we stay here in London.It’s a huge city — we could easily lose ourselves in it, and no one need find us again.’

‘You think I’m mad? Who do you think that bastard was serving in that room when he slaughtered the man and his wife? He saidhe was no servant of Despenser, but if he wasn’t, who is his master? And if Despenser gets to think we’re involved in the death of two of his friends, do you seriouslythink that there’s anywhere in this city which is safe for us? If you reckon there’s anywhere secure from him and his bloodyservants, you’re more of a cretin than I thought. If you want to ignore what he wants and stay here, nice and close to hisdagger, then you do that. Me, I’m going to see if I can keep my blood in my veins just a little longer.’

‘If we just keep our heads down a while …’

‘Despenser can wield a sword low enough to catch your neck no matter how much you duck or crawl! Don’t be stupid! That fellowyesterday found us easily enough, didn’t he? How well do you think we could hide in the city? You prepared to throw away yourinstruments? I know I’m not losing my gittern for anyone! But if you keep hold of your things, you’ll be spotted as a musicianimmediately. How long’ll you survive then?’

Janin asked, ‘What did he tell you to do?’

‘He told me to keep in touch with him. We’re to listen out for any snippets that could put the Queen in a bad light, and totell him.’

‘How, though? Where was he going to be?’

‘He said there’d be someone who’d come to see us. He’d have a sign to show he was genuine — a picture of a peacock. He’d showus when he needed our help.’

Philip blinked slowly. ‘He’d have a picture of a peacock? What, a tapestry? Something on parchment?’

‘He didn’t say,’ Ricard said coldly. ‘I didn’t suggest it to him, he suggested it to me, all right?’

‘Well, I still think we should stay put. What’s he going to do to us here? There are too many people around for him to threatenus in the city,’ Adam declared.

‘Keep thinking like that and soon you won’t be thinking at all,’ Philip grunted.

‘Philip’s right. Despenser’s enemies, and those he reckons aren’t helpful enough, tend to end up dead,’ Ricard said. ‘So that’s whatwe have to do. Spy on the Queen, or run for it. And we can’t spy on her because we aren’t really her players. A little ballocks,and suddenly we’re deep in the shit. So, if one of you has got a better plan, I’m listening. Otherwise we run for it.’

‘I’d think that just asking might be enough.’

They all spun about on hearing Peter’s voice, Janin playing a short tune to celebrate his arrival.

‘What are you doing here, you silly bastard?’ Ricard demanded when Peter had sat down.

‘I can’t just leave you all in the lurch, can I? What would you lot get up to without me helping you?’

‘Bloody sight less dangerous shite,’ Adam muttered into his ale once more. ‘Sorry, sorry, but I can’t help thinking that.’

They ignored him. It was Adam’s most irritating trait, this verbal apology that was never seriously meant.

‘I asked. I got.’

Ricard was shaking his head in confusion. ‘What do you mean? You asked what?’

‘I took your advice. I asked whether we could get a billet with the Queen. She’s got no household now. Did you know that?She’s lost all her servants, all her ladies, everything. So when I offered our services, they said yes. Apparently they allremember us from our last evening there.’

Ricard scowled, Janin looked away pensively, and Adam gazed into his ale. Peter was left looking from one to the other ofthem with a speculative suspicion. ‘All right, so who did it? Ric, did you put your hand up a fine lady’s skirt? Adam? Didyou puke in the hallway? Janin, were you caught making poetry with a wench in there? Come on, what happened?’

‘Don’t you remember?’ Ricard asked.

‘No.’

‘You don’t remember drumming away happily and leering at the little strawberry blonde in the front? The one with the ever-so-tight bodiceand the arse you said would be like an archer’s target? The one with lips you said could suck a nail from the church door?The one with the …’

‘Christ in chains!’ Peter had the grace to colour. ‘Are you sure? Me? When was that? I don’t remember it at … But therewas no trouble about it.’

Ricard and Janin exchanged a look, then Ricard gave a frown of agreement and shook his head emphatically. ‘No, no. There wasno trouble at all.’

‘So I was bad, then?’

‘I think she thought so,’ Janin said. ‘Still, she said you weren’t all that bad. Once we found some money in your purse toreplace her shirt and clean her skirts.’

Peter wasn’t sure. The five of them would routinely take the piss out of each other, and it was quite possible that they werelying in their teeth … but he did have a vague recollection of a gorgeous little Venus with the face of an angel — andthe body of a fiend bent on tempting the innocent. He could remember playing his tabor with ever-increasing vigour, then leavingit as it was impossible to play the kind of tune he wanted with such a staid, boring instrument. No, he was a master musician,so he picked up his recorder and started to play that instead. He could recall leaning against the wall, playing like thedevil himself as she smiled and laughed. Her pleasure was all he needed to drive him on. It was that night he’d argued withhis wife, he recalled. Be more than an argument if she ever heard about this, he reckoned.

‘You are sure of this, Peter?’ Ricard said. ‘They’d let us back?’

Peter could not help but look down shamefacedly. ‘No, I’m sure there’s no problem. Not really.’

‘Even if she herself thought we would be allowed back in, there’s all the others. The King and she aren’t friendly just now,’ Janinpointed out.

‘The lady I spoke to was Lady Alicia, one of the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting, a blonde. She said she remembered me only toowell. Actually she was a bit off at first. Then she laughed … You say the wench was strawberry blonde?’

‘With the sort of body no angel would ever need,’ Janin agreed solemnly.

‘Oh. Oh! Christ’s ballocks, I never … I didn’t remember. Well, she didn’t seem upset, anyway. She can’t have been offended.’

Ricard nodded and shrugged. ‘Well, she wasn’t hurt or anything. You didn’t rape her, you just tried to grapple. Your incapacitysaved her from any danger.’

‘Incap- what?’ Philip stuttered.

‘Well, we’re in, like I said,’ Peter repeated. ‘She took me to see William de Bouden, the Queen’s old clerk. He’s in chargeof the money for her now, and he’s agreed. So you lot’re now the Queen’s Men again. Official.’