The Templar, the Queen and Her Lover

Chapter Forty

Baldwin had not realised who it was who lay on the ground, but as the first men brought in the pale, blue-grey-faced figure of theKing’s Executioner, he frowned quickly, and then peered out at the second man being brought inside.

‘The man from Poissy,’ he breathed. ‘Simon, this is the man who killed the old fellow and hurt Robert de Chatillon.’

Simon gazed at the two men. ‘I wouldn’t worry. I doubt that either is likely to last long.’

Artois had heard their words. ‘You say this man was at Poissy, Sir Baldwin? Can you be sure?’

‘I am certain of it. I saw him walking with the man who was killed there. The other man was being hunted by him. Why wouldthat have been?’

‘You must ask them, if they ever recover,’ Artois said. ‘Now, Lord Cromwell. This man de Sapy. It has been suggested thathe was responsible for the death of Chatillon. I have to decide what to do about this allegation.’

‘Who says he is guilty?’ Cromwell demanded.

‘A man of the highest reputation, I fear. A priest from the south, who happens to be a friend of one of the King’s own advisers.You may have heard of François de Tours? No? He is held in the very highest regard by the King, and the accuser is his ownchaplain, Père Pierre de Pamiers.’

‘Would it be permitted to speak to this père?’ Baldwin asked.

Artois looked at him steadily for a moment. ‘I suppose that might be possible.’

‘Then I should be grateful if you could arrange it.’

‘And what of his accusation?’

Lord Cromwell sighed. ‘I swear to you that de Sapy shall not leave this castle until he is shown to be innocent. If he isnot, he is still protected by the safe conducts I hold, and I expect them to be honoured. However, I would send him back instantlyto England were he discovered to be guilty.’

‘That is well.’

‘If you will both excuse me,’ Baldwin apologised, ‘first, my lords, I think I should arrange for these two men to be takento a place of healing. They will most certainly expire here.’

Both men nodded, and Baldwin began to arrange for men to carry Jean and Arnaud indoors to the little chapel.

De Sapy was already inside, kneeling and praying most assiduously at the altar, when Simon and Baldwin entered, Baldwin directingthe men carrying the biers to opposite alcoves from where the injured men could see the cross. ‘And please bring wine andwater for them,’ he urged the men as they deposited their burdens.

Simon and he spent a while checking both men. There was little they could do other than try to cool their brows, but evenwith such action Baldwin was unsure that either would recover consciousness, let alone revive enough to recover. Still, heand Simon waited until Peter of Oxford arrived.

‘Dear God in heaven!’

‘I do not think it will be long before they meet Him,’ Baldwin said. ‘Sadly these two had an altercation in the road outsidethere.’

‘And came to blows?’

‘Yes. We saw this one hunting the executioner yesterday morning, and although he got away that time I think he tried the same assault today, but this Arnaud was able to defend himself.’

‘I will do all I may for them,’ Peter said, and bent to pray at the side of the nearer, who happened to be Jean.

Baldwin and Simon walked away a short distance as Peter finished his prayers and took up a cloth to begin washing the facesof the dying men. Blood was leaking from their biers on to the floor.

‘Sir John,’ Baldwin said. ‘I could not help but overhear what you told Lord Cromwell earlier. You took this priest to a housein Lombard Street?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

He rolled his eyes. ‘You know how it is. My Lord Despenser asked me to, and I wanted to remain in his favour. I was tryingto become rehabilitated.’

‘And he told you what he wanted at this house?’

‘All he said was that there was a French couple in there. That was all.’

‘A couple?’

‘Oh, he mentioned a boy as well, I think.’

‘What did he do to them?’

‘How should I know? He asked me to take him to the house, and I did. Then I waited outside.’

Baldwin remembered the look of horror on Ricard’s face. ‘He came out with blood over him, didn’t he?’

‘He might have done.’

‘And you heard later of the murders, didn’t you?’

Sir John looked at him steadily. ‘I was asked by Sir Hugh le Despenser. I didn’t trouble myself beyond that. It was his will,and I was helping him.’

‘I see,’ Baldwin said. He withdrew slightly, then shook his head, spun on his heel and walked back down the nave towards the entrance. On his way, he stopped at Jean’s side. ‘Peter, I believe this one is dead already.’

Sir John happened to look across as he spoke. His face hardened, and he pointed at Arnaud on the other bier. ‘That man! Heis the one who came in and accused me in Chatillon’s room!’

‘Arnaud, the executioner?’ Baldwin muttered. ‘What was he doing there?’

Ricard was out in front of the hall, playing catch with Charlie. He tossed the ball gently, and the boy, chuckling uncontrollably,holding his hands firmly unmoving in front of his chest, shrieked as the ball landed in his palms and rolled out on to thedirt.

Baldwin smiled to see the lad’s delight. As Ricard retrieved the ball again, and returned to attempt to teach him how to catchonce more, Baldwin walked to him.

‘Master Ricard, I do not know whether my suspicions are correct, but in the name of all that matters to you, keep this boyat your side no matter what. You understand? You must not let him out of your sight, and never allow any man who is Frenchto look after him. Yes?’

‘Certainly, Sir Baldwin. But why?’

‘I am not sure. But it is possible that this little boy holds the key to all these murders,’ Baldwin said.

As he walked away, leaving Ricard looking at the boy with a bemused expression on his face, Simon muttered, ‘Baldwin, whatdo you think is happening here? What secret could that little boy hold?’

‘He may know who it was who killed his parents,’ Baldwin said. ‘And that could itself be dangerous for him. Worse, though,is my concern that he might be the target himself.’

‘Who’d want to kill a little boy?’

‘There are many who would like to kill the children of powerful men and women, Simon,’ Baldwin said. And then he glanced back at Charlie, who was giggling as he tried to catch again andfailed. He scampered through the dust to grab at the ball, and as Ricard watched fondly he swung his arm, and carefully hurledthe ball over his head and behind him some six yards. ‘And anyone who tries to hurt a lad like that deserves every pain thedemons in hell can inflict.’

Arnaud felt the cloth at his brow, but his mouth was so dry, his lips felt gummed together. He tried to speak, but a calmvoice told him to be still. Too tired to even think of opening his eyes, he moaned softly. His entire belly felt as thoughsomeone had filled it with boiling lead. It was an enormity of anguish, and he was sure that he must soon be dead.

He could remember every thrust of that dagger. It was lucky he got his blow in first. He had been quicker than Jean. His knifehad slipped in as easily as a blade spearing a leg from the fire. Soft pressure, smooth and lovely. He’d seen the recognitionin Jean’s eyes as soon as he’d started to rip upwards, slicing through the man’s guts — and then he’d felt it himself. Thatsnagging, parting, wet, foul sensation that meant Jean’s own knife was reaching up through his vitals.

‘Père … je voudrai mon père …’

‘Easy, friend,’ Peter said. He recognised enough French to understand the man’s demand. ‘I am a chaplain. You want me to hearyour confession?’

‘No, my own … my own father. Own priest.’

Peter gave an understanding nod. Sometimes men wanted their own priest. It was natural enough to want the man who’d seen themevery day, for every Mass through their lives. ‘Who? Where? You haven’t much time, my friend.’

Arnaud’s eyes opened. He looked down at his belly, and his eyes widened. He had killed often enough to know a deadly wound when he saw one, and the slow pumping of his blood from the great gash meant he had little time indeed.

With a shudder of horror, he closed his eyes and began to make his full confession.

It was the middle of the afternoon when a man came to the Château de Bois, clad in a tunic that bore Artois’s insignia, andasked to speak to Baldwin.

‘Sir, my lord asked me to fetch you. You wish to meet the Père Pierre Clergue?’

Baldwin shrugged on a cloak. The weather was warm enough, but there were some grey clouds on the horizon that threatened anunpleasant change before long. With Simon at his side, he set off after the man.

Their journey took little time. Soon they were in a broad courtyard, where Artois waited for them. ‘Good afternoon,’ he saidcourteously enough, bowing, but there was a reserve in his voice.

‘The father?’ Baldwin said, looking about them.

‘He is not here. He’s only a short way away. Come with me,’ Artois said, and set off. Baldwin and Simon glanced at each otheras they followed him, but both were thinking more of the men behind them than the one in front, because as soon as they startedwalking twelve men-at-arms took up station immediately behind them.

‘I hope Artois has honourable intentions,’ Simon muttered.

‘If he has not, there is little we can do about it now,’ Baldwin responded.

Besides, he thought, what other intention could Artois have? The man had nothing against Baldwin or Simon so far as they knew.And yet the men behind them were a constant reminder that they were a long way from home and any possible aid. The trampingof their boots sounded like the drumbeat of an executioner’s escort, and Baldwin could not stifle the grim apprehension that grew in his breast. When he glanced at Simon, he could see that his companion was in the same mood,but neither felt it necessary to speak. They trudged on behind Artois, both dully aware of their danger.

But it wasn’t Simon’s danger. Baldwin knew that. It was he who had been a Knight Templar, who had not submitted to the Popeand the French king when the Order was disbanded, and who was now legally an outlaw evading justice. If caught, he could expectto be hanged or burned at the stake.

Baldwin could see in his mind’s eye his wife and their children. His beautiful little Richalda and his tiny son. Somehow,even as he was thinking of them, the face of Charlie kept intruding. It was irritating at first, seeing that little boy inhis mind’s eye, but then he welcomed it. Charlie would serve as a happy image of what his own son might look like one day.And if he was to be held in a prison soon, at least that boy’s face would be there in his head. No matter what else happened,he would keep Charlie’s smile with him. A little picture like that was worth much to a man in gaol, he had heard.

It was a shame to think that after almost ten years in England, living quietly and happily down in Devon, he was to die here.There was something about Artois’s silence that assured him that Mortimer had been correct: his secret had become known, andnow he was being marched to his doom.

‘Simon, I’m sorry,’ he said quietly.

‘Hmm?’

‘Where do you think they’re taking us?’

Simon’s face showed his bewilderment. ‘What, now? To see the priest, aren’t they? Do you think they’ll offer us somethingto eat?’

Baldwin found it impossible to say more.

Sir Charles had encountered Sir Peter twice today, but neither had enjoyed any fortune. ‘I will try nearer the river,’ Sir Charlessaid the second time they met.

Sir Peter sucked his teeth. ‘Where’s Sir John?’

‘I suppose he’s returned to the castle,’ Sir Charles said shortly.

‘The idea of food is appealing. Perhaps, Sir Charles, we would be better served to pay someone to keep an eye open for him?’

‘And whom exactly would you trust with such a task?’

‘I have my own men,’ Sir Peter pointed out.

Sir Charles was aware of that. He was also painfully aware that he was without a man-at-arms to support him. If there werea number of men about the place looking for Mortimer, and one of them found him, not Sir Charles, then he would lose all: the chance of revenge for Paul’s murder, and the money that Mortimer’s head would bring. ‘I don’t think it’s sensible to usehired men instead of ourselves. How much would you want to pay them as their share of the bounty?’

‘Let us go and find some food, and then we can discuss it sensibly. I don’t know about you, but this weather feels as chillas a Scottish winter to me.’

‘You go. I’ll wait here until you return.’

‘Do you not think we should consider returning to see the Queen is safe? It would be an enormous embarrassment were she tobe in any danger while we were engaged on this hunt.’

‘My first duty is to my dead man,’ Sir Charles said.

‘Not to your King?’

The coolness with which the question was uttered was enough to make Sir Charles want to whip out his sword and attack thesupercilious bastard right there, but the risk of retribution was enough to stay his hand. Better that he should keep oneman on his side, than that he should lose all. ‘You go and find some food. I shall wander down towards the river and see whether there’s any sign of Mortimer there.’

With an ungracious ‘Very well. Do so, then’, Sir Peter turned abruptly and marched back the way they had come at daybreak.

Sir Charles gritted his teeth and looked all about him. Apart from a couple of lounging, lazy French sons-of-the-devil upto the north in this road, there was no one in sight. One, a man in a light beige or orange jack, glanced in his direction,but there was nothing to remind Sir Charles of Mortimer in his face.

Paul must have seen the bastard. He had been down this way, Sir Charles knew. It was the same direction in which Sir Charleshimself had seen the man. But what was strange was that there were no decent houses down here. A man like him would prefera decent place. Unless he was concealing himself in a mean hovel.

No. That was impossible. Sir Charles wandered southward to the great river, and stood a while eyeing it gloomily. There hadto be somewhere that would appeal more to Mortimer. Looking westward, he watched the small boats and merchant ships that pliedtheir trade along the river here. Their sails concealed much of the view beyond the house of Saint-Lazare. This side of theriver there were plenty of decent houses, though. Especially fronting the shoreline. Perhaps Mortimer had taken one of them- perhaps to remind himself of his time in the Tower. That would be ironic.

Sir Charles might be lucky, though. If he were to walk along all the larger riverside houses, he might come across somethingthat indicated Mortimer had been there.

He spat a curse. There was no point. This damned city was too large. The people here were as numerous as ants in a nest. Howcould he find one man here all on his own?

Paul had.

Well, if Paul could do it, so could Sir Charles. With that new resolve, he turned and found himself face to face with Roger Mortimer and seven men.

‘Good day, Sir Charles. I understand you’ve been looking for me,’ Mortimer said. ‘Congratulations. You have succeeded.’