The Templar, the Queen and Her Lover

Chapter Five

Hythe, Kent

Père Pierre Clergue scowled as the wind whipped about his sparse hair, and thumped his hand upon his hat to hold it in place. He was an amiable-lookingman usually, but today he was feeling disgruntled and saw no reason to hide it.

There was so much to be done, and at his time of life he really should be able to take things more easily. Perhaps securea post in a quiet convent somewhere after his efforts for Holy Mother Church. It was nothing less than he deserved. But everyso often the cardinal would use him as a messenger, and provided it was business which benefited the Church or the Pope himself,Pierre was content.

He had spent too many years in service now. From the early days when he went to Pamiers to help the Inquisition to the present- he had grown old in his harness. And now he must return to the cardinal to report on the latest matter. It was hard.

A wave broke over the sheer, and he ducked a moment too late. Well, this was his last time travelling over the sea. He wouldhave to make that clear. He was too old for this kind of journey.

Château Gaillard

Jean had heard le Vieux tell others that this was once the castle of the mad English king, Richard, the one known as Coeur de Lion. He was the last of the Norman kings to show any spirit, he was. He’d go anywhere for a fight. Sacrée Dame! Jean had been in one battle in his life, and he had no desire ever to become embroiled in another. He had seen his brotherkilled at his side, spewing a thick, bloody froth as Jean stared at the crossbow bolt lodged across his breast, pinning hisarm to his body; a little later his father was decapitated by a fleeing man-at-arms on horseback. On his return he learnedthat his wife was dead too — raped and murdered. There was nothing in war to tempt a man. Not a man like him, anyway. Thosewho hankered after it were mad. They saw only the possible loot. Booty was a soldier’s dream. But only if you got your handson it.

Still, that old king knew something about building a castle. This one had suffered over the years. It had taken only one yearto build, from the defences set across the River Seine to the little bastions in their lakeside defences to the great fortressitself, but it had only survived as long as the authority of its builder. As soon as King Richard died, his brother King Johnshowed himself to be less than competent at defending even this jewel. From what Jean had heard, it was the loss of this castlethat guaranteed the end of English rule of Normandy.

The sun was failing now. On a whim, he climbed to the walkway of the great tower, and stared out over the river towards thewest. The sky was lit with a yellow-orange series of horizontal streaks which grew darker as he watched, deepening to a crimsonwhich licked the surface of the Seine below him with flames. And then a cloud drifted over the sun and the colours paled,and the twilight reminded him it was time he returned indoors to the fireplace.

There was no snow yet this year, but the sky was surely threatening it. It was that time of year when a sensible man was cautiousabout walking on the stone-paved walls, or on the timber steps that led a man from one wall to another. A castle like ChâteauGaillard was designed for ease of defence, not for the safety of any single individual, and a man who enjoyed life was sensible if he took some precautions.A patch of ice on the stone of a wall could all too easily send a man flying into the ditch. Only last month Jean had seena man slip on the frosted step of a staircase. He’d fallen heavily on his elbow, which shattered, sending shards of bone throughhis sleeve. By some miracle, he’d lived, although the barber had taken off the remains of the limb. So now the castle wasone man down, and others were forced to take on extra duties.

Jean made his way down from the great keep, nodding to the men coming up. The steps here were indoors, and he was sure-footedenough here in the dry, his armour grating and clattering as he went down the steep spirals. No, it was outside he had tobe careful, as he left the mass of the donjon behind him and went to the quarters set beside it, where all the soldiers lived.

There was a thick pottage simmering over the fire, and he went to the warmth with relief, holding his hands to it until hecould feel the flesh of his palms almost scorching.

Others soon joined him, men from the north, east and west walls. To the south there was the out-work, almost a separate fortressin its own right, with its own guards who had their own fires and food.

The last man in was the one they all preferred to ignore. Not a guard like them, he didn’t share in the same camaraderie.They all felt it, too: the revulsion. The sight of him was enough to make Jean’s stomach start to clench with disgust. Notthat Arnaud was repellent to look at, nor that Jean was overly bothered by his taking advantage of the woman prisoner. Thatwas normal — a benefit of the job, more or less. No, it was the understanding of what Arnaud did, what he could do to others,no matter what their station. Nobody was safe from him.

Only le Vieux himself appeared to be unbothered. As Arnaud entered, the old man automatically moved a little, creating a spaceat his side, and the two men sat together like the old campaigners they truly were, eating their food and watching their companionslike warders in a gaol eyeing the prisoners. Which was, in a way, no more than the truth. They had all been rescued from differentprisons.

Arnaud. Arnaud. The torturer. The mere thought was enough to make Jean feel sickly in his belly. He had saved Jean’s life,perhaps, but Jean could not like him. There was no trust between them. How could Jean trust the man who had done such things?

Yes, it was Jean who was most affected by Arnaud out of all those in the chamber. After all, he knew what the torturers fromthe Inquisition could do to people. He’d seen it.

Thorney Island

The Queen of England was no stranger to fear now, yet the terror was closer, more poignant, the stronger her hopes of freedomgrew.

Alicia was already in the hall when she returned from the second meeting with her husband. ‘Your highness?’

‘Yes. He has confirmed it,’ Isabella said. She was still quite shocked, and as she held up the papers for Alicia to see, shesaw that her hand was shaking.

‘It is one thing to be told, it is another to have the papers,’ Alicia said.

She read them quickly, but Isabella made no further comment about them. All that mattered was that the papers were genuine.Safe conducts for her and her party to travel to France to visit her brother and negotiate the truce for Guyenne. All there,all clear, all precise and correct. If he were to withdraw from the plan now, it would send her demented, she was sure. Itwas her last hope, her last opportunity of freedom. Once she had succeeded in shaking the dust of England from her feet, she would be secure once more.But she had to get away. She must not allow anyone to see how much she craved this journey, because if her husband or hislover, the dreadful Despenser, were to learn how deeply she desired it, they would realise that she had deceived them.

‘My lady, you are safe!’ Alicia whispered, so quietly her lips barely moved.

‘And you? You are happy to have those musicians back?’

Alicia nodded. ‘They will suit our purpose.’

‘I will have him castrated if he tries to hurt you.’

‘I would do it myself if I thought he was a danger — to me or to you!’ Alicia breathed. ‘I’ve already told Richard about theman. He’ll look after me.’

Isabella had learned how to dissemble and pretend to be a play-actor. She gave a fleeting grin, but then glanced at Aliciawith a cold, outraged demeanour, and imperiously held out her hand for the papers. She did not so much as glance in the directionof the other women in the room.

They were all the spies of Despenser.

3rd day of Lent ⁶

Alehouse at gateway to Palace Yard, Westminster

They were all nervous as they marched under the entrance gate to the great palace complex of Westminster on Thorney Island.Charlie, in Ricard’s arms, buried his head in Ricard’s neck. It was odd — just that little proof of the lad’s sense of vulnerabilitywas enough to make Ricard’s breast swell. He felt as if he could kill dragons to protect him. And then they fell under theshadow of the gatehouse, and his courage cooled. The mere sight of the huge belfry at the abbey next door made him duck his own head down. There was too much moneyand magnificence here for them. And of course they were here to do the bidding of someone else and spy on the Queen.

‘One thing I still don’t understand is,’ Janin had said as he scuffed his boots along the road to the palace, ‘why they wantus so badly. There must be some good reason why they want a motley band of brothers like us to be near the Queen.’

‘Maybe that’s it?’ Philip said. ‘They think we’re so motley, no one would suspect us of any deviousness.’

‘Well, naturally they’d respect our position. Perhaps it’s just that. They know that a Queen’s Musician is likely to be ableto keep close to her, eh?’ Ricard grunted.

They were no nearer an answer when they reached the alehouse inside the gateway. It was here that they were supposed to meettheir companion Peter. He was to introduce them to the Queen’s Comptroller, but when they gave their names to the guard atthe door, they were told to wait and someone would be sent to find their companion.

‘He’s a musician, you say?’

The man’s suspicion was not hidden, but few in these troubled times were not distrustful of strangers, and no one was morewary than a king’s guard. There had been attempts to assassinate the King and his friend since Mortimer the Traitor had escapedfrom the Tower.

Ricard answered for them all. ‘Peter Waferer — he plays the tabor. He ought to be up and about by now.’

‘Wait here.’

They were forced to hang around for a long while. It was soon apparent that no one had seen Peter that morning so far, andas the sun climbed in the sky the guard quickly grew bored with their presence. He called a lad over and asked whether themusicians could be taken to the Queen’s Comptroller. Soon they were being escorted over the great yard towards the exchequer buildings, two extensions added to themassive hall built by William II more than two hundred years ago.

The main exchequer chambers were full of black-garbed clerks working on numbers, and there was a large table with a chequeredcloth on it, although all the men seemed to be scrawling on parchments or in books rather than looking at the money on it.And there was a lot of money, enough to make Ricard salivate, almost. There was no sign of the man they must see, though,so they were taken out through a small door into the great hall itself. Here there were several courts hearing cases, thejudges sitting in attitudes of either boredom or keen attention. They followed their guide down behind the court of CommonPleas and King’s bench, past a massive marble table which was, so Ricard was told in a hushed tone, the Chancery, before beingled out through the rear of the hall into a small chamber nearer the river. At last they met William de Bouden.

‘Who in God’s name are you lot? What’s that brat doing in here?’

The bawled demand was enough to make all of them drop their heads, and their guide respectfully bowed and apologised.

‘My lord, these are the musicians for the Queen. They’re here to join her on her journey, if it pleases you.’

‘No, it bloody doesn’t. Scruffy-looking bunch of tatterdemalions! Where in hell did you find them, eh?’

The guide was sensibly silent at that question, but Ricard felt that somebody ought to speak, so he pulled off his hat respectfullyand cleared his throat.

‘You hawk and spit in here, man, and you’ll spend the next year in the King’s gaol!’

‘My lord, I was only going to say that we played for the Queen some while ago, and she remembers us. Perhaps she wanted us to join her when she rides off to wherever she’s going.Where is it? York? Lincoln?’

‘Bloody York? Lincoln? Christ’s bones, man, she’d hardly need musicians for a local journey like that. No, she’s off intodanger in France, and some of us are going with her. Sweet Mother of God, though, these bastards stink! She will want nothingto do with them.’

The guide bent his head. ‘Earl Edmund himself has asked that you take them. The embassy is to be as flattering to her honouras possible. The Earl respectfully asked that you find some money for them, so that she has her full dignity during her embassy.No ambassador would think of travelling so far to meet so prestigious a ruler without some form of musician, and Earl Edmundis assured that these are actually very good players.’

‘Earl Edmund said that? Dear heaven! When someone with his intellect sinks to selecting musicians, there’s no telling whatsort of man he may find.’ He curled his lip at them. ‘Well, you can’t put them in front of her looking and smelling like that.Take them to the wash house and see that they’re made presentable. Throw away those rags of theirs, and give them some moresuitable clothes. The Queen’s own colours, mind. You’ll all get the usual fare: food and drink with the rest of the seniorservants, two tunics a year, and occasional tips when you play well. All right? The boy can’t come, though.’

‘He’s mine!’ Ricard heard himself say. Shite! Why’d I say that?

‘Where’s his mother? No. Don’t answer that. Well, don’t let the little devil steal anything. He’ll get what he deserves ifhe does,’ de Bouden said disdainfully, looking at the overawed Charlie. ‘Good. Now piss off, the lot of you. As if I didn’thave enough to deal with already.’

In no time, so it seemed, they were all back out in the great yard, and as their guide left them, muttering about finding them new clothing, they exchanged looks.

‘Who’s this Earl Edmund?’ Philip demanded.

‘Don’t you remember anything?’ Ricard said. ‘He’s the King’s brother.’

‘What’s he worried about the Queen’s musicians for, then?’

‘Perhaps he wants her to be shown in the best light. She is his sister-in-law.’

‘I don’t like it,’ Philip said. ‘Why should he be so keen to see us go there with the Queen? I’ve never seen him.’

‘We are to have money, clothing, food and drink,’ Janin breathed.

‘But we have to throw out our old clothes,’ Adam muttered.

‘For a guaranteed allowance of food and drink, I can live with that,’ Ricard said.

‘And me, I suppose,’ Philip said, although he still looked doubtful.

‘Where is Peter, though?’ Janin wondered.

‘He’ll show up,’ Ricard said. ‘He always does.’

City ditch, near Ludgate

Simon Corp had known better days. He shuffled along with a stick, peering into the ditch, hoping to see something that mighthelp pay for a little food or a mug of warmed ale. Sometimes a man could see a coin in the filth, or a small knife that hadbeen accidentally thrown out with the rubbish that householders hurled into the ditch here. It smelled evil, both from rottingfood and from the excrement with which it had been mingled, and Simon had to hold a shred of cloth over his nose to ward offthe offending odour. The tanners worked all along here, and they threw much of their waste into the ditch, a repugnant combinationof urine and dog’s turds, just to add to the stench.

In the past he had been quite well off, and with his lad John he had hoped to start to have an easier life. Of course, it hadbeen hard when his wife grew ill, but at least when she died she stopped being a drain on their resources. Until then, Simonand John had had to share the task of looking after her. Some women from the parish did try to help, but there was littleenough anyone could do. She was dying; they all knew it.

A month ago, now. Just when the weather changed. That was when she’d gone. A rattle in her throat, that was all he’d heard.Just a rattle. Then there was the soft slump as her spirit left her, poor Joan. And she was gone.

Yes, he’d hoped that after that he and his lad would be able to keep more of the money they laboured for, but before he knewwhat was happening, God save him if his thick as pigshit son didn’t get into a fight. Trying to steal a horse, so they said,although it wasn’t proved yet. Had to wait for the justices to hear the case. But there were enough men who believed it. Well,the bastards would believe anything of anyone who was poor. A poor man is a thief, someone said in Simon’s earshot. He wouldhave attacked the speaker, except he wasn’t sure who it was. His hearing was less good than it had been.

Aye, well, if there’d been money in his purse, he’d have fought the damned lot of them. They were passing unfair judgementon his boy, and any man who repeated that kind of slander was deserving of a buffet on the head, rot their souls. His littleJohn was as good as any young lad. He was a reliable, honest fellow. Better than most of them who lied about him.

John. He was in the gaol now, just up there, over the wall inside the city. God knew what would happen to him. They said hehad an evil reputation, but that wasn’t the boy’s fault. God knew he’d tried to get along without upsetting people, but when a fellow had nothing, and he saw the wealthy strolling past, caring not a whit for anyone else, money intheir purses, rich clothes on their backs, the sort of people who never had to work, who’d never felt the cold, who hadn’texperienced the way that fingers would crack in the brutal chill while one was working out in the ditches … people likethat were all too keen to condemn a fellow just because he knocked a man on the head in desperation. It wasn’t fair!

He prodded away with his stick, and then, heaven be praised, he saw it! A distinct gleam. It must be metal — perhaps a knife,or a jewel set in some gold? There was a clear glinting through the mud where his stick had scraped the surface.

Scrambling gingerly down the bank, he reached the spot and began to dig with his fingers in the filth. There was somethingthere, a hard disc of some sort, and then he uncovered a drum, a tabor. At the rim there was a gleaming ring of steel whichhad a leather thong bound to it, trailing off into the mud. That was what he had seen. Just a metal ring from a drum. It wastempting to swear, but then he shook his head and crossed himself in pious gratitude. A drum, once cleaned, and so long asthe thing hadn’t lain there too long and become rotten, would be worth a few pennies. He might be able to sell it for enoughto buy a loaf.

He gathered it up, and began to make his way up the slope once more, but the thong held him back. Till then he had thoughtthat it was just trailing loose, but now he understood that it was tied to something. Giving it an experimental pull, he thoughtit gave slightly. He tugged harder, jerking it, then drawing it steadily, and it began to give. Further and further, untilhe stopped very suddenly. Gasping, he began to step backwards, but stumbled, and then, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on themud, he scuttled up the bank and out of the ditch.

‘You all right, old man?’ a fellow called, seeing his discomfort.

‘Sweet Jesus, come and look at this,’ Simon Corp said, and then started to bellow hoarsely for the hue and cry — before pausingto puke.