The Templar, the Queen and Her Lover

Chapter Six

Château Gaillard

Jean left his companions and walked out to the walls, untying his hosen and spraying the wall until his bladder was empty, consciousonly of the relief.

Finished, he settled his clothes and began to make his way back to the guard rooms, but then turned away at the last moment.There was no hurry. All the others would be in there, drinking their beer and wine, swapping the tall stories they had rehearsedso many times before. There was nothing new for them to share with each other. Jean knew them as he knew the hairs on theback of his hand. They were too familiar to be interesting: old Berengar with his untidy mop of greying hair cut to fit beneathhis steel cap so that none showed, only his great red nose and enormous moustache; Guillaume, the black-haired Norman withthe narrow face and close-set brown eyes that appeared so shrewd and suspicious; Pons, the fair man from the east, with themuscled shoulders and carriage of a warrior much older than his three or four and twenty years. And then there was Arnaud.

All must detest a man such as that. The torturer and killer of so many, who seemed to take pleasure in the suffering he inflicted.Everyone in the garrison had heard the gloating tone of voice he used while he described cutting off a nose or lips for someinfringement. Once he had told Jean of the ‘great’ times he had enjoyed down in the south with the bishop, Jacques Fournier.He had been assistant to the executioner, and had himself put many men and women to the fires. Those had been great days, he had said. It had taken allJean’s self-control not to plant his fist in the man’s face.

More recently his revulsion at the sight of Arnaud had grown. The men had told him that Arnaud had repeatedly raped the womanin the cell below the tower. The one who le Vieux had said would have been a queen, were it not for one crime.

Le Vieux was himself an odd man. Certainly he had seen much in his life. He was one of the oldest men Jean had ever met. Overtime, he must have fought in any number of battles. Someone had told Jean that he too had been in the battle of the GoldenSpurs, at Courtrai, when the rebels had all but destroyed the flower of French chivalry. The rebels had taken the spurs andwar belts from the dead and used them to decorate their churches. Le Vieux had been one of the foot soldiers there, and hadbeen back afterwards to help hunt down the guilty — all those who’d assisted the rebels to defeat the French host.

Jean liked to listen to him, though. He wouldn’t talk much about his experiences in wars, but he was honest when he did — he had no false pride, only genuine satisfaction in some things he felt he had done well. He was a man who had learned honourin the course of a long and hard life. But tonight he would be sitting with Arnaud.

No, Jean did not want to re-join them. Instead, he walked up around the line of the wall of the inner enceinte, over the great ditch and in through the gatehouse. He climbed up on to the walls and stood there gazing at the River Seineas it wound its way past the castle and the little town of Les Andelys nearby. It was a lovely place, this. Safe, with goodviews all about the countryside.

There was a shout, and Jean glanced at the sky automatically to see what the time might be. It was the first watch after theirlunch, of course. There was no need to check. And yet there was something that made his hackles rise. Something felt wrong. It was nothing obvious, but there was enough ofa sense of danger to make him move away from the open, crouching down a little while he listened and watched.

For some while there appeared to be nothing to alarm him. No running, no men calling or blowing horns, only a strange sensethat something was not well in the castle. And then he heard it: a rasping, panting breath.

It made him think of a man he had once known. That one had had not an ounce of cruelty in his heart, but he had been chasedto exhaustion like a hart, and when Jean saw him, the fellow was already near to death. He stood in a little clearing, bentover, hands resting on his thighs, looking about him with desperation, so confused by the chase that he couldn’t recognisehis own pasture where he had been a shepherd. He died a short while later — a sword thrust ended his life.

Then Jean saw Berengar, hurtling around the wall like a mountain goat, fleeing some terrible horror. There was already bloodrunning freely from a wound in his scalp, and his fists moved back and forth as though he was trying to punch the air fromhis path. He flew over the court and through the gate to the next section of the fortress, and just as Jean was wonderingwhat he should do, whether he ought to chase Berengar and bring him back, he heard a loud laugh and saw Arnaud leaping oversome rubble and haring off after Berengar, a long, bloody knife in his hand. At the sight, Jean shrank away. Arnaud must havebecome insane.

He heard the skittering sounds of little stones as the two rushed off, and he was tempted to go straight to the stables tofetch his horse, but he couldn’t. He was in the service of the King, when all was said and done, and he must honour that service.So he slipped back down to the gatehouse and walked quietly back towards the guard house.

But he didn’t make it inside. On the threshold, he saw something lying in the dirt. He found his steps slowing. In the doorway there was a body. A bloody mess, a man with only redhorror where his face should have been. It had been pounded with a hammer, from the look of it. Nearby there was another body.This one was still moving, and Jean recognised Guillaume. He was on his back, and the breath was rattling in his throat ashe clutched at the wound in his breast as though to stop the slow pumping of the blood that came in bright, scarlet bubbles.Jean went to him and tried to ease his last moments, raising him and trying to calm him, giving him the only comfort he could,cradling his head in his lap.

Guillaume looked up at him with terror in his eyes, looking into the doorway, then up at Jean. Not for long — thankfully hismisery was soon over. As soon as his body had tensed that last time, then melted, like a child going to sleep, Jean set himback on the ground.

The man lying in the doorway was not le Vieux. The poor old man must still be lying inside. If Arnaud had any sense, he wouldkill the experienced warrior first, and then the others. Still, the fellow could have had little enough sense to have donethis in the first place. The dead man there must be Pons. His hair … and the jerkin he wore. It looked like Pons …Reluctantly, Jean entered the guard room. There at the side of the table was le Vieux, lying on the ground, blood oozing froma wound above his ear.

A clattering of stones from outside. He didn’t stop to think; he couldn’t carry le Vieux to safety, not with a maddened Arnaudbehind him. They’d both be killed. No, he must flee.

Jean ran on light, quiet feet to the small gate that led out to the escarpment. The door was bolted with a baulk of timber,and he pulled it aside silently, then eased the door open a little, and slipped out.

And once out, he ran and ran.

City ditch, London Wall

The musicians heard about their friend’s death later in the afternoon, and were soon there at the ditch just over the other sideof the great wall from the Fleet Prison. The inquest was just finished when they got there, and the body was being carriedaway on a makeshift hurdle, four men transporting it reluctantly, one looking as though he would soon be sick from the smell.Charlie stood studying the proceedings with apparent interest.

‘The poor bastard,’ Ricard muttered.

‘What happened to him?’ Janin wondered.

There was a small crowd already thinning, but one old man showed no sign of wishing to leave the place. ‘It was me found him.Poor little shite-wit. Must have been wandering out after dark to be killed like that. Probably set on by footpads.’

‘He was robbed?’ Ricard asked.

‘They took his purse, yes,’ Corp agreed mournfully. If it had been discovered at the inquest, he’d have been kicking himselffor not finding it first.

‘Poor Peter,’ Adam said.

‘A bad way to die.’

‘Stabbed? Was he knocked on the head? Throttled?’

‘Oh no. He was held under until he choked. They drowned him — in all that muck! Can you imagine?’

It was a short while later, as the four remaining musicians stood in a tavern just along from Temple Bar, toasting their deadfriend, that the thought occurred to Janin first.

‘Ricard,’ he said, ‘why would a man kill him like that?’

‘How should I know? I’m no murderer. Maybe it was a drunk who decided he didn’t like the look of Peter’s face, or something.Or just a cutpurse who thought it’d be easier to kill him than rob him.’

Janin nodded slowly, but without conviction. ‘If that was the case, why drown him? Hitting him over the head would be easier, or stabbing him. Why’d someone want to drown him there?’

‘You tell me.’

‘Someone who knew a man and his wife who are dead, I was thinking. If they wanted revenge on the men who’d killed them, andeveryone was saying there were these musicians who’d been leching after the wench? Perhaps a brother or father? They may wantrevenge — and a death in a nastier way than a quick stab.’

Ricard gazed at him blankly for a long moment, and then longer and harder at Charlie, who was playing and giggling loudlywith another small brute. He hurriedly polished off the remains of his ale. ‘I think we ought to get back to the palace andstay there until we leave the country.’

West of Paris

The old cart rumbled slowly, and yet Blanche had to hurry to keep up. Her hands were fettered, a long chain leading from herwrists to the rear of it, and were she to fall, she would be dragged some way before being able to get to her feet.

Her eyes were tormented by the light still. It was so hard to see where she was going, and while the dust from the wheelsplagued her, worse was the sheer pain of the brightness lancing into her eyes and making her head ache for every moment ofthe journey. She was so unused to the light.

Still, the anguish was worth it for the unadulterated delight of the sensation of being in the open once more. Dear Christin heaven! To hear the birds again, to see trees and the little shoots that showed spring might not be so very far away, wasso overwhelming, she spent much of the journey wondering whether she should laugh aloud, or jump and dance with pure joy.It was like being reborn.

Perhaps, given a little time, she might grow to feel that she had indeed become renewed. It would take much, though, to achieve that. To feel truly alive again she must be able to forget her past. To forget her husband the king of France, toforget their children — to forget the gaoler at Château Gaillard … No. She could not think of such things. Better by farto remain in the present and live for the future. That was sensible. Much more sensible.

Live for now, and pray to God.

Château Gaillard

Le Vieux groped for consciousness like a diver deep in a pool desperately striving for the surface.

He had been here sitting by the fire with a mug of beer in his hand, talking with the others. Jean had walked out earlier,said he needed a piss. All the others started telling stories. There was little else to do now that their most important prisonerwas gone. Without Queen Blanche, there was little to do.

Of course! Le Vieux had been telling them about her, about her appalling conduct — adultery when married to the heir to thethrone. Such depravity, such dedication to her own pleasures, had led to her arrest. She was condemned to come here, and hereshe should rot.

Astonishing that her husband had become king in so short a space of time. A good man. Pious, honourable, committed to hisrealm. Le Vieux had known him for many years, and had met him once, in Paris. His commander had introduced him. That was inthe days when Charles’s father had still been alive, of course. Dear Philip the Fair of blessed memory. There was a man!

There was a smell. Unpleasant. It reminded him of battlefields long ago.

He had told them all about the bitch, yes. And then he had told them about her spreading her legs in the gaol, how she’d givenbirth later. Yes, and how she’d wept when the child was taken away. Well, any mother would. But the adulterous wife of a prince of France could not keep an illegitimate child.

Arnaud had loved her, so he said. She was his best, his favourite. All the others here knew that. They’d looked away whenthe conversation moved in that direction. No one wanted to think about such things.

And then it was that Arnaud’s impatient slapping and prodding started to wake him. ‘What? Eh?’

‘Vieux! Vieux! Wake up! He escaped. Look around you!’

Les Andelys, Normandy

Jean reached the town an hour before dark, and hurried up the narrow streets, heart pounding, feeling sick and faint fromthe horror of the castle.

‘Where is the bayle?’ he called when he saw a man. The fellow stopped dead at the sight of him, staring, and then jerked his chin towards thetop of the town. Jean thanked him, and lurched off again, going cautiously on the cobbles.

It was strangely silent in the town today. Usually this would be a bustling little place, with hordes thronging the streets.Now, though, it seemed almost deserted. It was … wrong. Jean felt his legs begin to slow, and instead of rushing headlong, he began to walk more hesitantly.

There were shouts from up towards the town’s square, and he bent his steps that way, wondering what was happening.

‘The entire garrison has been slain,’ a man was shouting. ‘All dead.’

Jean stopped. He was about to breathe a sigh of relief when a cold, unpleasant certainty struck him. There was no way anyonecould have got here before him. Surely Arnaud was still chasing Berengar, and even if he wasn’t, he couldn’t have reachedhere yet, could he? He was busy carving holes in Berengar’s body, surely. But all the other members of the garrison were dead.Who could have come here?

Filled with trepidation, he went to the wall and sidled up towards the marketplace, keeping to the shadows and looking about himwith anxiety. This made no sense.

In the market he saw the bailiff standing on a cart, haranguing the crowds who ringed him.

‘I need some men to come with me to see what’s happened and help to clear up. We’ll need to clean the bodies and move them.Who’s coming with me?’

‘Not just that, Bayle. Someone’ll have to read the last rites and prepare them for a vigil in the church,’ a man shouted.

‘We are fortunate that this man came, then,’ the bailiff said. ‘The castle’s vicar came to tell us all about the madmen upthere. He can officiate at the services.’

He beckoned a chubby father down at the wheel, and the smiling, benign fellow climbed on to the cart with him. ‘This is PèrePierre Clergue of Pamiers. He will help us. Any more questions?’

Only one, Jean said under his breath. Who was this ‘castle’s vicar’? He’d never seen him before in his life. And he was supposedto have come from Pamiers, the place where Jean had witnessed that awful atrocity, and been arrested before being releasedto come here.

And then another, sickening thought struck him. It was too soon for anyone from the castle to have arrived, no matter whothis man was. Yet the town had been told of the killings. That meant this man had to have been aware that the garrison was going to be killed.

‘Christ in chains!’ he groaned. He had to get away. Run! Go somewhere far away.

No. He would go to Paris and tell the King’s men there what had happened. That would be best.

As soon as the menfolk of the town had made their way out and across the river to the castle, Jean himself hurried out, andtook the road east and south, praying and sobbing as he went.