The Templar, the Queen and Her Lover

Chapter Eleven

Friday before the Feast of St Edward the Martyr ¹¹

Poissy

Jean had reached this town on his way homewards, before realising that there was nothing for him there. Where was there anythingfor him to find? His old home was burned to the ground, his wife and child were dead, his father and his brother had bothdied in the wars trying to defend the honour of his comte — and now that he had failed in the simple task he had been setby his comte, helping to guard an old fort, there was nowhere for him to go. He was homeless, and unless he could persuadehis comte that the slaughter of the guards was not his fault, he would be thrown into gaol himself.

After hurrying to Les Andelys and hearing the comments, escape to Paris had seemed the best option. He should tell someonethat Arnaud had gone mad and killed all the other guards. But when he looked at himself, he realised that when he had pickedup Guillaume much of the man’s blood had drained on to him. Suddenly, he wondered how another would look at him, a strangerto this area, telling a wild story about someone else who went mad and butchered all the guards, while he alone survived — although smothered in the gore of the dead. It would not look good. Especially since his accent was so different. He spoke the beautiful dialect of the Languedoc, while all the people about here had the harsh twang ofNorman French. He was an outsider again, and here he must be viewed askance.

No, rather than that he would return to his lord and report to him, direct. But in so doing, he would again be open to criticism.Why had he not reported to the nearest town, sought out the King’s officers and ensured that the murderer was found? Explainingthat he was terrified would not serve to protect him. He had a duty to perform, and his cowardice had ensured that the criminalhad escaped. There was no excuse for that.

So here he was, in a small town to the north-west of Paris, wondering what he should do to extricate himself from this mess.The more days passed, the more trouble he faced. If he had sought out his lord on the first day, perhaps he would be all right.As it was, he was now a thief himself. At the first opportunity he had stolen a fresh shirt and hosen, while his leather jackhad been carefully washed in a stream to remove all the blood. So now he was condemned no matter what he tried.

At least he had a place to rest his head. The other guards had no heads to rest. And Arnaud was perhaps still on the loose.

There was one possible silver lining to the cloud, though. Perhaps, if people had found the château and all the bodies, theymight think that he was one of the victims as well. They could assume that he had been slaughtered along with Guillaume, Ponsand the others. Yes, that was a thought: maybe Jean had died in the eyes of the officials, and was no more. Could he be free,at last, from the taint which had been with him for so long?

Was it possible? Were the crimes of his past finally laid to rest?

Boulogne

It was mid-morning when Simon gratefully followed the suit of all the knights and climbed into the saddle once more.

Dear Christ in heaven! They’d reached France within hours of leaving England, making landfall at Wissant, and the same daythe Queen had commanded that they should make their way to Boulogne and give thanks for their safe and swift journey. Well,Simon wouldn’t argue with that. They had arrived in one piece, which was more than he had hoped for when they set off. Almostas soon as the ship pulled the sails up, or whatever the blasted shipmaster called it, there had been a dreadful crack andone of the sails had simply burst. One minute it was a whole sheet, the next there was this almighty report and the thingwas in shreds. Apparently it happened quite often. In his post as representative of the Keeper of the Port of Dartmouth, hehad heard of such things, but this was the first time he had witnessed it, and he did not enjoy it.

Still, it was the only disaster on the journey. The sailors ran up and down the lines at either side of the cog, and soonthe sail was replaced, and then they were making their way quickly enough, with just a little bucking and rocking to unsettlehis belly. He only had a chance to throw up four times before they reached the French shore.

As soon as they made landfall, he expected to unload the ship and set off to meet the French king’s representatives, but no.Instead Queen Isabella had been determined to see the church of Our Lady in Boulogne, where she made offerings and devotions.The whole town seemed to turn out to meet her and her entourage, and all thirty or so were invited in and given a royal welcome,lodging and food. There the party remained for five days, with no one showing the slightest inclination to get a move on,other than Simon and Baldwin.

It was not until the sixth day that they received the order to gather up their belongings and leave the town. At last they would make their way to meet the king of France’s representatives.

Simon was unhappy. ‘Baldwin, you’re perfectly comfortable here, aren’t you? But the people seem … different. Is it theirclothes?’

‘It is everything, Simon. It’s the clothes, the language, the countryside. Do you not feel that it is special? I think itfeels cleaner, more wholesome somehow, than England.’

‘What, you mean Devon?’

‘No — I was thinking of England near here. London and Kent. They are curious places compared with this lovely landscape.’

Simon looked about him. ‘What is so lovely about this?’

Baldwin snuffed the air. ‘The scent of garlic, of grilled fish, of lavender, of wine … all these things and more.’

‘You can get all those things in England.’

‘True enough, but in this country they seem more natural, in some way. Look about you!’

Simon did. He huddled his chin down against his gorget and shook his head to resettle his hood over his ears. ‘Yes. It’s verypleasant. Except just now I would prefer to be at home in Lydford with a great fire roaring on the hearth and the smell ofwoodsmoke and spiced wine to warm my heart.’

Baldwin said nothing, but smiled to himself for a few moments. Then a picture came to his mind of Jeanne sitting at his ownfireside, with Richalda and little Baldwin nearby, and suddenly the vision brought a lump to his throat.

Pontoise

Le Vieux was feeling sick again. He had to stop at the side of the road and throw up. That was all his lunch wasted, then.

‘Come, Vieux! We have to-’

‘Shit! You go on, Arnaud. I am too old for this.’

‘You? I never thought I’d see the day you said that!’

Arnaud was staring down at him with a mirthless grin on his face. He wasn’t bothered by the sight of the dead men. No reasonwhy he should be — as executioner as well as torturer, it would have been a surprise if he had been. Yes, Arnaud was a hardman, certainly, but so was le Vieux. He would not submit to this sudden weakness. He’d seen dead men often enough before.‘Very well, but I’m exhausted and hungry. You go on. I’ll follow and get myself some plain bread. I’ll see you at the baker’soutside his house. You know it?’

‘Of course I know it. I will be there as quickly as I may.’

Le Vieux nodded and slowly made his way to the bakery. It was some little way from the town’s gate, and there was a benchnot far away where the older men of the place were wont to sit in the sun during the warmer months. At this time of year itwas mostly deserted, but that was all to the good, so far as le Vieux was concerned. A man had a brazier nearby on which hewas roasting small pastries, and le Vieux bought one, breaking it open to let the steam burst out and cool it, eating it quickly,mouth open, to save his lips and tongue from scalding. It was delicious. He sat back contentedly, his mouth full of the flavourof nuts and spices, his belly comfortable, for a while.

His head was still hurting appallingly, but there was nothing to be done. He would have to wait until it was cured. Perhapsit would help to have his blood let out a little. Maybe he ought to seek a physician or barber in the town.

There was a thump at his shoulder, and he was startled awake again, finding himself looking up into the eyes of Arnaud.

‘Well enough rested, eh? We have much to do.’

‘What? Why?’

‘To catch that bastard Jean, naturally. If he escapes, there will be trouble for us. We have to catch him, silence him.’

‘What do you mean?’

Arnaud sighed. ‘Look, do you remember anything?’

‘Of course I do! Just because I was knocked on the head doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten what happened! I remember everything! We were guarding the King’s bitch, but when she’d gone, we were all sitting about, and then …’

‘Yes. And Jean escaped, and he knew all that happened in the castle. So we have to catch him or kill him as soon as we canbefore he can tell anyone else about us.’

Le Vieux nodded with a grimace. Jean knew too much about their actions.

Arnaud looked up at the sky, then to the north. ‘This weather is going to break soon. It’ll be snow in a couple of days, youmark my words. We have to move fast to tell him.’

‘Who?’

‘The Comte de Foix. Our master has ordered us, Vieux.’

Boulogne

Fortunately there was much to distract them as they began to make their way on horseback down through the steep old streets,and out into the open countryside.

‘Christ’s bones!’ Simon gasped as they passed under the city gateway, and Baldwin could see that he was not alone in shock.Among the English party many were just as surprised to see that there was a large gathering of people here to see the Queenoff. Many were knights and squires, all mounted and caparisoned, with gaily coloured flags fluttering in the cold breeze.It appeared that many wished to honour the sister of their king, and the knights and other nobles were to join Queen Isabella’sparty.

Their leader was a tall, powerful knight with the bearing of a man born to command: Pierre d’Artois, a senior member of theFrench nobility, to whom the other knights and counts submitted. Greying, he was plainly not a young man, but the blue eyes in his brown face were shrewd and confident.

For the English, to see so many war-like Frenchmen was somewhat alarming. True, they had papers promising safe conduct, butall too often such papers could be ignored. Although there was some pride in the Queen’s face at the sight of such an honourguard, Baldwin was less happy. Poor Queen Isabella had suffered the indignity of having all that made her life pleasant removedfrom her in recent months, and one thing she had sorely missed was the respect that she had been used to since birth. UnderDespenser’s rule, even her children had been taken from her. Now, here in her homeland, she was being treated as a queen oncemore.

However, where there were many warriors there were equally many threats. In theory the first was the threat to the Queen herself,but looking about him Baldwin judged that she was safe enough. With the small force of Englishmen surrounding her, any enemywould have to cut through a ring of steel comprising not only Lord John Cromwell and his knights, but also the men-at-arms.Richard Blaket in particular was glowering about him ferociously at all the French as though longing to wield his bill. Exceptthe French were all behaving with impeccable courtly manners. There was no possible danger to the Queen from these people.

No, it was not she who was in the most danger. It was he himself, Sir Baldwin de Furnshill, the renegade Templar. He mustlook to his own defence before almost anything else. Thus, while quickly glancing about him for any possible danger to QueenIsabella, he was also careful to study all the faces for any which might seem familiar. He had no wish to be arrested by theChurch for supposed past offences.

There were none. Some fellows looked a little suspicious of these English knights, as though considering them little betterthan supplicants come to beg alms from their king. One in particular was especially haughty in his manner. He looked over the Queen’s entourage with simple disdain, and Baldwinwas sure he made a comment — something about it being no surprise that his king had taken back his Gascon lands if this littleband was the best the English could produce to serve his own wife.

The man’s arrogance irked not only Baldwin. He could see that others, even Sir Charles, were eyeing the fellow closely. Baldwinjerked his head to Simon, and spurred his mount to close the distance between them and Lord John Cromwell. If that man wasa threat, he was already nullified if all had spotted him. The menace Baldwin feared was the one that had not been seen.

Lord John was riding with his own squire and a groom, and as Baldwin drew nearer he saw that Sir John de Sapy and Sir Peterde Lymesey were also already close to hand. It was in the way of things that men of war would automatically look to the securityof their charge.

For Simon, seeing such a gathering was petrifying, and he knew only gratitude for the presence of Baldwin and the other knightsand Lord John. If there was a threat to the Queen, these men would soon quell it. They certainly looked the part, with theirarmour shining, and the rattling and clanging of their weapons a constant accompaniment.

All had brought their own horses, of course. Each knight had brought a destrier with him, and for the beginning of this journeyto Paris all were mounted upon their mightiest beasts. Now Simon could see why. The Queen’s company might number only somethirty-one people, but with four knights and one lord sitting high over all others on their great horses, haughtily lookingabout them grim-faced, few would have been bold enough to attempt any sort of action against the Queen.

However, even as he considered that, Simon realised that one face was missing. Although Sir John and Sir Peter were already with Lord John immediately behind the Queen, Sir Charlesnow was not. When Simon looked for him, he saw the knight over at the flank, as though riding along in parallel with the Queen’sparty, but not a part of it. It made Simon wonder again about the man.

Simon and Baldwin had first met this handsome, tall, elegant knight while the battle at Boroughbridge was still a painfulmemory. Earl Thomas of Lancaster had been accused of treachery by the King, his armies chased about the country until he wasforced to surrender. And after that came the appalling retribution.

In the past, men who committed the disgraceful crime of raising arms against their king tended to be punished with a degreeof tolerance. They might be imprisoned in the Tower, then forgiven, so long as a fair ransom was paid and a fine against theirlands imposed. This was not so in the case of the King’s cousin, Thomas of Lancaster. He had not merely raised an army withthe intention of subduing his lawful king, he had deliberately insulted the King’s best friend and adviser, Sir Hugh le Despenser.The two men, Lancaster and Despenser, were determined to snatch whatever power and money they could. And Thomas lost.

Earl Thomas had been the richest and most powerful man in the country save only the King himself, and the King was determinedto make an example of him. The Earl was executed shamefully, without consideration of his position, and before his body hadcooled the reign of terror began.

Any men-at-arms, knights or even barons who were thought to have been allied to Earl Thomas were hanged, drawn and quartered,bloody sections of their bodies boiled and tarred before being despatched to all parts of the kingdom to be put on displayat the gates to the King’s cities as a permanent reminder of the punishment that would be meted out to any who dared challenge his authority. The country was filled with the stench of rotting corpses.

And one of the good earl’s senior knights was a certain Sir Charles of Lancaster.

Sir Charles had been a most devoted knight of Earl Thomas’s household, so he clearly had no place in the England that wasruled by the men who had executed his master. He had fled to France, and eventually come to rest in Galicia. When Simon andBaldwin returned homewards, he had joined them, hoping to find some new lord to serve. He declared himself heartily boredwith foreign lands. There were not enough tournaments and wars to pay his expenses. Better to give up the mercenary life.

It was that aspect of his career which had given Baldwin the most concern, Simon remembered. Baldwin had always had a powerfuldislike of men who served for cash. He had been brought up to believe in a life of service and duty. Mercenaries who wouldgo wherever the money took them were the enemies of all that was good and honourable.

Now, Sir Charles looked like a man who was at the edge of the company so that he would be able to ride off at a moment’s noticeif danger presented itself. But then, when Simon cast a suspicious look over the crowds again, he noticed that Paul, Sir Charles’sman-at-arms, was not near his master but instead towards the rear of their column, and on the other side of it. So one wasat each flank, ready to warn the lord of any threat to them all, and probably in a better position to protect the Queen thanmany of the others who huddled nearer her.

After all, Simon told himself, Sir Charles was one of the King’s household knights now. His days of mercenary warfare wereover.

Or so Simon hoped.