The Templar, the Queen and Her Lover

Chapter Eighteen

Wednesday after the Feast of St Edward the Martyr ¹⁵

Jean had tried to find a small room, but the sudden influx of people in the town had soon put paid to that. All the sleeping chambers were taken, and even the haylofts and stables were occupied by grooms and servants, because every knight travelling with the Queen — those in her entourage and those French men who had met her on her way to celebrate her journey — had a squire, two horses for riding, and a sumpter horse or two; and then there were the assorted hangers-on: musicians, cooks, procurers, carters. There was not a foot of floor available anywhere, he was told at one point.

In the end, he had been forced to accept an offer of some boards up in the eaves of a peasant’s hovel. The peasant was content to sleep on the ground on his palliasse, and Jean was forced to make the best of it on the man’s bed without a mattress. It was only a little harder than the ground outside, and reeked of the man and his wife, smoke, and urine from some creature which lived in the thatching, but at least it was consistently warm — until the middle of the night, long before dawn, when a combination of the cold, the man’s wife’s snoring, and a wooden dowel sticking in his kidneys, all conspired to wake him.

He glanced about him quickly, alert as always to the risk of a sudden attack from a stranger, but when he looked down, the peasant and his wife were both still asleep. Others he had known had been stabbed at night and robbed by poor folk such as these, but he felt safe enough. He did not look to them like someone worth robbing; he had little enough to steal. Rolling over, he slept until dawn.

The Queen’s company might have made his search for a bed problematic, but at least he had the pleasure of witnessing the cavalcade depart the following morning. He was sitting outside the peasant’s hovel on a rock when the men began to gather, and he left it to trail after them and watch what was happening. It was many years since he had seen a grand party like this lot.

That was down in Pamiers. When the bishop arrived. He had not realised then how the man would destroy his life. How could he? It was difficult to conceive of a single person’s bringing so much ruin on so small a community of believers.

He couldn’t think of that again. There was too much sadness in the memory. He was a man who had been trained in fighting, who had witnessed the deaths of all his family in the wars, and yet he was still persecuted by that vicious, cruel, and above all honourable and pious damned bishop! All he had ever done was try to live a decent life, and the bishop had destroyed it for him.

Ach! No. There was no point raking over those coals again.

When he reached the town’s marketplace, he had recovered his equanimity. There was a shop with some pastries for sale, and he could see that it had been all but cleaned out already. The patissier was running about seeking fresh supplies to bake more for his regular customers, and Jean thought he might wait awhile to buy something himself. Leaning against the doorway, he watched the people gathering.

The richness of the clothing and uniforms was quite shocking here in this little town. There were some merchants who might own some moderate garments, he thought, but nothing in comparison to all this magnificence. Velvets, scarlets, silks, fine woollens, the softest pigskin gloves — these people had everything a man could hope to acquire. And they wore it with such élan, too. As the men sprang on to their great horses, they looked as elegant as kings in their own right. And then he saw the Queen.

Such beauty was blinding, he thought. A woman of some thirty years, with fine, fair hair gleaming under her headdress, seated on a horse rather than in a wagon, wearing a long cloak trimmed with ermine, she looked almost heavenly. Jean had to pull his eyes away with an effort. She was so magnificent, it almost seemed a crime to watch her, him clad in filthy leather and linen, as though he could pollute her with his glance.

‘Christ’s pains!’

He carefully sidled back into the shop’s doorway, wary and anxious at the sight of the two men standing at the opposite side of the square: le Vieux and Arnaud! They must have followed him somehow, and now they were here with this party. He must escape them again!

Thursday before the Feast of the Annunciation of Our Lady ¹⁶

Pontoise

To Simon’s eye, the buildings were growing wealthier and more splendid with every day. The last night they had spent in a little town called Beauvais, and he had been struck by the richness of all the people living there. Admittedly, everyone would have been made aware that the English queen was on her way by the arrival of the heralds sent ahead to book rooms and food, and they would have decked themselves out in their best clothing in honour of the sister of their king, but even so, looking about him now in this little town, he was almost shocked by the displays of wealth on every side. It was so blatant and unashamed. Much, he had to remind himself, like London. Except cleaner.

This place was only a few miles from Paris, he had learned. Baldwin had described the journey which they were to take before they left England, but he had hardly listened to much of it. At the time he had been concentrating on the appalling thought of climbing on to a ship again. He had seen enough of ships for his life, so far as he was concerned.

The town was pretty, though, built on the banks of the River Oise, with the steeple of the cathedral towering high overhead. There were plenty of trees and orchards, he saw, as they approached the great bridge over the river.

‘We should go to the cathedral and give thanks for arriving here in one piece,’ he muttered.

‘An excellent idea,’ Baldwin said, ‘except I rather think we’ll be expected to carry on to the castle.’

‘Why?’

‘I thought you knew already — the Queen is to be introduced to her latest sister-in-law.’

That explained all the flowers and decorations, then. Simon frowned a little. ‘She had several brothers, didn’t she?’

‘Yes, but her siblings appear to be short-lived. Her father died eleven years ago, cursed to death by the honourable Grand Master of my Order.’

Simon had heard of the Grand Master de Molay’s curse. As he burned, in agony, he called on the King to join him before the throne of God to answer for his crimes in destroying the Order of the Temple, and the King had died within the year, as had the Pope. ‘What of the others?’

‘Her oldest two brothers both died soon after taking the throne. The first, Louis X, survived only two years. Then there was poor John, his son, who lived five days after becoming king, and the throne passed to Philip V, but he died three years ago, so he was only on the throne for six years. Now we have Charles IV.’

‘And this is not his first wife.’

It was not a question. Simon remembered that he had been married already.

‘That is so. The first wife was caught in adultery, and he had the marriage annulled two or three years ago. I think he was married after that, but the lady died, and so now he is searching for a new bride.’

Simon set his head upon one side. ‘With all these deaths, could the throne come to our queen? If this king dies without children, presumably the crown must pass to one of the women in the family?’

‘I fear not. The idea that the two crowns could be joined like that has intrigued many for several years, I think, but I doubt that the French peers would allow it. They are jealous of their authority, Simon. The idea that the English queen, as they see her now, could come here and take power would make them … well, they would be happier to drink poison together than allow that to pass.’

Simon pondered this awhile as they entered the cobbled streets of the old town. It had been here for centuries, he was told, guarding the bridge over the river, and the King himself liked the town so much that there was a royal castle here. It was here where they were to meet Jeanne d’Evreux.

It was a gay occasion. Flags flew from every staff, and the number of knights about the Lady Jeanne was proof of the value the French king placed upon her. The two women walked to each other and greeted each other with gracious delight, as was obvious to all about.

‘They are first cousins,’ Baldwin answered when Simon asked. ‘Although I do not know whether they have met in the last ten years or more.’

Musicians played, and there were magicians and tumblers demonstrating their skills in one corner of the square, which gave the whole affair something of a feastday atmosphere. Certainly today at least there was nobody who appeared to have any animosity for others. French and English knights mingled and joked with each other, and even de Bouden appeared less anxious than Simon had seen him for some days. Money was always tight for the Queen, ever since her monies had been confiscated by the King, but it seemed that de Bouden had been given some form of assurance that the French king would not see his sister embarrassed by lack of funds. That would be a relief to many.

Glancing about him now, he wondered where de Bouden had gone. The comptroller was not with Baldwin or the other knights. He could see Lord Cromwell a short distance off, and he, like everyone else, had his attention fixed firmly on the Queen and her cousin. And then Simon caught sight of de Bouden’s face a little farther on, at the front of the crowds, but his eyes were not on the Queen — not all the time. No, he was watching someone at the other side of the crowd, a man who was in among the friends and guards of Lady Jeanne. A tall man with dark hair trimmed in a military cut, with broad shoulders, a powerful neck from wearing a steel helmet, and the arrogant swagger of a knight. Or perhaps more than a knight.

‘Recognise him?’ he asked, pointing.

‘Who?’

It was plain enough from the blank look on his face that Baldwin had no idea who the man was. He glanced up at Cromwell, but could tell he was too engrossed to be interested.

‘Ach. It’s nothing,’ Simon said. ‘I just wondered. De Bouden seems to be staring at him — or at least in his direction.’

‘Really? Why should that be so?’ Baldwin said. He glanced at de Bouden, and for a moment their eyes met. De Bouden appeared to colour, blushing slightly as he looked back towards the Queen, and his demeanour was enough to make Baldwin wonder who the man could be. Whoever it was, de Bouden seemed to know him.

‘He’s gone,’ Simon said.

‘Don’t point, Simon,’ Baldwin muttered sharply, and he put his own hand out as though to bring Simon’s arm down.

‘Why? What on earth is the matter?’

‘That man … I don’t know. But if de Bouden is ashamed of knowing him, I think perhaps we should be cautious.’

Jean had arrived in the town a few hours after the Queen herself. Not because her wagons and trains moved any faster than a man on foot but because he took care to remain some distance behind them. He had no desire to allow le Vieux and Arnaud to catch a glimpse of him.

The more he thought about it, the more he was convinced that they were planning to kill him. All he had seen when he looked down was Arnaud chasing after his last victim. The others had been dead just outside the guards’ room. He’d assumed that Arnaud had gone berserk and killed all the others in a fit of madness; he’d assumed that le Vieux had died from his injuries. It hadn’t occurred to him that le Vieux had lived. How had he escaped, in God’s name? The way that Arnaud had slaughtered all the other men, it seemed incredible that even the most proficient of them all had survived.

But if Arnaud had beaten le Vieux over the head with a jug or a cudgel, the old man would have fallen quickly enough, and that would have given Arnaud time to despatch all the others. Perhaps le Vieux had no memory of the attack. Perhaps he woke later with a dreadful headache, and had no idea who had killed all the men there. But he would surely have thought it must be Arnaud. Arnaud was the only survivor apart from him. Whom else could le Vieux suspect?

It was then that the cold truth hit him, and hit him hard. He had to lean against a wall, breathing slowly and deeply with the shock.

‘You all right, master?’ a young urchin called to him.

‘Yes, blessings on you. I am quite well,’ he lied.

How could he be well, when Arnaud must have told le Vieux that he, Jean, had been the murderer who set upon all the guards and killed them?

So now they were after him. Not because he hadn’t reported the murders, but because le Vieux thought he was responsible. They were going to kill him, as they might slay a rabid dog. A man who could kill with such ferocity was plainly insane, but that was no reason to spare him. He was a danger to everyone.

He wouldn’t let them. There were two choices, either to flee again, and keep on running, or to get to le Vieux and hope to persuade him that he, Jean, was innocent. It wasn’t he who was responsible, it was the foul-minded Arnaud, the executioner and torturer. Jean must get to speak to le Vieux and explain. The old man would understand.

Poissy

The day was busy. Soon after their rapturous reception in Pontoise, they were all back in the saddle again to make the short journey to Poissy and the King’s palace.

‘At least here we won’t have to hunt about for rooms,’ Simon grumbled. The last few towns had been too small to accommodate such a grand party, and what with the Lenten fasts and so much effort being devoted to ensuring that the Queen herself was comfortable, their own journeying had been harder. Even Sir Charles had been heard complaining about the quality of the rooms in which he was expected to rest. As a seasoned campaigner, he usually thought such ‘whining’ to be beneath his dignity.

Baldwin was less sanguine as he looked up at the magnificent palace. ‘I hope so. Often you find that a great palace like this has two qualities of chamber — the very best for the king and queen, and stables for all others.’

Fortunately the rooms were significantly better than his worst fears. They were billeted with the other English knights, Sir John de Sapy and Sir Peter de Lymesey as well as Sir Charles. Lord John Cromwell had his own room close by.

Just the sight of the bed had Simon closing his eyes and dreaming of the comfort which he would find lying in the cool sheets with a heavy riding cloak set over the top, but as usual there were more celebrations to be endured first.

Although it was the middle of Lent still, many fish dishes were permitted. Simon was gladdened by the sight of a white porray, a thickened soup of leeks and onions with milk of almonds to give it some flavour, as well as several pottages. Especially good to Simon’s taste was the one made from old peas; he also enjoyed dishes made from fresh sprouts, spinach, and craspois — strips of heavily salted whale flesh that had been boiled and added to a dish of sweetened peas with some sprouting leaves at the side. All in all, very tasty.

It was late by the time the Queen left the table and all the men rose to their feet. Simon was pleased. After all the noise and excitement of the day, he was keen to make his way to his bed. The memory of the clean white linen made his muscles ache afresh. ‘I’m for my bench,’ he said to Baldwin when they stood alone together. ‘I’m too tired to carry on.’

‘You go. I doubt not that I shall be going to my own bed before long,’ Baldwin said with a grin, and he watched for a moment as his friend left, hoping that Simon would not become lost in the labyrinthine corridors of the palace.

He filled his cup with some water, and drank deeply. The salted whale was a little too strong for him, and had left a thirst which he found it hard to assuage. He had taken some rissoles to try to ease the effect, but they were too salty for his palate as well, and only served to exacerbate the problem.

Walking outside, he unsuccessfully sought the privies. There was a wall near the great hall which would serve, though, and from the scent others had been forced to the same expediency.

Finished, he was walking back inside when he glanced to his left. Beyond a lean-to building that had been added to the hall, he saw a couple of men — de Bouden and the man Simon had seen de Bouden staring at earlier. There was something about their manner which struck him as odd — furtive, like conspirators — and it put him on alert.

Carefully he eased himself backwards into the shadow by a buttress, peering round the stonework. The man with de Bouden clearly made the comptroller anxious, and he was gesticulating as they conversed, while the other was cool and collected, listening a little, and then making a brief comment. He concluded with a few words, leaning down towards de Bouden as though to whisper, but Baldwin was convinced that the movement had little to do with keeping his words secret, and more with the fact that his leaning down made him seem more intimidating to the shorter man.

Whoever he was, he stepped back, holding de Bouden’s eyes all the while, before stopping and glancing about them quickly. He turned on his heel and strode away but, Baldwin noted with a spark of concern, not away from the palace complex. Whoever the man was, he was here inside the palace and staying put.

De Bouden was walking back towards the entrance now. He was pensive, Baldwin could see. The light from a torch flared at the lines on his face, and he shook his head as he walked, as though carrying on an internal debate.

‘Comptroller, you look disturbed.’

‘Christ on a cross!’ de Bouden blurted, startled, and shot backwards. His heel snagged a cobble, and he all but fell, but righted himself at the last moment. ‘Dear heaven, Sir Baldwin, what do you mean by leaping out at me like that? You could have stopped my heart, I swear!’

‘Perhaps I could. My apologies if I shocked you. It was not entirely my desire to do that.’

‘Entirely? You did mean to a little, you mean?’

‘Oh yes. I wanted to see whether you looked guilty, you see. And you do.’

‘What nonsense is this? You think you can upset me like this? Excuse me, Sir Baldwin, but I have work to be getting on with.’

‘Wait a moment, Comptroller,’ Baldwin said, moving to stand between him and the entrance. ‘Who was that man with whom you were conversing?’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘I was watching you, de Bouden. I saw you talking to a man over there. Who was he? I did not recognise him.’

‘No one. There was no one you need worry about. It is my business — only mine.’

‘Then you will not mind my mentioning it to Lord Cromwell?’

‘You’d tell him?’

‘I am here with other knights charged with the protection of the Queen. You appear to be holding clandestine meetings with a stranger, and refuse to tell me who it is. That is surely enough to warrant my informing the leader of our party.’

‘He wants to meet the Queen.’

‘Who does? Come along, man! Speak out!’

‘Lord Mortimer of Wigmore. The rebel.’