The Templar, the Queen and Her Lover

Chapter One

Monday before Ash Wednesday ⁴

Lombard Street

Gradually, Ricard de Bromley became aware of his surroundings as a fine drizzle fell on his bearded face. He grunted to himself, andthen groaned more loudly as he tried to climb to his feet. ‘Not our best one, boys,’ he muttered.

Beside him was Janin, his body curled into a ball about his vielle. Will prodded at him with a finger. ‘Jan? Are you dead?’

‘How’s my …?’

‘It’s fine. Get up.’

There were some memories of the evening before. Ricard could distinctly recall certain moments — the arrival of a massivejug of ale, leathern pots provided for the musicians; a great bull of a man standing and singing a song so filthy, so bawdy,that Ricard had immediately tried to consign it to his memory for use in another venue; the first little fight between someyoung apprentices in a corner as they tried to force their way into the tavern and were repulsed; the woman who wandered overand sat on his knee, intimating that she would be happy to relieve him of some of his money by relieving him. God, yes! She’dthe body of a practised whore, and her smile was as lewd as that of any Winchester Goose, but her accent was odd. Not English, certainly. Called … called Thomassia,that was it! She sounded more like one of the wenches from Guyenne; her husband … Shit, her husband was there. Guy…

Feeling jaw, belly, and breast, Ricard was glad to be unable to discern any apparent harm. The man had been angry, but hadnot started anything. Even so, that was the point at which his memory of the evening became unclear. And now the only damageappeared to be his head. That bastard son of a hog who brewed the ale in the Cardinal’s Hat must have mixed something in withhis hops.

Belching, he watched Janin roll over and lie still again, a beatific smile spreading over his face. ‘Wake me when it’s timeto get up.’

‘It is now, and your vielle is underneath you. You’ll break it.’

‘Shite! Shite! Shite! The strings’ll be buggered!’

Janin’s sudden urgent scrabbling to rise to his feet was enough to make Ricard grin to himself again. He gazed about him,trying to remember how he had come to this closed yard, and where his companions could have got to. The sunlight, grey thoughit was, was enough to make him wince. There was a man who had led them here, wasn’t there? Someone from the tavern?

The woman had been foreign. Not happy talking English, from what he could tell. She’d said she was a cook, hadn’t she? Ah,yes. That was it: she’d been a cook’s maid in a castle, lost her job there when the kitchen staff were all thrown out, andcame over here to London. Bloody foreigners coming over and making all the men regret being already married — she had onehell of a body on her, though. He could remember that! Lips that could suck the sap from an oak tree, thighs that’d crusha walnut, bubbies like bladders … Ah! Yes!

He wondered sadly how his evening had ended. She wasn’t here now, that was for certain. Suddenly his hand clapped over hispurse, but he could breathe easily. It had not been emptied.

‘Where are we?’ Janin asked plaintively.

‘Good question. We were at the Cardinal’s Hat, which is just off Lombard Street, but this doesn’t look like it.’

Janin nodded, gazing about him. ‘When did we leave the place?’

‘If I could remember that, I might remember when we came here,’ Ricard growled.

‘There was that woman,’ Janin remembered. ‘Her husband turned up.’

‘Yeah, but he didn’t hit me,’ Ricard said absently.

‘Only because the other fellow knocked him down.’

‘Which fellow?’

‘The one behind him. He called the man some name or other and felled him.’

‘Hmm. Good. I think.’ Suddenly he felt nervous. ‘Let’s get going, eh? We have a job to do.’

But Janin had the tail of an idea now, and he was refusing to let it go. ‘That was it, wasn’t it? You had that wench on yourlap, her old man tried to hit you, and someone else hit him, so we drank some more until those bravos appeared.’

‘There are times when talking to you gives me a headache,’ Ricard said. He pulled some timber aside from a pile at one wall,glancing behind to see whether the others were hiding.

‘What was the man’s name?’

‘Hmm?’

Hearing a rumbling, Ricard peered up towards a low doorway. The door, like the rest of the yard here, was partially hiddenby trash that had heaped up before it, and he had to clear some of it, sweeping it away with his boot, before he could peerinside.

There, snuggled together, he saw Philip and Adam. A loud snoring seemed to imply that Peter was behind them. As his eyes grew accustomed,he saw that there was a pair of boots near Adam’s head. Carefully cradled in Adam’s arms was his trumpet.

It gave him a pleasing idea. He took hold of his horn, and licked his lips, then drew a deep breath before blowing a blastthat would have served, so he felt, as the last trump.

Adam’s eyes shot wide and he sat up, looking more like a corpse than ever; Philip tried to sit up, but his greater heightcaused his head to slam into the upper lintel of the low door, and his eyes snapped shut with the pain as he bent down torest his bruised forehead in his hands. The boots disappeared from view, and Ricard was pleased to hear a complaining whinefrom the Waferer.

‘Morning, boys!’ he called with satisfaction.

‘The man? What was his name?’

‘Which man?’

‘The one who felled the woman’s old man. Didn’t you know him?’

‘No. Should I have?’

This was less a yard, more a grubby little alleyway, Ricard considered. Sweet Christ, but his head was bad. His belly feltas if he’d been drinking a tanner’s brew of dogshit and piss — faugh, he daren’t fart or belch. Both ends felt equally hazardous,damn his soul if they didn’t.

There was a little mewling cry, and he frowned. It seemed to come from nearby, and he set his head on one side, peering abouthim. Bending, he saw a loose slat in the side of another little building — probably a hutch for a dog or a chicken, he thought,but when he peered inside the figure he could just make out was an entirely different animal.

Church of St Martin-le-Grand, London

Père Pierre Clergue was pleased when the man appeared at last. He had been growing a little anxious.

‘Mon sieur, I am glad to see that you were successful. Please, viens! Viens ici!’

He watched the man halt. ‘How do you know I was …’

‘You have the … the appearance of a man who has done a great thing for the Pope and for his friends. You have done a marvellous thing, mon sieur.’

‘It feels as if I have done a terrible thing.’

‘That is so often the way of things, my friend. Now, no need to tell me more. Let us kneel and pray.’

‘You will hear my confession?’

‘You can tell me anything you wish, but my lips will be sealed, naturally. And I know what I asked of you, so all is well.’

‘Yes. Yes, all is well. Just as you asked.’

House in Lombard Street

A door slammed behind Ricard, and he turned to see a vaguely familiar man striding towards him.

He looked older, perhaps five and forty years, and although Ricard had no idea what his name was, the face was teasingly recognisable.Probably from the night before, he told himself bleakly.

‘Good morrow, friends,’ the man said.

Returning his greeting, Ricard eyed him narrowly. He was dressed well in expensive cloth, with a fine hat and liripipe onhis head. Ricard was certain he’d never seen him before, but the man’s carriage was a little alarming. He looked like a fighter.With a rush of tingling anxiety, Ricard wondered whether his memory of the previous night was even more faulty than he hadrealised; whether this was the man who was married to the wench he’d fondled on his lap the previous night. No, in Christ’s name, this sort of fine fellow wouldn’t want to listen to them playing in a lowly tavern. He’d havecommanded them to go to his house, if anything.

‘Master Ricard, I am glad you are well. The weather has not been very clement, I know. Is there anything you need?’

‘No. We are well, master.’

Inwardly, he was cursing, slowly and very imaginatively. The man had the graces and accent of a high-born lord. They all hadthe same interest in fashionable clothing, the disdainful expression, the contemptuous sneer when they spoke to men like him.And of course, the leetle bit of the French accent. When together, these arses only ever spoke French, as if it was something special. Well, Ricardand the others spoke English like any God-fearing Englishman should.

Still, it only proved that this man thought himself important. He had that snide, devil-take-you look in his eye that saidhe knew he could buy hundreds just like Ricard and his band. Well, devil take you, Ricard thought to himself, and may he bugger you with a thousand demons!

He had already turned back to the little hutch. Inside he had caught sight of two anxious blue eyes, and he was keen to temptthe boy or girl, whichever it may be, to come out. The walls looked weak enough; easy to pull apart, he was sure.

The man interrupted his thoughts with a pleasant smile. ‘Good. Good. Now, before anything else, you will want some food, Iam sure.’

‘That would be welcome indeed,’ Ricard said, suddenly courteous. If this fool was going to be feeding them, Ricard was preparedto be thoroughly polite. Damn silly French accent, though.

‘Through here.’

Ricard led the others through a doorway into a small parlour, and from there to a tiny shop front. ‘You a glover?’

‘Not really. My work with skins is less … elevated.’

The man was denigrating his work. He had some marvellous examples of glovemaking on shelves all about the shop. Still, hiseyes showed a lack of interest in discussing the matter. They glittered, almost with revulsion, Ricard thought.

There was a basket full of small loaves and some sausages. Peter, Adam and Philip fell on the food like wolves on a deer.Ricard and Janin were a little more hesitant, both feeling that hot, sweaty sensation that sometimes ale could bring the nextmorning.

‘I would be grateful for a little help from you all,’ the man said.

Ricard paused in his eating. There was something about the way he said that which made his hackles rise. ‘Yes, well, you’vebeen very generous, friend — giving us space out in your yard and breakfast and all — but we have to get back to work.’

‘Oh, I know. Yes. You are the Queen’s musicians, aren’t you?’

Janin and Philip exchanged a look. They had all played for her once. It had been a good day, too. But a long while ago.

Ricard saw their wooden expressions. ‘Oh, yes, we’re called that, right enough.’

‘Well, all I’d like is for you to help me to help her. That’s all. Just keep an eye open for me, and when there’s somethingthat seems odd, or you feel that she might be in danger, let me know.’

Janin lifted his eyebrows. He was the one Ricard thought the brightest of them all. He’d once had a little training in Latin,and could read some things. Now he looked on the brink of being alarmed. Peter Waferer was unbothered by it all. He scoopedanother mouthful of sausage into the gaping maw that appeared between moustache and beard and chewed with his mouth open.Janin looked at Ricard and shook his head slightly. Not much, but it was enough to reinforce Ricard’s impression. There was something in the man’s tone that warnedthem all.

‘Sorry, master, can’t do that,’ he said with conviction. ‘We were found doing that, our lives would be forfeit.’

‘But this country can be a very dangerous place. You would be doing her a service.’

‘Aha.’ Ricard gave a dry laugh without humour. ‘Yes. For us it would become a very much more dangerous place if we tried tospy on her. So: no.’

‘It would be a great shame if you didn’t. News of your actions last night might become known.’ There was something else inhis tone now. It was near to rage, Ricard thought, watching him. No, couldn’t be. Ricard hadn’t ever seen him before, so why’dhe be cross with a bunch of musicians?

He smiled broadly. ‘What, doing a little show for the guests at a tavern? When’s that been against the law?’

‘I am sorry to say that the man whose wife you were pawing is a well-known figure, and even those who dislike him and hismaster recognise that there is a law against killing a glover just because you like his wife. There’s a biblical referenceto it, I think.’

Ricard had no rejoinder to that. His world had just fallen apart. The man had stood and walked to a little door, which hedrew open. At his feet, just inside the doorway, was the body of a man. Ricard stepped forward on weakened legs and stared.The glover had been beaten to death. A short way from him was the woman from the tavern, her skirts lifted over her baredbreasts, her eyes sightless. And blood. Lots of blood.

‘You …’ Ricard’s clawing hands reached out to the man, but he was already a couple of paces away, and now his sword wasout, and he stared down the length of it at Ricard, the point unwavering at his throat.

‘You will help me and serve.’

Château Gaillard

Blanche was forced to pull the blanket about her shoulders again. It was soggy at one corner, icy to the touch, and foul withfilth, but after ten years here in the cell she was uncaring. Once, she thought, she might have been revolted by the sight,the feel, the odour, of such a piece of material. Any man who tried to offer her a similar thing would have been whipped. So she thought, anyway.It was hard to remember. The noise of the water dripping down the walls, the scurrying of small paws, distracted her.

When first incarcerated, she was convinced that her life would soon end. Her sister-in-law had succumbed in no time. It wasless than a year before poor Marguerite was dead. The happy, frivolous young woman with the cheeky smile and love of beautyhad died, so Blanche felt, because of the destruction her actions had caused.

Was it true, this? Had there been such a woman as Marguerite? Was she just a figment of Blanche’s imagination? A chimera,a false memory that had no basis in fact? Sometimes it seemed to her that there was no life outside these walls. There wasnothing beyond the rough-hewn rock. Her life had been lived here for ever. It was easier to believe that, somehow, than tothink that once she had been the wealthy, comfortable daughter-in-law of a king.

She clutched at the rosary at her waist. No. It was real. She was real. Marguerite had been too. They had both been brought here as punishment for their adultery, their heads shaved,their bodies stripped and clad in these rough garments. Blanche had survived a decade, submitting to all the indignities,while poor Marguerite had quickly yielded to the horror of their new situation. Her end was hastened by the news of her husband’scruelty when she was told that he had disinherited their daughter, Jeanne, in the belief that she had been fathered by anotherman in the course of Marguerite’s adultery. That was what had killed her, as surely as a dagger, Blanche reckoned: the knowledge that her infidelity had ruinedthe life of her only surviving child.

So many years ago. All that time spent here in this gaol. One third of her life — a whole third! Two-thirds had been joyful, spent in exuberant pleasure-seeking, until that disastrous day when she and Marguerite and evenlittle Jeanne, Blanche’s sister, had been arrested for their adultery. In a wife of a prince, adultery was treason, for itcompromised the royal line.

Her breast convulsed again with sobs. For the life she had lost, for the crime she had knowingly committed. For all that hadhappened to her — and because she could not forget the shame, the guilt, the pain, the suffering as the small ruby beads rattledthrough her fingers.

Chapter Two

Queen’s chamber, Thorney Island

The request was brought to her by Richard Blaket, one of the guards at her cloister. At least Queen Isabella knew she couldtrust him. He was always enthusiastic in his service to her. In the past he had been pulled two ways, loyal to his king andto the Queen, but more recently she had seen a subtle change. It was ever since he had fallen into a passionate affair withher lady-in-waiting Alicia.

‘His royal highness would be grateful if you could visit him,’ Blaket said now.

‘You mean my husband?’

He smiled as though she had made a witty remark. ‘Of course.’ But as he spoke, his eyes flitted over her shoulder to Alicia.

Isabella glanced at the ladies-in-waiting, then rose, settled her skirts, and paced slowly after him.

At least Blaket treated her with respect. Only a couple of days ago, a squire in the great hall had remained sitting whenshe entered. It had astonished her. The man saw her clearly, but remained on his arse!

There had been a time when no man would have dared such impudence. When she was living in France in the court of her father,Philip IV — God rest his soul! — no man would have thought to be so disrespectful to her. If he had dared, he would have learnedswiftly that the royal family was quick to punish such behaviour.

But that was France. Here, she reminded herself, she was the hated symbol of a foreign power. All seemed to look on her as a spy,from what she had seen: daughter of the French royal family at a time when the French had retaken the English provinces inGuyenne. And her husband was not of a mind to protect her.

It all began with the argument over a new bastide which her brother sought to establish at Saint-Sardos. No permission had been sought from the English king for the constructionof the little fortified town, so the local populace rose against the French officers seeking to protect the builders. Therewas a sharp altercation, an affray, and afterwards a French sergeant lay dead on the ground. It was just the pretext her brotherneeded to invade. He sent in his best general, Charles, Comte de Valois, to pacify the territory, and now King Charles occupiedEngland’s last assets in France.

The consequences for Isabella were high, because the King acted on the advice of those two reprehensible, dishonourable churls,my Lord Bishop Stapledon and Sir Hugh le Despenser. Her shameful treatment was all at their behest, yes, because Bishop Stapledonwanted her lands and mining rights, while Sir Hugh wanted to curb her authority and her influence on her husband — Sir Hugh’slover.

So her lands and privileges were confiscated by the King, her husband; her children were taken from her; her freedom was curtailed;her seal was removed to prevent her communicating with anyone unless with the King’s permission; her household was disbandedand dispersed, with all her French servants arrested. She was a queen in name alone; more truly she was a prisoner, guardedat all times by Sir Hugh le Despenser’s wife, like any felon in a gaol. Except a felon could expect a rope to end his confinement.She wondered what Sir Hugh planned to end her captivity.

‘You wished to see me, my lord?’ she demanded as she entered the Painted Chamber.

It was a huge room, eighty feet long and twenty-six wide, with a ceiling that rose some thirty feet overhead, studded withbeautifully decorated paterae. On the walls were scenes from the Gospels, while the two great windows in the northern wall illuminated the chamber witha dull, gloomy light. The opulence of the gilt and silverwork was enough to take away the breath of many visitors. Today itgleamed in the light of the candles and the fire. The feeble glow from outside did little to brighten it.

King Edward II stood before the fire, his hands clasped behind his back. Isabella ignored the esquire and the two clerks attheir table near the first of the windows, and marched to her husband.

He looked older, she thought. The lines had been carved deeper into the flesh at the sides of his mouth, and his cheeks lookedsunken. His blue eyes were still bright and shrewd, though, and although his long face was grim, he still possessed the auraof power which had always been his mark. And the undeniable handsomeness.

‘You are aware of the situation with your intolerable brother,’ he began.

Isabella bridled to hear her brother denigrated in this manner, but before she could draw breath King Edward was continuing,spittle flying from his lips in his rage.

‘He has sent me three ultimata. If I wish to retain my lands in France …’ His voice was strained, as though he was closeto choking, but he recovered himself and lifted his chin. ‘If I wish to have them returned to me, perhaps I should say, thenI will have to submit to his will. I must go to France to pay homage to him for those lands, and hope that he will later deignto let me have them back. It is intolerable that he should make such demands upon me, a king!’

‘What has this to do with me?’ Isabella asked coldly.

‘Woman, I need an extension of the truce which presently exists. I cannot submit in a moment to such demands. He must be madeto see that. I have to have an ambassador to whom he will listen.’

‘Then send one.’

‘I shall, madam, I shall,’ he said coldly. There was a look of suspicion and doubt in his eye. ‘I have chosen you.’

Château Gaillard

Down here deep in the rock beneath the castle’s walls, not even a breath of wind could penetrate. The air was always damp,cool and noisome, even in the hottest summer.

No soughing breeze could venture here. There were times she had wished that she could have been incarcerated in a high chamberin a tower. At least there she might have the consolation of a view of fields and woods; the feel, perhaps, of sunlight onher flesh. And the smells! Smells of hay, of flowers, even of the dry, hot winds of summer. There would be consolation inthe freezing gales that howled from the north and east. Just to sense the air moving over the hair of her skin would be betterthan this eternity of cold, moisture-laden stillness. The only smells she ever detected here were those of the sweat and foulnessof her gaolers.

They could be kind, though. One had comforted her when she had heard of her husband’s attempts to have her marriage to himannulled, the Pope refusing to permit it. When she had been brought here, she had scarcely been eighteen years old. The veryidea that she could be thrown into a cell like this had never occurred to her. It was so far from her experience, she hadnever imagined that she could be forced to live in such a place. And yet, perhaps that was all part of her dream? Maybe therewas nothing beyond these walls. She had been born here, perhaps, raised here in this chamber in the rock, and she had invented all the memories of dancing, feasting, loving… that was easier than to think that it was as a young woman she had been brought here, and she would die here. And betterby far that she should not think of her child. Her child was lost to her now.

She heard the rattle of locks farther along the corridor, a shocking, startling sound that shook her from her reverie. Anydisturbance here in the cells was a distraction to be welcomed, no matter what it presaged. Blanche eased herself up to acrouch, her legs and back aching, head tilted to hear the better.

A door was thrown wide, and she heard the tramping of booted feet along the stone floor, the rattle of chains, the low mutterof men’s voices. And then her door was opened, and a leering, bearded face peered in at her.

‘It’s your time, woman. Get up!’

She rose to her feet slowly, her hands flat against the rough stone wall.

The man held out his hand, all four fingers curling back to the palm in the universal sign of beckoning, but she was as nervousand flighty as an unbroken mare.

‘My child?’ she asked as firmly as she could, but even her own ears told her how her voice quavered, and her hand went toher rosary for comfort. It was made of beads of ruby, a wonderful gift. The last her husband gave her before she squanderedhis trust … his love. It was the only item she had been allowed to keep when she was brought here, for her chaplain insistedthat she must be permitted her beads. It was her sole possession.

‘You are to be set loose from here, my lady,’ the gaoler said, ignoring her. His lip curled into a grin, but there was a sadnessin his face. He would miss her.

Holy Mother Mary, but she hated this man. Even more than her husband, who had not defended her when she was left here to moulder, she hated this man.

But there was one whom she hated more even than him. More than any other person, Blanche detested the bitch who had causedher to be arrested with her sister and sister-in-law, and thrown into this cell. The woman who told the King of her suspicionsabout the three royal wives and had them followed until their guilt was transparent to all.

That bitch, the she-wolf, Isabella, queen of England.

Queen’s chamber, Thorney Island

Back once more in her chamber, the Queen sat at a cushioned seat set into one of the tall lancet windows, and gazed out atthe river.

‘My lady, was there anything interesting he wanted to speak about with you?’ Lady Eleanor asked after some moments.

Queen Isabella was careful to give the appearance of surprise at hearing the woman’s question. ‘You mean you were not alreadymade aware of the suggestion? I am shocked, Lady Eleanor.’

It was difficult to restrain herself after so many months of living with this foul woman. At first she had tried to befriendEleanor, the King’s niece as she was, and included her in many festivities and parties. For a long time, she had never beratedher for laziness or foolishness, although God alone knew how many occasions there had been which justified sharp rebukes.Eleanor had always been a welcomed guest, no matter what the hour, no matter how great the annoyance of the interruption.All that changed when she married that arch-deceiver Sir Hugh le Despenser.

When he first came into their lives, it was as a paid informer for the barons. They kept him in the King’s household in orderto try to curb any independent action on his part, which they all wanted after the years of Piers Gaveston. After the latter’s death at the hands of a small party of barons, Despenser had gradually become more and more essentialto the King, and the King began to trust no one but him. All those who had been his most loyal servants had been forced fromhim. Even his greatest general, Roger Mortimer of Wigmore, had been driven into near rebellion, and had helped the Lords Marcherwith their sudden attack on the Despenser territories which Sir Hugh had taken from others by force or by deception. Therewas nothing he coveted which he would not grab.

Poor Mortimer. He had been ousted from the King’s side, then kept in the Tower until he broke out in such a spectacular fashion,riding for the coast with two allies and escaping to France. All because Despenser looked upon him as a mortal foe — RogerMortimer’s grandfather had killed Despenser’s on the field at the battle of Evesham fifty or more years before.

So, just as the King had found Despenser installed within his household, so too did Queen Isabella have the Despenser’s ownspy in her household. All her maids had been replaced by Lady Eleanor’s friends and accomplices. Any new lady-in-waiting had to be approvedby her. And meanwhile, all the Queen’s letters were perused by her before being sealed by the Queen’s own seal, which Eleanorheld about her neck at all times.

‘Obviously the King would not discuss private matters with me,’ Lady Eleanor said coolly.

The Queen’s response was more tart. ‘I am surprised. I had thought that your husband would have kept you informed about theirbusiness, my lady. Especially when it is so important for the realm.’

Lady Eleanor went white on hearing that. She pursed her lips angrily, but said nothing more, merely gathered up her skirtsand flounced from the room.

‘You defeated her there. She must grow tired of constantly being bested by you!’ Isabella’s maid Alicia chuckled, rising from her stool and walking to her mistress when she saw thefinger beckon. ‘My lady?’

‘Prepare yourself, Alicia. We are to go to France to my brother’s court. I am to be the King’s ambassador.’

Alicia gasped and clapped her hands, and then was still, her eyes thoughtful.

The Queen nodded. ‘Yes. The King still refuses to go to pay homage to my brother. But he is king of France — it is unthinkablethat my husband should evade his feudal duty. He must go at some point.’

‘Yet Lady Eleanor’s husband …’

‘Hugh le Despenser will oppose my husband’s journey with all the skill and persuasion he can muster, and that devil has muchof both. He is as crafty and mendacious as any politician. But that may give me an opportunity he has not considered,’ sheadded pensively.

‘He means to do you harm,’ Alicia said sharply.

‘Harm me? What harm could he do to me in my brother’s country? I shall be safer there than here in my adopted home.’

‘If an unscrupulous enemy wished to harm you, he would find his task that much easier in France, my lady,’ Alicia insisted.

The Queen was already looking once more out through the window at the Thames and did not answer. There was no need to. Sheknew it already.

Queen’s cloister, Thorney Island

Alicia was cautious about how she made her way from the Queen’s chamber to the door that led from the cloister to the Queen’sprivate little garden. Crossing the sweet-smelling camomile lawn, she reached the gate at the far side. There she knockedquietly twice, then once more.

Immediately the gate opened and Blaket peered in, his face wreathed in smiles. ‘Alicia, my love, my heart, my life. Come here!’

‘My!’ she gasped when he had embraced her for long enough. She set her fists against his breast to push him away. ‘If thisis how you respond to a scant half-day’s separation, I’ll have to be careful not to leave you for a day.’

‘You mustn’t leave me for so long. That would be torture,’ he said, but in his eyes there was a darkness and no flippancy.

‘Not just for you.’

‘Ah, you don’t love me as much as I love you,’ he said.

She cocked an eyebrow and set her head to one side. ‘So we are into competitive lovemaking now? My lord, I love you more thanyou love me.’

‘No, I love you most.’

‘Possibly true, then. I will not get into an argument,’ she said shortly, drawing away and smoothing her skirts.

‘What? Is there something the matter?’

‘It is said that our lady may be travelling soon.’

‘And you will be going with her?’

‘Don’t look like that, my love,’ she said softly. ‘We would be back as soon as possible.’

‘Would she take a guard with her?’

Alicia smiled. ‘If she has any say, she will know which guard she can trust, won’t she?’

It was a relief to hear her say that with that sweet smile on her pale face. He pulled her to him again and held her tight,saying nothing. He had proved himself to the Queen in the last weeks. No service had been too much for him. And now all hewanted was to remain with her when she went.

With Alicia, too, of course. She was his lovely, lively little bird. A wonderful smile, a warm, generous spirit, those brightblue-grey eyes that lit up his soul — life would be hell without her. ‘Thanks to God for that. I can’t let you go to Francealone.’

‘I scarcely think I’d be alone. Not with the Queen, her clerk, her chaplain, her honour-guard of knights and men-at-arms,’ shedeclared archly.

‘No. Of course not.’

She frowned quickly. ‘How did you know it was France?’

‘Eh?’

‘I told you we would be travelling, but you just said “France”. How did you know?’

‘Do you really think there are any secrets here in the King’s palace?’ he asked and chuckled.

She smiled in return, giving him a hug. It was that, then, which had made his eyes anxious and black. Little surprise. Everyoneknew how potentially dangerous a journey to France could be, especially now with war hanging over both nations like a cloudof brimstone.