The Templar, the Queen and Her Lover

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The Queen’s Men were all still abed when the summons came. A man banged on the door, and Charlie squeaked with fear at the sound, hurling himself at Ricard and burying his head in Ricard’s breast. ‘Hey, little man, little man, calm down!’ he said, stroking the boy’s head and back. Charlie clung to Ricard like a small limpet, though, hiding his face.

It was a man like this, then, someone who knocked loudly, who had scared this little fellow more than any other. If he had to guess, Ricard would reckon that the boy had not seen his parents die, but he couldn’t ask. It would have been too shocking if the boy had admitted seeing his mother raped and murdered. No, Ricard couldn’t put that question. So far as he knew, Thomassia, her husband, and the Queen’s Men had arrived at her house some time about dusk or later, and the musicians had repaired to the garden almost immediately. So perhaps a little while later Charlie had heard a knocking at the door, and went down to see his parents arguing, or being threatened, and went to hide in the hutch. That would make sense.

Only, didn’t boys who saw their parents being threatened usually go to them for protection? If a man was upsetting them, surely the lad would go to his father?

Who could tell how a little boy like this would react?

The messenger was summoning them to the Queen. Her demands must have speedy responses. He took up his gittern as the others quickly gathered up their own instruments, and hurried with them to the Queen’s chamber.

Panting as he ran with them, Adam scowled to himself. He’d told them all. It was clear as the nose on his face that this ‘Jack’ was a dangerous fellow. Plainly not a real musician, no matter what he damned well said. No, he was a danger to them all, he was. A murderer. And probably not just some killer-for-money, either, but a much more dangerous type, one of those who killed for Despenser.

There were few men in the kingdom whom Adam feared as he feared Despenser. Who wouldn’t? Despenser was the most powerful, the richest, the nastiest, the greediest bastard in a country where instant gratification was the norm for knights and their kind. Didn’t matter that some poor devil stood in their path. Any obstruction was there to be removed. A husband of the wench they fancied? Kill him. A widow who owned good property? Kill her. A musician who stood in the way of a man being sent to spy on the Queen? Kill him. And that was why Peter was lying in a grave now, just so that bloody Jack could make the journey with them.

That sign of the peacock was all very well. What did it mean, though? Just that the man had access to a decent artist who could colour a picture on a skin. There were plenty of men who could do that kind of work. Didn’t need to be an honest man. And the fellow who’d suggested that they should look out for a man who’d have that sign wasn’t necessarily a friend to them. He’d just killed a glover and his wife, after all. Life was cheap, but there was no need to execute someone for no reason like that. Sweet Mother of God, no!

‘Hurry up, Adam!’ Ricard snapped.

They were trotting over the courtyard now, but when they reached the middle they were halted by French guards with their polearms levelled to hold them back.

‘Christ! Are we arrested?’ Adam squeaked.

‘God’s ballocks, just shut up, you fool!’ Philip grated. ‘Anyone would think you’d been off and killed Paul yourself. What’s the matter with you?’

Adam glowered at him. They were all on edge, obviously. It had been bad enough when they had to leave England after Peter’s murder, but to have first that Frenchman killed on the way here, and now their own countryman slaughtered outside the castle, well, it seemed to show that things were getting worse. Made a man wonder if he’d be next. In God’s name, he didn’t want to see any more blood. It had been bad enough in the house in London. That poor woman’s body lying there like a discarded bloody rag. It was enough to make a man throw up. Certainly made him spew.

Oh, shit. That’s why they were being held up.

Adam stared, lip curled in disgust, as the bloody body was carried past on a bier. Four men carried Paul’s remains, all in French uniform, and Adam wondered why, until he realised what a diplomatic disaster this could be. Sir Charles of Lancaster walked along behind the body, eyes fixed on the corpse like a man staring into hell.

As soon as the cortège had gone by, the nearer guard lifted his bill, and the musicians darted past. Ricard was in front, and Jack almost at his side on his long, loping legs. It made Adam feel a flash of anger that the man should be up there in front. Should be him, or maybe Philip or Janin, at Ricard’s side, not this interloper.

He glanced back at the bier, and for an instant he could have sworn it was Peter there. The boots were the same, the clothing was much like an old tunic Peter used to wear for different musical events, and there was a tatty old green cloak covering much of him that was so like Peter’s it was uncanny. And then he nearly fell over. The bier was being manhandled at the door to the chapel, and had to be tilted slightly to make it through the doorway. As the men eased it inside, one of the corpse’s hands fell away, as though to point. And when Adam looked ahead, he knew perfectly well what was being pointed at.

It was the murderer — Jack. The man who had appeared after Peter’s death, and who was here to spy on the Queen. The bastard! How could they all play music with the man who’d killed their mate?

After passing by the guards, they reached the Queen’s chamber at last. And as Ricard installed the boy at the rear of the room with a wooden ball he had fashioned himself, Adam eyed him with contempt.

Ricard was weak. Since Peter’s death, he’d been confused and undecided about everything except taking this little brat everywhere with them. He was useless; couldn’t even see how dangerous Jack was.

He’d speak to Philip about Jack. Philip was still a man. He’d help kill the bastard.

Baldwin joined Simon at the bar in the buttery of the castle’s main hall, and both drank deeply as soon as their beer arrived.

‘Baldwin, are you all right?’ Simon asked.

‘I am perfectly well,’ Baldwin said.

Simon studied him briefly. He didn’t want to thrust his nose where it could be bitten off, but he was worried about his friend. ‘It was a dreadful murder.’

‘Paul’s? Oh, I don’t know. The man was a known killer, who has murdered plenty in his time, I dare say. Do not forget, Simon, that he was a mercenary when we first met him. A man like that is not going to change his habits. Who can tell, perhaps he was trying to rob someone himself?’

‘Baldwin, that is hardly likely.’

‘He was never the most communicative of companions. He was a close confidant of Sir Charles, but I would put him no higher than that in my own esteem. For me he was only an acquaintance, and not a welcome one.’

Simon was nonplussed by this cold analysis. ‘But surely his death should be investigated?’

‘Yes. Without a doubt, but that is what concerns me. It is a question of what may be learned.’

‘What do you mean?’

Baldwin looked at him very directly. ‘I am an ageing cynic, I think, but I find it hard to understand why a member of this embassy should be set upon late at night. He was not wealthy, and his clothing spoke of poverty. A poor man might attack someone like him for his boots or cloak, especially in this weather, but nothing of the sort was taken. And there are reasons to suspect that it was no poverty-struck man who killed him.’

‘You are meandering, Baldwin,’ Simon said with a slight chuckle. ‘What are you on about? Why not a poor man? His purse was taken.’

‘All I mean is, no one who wanted a good purse would bother with his. A successful cut-purse would take his victim’s money without the victim’s knowing, so it was no professional thief. A poor man wanting better clothes would steal boots or cloak, shirt or hat — but none were taken. Only the purse. A felon might kill if he saw a well-filled purse, but Paul never had one. So who did attack him?’

‘A chance encounter, and someone was fearful of being assaulted, so struck first?’

‘Paul was many things I disliked, but I respected him for one thing: he was a highly competent man-at-arms. A man would be justified in being nervous of him, but if he sought to draw a weapon at speed Paul would have had his own out first. He was a thoroughly competent fighter. We have both seen that. In any case, this was surely the action of more than one man. Someone must have held him while the second opened him up. Unless, of course, he was already dead when the belly was slit?’ He mused a moment, eyes narrowed.

‘Then who could have done it?’ Simon asked.

Baldwin drained his drink. ‘That is what concerns me.’

Lady Joan of Bar winced as the nondescript group of musicians appeared and took up their places. The Queen, damn her, was taking up all the warmth of the fire, with that young hussy Alicia attending to her, and the rest of the room was chilly. But no matter. So long as those two were comfortable, all the other women could go and hang. The Queen wouldn’t give them a thought.

The men looked at each other and then struck up a melody. One of those infernal dance tunes they played so often. It grated on her nerves, for she had heard it many times already on this embassy. Gracious Mother, if only the fools could learn something a little more interesting, or at least something that had a little more sobriety. This constant tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, plink, plink was beginning to make her feel like screaming ‘Enough!’

She had been brought up to a more genteel lifestyle. The granddaughter of King Edward I, she felt all of her thirty years today. True, since divorcing her foul, cruel, capricious and sly husband, John de Warenne, a man for whom the term ‘brute’ might well have been invented, she had found her life growing easier, but then she had been thrown back into the politics of the realm by her uncle, the King, and told to keep a close eye on the Queen during this embassy.

It was not a duty she relished. Her cousin Eleanor had monitored the Queen in England, which had not been onerous but was very time-consuming. It was that, Eleanor had said, which made the journey to France so undesirable to her, much though she loved France.

Joan was unconvinced. In her opinion Eleanor had other reasons for wishing to avoid this duty: first and foremost was the fact that she had been acting as unofficial gaoler to the Queen for the past four or five months. She had taken custody of the royal children — all except the heir, Edward — and was in charge of Isabella’s seal, so that all letters must be passed to her to be sealed. The Queen was allowed no secrets. And here they were in the French capital, where the Queen’s brother was king. He would be able to make Eleanor’s life uncomfortable.

There was another thing, of course. While Eleanor protested that she adored France, and would dearly like to visit it again, she knew that her husband, Sir Hugh le Despenser, would be unable to accompany her there. His actions some years before, when he had been exiled from England and turned pirate, had caused some friction between the French and him. There was the matter of the shipping he had captured, the men he had killed. He dared not visit France, and without him Eleanor would be reluctant to do so.

Which had all conspired to see to it that Joan was forced to come. Well, at least Isabella was congenial company generally, and more so since arriving here in France. She could converse with all about her with a gay easiness that was entirely out of keeping with what the lady Joan had known in England.

Yes. It was strange to see someone who had been so downtrodden only a short while ago flower into this vibrant, beautiful woman again. She was more or less of an age with Joan, but when Joan had seen her in London before departing for the coast, she had been unrecognisable. She looked like Joan herself before that blessed year of 1315, when she had at last managed to dispose of the Earl of Warenne and regain her freedom. Seeing the back of John had been marvellous. Joan could imagine no better moment in her life. And it was sad to think that this queen, this wonderful, attractive woman, should be similarly afflicted while in the presence of her own husband.

At least that was one thing about these accursed music-killers. Queen Isabella appeared to relish their playing. God alone knew how she could tolerate it, but she seemed to like it. Well, the poor woman was here to work her will on the embassy. As soon as that was over, she would be taken straight back to England by Lord John Cromwell, and her peace would be shattered. She would be held once more in the miserable Tower in London, or at the palace on Thorney Island. There she would have her seal taken away once more, and she would be held under the guard of Eleanor.

Joan set her jaw. Since her suffering at the hands of her own husband, she was less inclined to see another woman put to the same slow, intolerable torture of a loveless marriage. Isabella had lost her husband to another lover — all knew of it, there was no point denying the fact — and could never find peace in her own country. She deserved the little relaxation she had discovered here.

The brat who scampered about in the wake of the musicians sent his ball rolling along the chamber, and Joan almost shouted at the miserable churl, but then the ball hit the delicately booted foot of the Queen. She glanced down, startled, and stared at the ball, then over her shoulder at the boy.

For a moment all was breathless and expectant. The lead musician’s mouth opened in horror, the fiddler made a squawk by accident, and Joan herself allowed a smile to touch her mouth. But then the Queen beckoned the lad over and held out his ball to him.

You could not ever tell how Queen Isabella would respond, Joan of Bar told herself. She decided that she would have a strategic headache and retire to her rooms the next time these musicians came to play.

Baldwin and Simon were hailed as soon as they left the buttery, and Simon heard his companion groan to himself as they recognised the tones of Lord John Cromwell.

‘Can we escape?’ Baldwin whispered.

‘I think not,’ Simon said with a chuckle. ‘Why else were we brought here if not to answer the call of Lord Cromwell?’

Baldwin grunted and turned, fitting a smile to his face. ‘My Lord Cromwell. How may I serve you?’

‘That man who was killed. I don’t want some sort of diplomatic incident. You are used to investigating murders, Sir Baldwin. I want you to show that it was nothing political.’

Baldwin blinked. ‘Pray, Lord Cromwell, since you have decided the conclusion, how precisely would you like me to begin my study?’

‘Don’t be clever, Sir Baldwin,’ Cromwell snarled. ‘This isn’t some easy-going footpad knocking a man on the pate. This is murder, very clearly. We appear to have suffered from rather too many of them of late, don’t we? First the poor devil Enguerrand de Foix, then the guard from the Château Gaillard, and now our own man-at-arms. Sir Charles is devastated, and quite capable of causing mayhem in the attempt to kill the man responsible. But having the brain and reasoning capacity of a bloody Lancastrian, he’ll be likely to find that the man responsible was the personal steward to King Charles. That cannot be permitted. I will not have our entire purpose ruined because of one man’s desire to avenge a blasted servant. Is that clear?’

‘Perfectly. However, if you want me to research this latest death, it may be a problem, bearing in mind that the land is strange to me, the people more so, and I have no knowledge of French law. Really, Lord Cromwell, I believe-’

‘You will have to do your best.’

‘One thing: if you wish me to do this, you must be aware that I will be truthful. If you expect me to investigate, I will investigate to the very best of my ability. You understand? And if I am questioned, I shall tell the truth.’

‘You will remember that you are here on a diplomatic mission, Sir Baldwin. If someone asks you about this crime, you will remember your status, and you will advise your questioner to come to me. You will answer nothing, except to me.’

The lord scowled ferociously at him, then barely glanced at Simon as he wished them both God speed, and strode away, his boots splashing in the little puddles left by the previous night’s rains.

‘And that, I think, told me, eh?’ Baldwin said with a dry chuckle. ‘Come, let us see what it is that the good lord wishes us to see, and try to blinker ourselves to all other possibilities.’