The Templar, the Queen and Her Lover

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Ricard sat on the ground near Sir Baldwin, and told his tale. He looked to the others occasionally for verification of the details, butgenerally even Philip held his tongue. Charlie sat on Ricard’s thigh, looking about him with that childish appearance of innocenceand wonder that always amused Simon on the face of his own son.

‘So this lad is the child of the couple you found dead?’ Baldwin asked.

‘Yes. And it was Earl Edmund who told us to spy on the Queen for him.’

‘Why?’

‘He didn’t say. We assumed he wanted information about her. Damaging information. So that he could tell the King. Or Despenser.’

‘I see,’ Baldwin said. ‘But why did you think the Earl would want to do that?’

‘How were we to know he was an earl? All we knew was, he had men outside, he had two corpses inside, and we were stuffed whicheverway we looked at it.’

‘The boy,’ Simon asked quietly, ‘did he see his mother and father-’

‘No, I don’t think so,’ Ricard said hurriedly. ‘He was outside. I think he went there himself. Maybe he was told to. He sawnothing, I think.’

‘You’re a big fellow, aren’t you?’ Simon said pleasantly.

The boy met his gaze with a serious frown for a while, then slowly leaned sideways into Ricard’s chest for protection. Ricard absent-mindedly put his arm about him. ‘He trusts me.’

Baldwin nodded, and then he squatted on the ground in front of Ricard and the boy. He met the lad’s eye for a short period,then looked back to Ricard. ‘You have done well with him. He trusts you. But are you sure you have never seen him before?He would appear very unconcerned about his sad loss.’

‘He’s only a boy. Doesn’t hardly speak at all,’ Ricard said.

‘I see. So, Charlie. What is to be done with you? Will you remain with these fine musicians, or are you to find a new home?’

‘Stay with Ricard.’

‘You will be happy with him, you think?’

Charlie sat a little more upright, watching Baldwin closely. ‘Yes. Like Ricard.’

Baldwin nodded. ‘Tell me, Ricard. The man who died from your band — was there any reason you can think of which would explainhis death? Moneylenders? Gambling? Whores?’

‘He was a clean-living fellow compared with others, sir. No, I can’t imagine anything like that. He was happy enough withthe money we earned playing our music, but his wife wouldn’t let him gamble if she had anything to do with it, and he’d nothave bothered with whores. His woman, Marg, was more than enough to keep him happy. No, the more I think about it, the moreI think he was killed because of our coming here. I don’t know why, but I think it must have been Jack who slew him in orderto make sure he would get into our group. That was it. Earl Edmund wanted us to come here with the Queen, and he wanted tokeep an eye on us, so he had Jack kill Peter so Jack could join in.’

‘You told me he had a peacock picture on his bodhran?’

‘Yes.’

‘But he has been very friendly with Earl Edmund?’

‘Yes. Jack and he stood up against Philip and Adam together.’

‘But that makes little sense to me,’ Baldwin said. ‘If the Earl was so keen for you to keep in touch with his man, why wouldhe have your Peter killed? His man would be in touch with you every step in any case. Peter might as well have lived. Thenagain, why bother to have this Jack installed in your band at all? He could have been a hanger-on of the Queen’s cavalcade.’

‘I don’t know. None of it makes any sense to a simple gittern-player.’

Baldwin rose to his feet. ‘Very well. Many thanks for all that. I hope to be able to speak to you again before long. PerhapsI can even explain it all.’

‘I hope so. I would be grateful just for a little less fog about everything.’

‘I will do what I can,’ said Baldwin, looking over to the gate. ‘What on earth is all that about?’

‘All that’ was a sudden roaring from a hundred throats as Sir John de Sapy hurtled through the gates of the castle and demandedthat the gates be locked, the portcullis dropped, before the tide of angry Parisians could storm the whole area.

He gazed back in horror, seeing only a sea of enraged faces. They were bellowing for his blood, calling him a murderer andworse, baying like hounds seeing their prey at the far side of a railing, raging at being unable to bring it down. ‘Dear Christ,what have I done to deserve all this?’

‘Sir John, could you tell me what has happened?’ Lord John Cromwell said with an arctic politeness as he arrived, drawn tothe court by the howling and bellowing.

‘I was at a house where a man was discovered dead. They all blame me for it. I had nothing to do with it!’

Cromwell sighed. It was clear enough that the mob was here for a while. They would not withdraw just because Sir John had managed to find his way into a refuge; this was a more deeply seatedhatred than that of men for a murderer. This was the tribal loathing of a man who was different, who was a stranger, who was foreign. They wanted more than the chance to arrest him; if these people took hold of Sir John, they would tear him limb from limb.

‘You need to get out of their sight, Sir John. I recommend that you take yourself off to the chapel. In there you can prayfor a little understanding from your pursuers. But first: you are sure you had nothing to do with the man’s death?’

‘Absolutely! I just walked in and there he was, his belly opened like a gutted fish.’

‘Who was it? Did you know him?’

‘That man who was with us on the way here. His master was killed?’

‘You mean Robert de Chatillon? The squire?’

‘Yes.’

Lord Cromwell glanced back at the angry crowd beyond the portcullis. ‘What were you doing in his house?’

Sir John shrugged. ‘A friend asked me to go.’

‘Who? What were you to do there?’

Sir John de Sapy cast an eye at the mob. He was reluctant to speak, but if these people were to be persuaded to leave it wasobvious that he had to talk. ‘It was a man I met in London. He was a priest to the King of France, and I was introduced tohim by Sir Hugh le Despenser. Sir Hugh wanted me to show him the way to a particular place in London.’

‘What did you do?’

‘All I did was show him this house. Nothing else, I swear. Look, I was trying to be accepted back into the King’s household.I needed Sir Hugh to help me; I wouldn’t have had a chance without his aid. So I took the priest to the house he wanted tosee. That was all I did.’

Simon and Baldwin had joined them, and Baldwin was listening intently even as he took in the sight of the men and women shoutingand hurling abuse through the stout bars. ‘What house was this?’

‘Just some place in Lombard Street. Nothing special.’

Baldwin snapped around. ‘Lombard Street? When would this have been?’

‘When? I don’t know. About Ash Wednesday, I suppose. Perhaps the Monday of that week?’

Baldwin almost gaped. Then, ‘This priest you say you met. Did you see him again?’

‘He and I celebrated Mass shortly afterwards, and he heard my confession. And I saw him yesterday briefly.’

‘What did he ask this time?’

‘Only that I go to a certain house and deliver a note. But when I got there, the man was already dead. I swear it, Lord John!The man was already dead. I did nothing to him!’

‘Then why are all these folk here?’

‘Another man arrived while I was there. He saw the man and accused me. I didn’t know what to say! I just hit him and ran outand back here.’

‘It was de Chatillon,’ Cromwell said to Baldwin in an undertone. The noise at the gate was beginning to die down, and he feltalmost sure that the worst of the crowd’s fury was already past. ‘Look, you get off to the chapel as I said. I’ll see if wecan’t calm these people down.’

Sir John nodded, and was about to go when there came a bellow from the gates.

‘LORD CROMWELL! There’s a man here says he’s from the French king, wants to talk to you about some murder?’

Jean caught up with the crowd before long, and as he stared about in the broad space before the King’s castle in the woods,all he could see was an expanse of heads wearing all kinds of hats. The different colours formed a confusing wash in front of him: scarlets, greens, dull ochres and the occasional yellowor pink. One or two were purple, but they were so rare as to hardly show. Instead he found himself seeking out the bare-headedbrown of Arnaud.

There was no sign of him nearby. All about him there were only woollen hats, and even when he stood on tiptoe and strained,he saw no one like Arnaud. But the man wouldn’t be here at the back, would he? He’d be up at the front of this mass of people.Jean must get there too. There was no other way to reach him. Jean must force his way through the crowd.

He began elbowing people out of the way. Some grumbled; a few dug their elbows into him, or kneed him as he passed by. Oneman on his left almost managed to fell him with a deft blow to his leg that all but killed it. The only way he could remainstanding was by grasping the jerkin of the nearest man to his right, who turned to spit at him, but then offered him somehelp when he saw Jean’s trouble.

‘Make way! This man’s hurt!’ he roared, and grudgingly people began to part for them both.

It was a slow progress through the reluctant crowd. Nobody wanted to move and let someone else get a better view. Still, Jean’ssaviour was a large man, for all that he was short, and his stentorian voice ensured that people realised there was someonecoming through who needed help. Gradually they made their way towards the castle, where Jean could see the folks roaring andshouting at the portcullis. Behind it was a small guard of men in breastplates and helmets with polearms of different types.Men were gathered nearby, but they appeared to be watching uneasily, and not doing anything that might upset the crowds.

And then he saw him.

Arnaud was at the right of the portcullis, shouting and pointing, clenching his fist and waving it in the air, bellowing at his neighbours, rousing them to greater effort and noise. Jean sawhim turn towards him, and dropped his chin quickly, hoping that he hadn’t seen him. Then he heard shouting and noises of adifferent sort. There were disconcerted calls, and when he risked a glance, he saw that behind him there was a man on a greatdestrier, a knight with all the pride and haughty contempt of his class. Jean loathed him instantly.

The man was safe even in this mêlée. Jean could see that all about him was a great ring of polearms, their sturdy wooden shaftsstanding at an angle to guard him. It would take more than a rabble like this to penetrate his defence, Jean could see.

Looking forward again, he stifled a moan of disappointment. Arnaud was gone!

The fool! He thought he could surprise Arnaud, did he? The executioner to the King was not some ignorant cretin to be slainby the knife of a peasant from the Comté de Foix.

Arnaud allowed himself to be drawn back into the crowd by the action of all those who were striving to push forward. He kepthis head low, and as he went he took off his scarf, binding it carefully so that he could wrap it about his head like a cap.Soon, he felt comfortable enough to look up. There, a scant five yards or so from him, was Jean. Arnaud ducked his head downonce more, and began to make his way at an angle towards the man. It was not easy, but soon he felt he was close enough. Thatwas when he looked up and saw that Jean was staring straight at him.

It was the act of a moment. He drew his knife, holding it good and low, and then, when a man moved, he was in. The executionernever saw it coming. He was there, staring with pure hatred at Jean, and then Jean lunged forward, as much as he could in the press, and felt his knife slide in under Arnaud’s jack. At the same time, Arnaud’s own dagger slipped in so smoothlythat Jean was scarcely aware of its progress until he felt the blade scrape on his lowest rib.

If he was to die, he would make sure that his assailant did too. He jabbed with his fist, shoving up as hard as he could,trying to use the edge of the blade to cut upward into Arnaud’s body, but the knife had turned in his grasp. As the pain beganto spread from his belly to his chest, he started to panic. His knife wouldn’t move. He tried to twist it and turn it, butthe thing was hard to shift. It was only when Arnaud started to drop to his knees, dragging clear of the knife, that Jeanunderstood that both of them were dying.

Suddenly there was a shrill scream. Then a series of muttered curses, and the men all about grabbed the pair of them. Arnaud,Jean saw, had a feral, brutal expression fitted to his face, his teeth bared in anger and anguish, and even as he registeredthe curious ferocity, Jean realised that his own face probably reflected the same emotions.

They were apart. Jean had Arnaud’s knife still in his belly, and he looked down at the hilt with near disbelief. Sinking tohis knees, he found that breathing was hard. His own dagger clattered to the ground as he opened his hand, and then he lethimself fall forward to all fours, breathing shallowly, the stabbing agony spreading all over him. So this was what deathfelt like, he thought.

There was a liquid drooping sensation, like a lover slipping from his woman’s body, and he heard a little metallic rattleas Arnaud’s weapon fell from him. The whole of his belly felt like a bladder of boiling water, stinging and heavy. His headwas heavy too, like a lump of rock at the end of his neck. Impossible to hold aloft. He must allow it to dangle. The cobbleswere smooth under his hands. They looked so comfortable compared to this hideous exhaustion. He let his elbows bend, and closed his eyes as his cheek approached the stone of the roadway.

Pierre d’Artois had ordered his men to force a way through the crowd to the portcullis, and then allowed his mount to walkeasily between the lines of polearms to the gate. The guards manning it saw who it was who approached and scrambled to getthe great shutter lifted to allow Artois to enter, while behind him his men held their weapons horizontal, trying to clearthe space immediately in front of the castle.

He looked about him as he entered the main grounds. ‘My Lord Cromwell. I hope I find you well on this fine morning?’

‘I am always happy when I meet you, my lord.’

Artois allowed himself a small grin at that. He glanced back at the crowds being shoved and cursed back. ‘You have many gueststhis day.’

‘There was a murder, and some mistakenly assumed it was one of my knights who was responsible.’

‘I had heard so. And who was the knight so accused?’

‘Sir John de Sapy.’

‘I see. You are sure of his innocence?’

Cromwell hesitated only a fraction of a second, but it was enough for Artois to raise a corner of his mouth sardonically.‘You are that sure?’

Before Cromwell could comment, Baldwin had attracted his attention. ‘My Lord John, it would appear that someone is hurt outthere.’

Artois stared back over his shoulder. His men were forcing the crowd away from the entrance to the castle, and as the tideof Parisians washed backwards, two bodies were exposed lying on the ground.

‘You there! Go and bring those two men in here. Hurry!’