Michael Jecks - The King of Thieves

Sir Henry de Beaumont and the Bishop were already there, as was Sir Richard de Welles, who grinned broadly at the pair of them, while a little distance behind the Queen, Richard de Bury, the Duke’s tutor, stood warily, his eyes shifting from one man to another as people spoke. He looked nervous to be in such company.

‘Sir Baldwin, Bailiff,’ the Queen said. She was sitting on a small chair with delightful carved arms, a comfortable little seat for travelling, that would fold up in half for packing. She sipped from a silver tankard of wine. ‘I am glad to see you again.’

At her side stood her son. He had a stiffness about him, and Simon regretted that the boy who had been so keen and eager on the ship, was now restrained, like a hound freshly muzzled.

On board ship, he had been filled with excitement at the great craft. The rolling and plunging that made Simon’s belly roil, seemed to thrill the boy. He walked from the castles fore and aft to the ratlines and stood with his arm through the ropes, laughing at the spray that dashed in his eyes. He appeared to come alive still more when the wind blew a little harder, and although the Bishop and his own tutor begged him to go with them at least so far as the decking, and ideally to the cabin aft, he refused point blank. There was no need, he declared. If it were dangerous, then their whole journey was also insanely dangerous, and he would prefer to be up here on deck to see the looming rocks than below, where the ship could be crushed for a man’s lack of attentiveness.

Now, though, his eyes were dulled as he stood and listened. It might have been a different fellow entirely. Not surprising, though, Simon reckoned. The lad had come here keen to see his mother — and now he had, he must realise that there was no chance of her returning to England with him to try to force a reconciliation with the King. His hopes of peace in his family had been dashed.

‘I am glad indeed to see you both again,’ the Queen said. ‘I was unsure who might be sent to guard my child.’

‘He has been the soul of good manners and behaviour,’ Baldwin said.

‘That would be a change for him. It was ever the case that my son would play in the trees and at any sport that was most dangerous,’ Queen Isabella said lightly.

‘Madam, your son is educated now to appreciate mature behaviour,’ Stapledon said. He did not look in her direction as he spoke, but eyed Simon and Baldwin.

‘I am glad to hear it,’ the Queen said shortly. She too would not look at the Bishop, but instead moved on immediately to discuss the route they must take, the deployment of the men, the stores which would be needed. Once she was content, she dismissed the men, somewhat haughtily, Simon felt, but that was no surprise. After all, she probably wanted some private time with her son. And he with her, too, from the look of him. He kept giving her little sidelong looks, at her hair, at her profile, at her hands on the arms of the chair. All as though he didn’t believe she was really here with him. As though he had thought she was dead.

However, this was not the end of the discussion for the Bishop. ‘There is one last matter, your Royal Highness,’ he said, and produced a small roll sealed with the King’s mark.

‘What is that?’

‘The King has written to you, I think. This is a safe conduct for you to return home.’

The Queen stood, her face suddenly pale. ‘You think to send me away just as my son arrives in this land? You think you can order me to leave just as my son needs my help?’

‘With the greatest respect, your Highness, the Earl of Chester needs the help of professional diplomats, such as myself and Sir Henry.’

‘With respect? Well, Bishop !’ It sounded as though she spat the word. ‘I say to you, without respect, that I have been born as a diplomat, that I have been raised as a diplomat, and that I have been raised in the Royal Families of England and France. There is nobody I do not know, and there are many from whom I can demand — not ask, but demand — help. You, on the other hand, are not a popular man in this country. You will not presume to command me to do anything.’

‘No, my Queen. But this letter …’

‘You may keep it. I will not look at it now. Mon Dieu! Do you realise that this is the first time I have had an opportunity to speak with my son in months? And you would have me leave the country as soon as he arrives.’

‘The King was expecting you to return to your home, my Queen,’ Stapledon tried one last time.

‘The King should have been a little more considerate. I shall return shortly, no doubt. But in my own good time. Now, you may leave us.’

And that had been that at the time. The men had all walked away to leave the Queen with her son and his tutor, while her eyes, red-rimmed and gleaming with anger, remained fixed upon the back of the Bishop.

However, Simon was sure that the affair was almost over. The Queen would have to take the note from her husband soon. No wife could think to ignore her man’s legitimate commands, not for long. Soon she must submit and go home. And then the serious negotiations could begin.

Furnshill, Devon

Margaret heard the hooves clattering up the path to the house from the hall, where she sat trying to concentrate on mending an old blouse, and for a moment she felt a curious mingling of trepidation and excitement, torn between the hope that it could be her husband and Baldwin, and terror that it was another man sent by Despenser, this time to ruin Baldwin.

‘Margaret? Here is the man who was to live at your house,’ Jeanne said, entering.

‘Sir,’ she said, falteringly.

The man before her was a heavy-set priest. He wore only a rough tunic, but he was clearly a monk, and looked at her with that slight dispassion that was the normal manner of a senior churchman who never usually encountered women. After the introductions were over, he shook his head with some confusion and asked why she was there at Furnshill. ‘Were you not going to wait for me at your house?’

‘I am very sorry, but the house was taken from me,’ Margaret said, and the words made the tears flow again. She had to bend and wipe at her eyes, her apron bunched in her fists, while Jeanne explained what had happened. As she spoke, the man’s face hardened.

‘This is true?’ he asked.

Margaret nodded, still not trusting her voice.

He waved imperiously at Edgar, who stood in the doorway. ‘Wine!’ He had a curious accent, a Roman-sounding tone from all the Latin he had spoken over the years. ‘Very well. Then I shall have to evict this man, whoever he may be.’

Margaret was tempted to laugh. ‘You don’t realise, sir. This man is very dangerous. He attacked my husband with a sword, and would have slain him.’

The man stood up. ‘Really? He had best not try such a thing with me, or he will find himself in great danger.’

‘I think that this man doesn’t worry about danger.’

‘Then he will learn quickly! I am Raymond, Cardinal de Fargis, in the service of God and the Pope. If he tries to threaten me, he will find himself in gaol faster than a whore in a cathedral.’

Temple, Paris

The cell was a large one, sixteen-feet long and as many wide, set into the north-west corner of the great keep.

Just the atmosphere made Jean feel chilled as he entered the place. There were marks scrawled into the walls here, the despairing words of prisoners who knew that their time was almost over; men who had entered this place as rich as any knights, who had loyally served their master, only to see him turn against them for a simple financial reward.

The Templars had been held in this room, and in others, their hands in manacles, chains at their ankles, and they were forced to stand by and watch as, one by one, their comrades were dragged forward to be tested by the inquisition. Jean had seen the records of some of the trial, and he knew the details that would not have been noted down: the way that a man’s scream could rise sharply to the ceiling when his flesh was being scorched; how a man would whimper and weep, even the strongest, when he was slowly beaten, his bones broken one by one; the little ‘click’ of a tooth breaking its link with the jawbone as it was drawn out; the soft squelch of blood and gristle as a nail was pulled from a finger. The sizzle of cooking meat as a foot or hand was thrust over a brazier, after a pat of butter had been smeared over a slash in the flesh to make it fry more efficiently. Oh, the monks wouldn’t be involved in the brutality, of course. That was a matter for the secular arm of the law. No, the monks would merely ask the questions, ever so softly and gently, and watch and listen and smell as the prisoners were slowly broiled, burned, broken before them.