Michael Jecks - The Templar, the Queen and Her Lover

Ricard and Janin exchanged a look, then Ricard gave a frown of agreement and shook his head emphatically. ‘No, no. There wasno trouble at all.’

‘So I was bad, then?’

‘I think she thought so,’ Janin said. ‘Still, she said you weren’t all that bad. Once we found some money in your purse toreplace her shirt and clean her skirts.’

Peter wasn’t sure. The five of them would routinely take the piss out of each other, and it was quite possible that they werelying in their teeth … but he did have a vague recollection of a gorgeous little Venus with the face of an angel — andthe body of a fiend bent on tempting the innocent. He could remember playing his tabor with ever-increasing vigour, then leavingit as it was impossible to play the kind of tune he wanted with such a staid, boring instrument. No, he was a master musician,so he picked up his recorder and started to play that instead. He could recall leaning against the wall, playing like thedevil himself as she smiled and laughed. Her pleasure was all he needed to drive him on. It was that night he’d argued withhis wife, he recalled. Be more than an argument if she ever heard about this, he reckoned.

‘You are sure of this, Peter?’ Ricard said. ‘They’d let us back?’

Peter could not help but look down shamefacedly. ‘No, I’m sure there’s no problem. Not really.’

‘Even if she herself thought we would be allowed back in, there’s all the others. The King and she aren’t friendly just now,’ Janinpointed out.

‘The lady I spoke to was Lady Alicia, one of the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting, a blonde. She said she remembered me only toowell. Actually she was a bit off at first. Then she laughed … You say the wench was strawberry blonde?’

‘With the sort of body no angel would ever need,’ Janin agreed solemnly.

‘Oh. Oh! Christ’s ballocks, I never … I didn’t remember. Well, she didn’t seem upset, anyway. She can’t have been offended.’

Ricard nodded and shrugged. ‘Well, she wasn’t hurt or anything. You didn’t rape her, you just tried to grapple. Your incapacitysaved her from any danger.’

‘Incap- what?’ Philip stuttered.

‘Well, we’re in, like I said,’ Peter repeated. ‘She took me to see William de Bouden, the Queen’s old clerk. He’s in chargeof the money for her now, and he’s agreed. So you lot’re now the Queen’s Men again. Official.’

Hythe, Kent

Père Pierre Clergue scowled as the wind whipped about his sparse hair, and thumped his hand upon his hat to hold it in place. He was an amiable-lookingman usually, but today he was feeling disgruntled and saw no reason to hide it.

There was so much to be done, and at his time of life he really should be able to take things more easily. Perhaps securea post in a quiet convent somewhere after his efforts for Holy Mother Church. It was nothing less than he deserved. But everyso often the cardinal would use him as a messenger, and provided it was business which benefited the Church or the Pope himself,Pierre was content.

He had spent too many years in service now. From the early days when he went to Pamiers to help the Inquisition to the present- he had grown old in his harness. And now he must return to the cardinal to report on the latest matter. It was hard.

A wave broke over the sheer, and he ducked a moment too late. Well, this was his last time travelling over the sea. He wouldhave to make that clear. He was too old for this kind of journey.

Château Gaillard

Jean had heard le Vieux tell others that this was once the castle of the mad English king, Richard, the one known as Coeur de Lion . He was the last of the Norman kings to show any spirit, he was. He’d go anywhere for a fight. Sacrée Dame! Jean had been in one battle in his life, and he had no desire ever to become embroiled in another. He had seen his brotherkilled at his side, spewing a thick, bloody froth as Jean stared at the crossbow bolt lodged across his breast, pinning hisarm to his body; a little later his father was decapitated by a fleeing man-at-arms on horseback. On his return he learnedthat his wife was dead too — raped and murdered. There was nothing in war to tempt a man. Not a man like him, anyway. Thosewho hankered after it were mad. They saw only the possible loot. Booty was a soldier’s dream. But only if you got your handson it.

Still, that old king knew something about building a castle. This one had suffered over the years. It had taken only one yearto build, from the defences set across the River Seine to the little bastions in their lakeside defences to the great fortressitself, but it had only survived as long as the authority of its builder. As soon as King Richard died, his brother King Johnshowed himself to be less than competent at defending even this jewel. From what Jean had heard, it was the loss of this castlethat guaranteed the end of English rule of Normandy.

The sun was failing now. On a whim, he climbed to the walkway of the great tower, and stared out over the river towards thewest. The sky was lit with a yellow-orange series of horizontal streaks which grew darker as he watched, deepening to a crimsonwhich licked the surface of the Seine below him with flames. And then a cloud drifted over the sun and the colours paled,and the twilight reminded him it was time he returned indoors to the fireplace.

There was no snow yet this year, but the sky was surely threatening it. It was that time of year when a sensible man was cautiousabout walking on the stone-paved walls, or on the timber steps that led a man from one wall to another. A castle like ChâteauGaillard was designed for ease of defence, not for the safety of any single individual, and a man who enjoyed life was sensible if he took some precautions.A patch of ice on the stone of a wall could all too easily send a man flying into the ditch. Only last month Jean had seena man slip on the frosted step of a staircase. He’d fallen heavily on his elbow, which shattered, sending shards of bone throughhis sleeve. By some miracle, he’d lived, although the barber had taken off the remains of the limb. So now the castle wasone man down, and others were forced to take on extra duties.

Jean made his way down from the great keep, nodding to the men coming up. The steps here were indoors, and he was sure-footedenough here in the dry, his armour grating and clattering as he went down the steep spirals. No, it was outside he had tobe careful, as he left the mass of the donjon behind him and went to the quarters set beside it, where all the soldiers lived.

There was a thick pottage simmering over the fire, and he went to the warmth with relief, holding his hands to it until hecould feel the flesh of his palms almost scorching.

Others soon joined him, men from the north, east and west walls. To the south there was the out-work, almost a separate fortressin its own right, with its own guards who had their own fires and food.

The last man in was the one they all preferred to ignore. Not a guard like them, he didn’t share in the same camaraderie.They all felt it, too: the revulsion. The sight of him was enough to make Jean’s stomach start to clench with disgust. Notthat Arnaud was repellent to look at, nor that Jean was overly bothered by his taking advantage of the woman prisoner. Thatwas normal — a benefit of the job, more or less. No, it was the understanding of what Arnaud did, what he could do to others,no matter what their station. Nobody was safe from him.

Only le Vieux himself appeared to be unbothered. As Arnaud entered, the old man automatically moved a little, creating a spaceat his side, and the two men sat together like the old campaigners they truly were, eating their food and watching their companionslike warders in a gaol eyeing the prisoners. Which was, in a way, no more than the truth. They had all been rescued from differentprisons.