Michael Jecks - The Templar, the Queen and Her Lover

‘He’s mine!’ Ricard heard himself say. Shite! Why’d I say that?

‘Where’s his mother? No. Don’t answer that. Well, don’t let the little devil steal anything. He’ll get what he deserves ifhe does,’ de Bouden said disdainfully, looking at the overawed Charlie. ‘Good. Now piss off, the lot of you. As if I didn’thave enough to deal with already.’

In no time, so it seemed, they were all back out in the great yard, and as their guide left them, muttering about finding them new clothing, they exchanged looks.

‘Who’s this Earl Edmund?’ Philip demanded.

‘Don’t you remember anything?’ Ricard said. ‘He’s the King’s brother.’

‘What’s he worried about the Queen’s musicians for, then?’

‘Perhaps he wants her to be shown in the best light. She is his sister-in-law.’

‘I don’t like it,’ Philip said. ‘Why should he be so keen to see us go there with the Queen? I’ve never seen him.’

‘We are to have money, clothing, food and drink,’ Janin breathed.

‘But we have to throw out our old clothes,’ Adam muttered.

‘For a guaranteed allowance of food and drink, I can live with that,’ Ricard said.

‘And me, I suppose,’ Philip said, although he still looked doubtful.

‘Where is Peter, though?’ Janin wondered.

‘He’ll show up,’ Ricard said. ‘He always does.’

City ditch, near Ludgate

Simon Corp had known better days. He shuffled along with a stick, peering into the ditch, hoping to see something that mighthelp pay for a little food or a mug of warmed ale. Sometimes a man could see a coin in the filth, or a small knife that hadbeen accidentally thrown out with the rubbish that householders hurled into the ditch here. It smelled evil, both from rottingfood and from the excrement with which it had been mingled, and Simon had to hold a shred of cloth over his nose to ward offthe offending odour. The tanners worked all along here, and they threw much of their waste into the ditch, a repugnant combinationof urine and dog’s turds, just to add to the stench.

In the past he had been quite well off, and with his lad John he had hoped to start to have an easier life. Of course, it hadbeen hard when his wife grew ill, but at least when she died she stopped being a drain on their resources. Until then, Simonand John had had to share the task of looking after her. Some women from the parish did try to help, but there was littleenough anyone could do. She was dying; they all knew it.

A month ago, now. Just when the weather changed. That was when she’d gone. A rattle in her throat, that was all he’d heard.Just a rattle. Then there was the soft slump as her spirit left her, poor Joan. And she was gone.

Yes, he’d hoped that after that he and his lad would be able to keep more of the money they laboured for, but before he knewwhat was happening, God save him if his thick as pigshit son didn’t get into a fight. Trying to steal a horse, so they said,although it wasn’t proved yet. Had to wait for the justices to hear the case. But there were enough men who believed it. Well,the bastards would believe anything of anyone who was poor. A poor man is a thief, someone said in Simon’s earshot. He wouldhave attacked the speaker, except he wasn’t sure who it was. His hearing was less good than it had been.

Aye, well, if there’d been money in his purse, he’d have fought the damned lot of them. They were passing unfair judgementon his boy, and any man who repeated that kind of slander was deserving of a buffet on the head, rot their souls. His littleJohn was as good as any young lad. He was a reliable, honest fellow. Better than most of them who lied about him.

John. He was in the gaol now, just up there, over the wall inside the city. God knew what would happen to him. They said hehad an evil reputation, but that wasn’t the boy’s fault. God knew he’d tried to get along without upsetting people, but when a fellow had nothing, and he saw the wealthy strolling past, caring not a whit for anyone else, money intheir purses, rich clothes on their backs, the sort of people who never had to work, who’d never felt the cold, who hadn’texperienced the way that fingers would crack in the brutal chill while one was working out in the ditches … people likethat were all too keen to condemn a fellow just because he knocked a man on the head in desperation. It wasn’t fair !

He prodded away with his stick, and then, heaven be praised, he saw it! A distinct gleam. It must be metal — perhaps a knife,or a jewel set in some gold? There was a clear glinting through the mud where his stick had scraped the surface.

Scrambling gingerly down the bank, he reached the spot and began to dig with his fingers in the filth. There was somethingthere, a hard disc of some sort, and then he uncovered a drum, a tabor. At the rim there was a gleaming ring of steel whichhad a leather thong bound to it, trailing off into the mud. That was what he had seen. Just a metal ring from a drum. It wastempting to swear, but then he shook his head and crossed himself in pious gratitude. A drum, once cleaned, and so long asthe thing hadn’t lain there too long and become rotten, would be worth a few pennies. He might be able to sell it for enoughto buy a loaf.

He gathered it up, and began to make his way up the slope once more, but the thong held him back. Till then he had thoughtthat it was just trailing loose, but now he understood that it was tied to something. Giving it an experimental pull, he thoughtit gave slightly. He tugged harder, jerking it, then drawing it steadily, and it began to give. Further and further, untilhe stopped very suddenly. Gasping, he began to step backwards, but stumbled, and then, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on themud, he scuttled up the bank and out of the ditch.

‘You all right, old man?’ a fellow called, seeing his discomfort.

‘Sweet Jesus, come and look at this,’ Simon Corp said, and then started to bellow hoarsely for the hue and cry — before pausingto puke.

Château Gaillard

Jean left his companions and walked out to the walls, untying his hosen and spraying the wall until his bladder was empty, consciousonly of the relief.

Finished, he settled his clothes and began to make his way back to the guard rooms, but then turned away at the last moment.There was no hurry. All the others would be in there, drinking their beer and wine, swapping the tall stories they had rehearsedso many times before. There was nothing new for them to share with each other. Jean knew them as he knew the hairs on theback of his hand. They were too familiar to be interesting: old Berengar with his untidy mop of greying hair cut to fit beneathhis steel cap so that none showed, only his great red nose and enormous moustache; Guillaume, the black-haired Norman withthe narrow face and close-set brown eyes that appeared so shrewd and suspicious; Pons, the fair man from the east, with themuscled shoulders and carriage of a warrior much older than his three or four and twenty years. And then there was Arnaud.

All must detest a man such as that. The torturer and killer of so many, who seemed to take pleasure in the suffering he inflicted.Everyone in the garrison had heard the gloating tone of voice he used while he described cutting off a nose or lips for someinfringement. Once he had told Jean of the ‘great’ times he had enjoyed down in the south with the bishop, Jacques Fournier.He had been assistant to the executioner, and had himself put many men and women to the fires. Those had been great days, he had said. It had taken allJean’s self-control not to plant his fist in the man’s face.

More recently his revulsion at the sight of Arnaud had grown. The men had told him that Arnaud had repeatedly raped the womanin the cell below the tower. The one who le Vieux had said would have been a queen, were it not for one crime.