Michael Jecks - The Templar, the Queen and Her Lover

Better than most, too, he knew exactly what sort of man Arnaud was. From the day when the poor woman had died, he had known. Arnaud had demanded that they leave instantly, desperate to run from that place. And later in the prisons, whenhe looked after the women in their cells, Pierre had felt sorry for the women as he heard them weep, sob, or scream as Arnaudleft them. All had the same end, the pyre. Agnes in particular had died badly, he recalled. Arnaud had been cross with her,because she had not been nice enough to him, so he had let her death come as slowly as possible. Shameful.

So many memories, so many dead. He only hoped that today there would be just one more. The world would be a safer, betterplace without that one face, he thought.

He took a deep breath, and fingered his rosary, murmuring the prayers as he crossed the court towards the guard’s building.Here the bodies were sprawled in undignified postures, the flies all over the sightless eyes, the gaping mouths. There werealready little white clusters of eggs in the wounds. Early, he thought, for flies, but the damned things were always present.

Praying, making the sign of the cross, muttering the words that should aid the souls’ passage to heaven, he made his way aboutthe dead men. He pulled a face at the smells and sounds of buzzing, but continued on his way.

‘And the others?’ he asked.

‘There aren’t any more,’ the sergent replied.

‘There must be!’ Dear God! Don’t say that the madman has escaped! Pierre prayed silently. Please, not that!

Second Thursday of Lent 7

Louvre, Paris

The work was tedious, but Cardinal Thomas d’Anjou was glad of it. He polished the gold and silver at the altar of the little chapel with a vigour that was entirely absent from his usual demeanour.

A taciturn man, he usually displayed little feeling, but in a church or chapel he could enjoy submitting to the service ofGod. It was an essential part of his life, this careful cleaning of all the paraphernalia of his religion, and he enjoyedit all the more the higher up the ladder of authority he climbed within the Church. There were some who said that he mightbe the next pope. Well, perhaps so, but he would not worry himself about that. He had two masters: God and the king of France.Fortunately the latter was as religious as he was himself, and service to one meant satisfying the other.

The knock at the door was an unwelcome distraction. He pursed his lips, frowning down at the jewel-encrusted cross he hadbeen cleaning, and then sighed. ‘Yes?’

Two men walked in, and he looked from one to the other. ‘François?’

The older of the two, a narrow-featured man with the appearance of a hawk, with greying hair over hard, piercing brown eyes,nodded. ‘I do not think you have met Père Pierre?’

‘Ah, you are the father from the Comté de Foix?’

The father, a chubby man with the face and figure of a man unused to travel, bowed delightedly at being recognised. His clothingwas stained and worn, with many loose threads and muddy patches. He looked, as he was, the latest in a long line of peasants,the cardinal told himself.

His face betrayed none of his disgust for the tatty fellow. Instead he looked at François enquiringly.

‘It is done,’ François said.

‘Good. Then there are only a few loose ends remaining which need to be tied.’

Vigil of Feast of Piranus 8

Queen’s chamber, Westminster

The Queen nodded and thanked the company. All was arranged, then. She was to be leaving the next day.

At least she would not appear to be a pauper begging at her brother’s door. Her worst fears had not been realised, thanksbe to Christ. She would have with her a train of more than thirty people all told. True, all had been selected by her husband- or more likely Despenser — but that would scarcely matter. She had her own plans, after all. Did everyone really think herso stupid?

Perhaps they did. They could not cope with the idea that a woman might have a brain of her own. Despenser had fully surrenderedto her, in so far as he had stopped attempting to have her destroyed. No, he was content for her to leave the country andachieve a diplomatic treaty with her brother, provided Despenser and the King did not have to go to France themselves. Thatwould be too dangerous. Despenser knew full well that his life would be forfeit, were he ever to set foot on French soil.That was the price of his piracy when he had been younger, when he had overwhelmed a French craft and stolen it, killing thecrew. Now he was persona non grata in France.

However, she still found it astonishing that the fool believed her when she pretended to have forgotten his insults, his lies,his mendacious treatment of her. He thought either that she was so dim she had not noticed, or that she was so foolish thatshe had forgotten and forgiven. He had himself forgotten that she was a woman of the royal house of Capet of France. She would never forgive an insult. Never!

When Queen Isabella first arrived here in England, she had been a young and naïve child, ready to do her duty by her new husband.At the time they had both been little more than pawns in the great game that was diplomacy. Neither had been given any choicein their partners. Their futures were set upon their joint path by their fathers, the kings of France and England, to cementa peace between their bickering nations. The Pope agreed, and thus the life of the seven-year-old girl had been welded tothe nineteen-year-old man’s at a betrothal ceremony in Paris. Her husband-to-be, Edward of Caernarvon, was not there. Shewas not to meet him for another five years, when he took her hand in the cathedral of Our Lady of Boulogne. Soon afterwardsthey left France for England.

‘Your royal highness? There are some men here to meet you.’

The esquire bowed so low, for a moment she thought that he would beat his brow upon the paved floor.

That was one of the aspects of her life which was so confusing. In all her years as a child she had been treated with therespect due to a queen. It was fitting for a woman of her position in the world. But when she reached England her life hadchanged. As she watched the men being brought in, she could remember that time so clearly. The shame, the dishonour she felt,how demeaned she had been.

When she was wedded, her father had showered gifts on Edward, rich jewels and rings, and had sent more for Isabella as partof her dowry. She was a queen in her own right, after all. There was an agreement that when they were married, Isabella wouldhave lands dowered to her from the king of England’s French territories. But when they had been living together for a little,the twelve-year-old queen was disturbed to find none of the promised money appearing. There was nothing with which to supportherself, let alone her household of knights, squires, servants … She was forced to resort to resentful letters to her father. And then she sawthat the rings and trinkets promised to her had appeared on the person of the unlovely Piers Gaveston, her husband’s ‘friend’.

It made her cold with rage to learn that her husband could prefer the company of that vain, arrogant, sneering Gascon. He made those first few months — nay, years — miserable for her. By her husband, she was treated as a child. As hissister, perhaps. Ignored, unloved, and only occasionally summoned to royal events.

Perhaps it was understandable. Now a woman of almost thirty years, she was better able to see how a man like her husband mighthave viewed her. He, a grown adult of five and twenty years, she a small girl of only twelve. It was no surprise, in truth,that he would seek the companionship of others closer to him in age. After a time she had grown to appreciate this. She didnot grudge her husband his affairs with other women, even when one gave birth to his bastard, and she was able to feel willingto console Edward when the lad died on his first campaign.