Michael Jecks - The Templar, the Queen and Her Lover

Abroad. There was a word imbued with many meanings. To a peasant it could mean any foreign place — a vill some twenty miles away or a different kingdom. To her it could mean walking in the garden, perhaps riding with her hounds, or even travelling to her favourite manors — Eltham or Castle Acre. In truth, she would be happy anywhere just now. If she could only go away, escape this highly decorated prison that was the palace of Westminster.

When she had first come here, she’d been delighted by it after staying in the Tower of London for a while. That was a fortress, constructed to keep the London mob subdued, and had the creature comforts of a stable, as far as she was concerned. This palace at Westminster was different; this was built with comfort in mind.

King Edward I, her husband’s father, had constructed the Queen’s chambers and decorated them to meet Queen Eleanor’s stringent tastes. Even the other rooms were magnificent. She had heard tell of the King’s Painted Chamber when she was still living in France, a mere child. All knew of the wonderful paintings that covered the walls of that massive bedchamber.

In truth, the palace here was one of the most marvellous she had ever seen. As daughter of a French king, Isabella could admit to herself that this place was as glorious as any fortress owned by her brother the king of France. And yet now it was repellent to her: it was nothing more than a gilded cage in which she might sing or flutter, but from which she could not break free.

She might die here.

Louvre, Paris

As he walked along the great corridors, Roger Mortimer was reminded constantly of how low he had sunk, simply by looking at the expressions of the men all about him.

There had been times when the idea of coming here would have been so inconceivable that it would have been laughable. Only three or four years ago he would have deemed such a suggestion to be ridiculous. Ridiculous! The word was a poor tool for him. It could not convey the depth of feeling he had now, walking behind these squires, hoping to meet with the King.

He hadn’t been here long. When he first fled England, escaping from the Tower under sentence of death for plotting treason, he had made his way to Normandy. There he’d been able to live for a while without being troubled by his new enemy — England’s king, Edward II, Mortimer’s old friend. Men were sent to seek him in Wales and Ireland, both countries Roger knew well, and as the days dragged into weeks the King and Despenser both grew distraught.

Mortimer’s concerns were focused on his children, and his dear Joan. When he escaped, King Edward had immediately set to persecute any of his friends, allies or family who were within reach of his hand. Roger had heard that Joan had been taken from her home and installed in a royal castle in Yorkshire, and all the men of her household had been removed and made destitute. Most of his children had fared still worse — his sons thrown into prison, his daughters incarcerated in secure priories, with less money to live on than a criminal in the Tower.

But there was good fortune. First, he was still alive, and so were they. Then Geoffrey, his third son, had been in France at the time of his escape, and so had avoided the fate of his siblings. He was the sole heir to Joan’s mother, who had owned some of the de Lusignan lands, and had very opportunely expired just before Mortimer’s escape, so through Geoffrey Roger had access to money while he was in France. Then again, the French could see the advantage in pulling the tail of the English king while they could. Which was good — but Mortimer had no illusions about the longevity of their interest in him. Once the matter of the Guyenne duchy lands was settled, his usefulness would be over, and his life worth little once more.

His heart’s desire was revenge upon the King and Despenser, and to see his wife and children released from their incarceration. How he could manage that, though, was the matter which tormented him just now. He had already attempted to assassinate Despenser and the King by the use of magic, but the sorcerer involved had been betrayed, apparently, by his own assistant, and there appeared to be no other means of settling the score. Rack his brains though he might, there seemed nothing to be done.

The guards halted and opened the door, and Roger Mortimer entered the long hall of the Louvre, bowing instantly at the sight of the King.

Like his father, Charles IV was known as ‘the Fair’ already. It was curious to think that the kings of both France and England should be singularly tall, well formed and handsome, but perhaps it was simply proof of God’s approval of them both. At his side was a watchful falconer, while nearby was his most trusted adviser, François de Tours.

‘Lord Mortimer. I am grateful that you could come to see me at such short notice.’

‘It is an honour to be summoned, my lord. How may I serve you?’

The King had been studying the cold-eyed killer on his gauntleted wrist, but now he passed the creature back to the falconer and pulled off the thick leather glove. ‘I am sure I will find a way,’ he said drily. ‘However, for now, I wish to speak of other matters. You have been most useful to me recently. Your presence has been invaluable in my negotiations with King Edward. However, soon you may become an embarrassment. You will leave Paris.’

‘Where would you have me go?’

‘You do not question my command?’

‘My king, you are master of your realm. If you tell me I must leave your side, I will obey.’

‘A shame that more of my men do not show the excellent good manners you hold in such abundance,’ the King commented. He beckoned a servant, who hurried over with a jug and goblet. The man bowed low as he held out the poured wine. King Charles took it and sipped. ‘Yes. In a little while I think that the Queen my sister will come to negotiate the truce in Guyenne. It would be difficult were you to be here still when that happened.’

Mortimer said nothing. His failed assassination attempt would make his appearance in court rather troublesome. That much was obvious.

‘There is another matter, though,’ the King said. ‘The Queen, I believe, has been generous towards your good lady?’

The simple mention of his Joan was enough to bring a lump to Mortimer’s breast. His lovely Joan, thrown into a prison for something that was nothing to do with her. She was innocent, as innocent as his daughters. And they’d all been imprisoned because the King would only listen to the sly insinuations of that son of a whore, Despenser. ‘Your sister has been most kind, your highness. She has interceded on my wife’s behalf, I know. I only hope that Joan realises how much she should thank her highness. Without the Queen’s aid, I do not know what would have become of her.’

‘Perhaps she feels a certain guilt for all that she has caused to happen to other wedded couples,’ the King said with an edge to his voice.

Monday before Ash Wednesday 4

Lombard Street

Gradually, Ricard de Bromley became aware of his surroundings as a fine drizzle fell on his bearded face. He grunted to himself, andthen groaned more loudly as he tried to climb to his feet. ‘Not our best one, boys,’ he muttered.

Beside him was Janin, his body curled into a ball about his vielle. Will prodded at him with a finger. ‘Jan? Are you dead?’

‘How’s my …?’

‘It’s fine. Get up.’

There were some memories of the evening before. Ricard could distinctly recall certain moments — the arrival of a massivejug of ale, leathern pots provided for the musicians; a great bull of a man standing and singing a song so filthy, so bawdy,that Ricard had immediately tried to consign it to his memory for use in another venue; the first little fight between someyoung apprentices in a corner as they tried to force their way into the tavern and were repulsed; the woman who wandered overand sat on his knee, intimating that she would be happy to relieve him of some of his money by relieving him. God, yes! She’dthe body of a practised whore, and her smile was as lewd as that of any Winchester Goose, but her accent was odd. Not English, certainly. Called … called Thomassia,that was it! She sounded more like one of the wenches from Guyenne; her husband … Shit, her husband was there. Guy…