Michael Jecks - The Templar, the Queen and Her Lover

‘Sod you, Philip!’

‘Shut up, both of you. The fact is, we were all asked to go and play yesterday, just for the Queen and Lord John, and he wasn’t here.’

He kept himself very much to himself, this Jack of Ireland, and wandered off at the worst possible times. Ricard would have dearly loved to know where he came from, and why it was that William de Bouden had wanted him to join their little group. There must be some reason for it.

Last night was the worst, though. They’d all been summoned to entertain the Queen because there was some local dignitary visiting whom she had wanted to impress, and Jack had just — gone ! He could have melted into the surrounding countryside, except there was bugger all for a man to melt into. Hardly even any trees just here, where they were camped. That was why they’d picked the site, of course, but it still made things that much more confusing.

Not only confusing. Bloody irritating! Ricard and the lads had played their fingers raw, so it felt, with a good few tunes which the Queen declared she had never heard before, and there were some knights there who’d been tapping their feet rather than chatting as they usually did, the heathens, and smothering the sound of any music with their laughter. No, last night they’d listened , as though they couldn’t help it. In some way, Ricard wondered whether it was partly the first tune he’d struck up — the one they’d called ‘The Waferer’ in honour of Peter. It seemed suitable, somehow, as if they were bringing a bit of Peter with them on this great journey of theirs. Not that it was the happiest of occasions for them. They were hemmed in by dangers, so he felt.

So he’d gone to see William de Bouden as soon as he’d had a chance, and what had he said? Only ‘The man is a member of your troupe. Nothing to do with me. You brought him, so you deal with him. If you’re unhappy with his performance, you should discuss it with him. I have enough on my plate.’

But there had been no sign of the man.

It was full dawn when Adam looked up and pointed. ‘There he is.’

‘Where the hell have you been?’ Ricard demanded as Jack strolled casually towards them.

‘I found a lovely, lively little French whore. Why?’

‘We were supposed to be singing to the Queen last night, and you weren’t here.’

‘I am sure you will have done well without me.’

‘Perhaps we’d have done better with a drum-player,’ Janin said irritably.

‘You had Philip there.’

Ricard saw that this was not productive. The man was not exactly laughing at him and the others, but neither was he giving way or apologising. Instead he appeared to be preparing himself for a fight. Yes, he was! He was happy to fight them all, from the look of him, rather than submit to responding to their questions. The fellow must be demented!

‘Where were you?’

‘I have told you.’

‘No, you just said you were with a French wench. Who? Where did you find her? Where did you go to lie with her?’

‘These are all interesting questions, but I’m afraid I have much to do. I haven’t packed my things yet.’

‘It’s all right. I packed your stuff,’ Adam said, and had the decency to look ashamed as all the other men of the group turned to stare at him. They’d agreed Jack would have to do it himself. It wasn’t as though he’d tried to endear himself to them even remotely since their first meeting with him.

‘Why, thank you, Adam. That’s good to hear. You are a real friend.’ Jack smiled at Adam, and when the smile was not reciprocated, it broadened until Jack looked close to outright laughter. ‘Well, lordings, I’d best be preparing myself, eh? I’ll see you on the road.’

‘That bastard,’ Philip snarled. ‘Why don’t we just push him under a cart’s wheels?’

‘Because if we tried to, we’d have to explain his death to William de Bouden. You want to do that, when we’ve enough problems already, what with those two dead in London?’ Ricard returned. ‘No? Then get your gear together. I don’t like it any more than you, but we’re stuck with the shit.’

They stopped late in the morning to rest their beasts and take a brief meal, and Baldwin and Simon found themselves near to the Queen’s favourite guard, Richard Blaket.

‘How is the Queen?’ Simon asked. All knew that Blaket was wooing one of the Queen’s maids, the blonde called Alicia.

‘She grows ever more keen to see her brother, I think. Nothing will give her greater satisfaction than meeting him and feeling that for once she’s truly secure,’ Blaket said, his dark eyes moving over the men around them. His air of lowering truculence had not diminished.

The other two nodded. There was no need for any of them to suggest that she was safe enough with the knights provided for her escort. Only Baldwin was sufficiently independent to be determined to protect her no matter what. The others were all creatures of Sir Hugh le Despenser.

Simon nodded towards a man walking to the woods at the side of the clearing. ‘He one of her musicians?’

‘Yes.’

‘Friend, you sound less trusting of them than you do of the French,’ Baldwin chuckled.

‘One of them once molested my Alicia.’

‘He would be a brave man, who tried that against her will,’ Simon said lightly.

Baldwin was about to laugh, but something in Blaket’s expression made him hesitate. ‘She was all right, though? There was no rape?’

‘No. She assures me that she was perfectly all right. It doesn’t make me look on them with a joyful spirit, though.’

‘Naturally.’

‘The one who did it is dead now, anyway.’

‘Really?’ Baldwin asked sharply.

‘Yes. He was drowned in the ditch outside the city. In London, I mean.’

Baldwin winced. ‘A nasty way to die.’

‘Ach, a man like that, he probably deserved it. Climbed into some girl’s bedchamber, I expect. Her father found him there and did it to him.’

‘When was this?’

‘Day or two before we set off. Why?’

‘Just curiosity.’ Baldwin smiled.

It was that same afternoon that Baldwin had his argument.

At first it was little enough. He had been riding along gently, his mind wandering slightly, as any rider’s will after several days in the saddle, his hips automatically swaying with the horse’s gait, his body fully accustomed to the dip and roll, when there was a sudden explosion of noise behind and to his left.

His rounsey, a dependable, stolid creature generally, was as startled as himself. The large bay jerked to the right, almost unseating Baldwin, and was about to plunge when Baldwin jerked his head back into line. If a horse the size of this one decided to charge off through all the people in the column, his steel-shod hooves could kill someone.

Hearing a laugh, he turned to see a knight grinning amidst a small cloud of evil-smelling smoke. Even from here Baldwin caught the whiff of brimstone. About the man were his men-at-arms, a couple of ostlers, a short, smiling priest and some others. All appeared hugely amused by his reaction and near-fall from his horse.

It was that same Frenchman whom Baldwin had noticed at Boulogne. He was strong and well muscled, with a neck that was almost an extension of his head, it was so thick. Like Baldwin, he too was bearded, and he had a scar that reached down from his ear to his jawline. When he laughed, Baldwin could see that his front teeth were little more than stumps. The man had been a fighter, and had taken powerful buffets, from the look of him.

‘ Mon sieur , you have me at a disadvantage.’ In the past Baldwin had always felt that the French language lent a certain air of gaiety and elegance to what might otherwise have been tedious discussions. Just at this moment he was less convinced. It felt a barbarous language if this fellow was born to it.