Michael Jecks - The Templar, the Queen and Her Lover

‘That is true, Sieur Baldwin,’ the man said, and made a mocking bow, one hand at his breast. ‘I am Enguerrand, the Comte de Foix. Pardon me if I respond slowly, but it is a little difficult to comprehend the words as spoken by you English. Your dialect and the pronunciation, they make it very hard, you understand?’

Baldwin felt his face blanch. He was too angry to be cautious. At his age, insults were seldom received, and even more rarely noted, but this man had deliberately snubbed him, and now he chuckled again with his friends. More, Baldwin had lived in Paris for long enough to recognise a provincial accent. He affected his best Parisian tones.

‘Perhaps so, mon sieur. I understand your difficulty perfectly. I also find your dialect hard. Perhaps that is because I am unused to rural language? Or possibly it is your teeth,’ he added more quietly. He did not wish to provoke the man too harshly.

‘ Nom d’un chien! ’ The Comte de Foix flushed a deep mauve colour, and spurred his horse to join Baldwin, but even as he did so, Sir Charles of Lancaster suddenly appeared between them.

‘Sir Baldwin, I do believe you are taking over my responsibilities here. Isn’t it my duty to be the cantankerous, disputative fellow, and yours to be the rational, sensible justice from the country?’

‘ Mon sieur! ’ de Foix cried with genuine anger. ‘I must insist you apologise for that ill-thought comment!’

‘ Mon sieur , what ever can you mean?’ Baldwin said with icy calm. ‘I thought especially carefully before speaking. I would not wish to think that I could upset you unintentionally.’

‘Caution, Sir Baldwin,’ Sir Charles muttered. He looked over at Lord John Cromwell, who was watching with keen interest. Cromwell nodded and motioned to Sir John de Sapy.

De Sapy was an arrogant fellow at the best of times, but he was undoubtedly a good fighter. Still, Baldwin had no need or desire for others to join in a battle on his behalf. ‘I can manage this man,’ he hissed at Sir Charles.

‘I am sure you can. However, I am less certain that the Queen’s party can cope with the whole of France, old fellow. You can scrap as much as you like, and as far as I am concerned you can wipe out the whole of France. Yes. But beforehand, please wait until I’ve reached a safe location, eh?’

De Foix was still riding alongside, but, prevented from reaching Baldwin by de Sapy and Sir Charles, he gave a sneering gesture, and trotted back to his companions, as though to say that Baldwin was not worth fighting.

‘Ignore him, Sir Baldwin,’ Sir Charles said. He spat over his left thigh, from where he could keep an eye on the French knights.

Baldwin had fought often enough, but he did not like to be forced to retreat from an insult. He held de Foix’s eye for a while, keeping his face expressionless. Looking away at last, he caught sight of Pierre d’Artois, who was watching them closely. Baldwin inclined his head stiffly, and Artois did not acknowledge him, but pulled his horse’s head about and trotted away

‘Yes. That is fine, Sir Charles,’ Baldwin said quietly. ‘I can do my best to avoid him, but he may be able to do even better at seeking me out. And I shall not surrender to a man such as he.’

Sir John de Sapy trotted alongside Sir Charles of Lancaster. ‘What was all that about?’

‘I think the fellow over there enjoys unsettling Englishmen. He had a hand gonne of some sort, I think, and set it off as Baldwin rode past. Nearly had Sir Baldwin on the ground.’

‘A gonne , eh? I’ve seen them a few times. Interesting toys.’

‘Aye. Damned noisy, though. It was foolish to set it off as a man was riding past.’

‘Unless he wanted to provoke.’

‘Why should he?’ Sir Charles frowned.

‘I don’t know. But he seemed to know Sir Baldwin’s name, didn’t he?’

Simon was blissfully unaware of the altercation. He too had heard the noise, but had no idea what could have caused it. It sounded like a hammer striking an anvil very hard. No: worse than that. He had once been in a smithy when the old devil had wanted to shock him. The man spat on to his anvil when Simon wasn’t looking, then held a red-hot bar over the spittle, and hit it with a six pound hammer.

The resulting explosion had been much like that noise: an enormous crack which had almost made Simon leap from his own skin. But there was no anvil here on the march, and Simon was wondering what could have made such a loud noise when he saw Paul, Sir Charles’s man-at-arms. Paul had been with Sir Charles from very early on, when the knight was still with Earl Thomas of Lancaster.

‘Paul — how goes it?’

‘Well enough.’

Paul was an unlikely-looking warrior. He was shortish, and plump, and had almost black hair with white feathers at either temple. From the Scottish March, he spoke with a soft Scots accent, a lilting, pleasant sound, which did not match the quizzical expression he commonly wore.

‘So, tell me, what are you and Sir Charles doing in the King’s service again?’ Simon said. It was the question he had been burning to ask. The last he had seen of Sir Charles, the knight was returning to England with a view to trying to beg pardon for his crimes as a loyal supporter of Earl Thomas of Lancaster.

‘We never raised pennon or steel against the King,’ Paul said. He kept his eyes fixed ahead as though musing to himself, rather than speaking to a companion.

‘But you were thought of as an enemy. We all saw the devastation of the country after the death of Earl Thomas. Knights from every county were hanged or beheaded … I heard there were more than two hundred, all told. And the killing carried on for months. Yet you are back in the King’s service?’

Paul tilted his head and shot a look around him. ‘Look, you see that knight with my master and Sir Baldwin? Sir John de Sapy? He was a household knight along with us in Earl Thomas’s castle at Pontefract. Listed as a rebel in ’22, he was. Now look at him. You know what got him his position here? He’s a friend of Despenser. That’s got him back in the King’s favour. And Peter de Lymesey? He was one of Earl Thomas’s men too. Now, though, he’s a respected man in the King’s household.’

‘But how?’

‘You think the King has so many loyal knights, he can afford to lose men like these? They may not be the most reliable compared with some others, but while the King dispenses largesse , they’ll be there with him.’

‘And you?’

‘I’m easily pleased. All I crave is a bed at night and enough money to fill my belly.’ Paul grinned and patted his belt. ‘It takes some filling now.’

Simon laughed aloud. ‘So does mine. At least during this journey we appear to have access to the best victuals in the land.’

‘Aye, that’s true enough.’

Paul was a good companion. For some while he and Simon spoke of matters that concerned them, from the sudden chill that both felt, perhaps a precursor to snow, to the best means of protecting leather from the ravages of a journey like this. If a scabbard was to protect the sword within, its leather needed good and careful treatment. It was as easy to be silent in his company, though, and soon the two men rode along without speaking, content to let the countryside pass by them.

Not until much later did Simon see the man who strode onwards so forcefully, and wonder about him. He had not noticed the musicians specifically since his talk with Richard Blaket — they were merely a band of men who happened to travel in the same part of the column as the servants, and were not particularly relevant to him — but now he watched Jack of Ireland with some puzzlement. The man moved like a man-at-arms, not a musician, for all that he carried a drum wrapped in leather and waxed linen on his back. There was no sword at his belt, only a long knife like the ones the Welsh men carried, but he looked the sort of fellow who would be adept with either sword or axe. ‘Paul — do you know who that man is?’