Michael Jecks - The Templar, the Queen and Her Lover

Paul followed his pointing finger, and gave a dry smile. ‘You miss little, Bailiff. I have seen him, yes.’ He stopped and studied Simon speculatively for a moment. ‘There are men you get to recognise after a while. Some, the more honourable ones, are the men you see in the King’s service and in his hall. Others, though, you see on the outskirts of things always.’

‘I don’t understand you.’

‘Oh, I think you do, Bailiff. The King has one household. There are others near him who have their own. And if a man didn’t trust the Queen, he’d want a spy in her camp, wouldn’t he?’

‘I see,’ Simon said coldly. Clearly the man was one of Despenser’s.

Arnaud was in little doubt when he saw the van of the column that this must be the party in which his master was travelling. ‘Look!’

Le Vieux lifted his eyes to the horizon, squinting into the bright sunshine. ‘Yes, I see them.’

There was no need to hurry. The Comte would soon be with them. Men on horseback were trotting along easily, their ladies rocking along in a group together behind them on their specially trained amblères , while the provisions and essentials were brought along behind them in the great wagons and carts. It was a magnificent sight. To see the richest people from the two kingdoms, all displaying their wealth in their bright clothing and the quality of their wonderful dresses and tunics, was something that not even le Vieux had experienced before, and the two men stood quietly, a little overwhelmed, as the great party drew nearer.

It was when the first third of the column had already passed them that Arnaud saw their master and darted in amongst the people and horses to reach him. He pushed a donkey from his path, making the fellow leading it snarl at him, but Arnaud was used to the attitude of others towards him. No one ever showed him any sympathy, which was part of the reason why he never gave it to anyone else. He was content with his own company, and had no need of companions. He could sit back with pleasure with a knife and some wood, and whittle. His delight was to invent, especially tools that would aid him in his chosen profession — torturer and executioner.

‘My lord? Comte de Foix. I have news from the château for you.’

His lordship was not happy, from the look of him. His dark eyes were flashing with rage, and he was pale, which was never a good sign. Arnaud looked up at him with interest. The Comte was usually so cool and collected — this temper might mean that Arnaud would have a job to do for him soon, with any luck.

‘Follow on with the baggage. See me in my tent this evening. I won’t talk now.’

Woods south-east of Pois

Jean shivered in the cold night air. This was the worst night of his life, he was convinced.

At first, he had been content to spread his blanket under the stars, well wrapped in a thick cloak with a heavy second blanket over the top, but then the dampness had started to fall. At first it was only the light drizzle that would irritate but not kill a man. Now, though, light, soft flakes of snow were slipping through the air, their very touch a stinging threat.

He had lived through worse. When a lad, he’d been a shepherd in the mountains back in his homeland of Languedoc, and there, in the winter, he had been accustomed to the dangers of the snow. On occasion he had seen the aftereffects. It was not unusual to find a man huddled into a foetal shape in the morning, all warmth gone from him, all life fled. Sad, but it happened every year, especially among the youngest and the oldest.

Jean had been lucky. His father had been a sensible man who had taught him how to make himself safe in the worst of weathers. There was no point in having a son and then leaving him to endure a Spartan existence on the mountainside without allowing him the most rudimentary protection. A little knowledge went a long way to secure a man’s life, after all. That was his father’s opinion. Later, when they went to war together, when there was nothing left for them in their home town, that education was very useful. Now it was still more so.

He rose and looked about him. He was on a hillside. A short way up the hill was the roadway which led from Beauvais to Pontoise and on to Paris, but he had chosen this hillside because it was well covered with small trees. Ideal for a man who needed fire and shelter.

Grunting reluctantly, he rose, folded his blankets, and began to hunt around. Soon he had selected two little saplings which were standing close together. If he’d been less lazy earlier he could have saved himself this grief now, but there was little point in reminding himself that he had grown lax. Better to simply get on with things.

He gathered up a long pole and set it to rest on corresponding branches to form a lintel. Then he started collecting more branches. These he set aslant on his lintel to form a lean-to roof, the open doorway facing away from the wind and safe from the snow. More boughs leaned against this roof to form walls, and finally he could gather some leaves and throw them over the top. He didn’t need too many — there was no need for the roof or walls to be waterproof or insulated. The snow itself would soon achieve that. However, he was not going to suffer frostbite unnecessarily. Looking about, he persuaded himself that no one else would be foolish enough, or desperate enough, to be out in this weather, and began to gather up twigs and dead branches. It took him a little while to gather enough, and then he had a stroke of luck when he stumbled over a length of wood. It was a sapling which had fallen, dead, and was well dried. Pulling it back to his shelter, he began to break it up into sticks and constructed a small fire. He took out flint and tinder, and soon had a tiny flame, which he tended assiduously. It took an age, or so it seemed, but at least the act of fetching and carrying the wood had kept him warm, and now he could sit back a little and enjoy the flames that licked up from his improvised hearth.

Yes. His father had taught him well. But then, all those who were condemned heretics had to learn to survive. This was just one of the sets of skills he had been forced to learn as a follower of Waldes.

Peter from Oxford, the chaplain, had finished his last service of the day, and was cleaning his portable altar when he saw the cloaked and hooded figure wandering about the place.

‘You are the chaplain?’ the man asked.

‘To the Queen, yes,’ Peter said warily. He didn’t know this man. His face was unfamiliar, and any sensible man of God was also cautious. There were enough footpads who were prepared to break into a church to steal what they might. A bold one could easily knock a man on the head and take his plate and silver.

Not that this little fellow looked too dangerous to him. He had the appearance of a mild monk. Small in stature and amiable in appearance, the chubby fellow was all smiles. ‘I wonder, would you welcome the companionship of another priest on your way?’ Opening his cloak and bringing out a large skin, he added, ‘I have a warming drink of burned wine, if that will aid your decision, Father.’

Peter smiled and set aside his little altar. ‘Father, it’d be a pleasure to have you with me. What may I call you?’

‘Pierre. Pierre Clergue.’

‘That little arse wants his backside leathered,’ Baldwin grumbled as he rolled himself in his blanket in their tent.

‘I think you have made your feelings perfectly clear,’ Simon said with a low snigger.

‘You didn’t see his face, Simon.’

‘I don’t need to. I saw yours,’ Simon said. ‘Talking of faces, did you see William de Bouden’s today?’

‘What of it?’