Michael Jecks - The Templar, the Queen and Her Lover

Simon heard the detonation and the scream from his friend, and threw off his blankets. He tugged on his boots, pulled a cloak over his shoulders, and grabbed his sword before hurtling from the tent.

There were some men already standing in a group, talking loudly, and Simon made his way to them quickly. ‘Let me through! Baldwin? Baldwin! ’

‘Simon, my Christ, but that flame seared my eyes!’

‘What flame?’ Simon asked. Peering closely, he saw that Baldwin was sitting hunched, his face frowning, eyes squeezed tightly shut. Simon took his hand, and helped him up. Peering closely, Simon could see that there were black powder marks on his friend’s face, and his beard looked as though it had been singed. ‘You reek of the devil, Baldwin! Can you see me?’

‘I don’t … yes. Yes, I can. Thanks be to God! I saw flames coming towards me, Simon. Huge yellow flames which scorched my face. I was blinded for a moment …’

‘You are sure you are all right?’

Baldwin put out his hand shakily and took hold of Simon’s arm. ‘Help me walk, Simon. My legs feel as though they’re made of aspic! I do not think they will support me. In Christ’s name, I never thought I should be so …’

There was a muttering behind Baldwin, and Simon saw torches approaching. Men were gathered together in a group, and Simon was alarmed to see that the men were bending down over something. ‘Christ’s ballocks, Baldwin! What have you done?’

‘Me? What do you mean?’ Baldwin demanded, blinking wildly, but he could hear the footsteps approaching solemnly.

‘Sieur Baldwin, what explanation do you have for this?’

‘Sieur Pierre?’ Baldwin asked. ‘Is that you?’

Sieur Pierre d’Artois peered at him. A servant with him was gripping a large flaming torch, and he held it up as the ageing French knight stooped slightly. ‘What has happened to you?’

It was left to Simon to try to explain. ‘He was attacked by a flame… they burned his face, look.’

‘He has been attacked by something,’ d’Artois agreed. He looked up as a heavy tread announced the arrival of Lord John Cromwell with Sir Charles and Sir John de Sapy. ‘My lord, mes sieurs. We have an embarrassment.’

Lord John bent to peer into Baldwin’s face. Baldwin was still blinking furiously to try to clear his eyes of the stinging grittiness. It felt as though someone had thrown a handful of hot sand in them. He had been fortunate, he knew, but he wasn’t prepared to let anyone else know that.

‘I agree. This is an outrageous state of affairs. When an English knight, here to guard the Queen, with plenteous letters of safe conduct, is assaulted within the camp, it makes for a grave situation indeed.’

‘It must have been the Comte de Foix,’ Baldwin grated. ‘The flames; I am sure that they were his black powder. He set it off as I drew nearer him. He wanted to embarrass me!’

‘You see?’ Lord John said. ‘Where is this comte?’

Sieur Pierre looked at him. ‘You are right. It is very grave. Especially since the Comte is dead.’

Robert de Chatillon stared down at the body with mixed feelings. This had been his master, his mentor and the source of his livelihood, and although he was never a greatly affectionate lord, yet he was the man who had taken on Robert and maintained him. Without Sieur Enguerrand, Robert was unsure what might happen to him.

However, it went further than a lack of affection. The Comte de Foix was a powerful magnate, a man fully aware of his importance and his place in the world. He had provided food and clothing for Robert, and in return Robert had given him his service, but there was no love in the relationship. Theirs was the companionship of a feudal lord and his servant, nothing more.

Still, it was hard to lose a master, even when he had not been kind or particularly generous. There was a void in his place, a void in which all was uncertain. Robert had no family to which to turn, and he was not convinced that the Comte’s wife would want any reminders of her husband. He had been cruel to her, too. Thus it was that even as he bent a leg at the side of the corpse, he was not certain what his feelings were for this man, who had provided for him during his life, but without grace or gratitude. His tongue had been harsh, and, when he found a fault or a weakness, he took pleasure in exposing it to all.

‘Stand aside!’

Pierre d’Artois was behind him, and Robert scrambled to his feet as the great lord peered down, motioning to men to bring their torches lower that he might study the body more closely. ‘Did any man here see what happened?’

Beside him was the Englishman, the Lord John Cromwell, and he gazed suspiciously at all the men present, rather than staring down at the body, his cold, grey eyes as keen as a hawk’s as he studied the expressions of those nearby.

No one answered, and soon Pierre’s attention left the body and rested on Robert. ‘You were his escuier . What was he doing out here in the middle of the night? Did he have to rise from his bed each night?’

‘No, my lord. He was never wont to get up. He would sleep through the night without difficulty.’

‘Then what was he doing here?’

‘I don’t know. I was asleep. But I am not aware of any reason for him to come here.’

‘Very well,’ Artois said, and turned his attention back to the body, shaking his head and grunting. ‘So perhaps someone bethought himself that this was a stranger, possibly a danger to the Queen, and killed him.’

He would have continued, but now there was a soft voice from behind Robert, and he bowed low even as he turned to face her: Isabella, queen of England.

‘My Lord Cromwell? There has been a disturbance?’

‘This man has died.’

‘And it would seem,’ Pierre d’Artois added silkily, ‘that one of your knights may have had a part in his death. I noticed earlier today that Sir Baldwin and he had been arguing, and now, within a few hours of their cross words, one is dead.’

The Queen gazed over to where Simon and Baldwin stood. ‘I know this knight personally. He would not be guilty of an underhand or dishonourable action, of that I am sure.’

‘My Lord Cromwell, would you have him come here, please?’ d’Artois asked.

Lord Cromwell nodded and beckoned to Simon, who brought his friend with him.

Baldwin was still shaky. His legs were unreliable, and he felt as though he had been riding in a tournament, his heart had been pounding so hard. Now it was calming a little, and he could look down at the body dispassionately, noting the position of the arms and legs, the relaxed expression on the dead man’s face. Nothing odd there. Most corpses had the appearance of calmness. He thought it was the way that the muscles loosened and settled once the energy of the soul had left the body. His eyes passed over the face to the throat. In the flickering torchlight, the pool about his neck looked black on the snow. He had been right: de Foix had drowned in his own blood as his throat was cut. Then, from the look of it, he’d been stabbed as well. A dagger protruded from his breast. And then his eyes locked on the hilt of the knife, and his hand shot to his belt. With some disbelief, he looked down at the empty sheath.

The dagger planted in the man’s breast was Baldwin’s.

Morrow of the Feast of St Edward the Martyr 13

Pois, France

It was a cold, cold morning. The sky was leaden with the heavy clouds covering it, and all looked up, fearing more snow.

Robert had not slept well. Since the discovery of the body, his mind had been unable to disengage from the overriding consideration that his own future was in the balance. Ideally he should ride back to Foix with the body, but in the absence of a murderer, he thought that he should ride with the Queen’s party to the King with the body. If nothing else, the matter could be discussed before the King.