Michael Jecks - The Templar, the Queen and Her Lover

‘Can you see anything on the board that could help find the man responsible?’ Baldwin asked.

‘Well, it’s possible, I suppose. Certainly the grain was fine, just like our own stores. When the charge went off, did you see it go up, or just out in one large puff of smoke and flame?’

Baldwin gave a half-grin. ‘All I remember was the flash. It was like a gush of hellfire rushing towards me.’

‘I think you are lucky, then. The man who set this did not know what he was doing, if he intended to kill. He should have set the charge in a pot, or a small barrel. Then the explosion would have been constricted, and that would have given it more force.’

‘Why?’ Simon asked.

‘It makes the gonne work better if the charge is held back.’ Richard went to the rear of his tent and returned with a barrel. ‘Watch.’

Simon had heard of this powder, but never seen it. As a fine trickle poured from the small wooden barrel, he eyed it without enthusiasm. It was just a dirty, black, uninteresting powder. ‘It looks like fine, dry soil.’

Robert glanced at him as he set the barrel aside and tapped a bung into it. ‘You think so?’ He took a spoon and carefully scooped a small amount onto Baldwin’s board. Then he walked to the rack in the corner of the tent, at which were set some polearms and de Foix’s swords. From here he took up the long stick Simon had seen before. This he brought to the table, and scooped another spoonful of powder into it, using a funnel of leather.

The gonne was about eighteen inches in length. At the back it must have had a socket, because the long hazel stock protruded from the rear end. The gonne itself had been made like a barrel, Simon saw, with strips of steel staves gripped tightly by some heavy steel bound about them. He presumed the whole had been fired in a smith’s forge, because he could see that the metal appeared to have welded together. Underneath the barrel itself a forged hook protruded.

‘What’s that for?’

‘If you’re firing near a tree or a wall, you can hook that over so that the gun doesn’t knock you down. Now, see this?’ He had a shred of linen. He wrapped this around a little pebble he had in a leather purse, and pushed it into the barrel on top of the powder. Taking a pinch of powder, he wandered outside, strolling to the limit of the camp. There was a fire, with two guards warming their hands by it. Robert stood at the side of it, then set the stock under his right arm and sprinkled a little powder into a dimple on top of the barrel near the stock itself. Then he asked Simon to pick up a glowing stick from the fire.

Simon took up a long branch with a well glowing tip, and stood in front of Robert.

‘It might be better if you stood behind me,’ Robert said, gently pushing Simon aside with the barrel. He took the branch, blew on it to make the coals glow, cast a look around at the others, and set the tip of the branch to the dimple.

Intrigued, Simon was peering at the gonne. There was a sudden flash, a whoomph as a cloud of smoke burst upward, and then a loud boom that made Simon step back hurriedly. Clearly in the dim light he saw a tongue of yellow flame lick out, at least six feet, and a thick blanket of fog sprang out, hiding everything from view.

‘Mother of Christ!’ he heard one of the guards shriek as he sprang back. For his own part, Simon was reaching for stronger words.

‘That, you see, is how it reacts when you put a flame to the powder when it is confined. It explodes and the bullet shoots off into the distance,’ Robert said.

‘Where will the bullet have gone?’ Baldwin wondered.

‘Over there,’ Robert said tersely, and set off back to his tent.

Inside, he took the pile of powder and swept some into a line. He thinned it, tapping it with his fingers until it formed a narrow length less than a quarter inch thick. ‘Watch.’

He took a flint and his dagger and struck some sparks. On the fifth blow, a spark caught the line, and it spluttered and fizzed, sparks flying off in every direction, while Simon yelped and jumped back, trying to evade the thick roiling smoke. ‘It smells like the devil himself!’

‘Yes, it stinks,’ Baldwin said, but thoughtfully. ‘I see what you mean. It is clearly safer when it is not enclosed. May I?’ He motioned towards the remaining powder.

Robert nodded. ‘Of course. Yes, I think it is less lethal when it is free. There is some force of nature — it is like a beast. If you have caged a bear or a lion, and it escapes, it will be a great deal more dangerous to men than if you had not. Even wild animals in the open will tend to avoid a man, knowing their place in God’s plan. As their wild nature is concentrated when confined, so is the powder’s vital essence.’

Baldwin had made another straight line of powder. He took Robert’s flint and struck a spark. At the first attempt, flame rushed along it quickly. ‘This is a marvel!’

‘Just be careful you do not leave an actual pile of it,’ Robert warned.

‘When you said I was fortunate, I can understand your meaning now,’ Baldwin said, forming another line, this time a series of curves one way and another. He struck a spark, and watched eagerly, smiling, as the flame coursed from side to side like a snake. ‘This is a wonderful thing! I have never been able to toy with it before, but it gives an extraordinary sense of pleasure to be able to guide it along the route you wish.’

‘Yes. Well, so long as you are careful,’ Robert said. ‘If you will excuse me, I have work to do.’

‘Of course,’ Baldwin said, forming a fresh pattern, a broad coil of powder. ‘Look at this, Simon.’

He struck a spark. There was a fizz as the first length of powder caught, and then a loud report as the entire coil detonated, a thick fume rising and making Baldwin cough and stand back, waving his hands to clear the air.

Robert gave a great sigh without turning to look at him.

‘Yes. If you don’t leave a decent gap between the threads, sparks fly from one to another. It is not a toy for fools!’

The Queen’s tent

Rousing herself, for Queen Isabella, was never a great problem. Not for her the slow, languorous climb from sleep to a gentle wakening; she had always been aware of all that must be done in the day. The march to chapel for her Mass, the riding for her exercise, the listening to petitions and business about her varied interests must necessarily take up many hours each day, and as soon as she became aware of the sun cresting the horizon and heard her servants begin to stir, she would be wide awake herself.

All through her married life she had been the centre of a large establishment. In the very earliest days, of course, her husband had refused her the private household she had craved. That she had insisted upon her own servants, her own knights and cooks, grooms and burners, was no more than natural for her, a princess of France. During her childhood those small symbols of wealth and importance had been granted to her as a matter of course, and when she was old enough to marry she had expected similar proofs of respect, just as she had provided for each of her children.

The eldest, naturally, had been receiving such marks of esteem all his life. Dear Edward, the Prince of Wales, the heir to his father’s throne, had never been left in any doubt as to his own position in the scheme of things. He would become the next king on the death of his father, and the lavish lifestyle which he would come to enjoy was already being emulated in his household. He might be only some thirteen years old, but her son was fully aware of his rank.

Even in the recent hard times she had found herself waking early. Despite the loss of so much, with her household disbanded, her servants all arrested or exiled, she had naturally woken swiftly, though less because of the amount of work that was necessary to manage her interests than from the urgent need to plot her revenge on the evil, avaricious and dishonourable son of a peasant, Sir Hugh le Despenser, her husband’s oh, so close friend.