Michael Jecks - The Templar, the Queen and Her Lover

She could mimic that hideous, sly tone in her own mind. There was so much which she had grown to detest in that cretin. Not only the way in which he had wheedled his way into the King’s affections, leaving no space for Isabella herself, but also how he had gradually excluded her from all which lent her life lustre. He had taken her lands, her mining interests, and after he had managed to insinuate to the King that she might one day become a threat to him, with war looming against France, he had even managed to see to it that her own little darlings, her three youngest children, had been removed from her protection. That was so cruel, so unthinkably vicious, that her hatred for him had threatened to burn so harshly that any could see it, but she had taken as her model that creature of guile and intelligence, the fox, and concealed her rage.

In all the last hard weeks and months, she had tried her utmost to remain collected. At all times, even when she had been convinced that the murderous churl was planning to have her removed — murdered — she had remained cordial towards him, until at last she had succeeded in persuading him that she held no grudge. Oh, he was not totally convinced, naturally. The monster that he was could never conceive of any person being motivated by anything other than greed or personal interest. To behave otherwise, he thought, was entirely contrary. But he did have one blindness: he thought that women were constant and loving as a matter of course; it was in their natures. He found it impossible to believe that a mere woman could fool him.

That was the root of his foolishness. For, believing that the weak and silly queen had almost forgiven him, since she had paid him some flattering attention in recent weeks, Despenser was prepared to allow her to go to France to negotiate. He was as certain as any arrogant man that she would never dare to connive on her own part. She would not scheme to bring down Despenser’s deplorable rule of the country her husband was supposed to reign over. She was a mere woman, who wanted to run home to see her lands one last time, Despenser thought.

It had been hard, but even on that last day, she had dissembled as professionally as any whore. She had spoken with Despenser, displayed her sadness on leaving her children behind, begging ‘good Sir Hugh’ to look after them for her so she could see them as soon as she returned, and even sealing her farewells with a kiss, while her husband looked on approvingly. He only ever looked on approvingly when the horse’s arse was in the room — or on the hillside, as he was then. In God’s name, that kiss had been the hardest thing she had ever had to do.

But all simulation was now over, so far as she was concerned. She had a diplomatic mission to Paris, to see her brother, and to discuss with him the return to England of the lands and provinces which he had confiscated last year. That task was given to her by her husband, and she would faithfully honour the trust put in her.

Until she had achieved her ends, at any rate.

‘My lady? Wine?’

Yes. She arose swiftly. There was so much to do. Especially when plotting the death and utter destruction of the man who had stolen her husband from her.

Janin sat back on his haunches and eyed Ricard with his lip curled doubtfully. ‘You sure about this?’

‘What else can we do?’

‘Tell the Queen’s comptroller.’ Adam was grumpy. ‘I’m sorry, but I never liked the man.’

‘What good would that do?’ Ricard protested. He spread his hands emphatically. ‘De Bouden told us to bring this bastard when he was the last man we wanted along with us.’

‘I still don’t like that,’ Philip said.

‘What?’ Ricard snapped. He was watching Charlie throwing stones at a temporary target made of a pile of sticks. The lad was hopelessly inaccurate. Well, he was only three or so.

‘The way that he appeared just after poor Peter died. It was odd. Such a coincidence.’

‘My arse!’ Ricard spat, turning to look at him. ‘Look, Peter just happened to get himself killed. It happens every night in a city like London. Nothing new in it. So he was unlucky. Yes, I can live with that. I can miss him, too — I do! — but it’s still only a coincidence that Jack was there to replace him.’

‘And was wanted by de Bouden,’ Janin observed.

‘Yes, yes, and was wanted by him. I dare say he has good reasons.’

‘Like what?’ Philip wondered. He was gazing into the middle distance and tapping a rhythm on his thighs. Then he stopped and stared into the fire. ‘I fear the long arm of the Despenser.’

‘Oh, for the love of Christ and all his saints!’ Ricard threw his hand up in disgust. ‘Look, do you honestly think that the Despenser would send one of his henchmen along with us? What would he want a man with us for? We’re a bunch of bleeding musicians, not fighters. You think he wants to spy on us? Win over all our secrets, like Adam’s ambition to play a bloody tune without screwing up? Learn how it is Philip can’t tighten the skin on his nakers? Or maybe he wants to learn how to get the hurdy-gurdy to play without sounding like two cats strangling each other?’

‘Or what the Queen is doing,’ Philip said quietly. His fingers played a simple ripple of sound and stopped. ‘Perhaps that’s what he wants? De Bouden must be Despenser’s man now, after all. He’s not the Queen’s, is he?’

‘De Bouden? He’s the Queen’s own comptroller, for Christ’s pains!’

‘The Queen hasn’t had her own household in a while, has she?’ Janin noted. ‘If de Bouden was put in charge of things for her here, surely that’s more to do with Despenser than her own choice.’

‘Oh, in God’s name, if you’re so damned scared, then we won’t. I just thought it would be safer for all of us if we knew what the hell the bastard was after.’

‘And that we ought to jump him to find out,’ Philip said. ‘But how can we do that when we don’t even know where he is at night?’

‘He walks with us during the day,’ Janin pointed out.

‘Yes,’ Ricard said, ‘and when we halt he helps us get the tent up, doesn’t he? So that’s what we’ll do. We’ll jump him tonight before he runs off and disappears for the evening.’

Jean awoke with the chill settled deep in his bones. The cold was clean and dry, but none the less freezing for all that, and he had to blow on his hands to warm them before he could even think about leaving his little shelter and beginning to prepare a fire.

At least he had been safe enough here. His thick leather jerkin and the old frayed cloak had been enough, with the protection from the wind that the walls afforded. Now, with a small fire lighted, he could take the worst of the chill from his hands and arms.

It was curious, the way that a man would seek a fire before any other comfort. He had learned when a lad that a shepherd who kept moving needed fewer clothes, felt the chill less, than an idle, indolent one. And later, when he was a grown man, and fought, he never felt the cold. When marching across the mountains to pass into other villages, or travelling down into the snowy valleys, he still survived with a good leather jerkin and cloak, while others, merchants and men of their kind, rich, pampered, Catholic men, would shiver and complain from within their furs and expensive velvet clothes. They were the swiftest to call for a halt, a fire, and a heated drink. Well, for Jean, the most delicious drink in the world at this time of year, for a man living in the wilds, was a pot of warmed water made from ice melted over a fire. Fresh, clean, and invigorating.

Only when he was sure that the fire was lit and he could start to feel the warmth did he rest on his haunches and begin to take stock again.