Michael Jecks - The Templar, the Queen and Her Lover

The man interrupted his thoughts with a pleasant smile. ‘Good. Good. Now, before anything else, you will want some food, Iam sure.’

‘That would be welcome indeed,’ Ricard said, suddenly courteous. If this fool was going to be feeding them, Ricard was preparedto be thoroughly polite. Damn silly French accent, though.

‘Through here.’

Ricard led the others through a doorway into a small parlour, and from there to a tiny shop front. ‘You a glover?’

‘Not really. My work with skins is less … elevated.’

The man was denigrating his work. He had some marvellous examples of glovemaking on shelves all about the shop. Still, hiseyes showed a lack of interest in discussing the matter. They glittered, almost with revulsion, Ricard thought.

There was a basket full of small loaves and some sausages. Peter, Adam and Philip fell on the food like wolves on a deer.Ricard and Janin were a little more hesitant, both feeling that hot, sweaty sensation that sometimes ale could bring the nextmorning.

‘I would be grateful for a little help from you all,’ the man said.

Ricard paused in his eating. There was something about the way he said that which made his hackles rise. ‘Yes, well, you’vebeen very generous, friend — giving us space out in your yard and breakfast and all — but we have to get back to work.’

‘Oh, I know. Yes. You are the Queen’s musicians, aren’t you?’

Janin and Philip exchanged a look. They had all played for her once. It had been a good day, too. But a long while ago.

Ricard saw their wooden expressions. ‘Oh, yes, we’re called that, right enough.’

‘Well, all I’d like is for you to help me to help her. That’s all. Just keep an eye open for me, and when there’s somethingthat seems odd, or you feel that she might be in danger, let me know.’

Janin lifted his eyebrows. He was the one Ricard thought the brightest of them all. He’d once had a little training in Latin,and could read some things. Now he looked on the brink of being alarmed. Peter Waferer was unbothered by it all. He scoopedanother mouthful of sausage into the gaping maw that appeared between moustache and beard and chewed with his mouth open.Janin looked at Ricard and shook his head slightly. Not much, but it was enough to reinforce Ricard’s impression. There was something in the man’s tone that warnedthem all.

‘Sorry, master, can’t do that,’ he said with conviction. ‘We were found doing that, our lives would be forfeit.’

‘But this country can be a very dangerous place. You would be doing her a service.’

‘Aha.’ Ricard gave a dry laugh without humour. ‘Yes. For us it would become a very much more dangerous place if we tried tospy on her. So: no .’

‘It would be a great shame if you didn’t. News of your actions last night might become known.’ There was something else inhis tone now. It was near to rage, Ricard thought, watching him. No, couldn’t be. Ricard hadn’t ever seen him before, so why’dhe be cross with a bunch of musicians?

He smiled broadly. ‘What, doing a little show for the guests at a tavern? When’s that been against the law?’

‘I am sorry to say that the man whose wife you were pawing is a well-known figure, and even those who dislike him and hismaster recognise that there is a law against killing a glover just because you like his wife. There’s a biblical referenceto it, I think.’

Ricard had no rejoinder to that. His world had just fallen apart. The man had stood and walked to a little door, which hedrew open. At his feet, just inside the doorway, was the body of a man. Ricard stepped forward on weakened legs and stared.The glover had been beaten to death. A short way from him was the woman from the tavern, her skirts lifted over her baredbreasts, her eyes sightless. And blood. Lots of blood.

‘You …’ Ricard’s clawing hands reached out to the man, but he was already a couple of paces away, and now his sword wasout, and he stared down the length of it at Ricard, the point unwavering at his throat.

‘You will help me and serve.’

Château Gaillard

Blanche was forced to pull the blanket about her shoulders again. It was soggy at one corner, icy to the touch, and foul withfilth, but after ten years here in the cell she was uncaring. Once, she thought, she might have been revolted by the sight,the feel, the odour , of such a piece of material. Any man who tried to offer her a similar thing would have been whipped. So she thought, anyway.It was hard to remember. The noise of the water dripping down the walls, the scurrying of small paws, distracted her.

When first incarcerated, she was convinced that her life would soon end. Her sister-in-law had succumbed in no time. It wasless than a year before poor Marguerite was dead. The happy, frivolous young woman with the cheeky smile and love of beautyhad died, so Blanche felt, because of the destruction her actions had caused.

Was it true, this? Had there been such a woman as Marguerite? Was she just a figment of Blanche’s imagination? A chimera,a false memory that had no basis in fact? Sometimes it seemed to her that there was no life outside these walls. There wasnothing beyond the rough-hewn rock. Her life had been lived here for ever. It was easier to believe that, somehow, than tothink that once she had been the wealthy, comfortable daughter-in-law of a king.

She clutched at the rosary at her waist. No. It was real. She was real. Marguerite had been too. They had both been brought here as punishment for their adultery, their heads shaved,their bodies stripped and clad in these rough garments. Blanche had survived a decade, submitting to all the indignities,while poor Marguerite had quickly yielded to the horror of their new situation. Her end was hastened by the news of her husband’scruelty when she was told that he had disinherited their daughter, Jeanne, in the belief that she had been fathered by anotherman in the course of Marguerite’s adultery. That was what had killed her, as surely as a dagger, Blanche reckoned: the knowledge that her infidelity had ruinedthe life of her only surviving child.

So many years ago. All that time spent here in this gaol. One third of her life — a whole third ! Two-thirds had been joyful, spent in exuberant pleasure-seeking, until that disastrous day when she and Marguerite and evenlittle Jeanne, Blanche’s sister, had been arrested for their adultery. In a wife of a prince, adultery was treason, for itcompromised the royal line.

Her breast convulsed again with sobs. For the life she had lost, for the crime she had knowingly committed. For all that hadhappened to her — and because she could not forget the shame, the guilt, the pain, the suffering as the small ruby beads rattledthrough her fingers.

Chapter Two

Queen’s chamber, Thorney Island

The request was brought to her by Richard Blaket, one of the guards at her cloister. At least Queen Isabella knew she couldtrust him. He was always enthusiastic in his service to her. In the past he had been pulled two ways, loyal to his king andto the Queen, but more recently she had seen a subtle change. It was ever since he had fallen into a passionate affair withher lady-in-waiting Alicia.

‘His royal highness would be grateful if you could visit him,’ Blaket said now.

‘You mean my husband?’

He smiled as though she had made a witty remark. ‘Of course.’ But as he spoke, his eyes flitted over her shoulder to Alicia.

Isabella glanced at the ladies-in-waiting, then rose, settled her skirts, and paced slowly after him.

At least Blaket treated her with respect. Only a couple of days ago, a squire in the great hall had remained sitting whenshe entered. It had astonished her. The man saw her clearly, but remained on his arse!