Michael Jecks - The Templar, the Queen and Her Lover

‘Ach. It’s nothing,’ Simon said. ‘I just wondered. De Bouden seems to be staring at him — or at least in his direction.’

‘Really? Why should that be so?’ Baldwin said. He glanced at de Bouden, and for a moment their eyes met. De Bouden appeared to colour, blushing slightly as he looked back towards the Queen, and his demeanour was enough to make Baldwin wonder who the man could be. Whoever it was, de Bouden seemed to know him.

‘He’s gone,’ Simon said.

‘ Don’t point, Simon,’ Baldwin muttered sharply, and he put his own hand out as though to bring Simon’s arm down.

‘Why? What on earth is the matter?’

‘That man … I don’t know. But if de Bouden is ashamed of knowing him, I think perhaps we should be cautious.’

Jean had arrived in the town a few hours after the Queen herself. Not because her wagons and trains moved any faster than a man on foot but because he took care to remain some distance behind them. He had no desire to allow le Vieux and Arnaud to catch a glimpse of him.

The more he thought about it, the more he was convinced that they were planning to kill him. All he had seen when he looked down was Arnaud chasing after his last victim. The others had been dead just outside the guards’ room. He’d assumed that Arnaud had gone berserk and killed all the others in a fit of madness; he’d assumed that le Vieux had died from his injuries. It hadn’t occurred to him that le Vieux had lived. How had he escaped, in God’s name? The way that Arnaud had slaughtered all the other men, it seemed incredible that even the most proficient of them all had survived.

But if Arnaud had beaten le Vieux over the head with a jug or a cudgel, the old man would have fallen quickly enough, and that would have given Arnaud time to despatch all the others. Perhaps le Vieux had no memory of the attack. Perhaps he woke later with a dreadful headache, and had no idea who had killed all the men there. But he would surely have thought it must be Arnaud. Arnaud was the only survivor apart from him. Whom else could le Vieux suspect?

It was then that the cold truth hit him, and hit him hard. He had to lean against a wall, breathing slowly and deeply with the shock.

‘You all right, master?’ a young urchin called to him.

‘Yes, blessings on you. I am quite well,’ he lied.

How could he be well, when Arnaud must have told le Vieux that he, Jean, had been the murderer who set upon all the guards and killed them?

So now they were after him. Not because he hadn’t reported the murders, but because le Vieux thought he was responsible. They were going to kill him, as they might slay a rabid dog. A man who could kill with such ferocity was plainly insane, but that was no reason to spare him. He was a danger to everyone.

He wouldn’t let them. There were two choices, either to flee again, and keep on running, or to get to le Vieux and hope to persuade him that he, Jean, was innocent. It wasn’t he who was responsible, it was the foul-minded Arnaud, the executioner and torturer. Jean must get to speak to le Vieux and explain. The old man would understand.

Poissy

The day was busy. Soon after their rapturous reception in Pontoise, they were all back in the saddle again to make the short journey to Poissy and the King’s palace.

‘At least here we won’t have to hunt about for rooms,’ Simon grumbled. The last few towns had been too small to accommodate such a grand party, and what with the Lenten fasts and so much effort being devoted to ensuring that the Queen herself was comfortable, their own journeying had been harder. Even Sir Charles had been heard complaining about the quality of the rooms in which he was expected to rest. As a seasoned campaigner, he usually thought such ‘whining’ to be beneath his dignity.

Baldwin was less sanguine as he looked up at the magnificent palace. ‘I hope so. Often you find that a great palace like this has two qualities of chamber — the very best for the king and queen, and stables for all others.’

Fortunately the rooms were significantly better than his worst fears. They were billeted with the other English knights, Sir John de Sapy and Sir Peter de Lymesey as well as Sir Charles. Lord John Cromwell had his own room close by.

Just the sight of the bed had Simon closing his eyes and dreaming of the comfort which he would find lying in the cool sheets with a heavy riding cloak set over the top, but as usual there were more celebrations to be endured first.

Although it was the middle of Lent still, many fish dishes were permitted. Simon was gladdened by the sight of a white porray, a thickened soup of leeks and onions with milk of almonds to give it some flavour, as well as several pottages. Especially good to Simon’s taste was the one made from old peas; he also enjoyed dishes made from fresh sprouts, spinach, and craspois — strips of heavily salted whale flesh that had been boiled and added to a dish of sweetened peas with some sprouting leaves at the side. All in all, very tasty.

It was late by the time the Queen left the table and all the men rose to their feet. Simon was pleased. After all the noise and excitement of the day, he was keen to make his way to his bed. The memory of the clean white linen made his muscles ache afresh. ‘I’m for my bench,’ he said to Baldwin when they stood alone together. ‘I’m too tired to carry on.’

‘You go. I doubt not that I shall be going to my own bed before long,’ Baldwin said with a grin, and he watched for a moment as his friend left, hoping that Simon would not become lost in the labyrinthine corridors of the palace.

He filled his cup with some water, and drank deeply. The salted whale was a little too strong for him, and had left a thirst which he found it hard to assuage. He had taken some rissoles to try to ease the effect, but they were too salty for his palate as well, and only served to exacerbate the problem.

Walking outside, he unsuccessfully sought the privies. There was a wall near the great hall which would serve, though, and from the scent others had been forced to the same expediency.

Finished, he was walking back inside when he glanced to his left. Beyond a lean-to building that had been added to the hall, he saw a couple of men — de Bouden and the man Simon had seen de Bouden staring at earlier. There was something about their manner which struck him as odd — furtive, like conspirators — and it put him on alert.

Carefully he eased himself backwards into the shadow by a buttress, peering round the stonework. The man with de Bouden clearly made the comptroller anxious, and he was gesticulating as they conversed, while the other was cool and collected, listening a little, and then making a brief comment. He concluded with a few words, leaning down towards de Bouden as though to whisper, but Baldwin was convinced that the movement had little to do with keeping his words secret, and more with the fact that his leaning down made him seem more intimidating to the shorter man.

Whoever he was, he stepped back, holding de Bouden’s eyes all the while, before stopping and glancing about them quickly. He turned on his heel and strode away but, Baldwin noted with a spark of concern, not away from the palace complex. Whoever the man was, he was here inside the palace and staying put.

De Bouden was walking back towards the entrance now. He was pensive, Baldwin could see. The light from a torch flared at the lines on his face, and he shook his head as he walked, as though carrying on an internal debate.

‘Comptroller, you look disturbed.’

‘Christ on a cross!’ de Bouden blurted, startled, and shot backwards. His heel snagged a cobble, and he all but fell, but righted himself at the last moment. ‘Dear heaven, Sir Baldwin, what do you mean by leaping out at me like that? You could have stopped my heart, I swear!’