Michael Jecks - The Templar, the Queen and Her Lover

Still, even with her own tribulations, she had made the effort to help him. She’d heard of poor Joan’s predicament: all her clothes and possessions confiscated, and a meagre pittance given for food and drink. The Queen had written to the treasurer to persuade him to be generous; and knowing her own position in the hierarchy of the palace was already diminished, she also enlisted the aid of Eleanor de Clare, Despenser’s wife. Roger only hoped and prayed that his darling Joan would have been accorded slightly better treatment as a result.

Perhaps it was a forlorn hope. When the King’s father, Edward I, had captured the sister and mistress of one of his bitterest enemies, Robert Bruce, Edward in his wisdom had seen fit to have them both caged and put on show. Mary Bruce, the sister, was held in her cage at Roxburgh Castle, while Isabel, Countess of Buchan, was held in a similar cage at Berwick. The sole token of privacy these poor women were accorded was the use of a hidden privy. Apart from that, both must suffer the indignity of constant display for more than three years.

He had mentioned that to the Queen, and she had confessed to being appalled by her father-in-law’s treatment of the two. It was one thing to take vengeance on a knight or some other man who had been disloyal, but this extension of revenge on to the womenfolk and children, both of whom were clearly innocent, was distasteful in the extreme. Still worse was to come, though.

After Boroughbridge and the King’s successful quashing of the attempted insurrection of Lancaster, he had launched an attack on Scotland again to quell the rebels there. But the Scots soon outflanked him, and the King and Despenser were forced to beat a very hasty retreat — leaving in their wake Isabella, trapped at Tynemouth. In her speedy escape by boat, two of her ladies-in-waiting were killed.

That, Roger reckoned, was the turning point for Isabella. Up until then she had tolerated Despenser’s ruthless tyranny. She despised his tactics, his terrorisation of any noblewoman who stood in the path of his single-minded avarice, but she was prepared to be coolly polite for the sake of her marriage. But not after Tynemouth. That her husband could desert her to the mercies of the Scots after the treatment his own father had meted out to the Bruce women showed he no longer had any feelings for her.

It was after that, really, that she had begun to work for Roger Mortimer’s release from prison. After all, as she said to him, once Mortimer was in the ascendant Despenser must be deposed and destroyed, and that could only be good for her marriage, for the kingdom, and for all who lived in it.

He only hoped that Joan was all right. Apparently she had been transferred to a fresh prison, but he had heard that her treatment had improved. Perhaps Despenser was a little troubled by the thought that Mortimer could return to take his revenge for the treatment of his family.

One son at least was free. Thanks to God, when Roger had escaped from the Tower Geoffrey, his third son, had been in France to take over the lands he had inherited from Joan’s mother and swear his allegiance to the French king. Both Geoffrey and his money would be needed if Roger’s plans were to come to fruition.

But he would have to be cautious. He had no wish to suffer the fate of men like Robert le Ewer. When it was learned that Ewer had helped plot to assassinate Despenser, he was taken and condemned to die in the slowest, most horrible manner. He was chained to the ground and iron weights were set upon his breast, slowly crushing him until he died several days later.

Roger Mortimer would not see his family suffer any more. He had already paid his debt of honour; he would see his family released.

The sound of the men’s footsteps was quite loud, but Roger was confident he could escape them. He increased his pace, took a quick right turn into a short passageway, bore right again into a wider thoroughfare, and then went left and down towards the town’s gate. He would double back in a short while.

He didn’t want to be caught by the French or the English.

Arnaud had an annoying habit of humming when he was thinking. It wasn’t something le Vieux had noticed overmuch when they had been together in the Château Gaillard, but now that the others were gone, perhaps it was natural that Arnaud himself should be more irritating. The more time a man spent with a single companion, the more likely it was he’d become intolerant.

The best way to escape was to leave him behind. Le Vieux went through to see Robert de Chatillon.

Since the burial of Enguerrand de Foix at the church on the day they arrived here, a service that was honoured by the presence of Jeanne d’Evreux, Robert had been busy with the many little affairs that must be tied up. Two clerks had travelled with the Comte, and they had been going through all his papers in detail. It was slow, frustrating work for a man like Robert, but he must only endure it a little longer, and then he would be able to return to Foix. The Comte’s heart was in a sealed box, and this he would take back with him so that the Comte’s widow would have something to bury. A woman needed something like that. This way, she’d have a small spot near home at her own church where she could go and pray for him.

Le Vieux entered the room just as Robert was finishing another box of papers. He was peering down at the scroll in his hand, a frown of incomprehension on his face. Looking up and seeing le Vieux in the doorway, he raised his eyebrows. ‘Yes?’

‘Do you have any instructions for us?’

Robert shrugged. ‘I have passed on your report. All the men there at the château are dead and the woman has been taken to the abbey of Maubisson as arranged. I think that all is completed satisfactorily.’

Dismissed, le Vieux wandered from the room. He stood outside, wondering what he should do. The castle held little attraction for him. It was a place of rest, but he was bored with rest. Give him a decent march, some wine and women at the end of it, or a fight, and he’d be happy, but this lazing about for day after day was driving him up to the moon. He needed some action.

He couldn’t face returning to Arnaud and that appalling humming. Instead he walked under the gate and out into the street, and went to a cookshop for a pie before aimlessly passing down the lane, glancing at the food displayed on the shutters as he went.

An urchin slipped past him, a hand whipped out, and the lad ran off with a small loaf of bread, haring along the lane like a small greyhound. It made the shopkeeper roar, and he bolted into the lane, shaking his fist over his head, but others, le Vieux included, laughed. The boy was quick and clever. So long as he wasn’t caught, he would have a great future ahead of him. A lad like that could get far.

That was when he heard the ‘Psst’ and urgent whisper of his name.

He turned, and, to his horror, there was Jean.

‘You didn’t expect to see me again, did you?’

‘You! What are you doing here?’

‘I followed you. I had to. The men at the château — I had to make sure you knew what had happened.’

‘Eh?’

‘I saw them. I was up on the wall, and I saw them. Berengar and Arnaud. Arnaud was after him like a demon, waving a knife, and murdered him just outside the castle. And then I went back to our room, and the others were all dead.’

‘Wait, wait!’ le Vieux said, his hands up. He was not panicked yet. There was space between him and Jean, and he had his sword on his hip, but Jean was dangerous. He knew that full well. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘I had to run. I — er — I thought you were dead like all the others, and I fled to get help. But I couldn’t. I was going to come here, to tell the King what had happened, but then I thought I’d be suspected myself, so I just ran. But then I saw you in the Queen of England’s party with Arnaud, and I knew I had to do something to warn you, so you knew it was Arnaud who’d committed the murders. What did he say? Did he say it was me?’