Michael Jecks - The Templar, the Queen and Her Lover

Jean had to hurry to keep up with le Vieux. There was something in his movements that spoke of anger. It was just a relief to Jean that his story was believed. He’d expected to have to argue for much longer, but, thanks to Christ, le Vieux had realised he was not lying almost immediately.

Then they were inside. Le Vieux took him up a tiny staircase that wound round and round inside a tower, the stone flags crisp and perfectly cut, unworn. They came out through a narrow doorway, and then they were out on a brief walkway at the top of the main walls, before diving into another, larger tower. Here they descended one flight, and passed along a short corridor to a door. Le Vieux knocked, then walked inside, beckoning Jean to follow.

It was a good-sized room. A wealthy-looking man stood inside reading a scroll behind a table, a large window behind him. Jean didn’t know who he was, and looked over his shoulder enquiringly to see why le Vieux had brought him here. As he turned, something made him move.

The heavy cudgel missed his head by a scant inch. ‘Le Vieux! What are you doing?’

‘What in the name of heaven is going on!’ the man at the table shouted.

‘This is the man we told you of. The last guard to survive,’ le Vieux snarled.

To Jean’s horror, the man looked at him with empty eyes and began to draw his own sword.

He was almost a third of the way into the room. Le Vieux was between him and the door. If he tried to leap for it, he would never make it. Le Vieux would knock him down, and if he failed, there was that sword at his back.

But Jean had been a fighter for many years. He sprang into the room even as the stranger swept his sword from the scabbard. Jean lifted the front of the table high, thrusting forwards, and slammed it against the man. He was crushed against a mullion, and the air left his lungs even as a crunching sound told Jean that at least one rib was broken. The sword fell from his hands.

Jean moved quickly away, to his left, further away from le Vieux, even as the cudgel came down again. It splintered fragments from the table as it hit the old beech, and then Jean was against the wall. There was a fireplace here, and his questing fingers found a steel poker. He kept it behind him.

Le Vieux had recovered already — he had great powers in a fight. Now he was approaching a little crabwise, left flank and arm forward, cudgel high in his right.

Jean could think of nothing else. He switched his hands on the poker, and leaped forward, aiming a fist at le Vieux’s face. Le Vieux caught hold of the fist with a fierce smile, the teeth shining in his brown face. Then he brought down the cudgel.

Too late he saw the poker. It crashed into the side of his head, and as it thudded dully, Jean saw an explosion of blood spray outwards. Le Vieux’s eyes rolled up instantly, and he fell to his knees, the cudgel falling to crack on Jean’s shoulder with little force behind it. Jean tried to move away, but he seemed fixed there. His hand was on the poker, and he remained staring down at le Vieux, the older man apparently peering back at him, but with eyes fogged and dull.

Le Vieux was dead. Attempting to retrieve the poker, Jean found that it was stuck in his head somehow. When he tried to wrest it loose, le Vieux’s head moved with it. It would have been comical if it weren’t hideous. He was forced to push le Vieux to the ground, set a boot on his cheek, and tug hard.

At last the poker was free, and Jean went to the other man. He was breathing harshly, trapped by the weight of the table over his legs. One was twisted at an impossible angle, and he looked at Jean with an expression of horror and the terror of a trapped animal.

It was sickening. ‘Why?’ Jean demanded. ‘Why did you want to kill me?’

There was no answer. The man stared back at him but said nothing, and Jean could already hear steps approaching. Someone must have heard the sharp encounter. He swore to himself, then clenched the poker in his hand and went to the door. Opening it, he could see no one about, and he darted out, bolting back the way he thought they had come, but he had only gone a short distance when he realised he had missed the stairs to the top of the wall. He ran on, blindly, praying that he would find an alternative, but there was nowhere obvious.

And then, behind him, he heard the shrieks from the man trapped under the table.

Baldwin heard the screams from the court where he was still standing, contemplating Lord John’s words. As soon as he heard the noise, his first thought was to run to the source, but a moment’s reflection told him that would be pointless. Others would be running there. Instead he turned left to head for the Queen’s chambers to make sure that she was safe.

He found her in the main hall, pale and anxious.

‘What is that, Sir Baldwin?’

‘I do not know, your highness. I heard the first cry and came here to assure myself of your safety.’

‘I am most grateful, Sir Baldwin. It sounds like an animal in pain.’

‘It is a man,’ Baldwin said coldly. He had heard similar cries of agony often enough in battles.

There was a heavy knocking at the door, and Baldwin went to it, calling, ‘Who is it?’

‘Me.’

Baldwin unbolted and opened the door to Lord Cromwell, who stared at Baldwin fixedly as he came in. Baldwin lowered the point of his sword and closed the door as the noble spoke quickly to the Queen.

‘Sir Baldwin. Would you go, please, and see what is happening out there?’ Queen Isabella said.

Baldwin nodded. He listened a moment, then opened the door. ‘Lord John, bolt this after me.’

Cromwell agreed, and Baldwin was away.

The noise came from the tower over the main entrance, so far as he could tell. He hurried along the path, entered the tower, and climbed the stairs. It did not take long to reach the chamber. Robert de Chatillon was slumped on the floor, his breath rasping in his lungs, and the body of an aged warrior lay over by the fireplace, close to a heavy-looking cudgel. Blood was splattered over his shoulder, and there was a foul, matted mess at his skull just above his ear.

‘What has happened here?’ Baldwin asked wonderingly. He recognised the man-at-arms he had seen crossing the yard earlier.

‘Someone came here and attacked me and this man,’ Robert said haltingly. He was very pale.

‘Did you see who it was?’ Baldwin asked. Perhaps it was the same man he had seen following after this fellow. There had been two.

‘A guard from the Château Gaillard. This man was another of the guards from there,’ Robert said, motioning feebly towards le Vieux. ‘He broke in here and attacked us both.’

‘Why would he do that?’

‘All I know is there was a small garrison there to protect the castle, and some weeks ago that man went insane. He took a knife and slew all the other guards in the château. We don’t know why. Le Vieux was the only survivor at the time. Clearly the fellow learned where le Vieux was, and came here to finish his task.’

‘But why would he do so?’

‘Who can explain madness?’ Robert demanded with a ferocious anger. There was a fevered gleam in his eyes now, and if it were not for the twisted and broken leg, Baldwin could have feared that he might leap up and set upon him for asking ridiculous questions. ‘Just find him, Sir Baldwin. Find him and kill him, in God’s name, before he murders anyone else.’

Baldwin nodded. ‘What does he look like?’

Yes. It was the same man.

As he left the chamber, his brow was furrowed. The killer and the dead man had walked happily together across the courtyard, and then come to blows in the chamber with Robert. Robert had lied for some reason, Baldwin felt, but he was unsure why.