Michael Jecks - The Templar, the Queen and Her Lover

Baldwin’s voice was cold. ‘No. Not a house.’

They carried on, and in a few minutes they were standing at the base of a series of some sixteen large rock pillars. Some were already in position, but others lay on the ground, and there were cranes and windlasses all about, and scaffolding set up to assist in the erection of the massive structure. Part of it had been completed, and now Simon realised what its purpose was, for across the top of the four upright blocks lay a thick beam of wood. Dangling from it were fifteen men.

‘The idea was that this hill should be visible from most of the city,’ Baldwin said. He was peering up at the men. None had a broken neck; all had been gradually throttled as they hanged. Now their features were unrecognisable. They had been so badly attacked by the crows and other carrion birds that all were pecked to uniformity. The ropes suspending them creaked and groaned as the bodies swayed.

‘How long do they stay there?’ Sir Charles asked.

‘Until another batch arrives to be hanged,’ Baldwin said. ‘Then they’re brought down and cast into a grave over there.’

‘No women,’ Paul commented.

‘It would be indecent to hang women,’ Baldwin said cynically. ‘So they are buried alive instead.’

It is a sad place, Simon said to himself. He had never been good in the presence of death, and he averted his eyes from the noisome group, forcing himself to look at the scaffolding which supported those pillars which had not yet been set in place. A man was walking about with the labourers, instructing them, casting words about him like darts, expecting each to hit its mark. From the look on the faces of the men with him, Simon seriously doubted that more than a few would succeed.

‘Good day to you, master,’ Baldwin said slowly.

The man seemed to notice them for the first time, and he scowled. He was a good-looking fellow, with shrewd, intelligent dark eyes. Although he had a narrow face, there was nothing of the ferret about him — he was more of a greyhound, Simon thought. A low, but strong, narrow head and slender shoulders, but a powerful torso and well-muscled arms. Now he had his head set low as he eyed these strangers.

‘And to you,’ he said at last, his attention on Paul, who was returning his stare with fixed intensity.

‘You are rebuilding this gallows?’ Sir Charles enquired.

‘I am Pierre Rémy. I have been set the task of constructing a new gallows with stone.’

Simon nodded towards the site. ‘How many pillars are there?’

‘You are not Parisian? Ah, English?’ He appeared reassured by their agreement, as though a Parisian who was unaware of the law was suspicious. Ignorant foreigners were a different matter. ‘Ah, you look at this, and you realise that you are in the presence of the gallows of a great leader of men. It is all a matter of rank. A lord is permitted a gallows with only two uprights. A baron may have four, but the King can have sixteen. These will be set in four rows of four, so the King can hang sixty-four men at a time. And with the whole built in stone, it will last for a hundred years. Much less maintenance than a normal gallows.’

Sir Charles was nodding, and Simon could understand the logic. He had seen that the Tavistock gallows which executed the felons of the abbey’s ecclesiastical court had recently had to be replaced. The damn thing was growing dangerous, and could have collapsed in a bad gust of wind with a body on it.

Baldwin alone appeared unimpressed. He stood staring at the gallows with a sardonic expression. When Simon gazed at him, he saw that there were tears in his friend’s eyes.

‘Are you all right, Baldwin?’

The knight waved away Simon’s enquiry. ‘You should be cautious, friend. All too often a man can be executed while declaring his innocence.’

‘No one would willingly go confessing his sins, would he?’ Rémy laughed.

‘The most innocent might,’ Baldwin said.

‘I am sure I am safe enough. I haven’t committed a crime.’

Simon was watching the men who were supposed to be building the gallows. One in particular caught his attention. He was an ill-favoured fellow with a thick leather jerkin, and he was laughing to himself as he carried a ladder towards the line of corpses. ‘Who is he?’

‘Arnaud? A King’s Executioner,’ Rémy said dismissively. He appeared to have little time for the man. ‘He’s got some more prepared for their last dance. Has to make space for them.’

As he spoke, Arnaud reached the gallows. He set the ladder against the beam and climbed until he was at the same height as the dangling bodies. Seeing the men on the ground watching him, he stared back for a moment before shrugging to himself and starting to cut through the rope holding the most decomposed figure.

Baldwin glanced up, his eyes narrowing slightly. ‘He looks familiar, Simon. Where have I seen him before?’

‘Him?’ Simon stared at the man on the ladder. ‘I don’t know … are you sure?’

‘His is not the sort of face a man could easily forget — and nor is his style of dress all that common. No matter. It can hardly be important,’ Baldwin said.

Simon could not pull his eyes from the sight of the man’s knife sawing through the old hemp until the rope began to fray, the body jolting and spinning faster. He shut his eyes and looked away, only to see that there was a party of crossbowmen at the nearer pillar, watching the body. There was a crack like the hand-cannon of the Comte de Foix, and the rope parted. The body fell like a sack of coal to thud into the ground, and to his horror Simon saw that the bone of one thigh was thrust through the softened meat of the leg, protruding vertically while the soggy sack of bones and flesh lay back untidily. It was a revolting sight, but the archers apparently thought it a source of immense humour.

‘Why are they here?’ he found himself asking.

‘The archers? To stop witches coming here and stealing the felons’ hearts to make their philtres and potions. The bitches would steal the skin from your back if you were swinging up there, my friend,’ Rémy said. He noticed a man hauling on a rope at the far side of the site and swore to himself, running at the man and bellowing.

‘Well, lordings, I think we may return to the city, eh?’ Sir Charles said with a disdainful look about him. ‘Until they bring the next wagonload of men ready for their execution, there’s little enough to see here.’

‘Yes. Quite right,’ Baldwin said. Simon was reluctant to speak. He was still averting his eyes from the fleshy mess lying on the ground as Arnaud went to it, eyed it contemplatively, and then grabbed a bare foot and started to haul the body away to where the mass grave was. It was the leg with the bone sticking up, and as Simon watched he saw the dark, rotting skin at the groin begin to tear as Arnaud pulled. He turned away quickly, hearing the man swear a short while later. From the corner of his eye he saw Arnaud walk to the pit and toss in the leg, before returning to collect the remainder of the dead man.

When they had left, Arnaud leaned against a pillar and watched them as they wandered back to the city. He wiped the blood and muck from his hands on to his leather jerkin, and sat back to wait for the man he had been told to kill. No one he knew, just someone who’d irritated the King or someone.

He often held the power of bringing death, but Arnaud had only once had the power of bringing life. He missed the feel of the child in his arms. Killing was easy, but creation , that was different. There were times when he wished he didn’t have to concentrate on only the one.

Shame le Vieux was gone. The old twit was a good companion. They understood each other, and it was always hard to lose a friend. Arnaud hadn’t had too many of them in his life. He’d thought that Jean was going to be a mate when they’d met. They came from the same part of the country, down in the Comte de Foix’s lands. Of course, some people disliked Arnaud just because of his job. That was stupid. Everyone appreciated the order that the law brought, and if there were laws, someone had to carry out the punishments. And Arnaud was good at his job. He knew he was. Anything that was well done was good for all. It must give God delight to see a man excel at his duties, so why should Arnaud not take pleasure in his skill?