Michael Jecks - The Templar, the Queen and Her Lover

But Paul was sure that his master was correct when he said that there would be a good price for the head of Roger Mortimer. Sir Charles could take it to the King, and they would share the proceeds; Sir Charles would take the larger share, of course, but that mattered little. Since both lived on the profits of his ventures, any money in Sir Charles’s purse tended to benefit Paul as well.

Paul had no idea where the man could be, but he had spoken carefully with all the grooms and other servants, and was, after all, seeking a stranger who should stand out a little. It was a man, he said, who had been a warrior, who had a certain carriage about him, like a knight, and did not appear to arrive and depart, so was probably staying nearby.

One man seemed to have an idea. He had been asked by William de Bouden, the Queen’s comptroller, to deliver a note to a servant staying at an inn. At the time the fellow delivering the message had been surprised, for it seemed peculiar that the Queen’s comptroller should want to speak to such a man, but when he arrived at the inn, he had caught a glimpse of a tall, warrior-like man in the background.

It was enough to interest Paul, and that was why he was making his way to the place now. The man had not taken only the one message. In the last evenings, there had been three all told. Likelihood was, so Paul reasoned, that there’d be another tonight. So he was going to the inn to watch.

The inn was set in the maze of small alleys and lanes behind the butcheries of St Jacques north of the river, and he walked cautiously in case he met the watchmen. Anyone found this late in the evening could be arrested with impunity, and Paul had no false hope that an Englishman from the Queen’s guard would be safe if found out here. More likely, he’d be stabbed and killed the more swiftly and his body thrown over a bridge. Better to dispose of him than have the King’s men come and seek retribution for scaring one of his sister’s men-at-arms. No, if he saw the Watch, he would either bolt or fight. He reckoned he should be safe against most watchmen.

Narrow-fronted, the building was placed in the midst of a series of ancient little houses. It had only recently been converted into a tavern, from the look of it. Waxed parchment covered the windows to keep out the worst of the cold night air, but while it no doubt gave a warm glow to the dim lighting within, it served only to make Paul feel colder. He settled into the shadow of a doorway opposite and gazed at the place, waiting. That was one thing about being a fighter for so many years: waiting patiently came as second nature to him now.

Steps came down the cobbles, and he stirred himself silently. He had been dozing with his eyes open, but at the first sound he was wide awake. Soon he could make out the shape of his informer.

The man scurried along the alley like a rat walking down a corridor of cats. His eyes were all over the place, as though he expected to be jumped on at any moment. Quite right, too. The bloody fool should have had a couple of men with him. But then, as Paul knew, he would have been a still more attractive mark. A man who walked abroad at night was a possible target to a cut-purse. A man who walked at night with two henchmen was clearly guarding something of value, and so was still more attractive.

He pulled the door open and slid inside around it. The hinges were rotten, and the door scraped badly on the ground, opening only about halfway. Orange candlelight flooded out into the lane, to slip to a knife-blade as he tugged the door closed after him.

It was only a matter of a few minutes before the door was opened again, and then the man hurried out and set off up the road to escape back to the Queen’s household. Paul watched him with a slight frown on his face, wondering what could have made him hurry so urgently. Then he pressed himself back into the darkness as the door opened again. Three men came out and stood in the lane looking up and down for a few moments, before two more figures emerged. One was a tall, well-favoured man, a cap on his head, pulling gloves on as he came. He stopped in the doorway, looked about him, nodded, and then marched off after the messenger, his guards fanning out behind him.

Paul pursed his lips. This would clearly not be so easy as he had hoped. He would have to have some help. He nodded to himself, and as the men disappeared round a curve in the lane, he left the shadows, peering up after the group.

As soon as he began to trail quietly after them, the door of the inn scraped again. Too late, he saw his peril, thinking to leap back to the shadows.

‘So, master. You were wanting to see our lord?’

Two men, both with swords drawn, blocking his path that way. He turned to flee up the lane, but even as he turned he saw the men back at the corner. Roger Mortimer made a gesture with his hand, and the four men with him began to walk slowly towards Paul. He put his hand to his sword, but before he could grasp it he felt the two behind him jump forward. One took his sword arm; the other beat him about the head, three, four times, with the hilt of his own. Paul stumbled, but could jerk his elbow upwards, and he felt it crunch against a nose. That caused a short curse, but then there was a hideous crashing thud against the back of his neck, and sparks were thrown up in front of his eyes, sparks that pinwheeled about before his gaze as he toppled forward to rest his face on the cobbles.

‘Who do you work for?’ The voice was calm, but determined.

‘I work for no one.’

‘You were seeking me. The messenger told us. He at least was loyal. Who do you work for, the King? Are you with him?’

‘I was just looking for a pot of wine! You lot attacked me,’ Paul protested.

‘You have two choices. A fast death or a slow one. Slow will be painful. Tell me who you work for, and you will not suffer. Refuse, and I will see to it that you have a bad death.’

Paul tried to clear the fog in his head. The back of his neck was on fire, with flames of pain searing the rear of his skull. It was hard to think straight, and he certainly couldn’t think fast enough to save himself. ‘I don’t …’

‘Take him back. Question him. Find out all he knows, then kill him,’ Mortimer said. ‘Sorry, friend. I don’t have time for this.’

Thursday before Good Friday 21

Château du Bois

The next morning William de Bouden was early at his sheets of parchment, yawning regularly. There had been a storm in the night which had left the whole area damp. As far as he could tell, he was sleeping in a room which faced the wind. The shutters had rattled and banged all night, the rain sluicing in through the slats, the wind was blowing so hard, and the water had pooled on the floor inside. It left him unable to sleep, with the result that he was crotchety and petulant this morning. Still, he was nothing if not assiduous in his duties, so while he grumbled to himself, he continued counting the money.

Some people thought that so long as the Queen was in France there would be no need of a formal accounting, but they were dolts. The simple fact was, the King had allowed her a budget to come here as ambassador, and he, William de Bouden, the Queen’s Comptroller, had a duty to ensure that the money spent was all accounted for. Before he had left England, he had been given a thousand pounds by the King, but Edward had known that more might be needed, so William had a letter allowing him to draw on the house of the Bardi in Paris. Not that he wanted to pull out too much from there.

Still, the Bardi were competent — very competent — bankers. And the first rule of banking was, as William knew only too well, to keep a careful eye on those who borrowed. To do that, they maintained some of the most efficient spies in the world. That was how they kept themselves briefed on whether a man had enough money to justify a loan, or whether someone had become a bad credit risk.