Michael Jecks - The Templar, the Queen and Her Lover

They scared him.

William had been given the post here by the King because he knew the Queen. Until the King had dissolved her household, William had been her treasurer, but now that he had this new post Edward appeared to believe that he would be automatically loyal to him. Yet no, he was not. He had been the Queen’s man for years, and just because the King ordered him away and then gave him his job back changed nothing. He was still the Queen’s man. There was such a thing as loyalty, in God’s name.

But in royal politics there was little in the way of trust. That was why William was convinced that the Bardi had been paid to keep an eye on him and the Queen. There was a man who appeared to be watching him wherever he went. It had scared him half to death when he had been accosted by that knight in Poissy, and it was even worse when Queen Isabella confronted him with his confession to Sir Baldwin that he had been talking to Roger Mortimer. That had gone down like a bucket of cold sick. Still, as she agreed a little while later, at least it demonstrated that they had one ally among the knights who made up her guard. Or if not an ally, at least someone who was prepared to remain loyal to her interests over here.

It was ridiculous, frankly, that anyone could look on Roger as any sort of threat. The man was an old friend of the Queen’s. William had been in her service long enough to know perfectly well that she and Roger had met plenty of times when she was still happily married to her husband. Roger had visited her often. Nothing suspicious; it was always with his lady, Joan. Joan and Queen Isabella had got on well, and Mortimer was utterly devoted to his wife. She went with him on all his travels, even when he was marching with his warriors in England, Wales or Ireland. They were one of those terribly rare things, a man and wife who were genuinely in love.

Made it all the worse to see him like this. Now he was a pale reflection of his earlier self. William had seen him in those days when he was the King’s most trusted general, but now he was a renegade, a traitor. Untrusted and despised by the king he had served for so many years, he was eking out a living, kept in the background by the French king in case he might become useful at some point in the future, but really a prisoner. He could not leave the French king’s protection. To do so would make him nothing more than the target of every cut-purse, draw-latch and robbersman who was bright enough to see how much bounty his head could bring.

It was enough to make a man sigh in sad reflection, of course. He did so now. The mere thought of all that cash, just waiting for any fortunate fool to claim, was enough to make any man of moderate ambition sit back and think of all the fine clothing, the wine, the food, that such treasure could bring. It would be as much as, maybe, a hundred pounds. Good God, a hundred pounds …

With cash like that a man would be free indeed. But William did not have a hundred pounds. He didn’t have two pounds of his own. Only a matter of a few hundreds of the Queen’s money which was all that remained of her thousand. When that was exhausted, William would have to go to the Bardi. Not until then, though. Best to keep away, especially while the Queen was set on meeting Mortimer every so often.

He opened the great steel-barred chest with the huge key he held about his neck, and began checking the money. Satisfied that it all still tallied with his calculations, he closed the lid and relocked it, listening to the great bolts sliding into place.

It was his morning’s duty, and now, duty done, he could consider his other tasks. But even as he was seating himself once more at his table, there was a knocking at his door.

‘Yes?’

‘Master. There’s been a murder! An Englishman is dead!’

Sir Charles had been in the hall when the men began to scurry about.

‘Something happen?’ he murmured to Baldwin at his side.

‘It rather looks like it,’ Baldwin responded, looking up.

‘They are all quite busy. Anyone might think that they were fearful of an assault on the city.’

Simon sipped his weak wine and beckoned a servant. The man was one of the French servants set to watch over the English guests and ensure that they were comfortable, and the fellow came to Simon with a wary expression in his eyes, as though expecting to be assaulted. Simon smiled at him. ‘What is the alarm?’

‘There is a man dead.’

‘What, here in the castle?’ Simon asked. There were too many deaths, he thought to himself. This whole embassy could end in disaster.

Sir Charles shrugged. ‘What of it? Many die each day. In castles as often as in a city or the countryside. What did he die of? Fall in a well? Fall from a wall? I suppose he was drunk?’

‘ Non, mon sieur .’ The servant explained that the poor fellow had been stabbed.

Baldwin cast an eye about the room. There was a suppressed excitement about the men present. It was not like the anxiety which was the normal companion of a corpse, in his experience. No, it was more like the thrill of watching someone else who would shortly be distraught as the news of a loved one’s demise was delivered. ‘Who is it?’

There was no answer to that question. The servant gave them to understand that someone would be there to tell them more as soon as he had learned all he might.

Sir Charles was smiling as the man left them, but Baldwin rose. ‘I wish to see the Queen and assure myself that she is safe. God forbid that this dead man might be one of her entourage, or even one of the knights with us here.’

‘You think it might be Sir John or Sir Peter?’ Sir Charles asked. He felt that Baldwin’s concern was a little overdone. ‘Sir Baldwin, there is nothing to fear. It’s probably one of the grooms. Nothing more than that. We can soon hire a fresh one, if need be. Please, sit, and do not trouble the Queen with a matter which may well be completely unimportant.’

He watched as Baldwin stood, undecided. Then Baldwin saw Sir John de Sapy walk into the room with Sir Peter de Lymesey and Lord Cromwell. The sight of the three of them made up his mind. ‘Is there no one with the Queen?’ he demanded rhetorically, and was gone. Simon rose and hurried after him.

‘Where are they going?’ Cromwell asked.

‘Sir Baldwin has very chivalrously gone to the aid of the Queen in case she is downhearted to hear that someone has died,’ Sir Charles said with some amusement. ‘Do you know who it is who has been killed?’

‘Has no one told you?’ Sir John said, his face registering his surprise.

Lord Cromwell was the man who stepped forward and rested a hand on Sir Charles’s forearm. ‘I am sorry, Sir Charles. It was your man-at-arms — it was Paul.’

The Queen left them both in no uncertainty about her feelings. She was perfectly well, and if they had not run to her chambers and woken her with their infernal knocking, she would still be blissfully unaware that anyone had been harmed, let alone someone from her delegation.

‘So who was it?’ Simon wondered.

Baldwin was unable to answer, but as they left the Queen’s chamber and could look across the yard towards the entranceway they saw a throng of people. ‘Perhaps the answer is out there.’

‘You think so? It looks a little dangerous.’

‘It is just the street people of Paris looking at a corpse, I think,’ Baldwin said, but he joined Simon in splashing through the muddy puddles towards the gate.

Simon gasped when he caught sight of the dead man’s face. ‘Christ’s ballocks, Baldwin, that’s Paul!’

‘Dear Christ! If you see Sir Charles, keep him away, Simon.’

In the roadway near the castle’s gate the throng of people stood watching while a man in sergent’s uniform studied Paul’s corpse. He was asking questions that seemed to go unanswered. ‘I said, did anyone see him dumped here?’