Michael Jecks - The Templar, the Queen and Her Lover

There was no response from the people gathered there. Simon could understand enough of the local accent to follow the questioning and the lack of answers from the folk watching, and could sympathise with the poor official trying his best to find the killer.

When he had clearly given up hope of getting any information from the people standing about, and returned to his study of the body, Baldwin stepped forward. ‘I do not know if I can help, but I have had some experience of murder and seeking felons in my own lands.’

‘I would be very grateful for any aid,’ the sergent said. ‘But I fear that this is one of those killings which will go down unsolved.’

‘Do you know anything at all?’

‘As you can see for yourself, he was beaten, and then stabbed. The wound was a cruel one, up from his belly, and straight into his heart and lungs, I imagine. A quick enough death for the poor devil. Not that he would have looked on it as that, I suppose. Nobody saw him die, nobody heard him die, nobody saw a killer — in short, nobody knows anything at all. Hardly surprising, since anyone who saw the man who did this could expect something similar to happen to him.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘This was a professional killing.’

‘There is no possibility that it could have been a common cut-purse?’ Simon asked.

‘I shouldn’t think so,’ Baldwin answered. ‘He’s been too badly beaten up. And since when did a cut-purse kill a man like this?’

‘Oh, God,’ Simon said, and turned away from the corpse. He had taken a glimpse, and that was enough.

Paul lay on his back, arms outspread, legs sprawling. The whole of his stomach area was a reddened mess, with blue-grey coils of intestine pulled out and smeared with blood. A thin, oil-like slick of blood pooled over all the puddles in the roadway. Some had coagulated, but much was so diluted with the rainwater that it could not, and merely gave its own pink coloration to the water.

‘Yes,’ Baldwin said as Simon retched. ‘The poor fellow suffered first.’ He was about to bend to study the body more closely when the cry made him stop.

‘ Paul! ’ Sir Charles shouted, and would have run to his servant had Simon not grasped him first and pulled him back. It was a relief to be able to move away from Paul’s body and have something — someone — else to think of.

‘Wait, Sir Charles. Let Baldwin see if he can learn anything from him first.’

Sir Charles was incapable of coherent thought, let alone speech, and he struggled at first to free himself.

In the fog of his horror, he did not appreciate that it was Simon and one of the guards from the gates to the château who were holding him back. He roared with anguish, and at one point even tried to reach for his long dagger to cut the pair of them off him, sensing them as enemies trying to stand between him and his man, but Sir John de Sapy was already there, and pulled his hand away. ‘Wake up, Sir Charles. Wake up!’ he bellowed, and slapped at Sir Charles’s face, once, twice. ‘Sir Charles! You are being stared at. You have made yourself an object of scorn. Control yourself!’

Sir Charles came to himself. He stared, appalled, at Sir John, but then his eyes slid back towards the body. Sir Baldwin was at Paul’s side, respectfully kneeling, and he glanced back at Sir Charles with an expression of such infinite understanding and sadness that Sir Charles knew at once there was no hope. He sagged in the arms of his restrainers, head hanging, feeling as though his own life was ending. A dreadful lassitude came over him, and he felt an urge to spew over the pavement.

How could he waken from this nightmare? Paul — Paul his loyal servant from the days when they were both living in the service of Earl Thomas of Lancaster; Paul who had gone with him into exile rather than be captured and slain by the King’s men; Paul who had been with him when he was forced to leave Paris and take pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela; Paul who had with him been forced to the island of Ennor — in all the long months of wandering, the only man who had remained his devoted servant and friend was Paul.

He had learned to cope with the loss of so much. All his wealth and lands had gone when Earl Thomas had been taken and executed, and gradually during his exile he had grown accustomed to the steady, slow diminishment of his pride as time and again his attempts to find a new lord had failed. Eventually he had sunk so low as to demean himself by offering himself as a mercenary — the lowest form of life. Yet all through those dreadful days, at least he had enjoyed the company of his servant, guard, cook, procurer — Paul. And now he was gone, it felt as though there was a terrible hole in his breast. The man whom he had valued above all others was dead, and now Sir Charles was entirely alone. There was nothing and no one to fill that gap.

‘I swear that I shall find the man responsible and cut his heart out,’ he said thickly. The words gave a little consolation — just a little — and he was able to stand upright again, pulling his arms from the two at his sides, and forcing his chin up. He remained standing in the same place, unsure whether to trust his legs to take him the short distance to his man’s body, but unable to draw his eyes away as Baldwin shook his head, stood, and made his way back to join them.

‘Sir Charles, I am truly sorry.’

‘He is dead?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did they make him suffer?’

‘I am afraid so. He was beaten before being killed.’

‘Thank you for your candour, Sir Baldwin. I appreciate that. Excuse me, I must go and arrange for my man’s burial.’

‘Of course.’

Baldwin and Simon watched as Sir Charles walked stiffly towards the body.

‘He is devastated,’ Simon said, his voice hushed.

‘He will manage,’ Baldwin said harshly. ‘We do.’

Simon shot him a look. His companion was gazing after Sir Charles, but his eyes scarcely appeared to see him. There was an inward-looking emptiness in his face, as if he was thinking of that time, less than ten years before, when he too had been forced to witness the death of men who had been very dear to him.

Lord John Cromwell swore as he stumbled over a loose cobble. ‘In Christ’s name!’

This was the last thing the mission needed. The embassy was doomed, damn it, and he was the man who was going to be called to account by the King and Sir Hugh le Despenser when they returned. No one else. It could hardly be laid at the Queen’s door this time. No matter how much the King hated his wife, the idea that she was responsible for such a breach of security as allowing one of the embassy’s men-at-arms to wander the streets and be captured by someone was absurd. That was all Lord John’s area of interest. His fault .

Diplomacy was fraught with dangers, naturally. When two great kings negotiated matters of such vast importance, there were always factions who sought to assist or thwart. In this case, there was such a preponderance of vested interests on the French side, with barons determined to get their hands on the English king’s lands, properties and wine production down in the province of Guyenne, that it was hardly surprising that someone sought to destroy the English mission.

And how better to destroy it than by embarrassing the English? Kill off an Englishman, and you instantly create tensions between the two negotiating teams.

He reached the oaken door to the Queen’s hall, and stopped a moment to draw breath. There were two guards here, both from his own entourage, and he nodded at them before reaching forward and opening the door.

‘Your royal highness.’

A sword swung in front of him, and he would have grabbed for his own were it not for the surprise of Blaket’s blade-point at his chin. ‘Get that away,’ he snarled.