Michael Jecks - The Templar, the Queen and Her Lover

Adam stared, lip curled in disgust, as the bloody body was carried past on a bier. Four men carried Paul’s remains, all in French uniform, and Adam wondered why, until he realised what a diplomatic disaster this could be. Sir Charles of Lancaster walked along behind the body, eyes fixed on the corpse like a man staring into hell.

As soon as the cortège had gone by, the nearer guard lifted his bill, and the musicians darted past. Ricard was in front, and Jack almost at his side on his long, loping legs. It made Adam feel a flash of anger that the man should be up there in front. Should be him, or maybe Philip or Janin, at Ricard’s side, not this interloper.

He glanced back at the bier, and for an instant he could have sworn it was Peter there. The boots were the same, the clothing was much like an old tunic Peter used to wear for different musical events, and there was a tatty old green cloak covering much of him that was so like Peter’s it was uncanny. And then he nearly fell over. The bier was being manhandled at the door to the chapel, and had to be tilted slightly to make it through the doorway. As the men eased it inside, one of the corpse’s hands fell away, as though to point. And when Adam looked ahead, he knew perfectly well what was being pointed at.

It was the murderer — Jack. The man who had appeared after Peter’s death, and who was here to spy on the Queen. The bastard! How could they all play music with the man who’d killed their mate?

After passing by the guards, they reached the Queen’s chamber at last. And as Ricard installed the boy at the rear of the room with a wooden ball he had fashioned himself, Adam eyed him with contempt.

Ricard was weak. Since Peter’s death, he’d been confused and undecided about everything except taking this little brat everywhere with them. He was useless; couldn’t even see how dangerous Jack was.

He’d speak to Philip about Jack. Philip was still a man. He’d help kill the bastard.

Baldwin joined Simon at the bar in the buttery of the castle’s main hall, and both drank deeply as soon as their beer arrived.

‘Baldwin, are you all right?’ Simon asked.

‘I am perfectly well,’ Baldwin said.

Simon studied him briefly. He didn’t want to thrust his nose where it could be bitten off, but he was worried about his friend. ‘It was a dreadful murder.’

‘Paul’s? Oh, I don’t know. The man was a known killer, who has murdered plenty in his time, I dare say. Do not forget, Simon, that he was a mercenary when we first met him. A man like that is not going to change his habits. Who can tell, perhaps he was trying to rob someone himself?’

‘Baldwin, that is hardly likely.’

‘He was never the most communicative of companions. He was a close confidant of Sir Charles, but I would put him no higher than that in my own esteem. For me he was only an acquaintance, and not a welcome one.’

Simon was nonplussed by this cold analysis. ‘But surely his death should be investigated?’

‘Yes. Without a doubt, but that is what concerns me. It is a question of what may be learned.’

‘What do you mean?’

Baldwin looked at him very directly. ‘I am an ageing cynic, I think, but I find it hard to understand why a member of this embassy should be set upon late at night. He was not wealthy, and his clothing spoke of poverty. A poor man might attack someone like him for his boots or cloak, especially in this weather, but nothing of the sort was taken. And there are reasons to suspect that it was no poverty-struck man who killed him.’

‘You are meandering, Baldwin,’ Simon said with a slight chuckle. ‘What are you on about? Why not a poor man? His purse was taken.’

‘All I mean is, no one who wanted a good purse would bother with his. A successful cut-purse would take his victim’s money without the victim’s knowing, so it was no professional thief. A poor man wanting better clothes would steal boots or cloak, shirt or hat — but none were taken. Only the purse. A felon might kill if he saw a well-filled purse, but Paul never had one. So who did attack him?’

‘A chance encounter, and someone was fearful of being assaulted, so struck first?’

‘Paul was many things I disliked, but I respected him for one thing: he was a highly competent man-at-arms. A man would be justified in being nervous of him, but if he sought to draw a weapon at speed Paul would have had his own out first. He was a thoroughly competent fighter. We have both seen that. In any case, this was surely the action of more than one man. Someone must have held him while the second opened him up. Unless, of course, he was already dead when the belly was slit?’ He mused a moment, eyes narrowed.

‘Then who could have done it?’ Simon asked.

Baldwin drained his drink. ‘That is what concerns me.’

Lady Joan of Bar winced as the nondescript group of musicians appeared and took up their places. The Queen, damn her, was taking up all the warmth of the fire, with that young hussy Alicia attending to her, and the rest of the room was chilly. But no matter. So long as those two were comfortable, all the other women could go and hang. The Queen wouldn’t give them a thought.

The men looked at each other and then struck up a melody. One of those infernal dance tunes they played so often. It grated on her nerves, for she had heard it many times already on this embassy. Gracious Mother, if only the fools could learn something a little more interesting, or at least something that had a little more sobriety. This constant tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, plink, plink was beginning to make her feel like screaming ‘Enough!’

She had been brought up to a more genteel lifestyle. The granddaughter of King Edward I, she felt all of her thirty years today. True, since divorcing her foul, cruel, capricious and sly husband, John de Warenne, a man for whom the term ‘brute’ might well have been invented, she had found her life growing easier, but then she had been thrown back into the politics of the realm by her uncle, the King, and told to keep a close eye on the Queen during this embassy.

It was not a duty she relished. Her cousin Eleanor had monitored the Queen in England, which had not been onerous but was very time-consuming. It was that, Eleanor had said, which made the journey to France so undesirable to her, much though she loved France.

Joan was unconvinced. In her opinion Eleanor had other reasons for wishing to avoid this duty: first and foremost was the fact that she had been acting as unofficial gaoler to the Queen for the past four or five months. She had taken custody of the royal children — all except the heir, Edward — and was in charge of Isabella’s seal, so that all letters must be passed to her to be sealed. The Queen was allowed no secrets. And here they were in the French capital, where the Queen’s brother was king. He would be able to make Eleanor’s life uncomfortable.

There was another thing, of course. While Eleanor protested that she adored France, and would dearly like to visit it again, she knew that her husband, Sir Hugh le Despenser, would be unable to accompany her there. His actions some years before, when he had been exiled from England and turned pirate, had caused some friction between the French and him. There was the matter of the shipping he had captured, the men he had killed. He dared not visit France, and without him Eleanor would be reluctant to do so.

Which had all conspired to see to it that Joan was forced to come. Well, at least Isabella was congenial company generally, and more so since arriving here in France. She could converse with all about her with a gay easiness that was entirely out of keeping with what the lady Joan had known in England.

Yes. It was strange to see someone who had been so downtrodden only a short while ago flower into this vibrant, beautiful woman again. She was more or less of an age with Joan, but when Joan had seen her in London before departing for the coast, she had been unrecognisable. She looked like Joan herself before that blessed year of 1315, when she had at last managed to dispose of the Earl of Warenne and regain her freedom. Seeing the back of John had been marvellous. Joan could imagine no better moment in her life. And it was sad to think that this queen, this wonderful, attractive woman, should be similarly afflicted while in the presence of her own husband.