Michael Jecks - The Templar, the Queen and Her Lover

At least that was one thing about these accursed music-killers. Queen Isabella appeared to relish their playing. God alone knew how she could tolerate it, but she seemed to like it. Well, the poor woman was here to work her will on the embassy. As soon as that was over, she would be taken straight back to England by Lord John Cromwell, and her peace would be shattered. She would be held once more in the miserable Tower in London, or at the palace on Thorney Island. There she would have her seal taken away once more, and she would be held under the guard of Eleanor.

Joan set her jaw. Since her suffering at the hands of her own husband, she was less inclined to see another woman put to the same slow, intolerable torture of a loveless marriage. Isabella had lost her husband to another lover — all knew of it, there was no point denying the fact — and could never find peace in her own country. She deserved the little relaxation she had discovered here.

The brat who scampered about in the wake of the musicians sent his ball rolling along the chamber, and Joan almost shouted at the miserable churl, but then the ball hit the delicately booted foot of the Queen. She glanced down, startled, and stared at the ball, then over her shoulder at the boy.

For a moment all was breathless and expectant. The lead musician’s mouth opened in horror, the fiddler made a squawk by accident, and Joan herself allowed a smile to touch her mouth. But then the Queen beckoned the lad over and held out his ball to him.

You could not ever tell how Queen Isabella would respond, Joan of Bar told herself. She decided that she would have a strategic headache and retire to her rooms the next time these musicians came to play.

Baldwin and Simon were hailed as soon as they left the buttery, and Simon heard his companion groan to himself as they recognised the tones of Lord John Cromwell.

‘Can we escape?’ Baldwin whispered.

‘I think not,’ Simon said with a chuckle. ‘Why else were we brought here if not to answer the call of Lord Cromwell?’

Baldwin grunted and turned, fitting a smile to his face. ‘My Lord Cromwell. How may I serve you?’

‘That man who was killed. I don’t want some sort of diplomatic incident. You are used to investigating murders, Sir Baldwin. I want you to show that it was nothing political.’

Baldwin blinked. ‘Pray, Lord Cromwell, since you have decided the conclusion, how precisely would you like me to begin my study?’

‘Don’t be clever, Sir Baldwin,’ Cromwell snarled. ‘This isn’t some easy-going footpad knocking a man on the pate. This is murder, very clearly. We appear to have suffered from rather too many of them of late, don’t we? First the poor devil Enguerrand de Foix, then the guard from the Château Gaillard, and now our own man-at-arms. Sir Charles is devastated, and quite capable of causing mayhem in the attempt to kill the man responsible. But having the brain and reasoning capacity of a bloody Lancastrian, he’ll be likely to find that the man responsible was the personal steward to King Charles. That cannot be permitted. I will not have our entire purpose ruined because of one man’s desire to avenge a blasted servant. Is that clear?’

‘Perfectly. However, if you want me to research this latest death, it may be a problem, bearing in mind that the land is strange to me, the people more so, and I have no knowledge of French law. Really, Lord Cromwell, I believe-’

‘You will have to do your best.’

‘One thing: if you wish me to do this, you must be aware that I will be truthful. If you expect me to investigate, I will investigate to the very best of my ability. You understand? And if I am questioned, I shall tell the truth.’

‘You will remember that you are here on a diplomatic mission, Sir Baldwin. If someone asks you about this crime, you will remember your status, and you will advise your questioner to come to me . You will answer nothing, except to me.’

The lord scowled ferociously at him, then barely glanced at Simon as he wished them both God speed, and strode away, his boots splashing in the little puddles left by the previous night’s rains.

‘And that, I think, told me, eh?’ Baldwin said with a dry chuckle. ‘Come, let us see what it is that the good lord wishes us to see, and try to blinker ourselves to all other possibilities.’

Jean sat and counted his coins. One livre and a few sous . Hardly enough to keep him going for long in a city so ruinously expensive as this. It was tempting to try to gamble his way to some money — there were bear pits and cock-fighting pits here — but he knew only too well how easy it was for a man to lose his all in such ventures. There was no straightforward way to keep a man’s soul together other than slow, steady employment.

There had been many times since leaving the south when he had wished that he had not gone away to war with his father and brother. It would have been so much better to have stayed at home with his wife and lived the contented life of a shepherd. He would never have made himself rich, it was true, but that was by the by. If he had stuck to it, he would have a small family now, his wife would have given him boys to keep the sheep, and he would have been able to build a smallholding. Left something for the children when he died. As it was, what did he have to leave? A few sous . Nothing more.

His wife had been raped before she died. Oh, at the time the folks had said it was someone who’d sought her out. The local priest, they reckoned. He made advances to so many, that one. He was safe, a Catholic in an area where so many followed Waldes. If he picked on a Waldensian, she might not defend herself, because he could declare her heretic and perhaps see her burned. And if she was not one of the Poor of Lyons, that would hardly help her if he denounced her. She would still be interrogated by the bishop.

When he returned, still ravaged by his memories of that dreadful campaign, the only thing he sought was the solace of his wife. It was the one thought that kept him together during the long march from the far north of the kingdom to his own southern home. One battle had shown him his father’s destruction, his brother’s too. It was plenty enough for a young man. He had had his fill of war and death. Never again. All he craved was the springtime in the mountains, with the little flowers bursting forth in the meadows. He could recall the scent now, if he closed his eyes. It was always so wondrous.

His Huguette had been a beautiful woman. Sixteen when they married, seventeen when she was killed, she had long, lustrous black hair, eyes of an unusual grey hue, and a slim build that was voluptuous when naked, and he had worshipped her.

When he returned, they told him all about it. Strangers with carts who had passed through, all wearing the insignia of the bishop’s men. They’d stopped the night and departed early the following morning, and later that day one of the men of the village had discovered Huguette’s body. The villagers told him all. No one held back. Why should they? He was the injured party. He deserved to hear the facts.

But as he sat in his empty house, staring at the bed on which she had died, feeling the cold of the night sinking into his bones, thinking about her, about their happiness, he knew that the one thing his Huguette would have wished was that he should not launch himself into some vain attempt at revenge. There was no point. She was a devoted Waldensian, and the idea of seeking a man in order to kill him was alien to her. If a man were to insult her, she would not defend herself; if he struck her cheek, she would turn and offer him the other. It was her faith, and it would be a heretical act for him to assume the responsibility of avenging her injuries. He couldn’t.