Michael Jecks - The Templar, the Queen and Her Lover

Simon gave a low whistle. ‘Oh.’

‘We should keep all talk of such money to ourselves, I think. Think what the average man-at-arms would do for five pounds.If some of the men here realised that there was a man nearby with five hundred pounds or more on his head,’ Baldwin said quietly,‘just imagine what they might not do to win it.’

‘What, the men here?’ Simon said lightly, but then his smile faded as he glanced about him at the other diners in the hall.Scruffy, hard men, with rough, scarred faces; men whose most fervent desire was for war so that they could loot and pillage.

Baldwin said nothing.

Sir John de Sapy had not taken long to see the flaw in Sir Charles’s idea. It was well enough for them to stay together totry to capture and kill Mortimer, but it would undoubtedly be better were they to separate and keep an eye on different streetsand lanes. ‘That way we may find him. If one of us does see him, we mustn’t try to accost the bastard. Just follow him tosee where he stays each night.’

‘Good idea,’ Sir Peter agreed immediately, and Sir John looked at him.

Yes. There was no doubt that both had the same idea in mind. If there was the remotest chance, either would kill Mortimeralone and take his head to the King. A bounty would only remain vast while it remained unshared, and any knight would be pleasedto receive the sort of sum which Mortimer’s head would bring. It was a simple race to find the man.

Sir John had left them at a corner, and then wandered back towards the castle, gazing about him at everyone he passed. Mortimer’s face was familiar enough to everyone who had spent any timeat the court of the King. His features were burned on to Sir John’s memory. And Sir John had immense powers of concentration.Others might see a simple wash of faces, none with any distinguishing features, but he knew that here in the streets was hisman. Somewhere. All he need do was walk about long enough, and he would find him.

There was a niggling concern at the back of his mind, though, and that was whether he was looking in the right part of town.If he’d been here in hiding, he’d have picked an area that was as far away from the castle as possible. In fact, he wouldhave fled Paris as soon as news of the English queen’s arrival had been announced. Yet Mortimer was here. Why was that? Mustbe a damned fool. Especially now that Sir Charles’s man was dead.

He saw a face, but discarded it. No, it was someone he knew, but not Mortimer. He continued on his way, scouring the visagesall about, looking hard at any who turned aside as though hiding their features, and staring into any taverns or shops hepassed.

‘Sir John? I am so pleased to see you.’

He felt the hand at the cloth of his elbow, and shook it free with that indignant anger any knight must feel at being touchedby some churl in the street. ‘What?’

‘It is I, Père Pierre. Do you not remember me?’

Good Friday 22

Jean woke with a crick in his neck, which felt as if it had locked solid. It was enormously painful to gain any movement;the slightest tremor in his skull was enough to send a bolt of anguish straight down into his spine and along his shoulder.He had to sit up slowly, his head turned to the right, tilted, straining to contain his mutters of shock and grief. Only whenhis upper body was upright did he dare to try to move his head again, and then only extremely gingerly.

The weather was warmer now, praise to Christ! Already he could feel the difference in the air as he snuffed it. This was thebest Easter gift God could have given him, he felt.

Already, as he cautiously moved his head about, easing the tension in his muscles, stretching his arms over his head and wincing,he could hear the first stirrings from the houses all about. No bells today. This was the day all men remembered Christ’scrucifixion.

He would have liked to join the congregations. It was so long since he had been able to feel comfortable in the presence ofthe priests amid the flickering candles and slow chanting. All his love of the displays had been eroded as his faith in thePoor of Lyons had grown, and although it was perfectly in order for him to attend church in his village, so as not to drawattention to himself, still he felt uncomfortable. He couldn’t tell whether the priest was an honourable, decent man or not,or whether the service was conducted in the words which God had demanded. Instead, all was spoken in that leaden old tongue,Latin, so that all were denied access and understanding.

Still, he did enjoy the peace of the day. The people, driven to remember the hideous death of Christ, would revel in theirsilence. Men and women who would usually shout and sing would be drawn to silent contemplation. In Jean’s old church, a largecross would be taken up and wrapped in plain linen, before being installed in a stone sepulchre over the tomb of a man whohad been a successful merchant and had paid for the honour of lying beneath the cross each Easter. There would be no Mass on that Friday. Only a steady murmur and mumble as people remembered Christ’s death and Mary’s pain and anguish. A terribleday, but somehow reassuring, because all those taking part knew that on Sunday they would be able to celebrate Christ’s returnfrom the dead.

More than Berengar or the others could manage, he told himself grimly. They were gone for ever.

Drawing his cloak about him, he set off towards the inn where he had seen Arnaud before. He’d waited outside the place yesterday,but there had been no sign of the man. Possibly he would have better luck today.

He trod the streets carefully, always aware that he could be killed at any moment. Jean was a creature of the wild in manyways, and he felt like a feral animal here in the city. Others walked sublimely unaware of their danger from other men, butnot Jean. He had lived too long among the sheep and wolves of the mountains, and for him there were sheep and wolves aplentyhere in the city. But the sheep were less self-aware, the wolves more ferocious.

A full street away from the inn, he paused and took stock. There was no obvious danger, no apparent lounger taking a keeninterest in him. More important, there was no thin, sallow-featured face staring out at him from a doorway. Jean took careto halt and survey the more obvious places where the executioner could have installed himself, but there was nothing.

He continued onward, his eyes flitting from one window to another, constantly looking for any sign of attention, but thereappeared to be no interest in him, and as he approached the inn he began to think that perhaps Arnaud had not realised thatJean knew where he was staying. Of course, it could simply be that Arnaud had seen his danger, and had removed to a differentplace. That was definitely a risk. But Jean felt sure that it was not so. There was something about the indomitable arrogance of the man who was so used to dealing out death that told Jean that Arnaud would not have thought him a risk. No,Arnaud was probably still here.

So he could catch him.

Baldwin and Simon were up early to join the rest of the castle’s guard at the service in the chapel, and then marched intothe hall and took up their bread and cups of water. Fasting was apparently serious on this day. Throughout Lent meals hadbeen provided in the evening after a day of moderate abstinence, but today there was literally bread and water.

The two were about to leave when they saw Sir John de Sapy. Baldwin grinned at the sight of him. He was clearly frozen. ‘Ahard night searching, Sir John?’

‘I wonder whether Sir Charles is so besotted with the idea of revenge that he’s not seen the immense difficulties. He is determinedto stay out there in the city until he kills Mortimer, and yet there’s been no sign of the man.’