Michael Jecks - The Templar, the Queen and Her Lover

He had seen plenty of death and horror in his life, but even Jean found this one shocking. Robert de Chatillon’s spread bodyon the table, his belly opened, the blood all over everywhere, spatters on the ceiling, droplets on every surface, and thesmell of blood and excrement over all. He covered his face to keep infection away, and hurriedly left.

Once outside again, he leaned against a beam and tried to keep his stomach under control. The sight of that poor man was enoughto make him want to throw up everything he had eaten for a week.

But there was one thing he was surprised at. The man had been killed very recently, and it couldn’t have been Arnaud, because Jean knew what he’d been doing, and where, for several hourspast.

Yet the man had been murdered, and that most hideously, for some purpose. The very man he had thought to speak to, to learnwhat he could tell about Arnaud and the Château Gaillard, was as dead as the garrison of the castle.

And that thought was a heavy one. All those who had been selected to guard the prison-castle had died, but for him. And hehad lived by the purest chance. The deaths were expected, too, because when he last saw that priest from Pamiers, he had beenon the wagon with the sergent in Les Andelys.

The priest must hold a clue to what was happening, he reckoned. There had been many deaths already, and he was fearful forhis own life, but he must learn what was going on.

Slowly, he began to set off after the hue and cry. However, before he had travelled very far, he started moving more swiftly.Like a boulder, the first few inches were slow, but as the momentum caught him he found himself gathering speed, until atlast he was running at full tilt.

He had the impression that today he might learn the truth about all the deaths. He didn’t know how, but he was going to tryto find out and then avenge them all.

Ricard sat on the ground near Sir Baldwin, and told his tale. He looked to the others occasionally for verification of the details, butgenerally even Philip held his tongue. Charlie sat on Ricard’s thigh, looking about him with that childish appearance of innocenceand wonder that always amused Simon on the face of his own son.

‘So this lad is the child of the couple you found dead?’ Baldwin asked.

‘Yes. And it was Earl Edmund who told us to spy on the Queen for him.’

‘Why?’

‘He didn’t say. We assumed he wanted information about her. Damaging information. So that he could tell the King. Or Despenser.’

‘I see,’ Baldwin said. ‘But why did you think the Earl would want to do that?’

‘How were we to know he was an earl? All we knew was, he had men outside, he had two corpses inside, and we were stuffed whicheverway we looked at it.’

‘The boy,’ Simon asked quietly, ‘did he see his mother and father-’

‘No, I don’t think so,’ Ricard said hurriedly. ‘He was outside. I think he went there himself. Maybe he was told to. He sawnothing, I think.’

‘You’re a big fellow, aren’t you?’ Simon said pleasantly.

The boy met his gaze with a serious frown for a while, then slowly leaned sideways into Ricard’s chest for protection. Ricard absent-mindedly put his arm about him. ‘He trusts me.’

Baldwin nodded, and then he squatted on the ground in front of Ricard and the boy. He met the lad’s eye for a short period,then looked back to Ricard. ‘You have done well with him. He trusts you. But are you sure you have never seen him before?He would appear very unconcerned about his sad loss.’

‘He’s only a boy. Doesn’t hardly speak at all,’ Ricard said.

‘I see. So, Charlie. What is to be done with you? Will you remain with these fine musicians, or are you to find a new home?’

‘Stay with Ricard.’

‘You will be happy with him, you think?’

Charlie sat a little more upright, watching Baldwin closely. ‘Yes. Like Ricard.’

Baldwin nodded. ‘Tell me, Ricard. The man who died from your band — was there any reason you can think of which would explainhis death? Moneylenders? Gambling? Whores?’

‘He was a clean-living fellow compared with others, sir. No, I can’t imagine anything like that. He was happy enough withthe money we earned playing our music, but his wife wouldn’t let him gamble if she had anything to do with it, and he’d nothave bothered with whores. His woman, Marg, was more than enough to keep him happy. No, the more I think about it, the moreI think he was killed because of our coming here. I don’t know why, but I think it must have been Jack who slew him in orderto make sure he would get into our group. That was it. Earl Edmund wanted us to come here with the Queen, and he wanted tokeep an eye on us, so he had Jack kill Peter so Jack could join in.’

‘You told me he had a peacock picture on his bodhran?’

‘Yes.’

‘But he has been very friendly with Earl Edmund?’

‘Yes. Jack and he stood up against Philip and Adam together.’

‘But that makes little sense to me,’ Baldwin said. ‘If the Earl was so keen for you to keep in touch with his man, why wouldhe have your Peter killed? His man would be in touch with you every step in any case. Peter might as well have lived. Thenagain, why bother to have this Jack installed in your band at all? He could have been a hanger-on of the Queen’s cavalcade.’

‘I don’t know. None of it makes any sense to a simple gittern-player.’

Baldwin rose to his feet. ‘Very well. Many thanks for all that. I hope to be able to speak to you again before long. PerhapsI can even explain it all.’

‘I hope so. I would be grateful just for a little less fog about everything.’

‘I will do what I can,’ said Baldwin, looking over to the gate. ‘What on earth is all that about?’

‘All that’ was a sudden roaring from a hundred throats as Sir John de Sapy hurtled through the gates of the castle and demandedthat the gates be locked, the portcullis dropped, before the tide of angry Parisians could storm the whole area.

He gazed back in horror, seeing only a sea of enraged faces. They were bellowing for his blood, calling him a murderer andworse, baying like hounds seeing their prey at the far side of a railing, raging at being unable to bring it down. ‘Dear Christ,what have I done to deserve all this?’

‘Sir John, could you tell me what has happened?’ Lord John Cromwell said with an arctic politeness as he arrived, drawn tothe court by the howling and bellowing.

‘I was at a house where a man was discovered dead. They all blame me for it. I had nothing to do with it!’

Cromwell sighed. It was clear enough that the mob was here for a while. They would not withdraw just because Sir John had managed to find his way into a refuge; this was a more deeply seatedhatred than that of men for a murderer. This was the tribal loathing of a man who was different, who was a stranger, who was foreign . They wanted more than the chance to arrest him; if these people took hold of Sir John, they would tear him limb from limb.

‘You need to get out of their sight, Sir John. I recommend that you take yourself off to the chapel. In there you can prayfor a little understanding from your pursuers. But first: you are sure you had nothing to do with the man’s death?’

‘Absolutely! I just walked in and there he was, his belly opened like a gutted fish.’

‘Who was it? Did you know him?’

‘That man who was with us on the way here. His master was killed?’

‘You mean Robert de Chatillon? The squire?’

‘Yes.’

Lord Cromwell glanced back at the angry crowd beyond the portcullis. ‘What were you doing in his house?’

Sir John shrugged. ‘A friend asked me to go.’