Michael Jecks - The Templar, the Queen and Her Lover

‘Who’d want to kill a little boy?’

‘There are many who would like to kill the children of powerful men and women, Simon,’ Baldwin said. And then he glanced back at Charlie, who was giggling as he tried to catch again andfailed. He scampered through the dust to grab at the ball, and as Ricard watched fondly he swung his arm, and carefully hurledthe ball over his head and behind him some six yards. ‘And anyone who tries to hurt a lad like that deserves every pain thedemons in hell can inflict.’

Arnaud felt the cloth at his brow, but his mouth was so dry, his lips felt gummed together. He tried to speak, but a calmvoice told him to be still. Too tired to even think of opening his eyes, he moaned softly. His entire belly felt as thoughsomeone had filled it with boiling lead. It was an enormity of anguish, and he was sure that he must soon be dead.

He could remember every thrust of that dagger. It was lucky he got his blow in first. He had been quicker than Jean. His knifehad slipped in as easily as a blade spearing a leg from the fire. Soft pressure, smooth and lovely. He’d seen the recognitionin Jean’s eyes as soon as he’d started to rip upwards, slicing through the man’s guts — and then he’d felt it himself. Thatsnagging, parting, wet, foul sensation that meant Jean’s own knife was reaching up through his vitals.

‘ Père … je voudrai mon père …’

‘Easy, friend,’ Peter said. He recognised enough French to understand the man’s demand. ‘I am a chaplain. You want me to hearyour confession?’

‘No, my own … my own father. Own priest.’

Peter gave an understanding nod. Sometimes men wanted their own priest. It was natural enough to want the man who’d seen themevery day, for every Mass through their lives. ‘Who? Where? You haven’t much time, my friend.’

Arnaud’s eyes opened. He looked down at his belly, and his eyes widened. He had killed often enough to know a deadly wound when he saw one, and the slow pumping of his blood from the great gash meant he had little time indeed.

With a shudder of horror, he closed his eyes and began to make his full confession.

It was the middle of the afternoon when a man came to the Château de Bois, clad in a tunic that bore Artois’s insignia, andasked to speak to Baldwin.

‘Sir, my lord asked me to fetch you. You wish to meet the Père Pierre Clergue?’

Baldwin shrugged on a cloak. The weather was warm enough, but there were some grey clouds on the horizon that threatened anunpleasant change before long. With Simon at his side, he set off after the man.

Their journey took little time. Soon they were in a broad courtyard, where Artois waited for them. ‘Good afternoon,’ he saidcourteously enough, bowing, but there was a reserve in his voice.

‘The father?’ Baldwin said, looking about them.

‘He is not here. He’s only a short way away. Come with me,’ Artois said, and set off. Baldwin and Simon glanced at each otheras they followed him, but both were thinking more of the men behind them than the one in front, because as soon as they startedwalking twelve men-at-arms took up station immediately behind them.

‘I hope Artois has honourable intentions,’ Simon muttered.

‘If he has not, there is little we can do about it now,’ Baldwin responded.

Besides, he thought, what other intention could Artois have? The man had nothing against Baldwin or Simon so far as they knew.And yet the men behind them were a constant reminder that they were a long way from home and any possible aid. The trampingof their boots sounded like the drumbeat of an executioner’s escort, and Baldwin could not stifle the grim apprehension that grew in his breast. When he glanced at Simon, he could see that his companion was in the same mood,but neither felt it necessary to speak. They trudged on behind Artois, both dully aware of their danger.

But it wasn’t Simon’s danger. Baldwin knew that. It was he who had been a Knight Templar, who had not submitted to the Popeand the French king when the Order was disbanded, and who was now legally an outlaw evading justice. If caught, he could expectto be hanged or burned at the stake.

Baldwin could see in his mind’s eye his wife and their children. His beautiful little Richalda and his tiny son. Somehow,even as he was thinking of them, the face of Charlie kept intruding. It was irritating at first, seeing that little boy inhis mind’s eye, but then he welcomed it. Charlie would serve as a happy image of what his own son might look like one day.And if he was to be held in a prison soon, at least that boy’s face would be there in his head. No matter what else happened,he would keep Charlie’s smile with him. A little picture like that was worth much to a man in gaol, he had heard.

It was a shame to think that after almost ten years in England, living quietly and happily down in Devon, he was to die here.There was something about Artois’s silence that assured him that Mortimer had been correct: his secret had become known, andnow he was being marched to his doom.

‘Simon, I’m sorry,’ he said quietly.

‘Hmm?’

‘Where do you think they’re taking us?’

Simon’s face showed his bewilderment. ‘What, now? To see the priest, aren’t they? Do you think they’ll offer us somethingto eat?’

Baldwin found it impossible to say more.

Sir Charles had encountered Sir Peter twice today, but neither had enjoyed any fortune. ‘I will try nearer the river,’ Sir Charlessaid the second time they met.

Sir Peter sucked his teeth. ‘Where’s Sir John?’

‘I suppose he’s returned to the castle,’ Sir Charles said shortly.

‘The idea of food is appealing. Perhaps, Sir Charles, we would be better served to pay someone to keep an eye open for him?’

‘And whom exactly would you trust with such a task?’

‘I have my own men,’ Sir Peter pointed out.

Sir Charles was aware of that. He was also painfully aware that he was without a man-at-arms to support him. If there werea number of men about the place looking for Mortimer, and one of them found him, not Sir Charles, then he would lose all: the chance of revenge for Paul’s murder, and the money that Mortimer’s head would bring. ‘I don’t think it’s sensible to usehired men instead of ourselves. How much would you want to pay them as their share of the bounty?’

‘Let us go and find some food, and then we can discuss it sensibly. I don’t know about you, but this weather feels as chillas a Scottish winter to me.’

‘You go. I’ll wait here until you return.’

‘Do you not think we should consider returning to see the Queen is safe? It would be an enormous embarrassment were she tobe in any danger while we were engaged on this hunt.’

‘My first duty is to my dead man,’ Sir Charles said.

‘Not to your King?’

The coolness with which the question was uttered was enough to make Sir Charles want to whip out his sword and attack thesupercilious bastard right there, but the risk of retribution was enough to stay his hand. Better that he should keep oneman on his side, than that he should lose all. ‘You go and find some food. I shall wander down towards the river and see whether there’s any sign of Mortimer there.’

With an ungracious ‘Very well. Do so, then’, Sir Peter turned abruptly and marched back the way they had come at daybreak.

Sir Charles gritted his teeth and looked all about him. Apart from a couple of lounging, lazy French sons-of-the-devil upto the north in this road, there was no one in sight. One, a man in a light beige or orange jack, glanced in his direction,but there was nothing to remind Sir Charles of Mortimer in his face.

Paul must have seen the bastard. He had been down this way, Sir Charles knew. It was the same direction in which Sir Charleshimself had seen the man. But what was strange was that there were no decent houses down here. A man like him would prefera decent place. Unless he was concealing himself in a mean hovel.