Michael Jecks - The Templar, the Queen and Her Lover

Sir Hugh le Despenser had taken it instead.

Sir John saw the men at the doorways, and tried to control the sensation of nervous prickling at his back at the thought ofall those in here who would be happy to draw steel and push it into him, were they told that he was the enemy of their master.He willed his legs to carry on none the less. He was a knight, and no one would scare him off.

There was a door in front of him, and a man opened it for him. He held Sir John’s gaze as the knight approached, but Sir Johnwas starting to become irritated by the attitude of all the watchers about the yard. He stopped, lowered his head and staredtruculently at the man. Gradually the other fellow began to look uncomfortable, and finally he looked away.

Satisfied, Sir John continued. As he drew level with the man, he was ready with his hand on his dagger’s hilt. If the otherso much as twitched a finger, he was ready to draw his blade and kill the bastard … but the man gave him no cause. He entered, and the door closed behind him.

‘Sir John. I am glad you could come.’

It was a small hall, with a pleasing tiled floor. There was a chimney with a fire roaring in the hearth, and by its lightSir John saw a cold-eyed man sitting on a stool. It was Sir Hugh le Despenser.

‘Sir Hugh,’ he said, but his throat had closed up, and the only noise that came out sounded as if he was being slowly strangled.

It was enough to bring a cynical grin to the Despenser’s face. He was a man committed to his own profit and pleasure, andhe ruled through a mixture of utter brutality and largesse. Those who were his friends waxed in the bright glow of his approval.Those who were not his friends waned. He liked to see men afraid. It showed that they respected his position.

‘You have been of service to me, Sir John.’

‘I am glad.’

‘Until lately you were outlawed. That will cease immediately.’

‘You can persuade the King to pardon me?’

Despenser stood and walked to a narrow table at a wall. He took up a scroll and tossed it over to him. Sir John opened itand looked at it helplessly.

‘It is your pardon,’ Despenser said flatly. ‘And to ensure that your return to the King’s household is fully appreciated,I have some legal documents you can witness for me.’

I don’t know how to thank you,’ Sir John stammered.

‘We shall think of a way,’ Sir Hugh said. He eyed Sir John thoughtfully for a moment. ‘Perhaps you could join an embassy forme. Your help was appreciated by Père Pierre. Perhaps you could go and see him. He tells me that the church of Sainte Katerinein Paris has the most wonderful Mass to celebrate Easter. Perhaps you should go and enjoy it.’

Ash Wednesday 5

Furnshill, Devon

Sir Baldwin de Furnshill, Keeper of the King’s Peace in Devon, was startled awake at the shrill scream, and was already on his feet, hishand reaching for his sword, before he realised what had woken him.

In the corner of the room, swathed in warm blankets and a cloak, sat his wife, who gazed at him with exasperation. ‘Baldwin!’

‘Ah — I am sorry, my love,’ he declared, dropping the sword’s blade back into its scabbard. Pulling a thick blanket from thebed, he threw it over his shoulders and padded across the floor to her side, kneeling with an elbow at her thigh.

‘Good day, Baldwin,’ he said softly to the small body in his wife’s arms.

Baldwin, his son, stared back at him short-sightedly, his wizened little face comically ancient for his three and a half months.

‘He still finds it hard?’

‘We both do,’ Jeanne responded, exhausted.

Baldwin put his hand on her shoulder. He was anxious for her. This was their second child. Richalda had been somewhat troublesomeoccasionally, but both had assumed that this one would be easy. They knew how to bring up a baby; they had done so once. Thesecond time would be perfectly straightforward.

But little Baldwin was not to be so accommodating as Richalda. Where she had cooed gently when she woke, Baldwin screamed;when Richalda was hungry, she had sucked the pap with urgent enthusiasm, needing no assistance — little Baldwin spent one month drinking from one breast and weeping when the other was presented, and the following monthdrinking from the other and ignoring the first. And he was awake at regular intervals through the night, while sleeping happilythrough the day. Although his father would never have confessed it to his wife, he would rather be left in charge of a wildbear without stick or steel to protect himself than be left alone for half a morning with this little boy. Love him he certainlydid, but he also loathed and detested the child on occasion. The thought of being solely responsible for him filled him withdread.

‘Did he in the end?’ Baldwin asked, stifling a yawn.

‘Yes. As soon as you jumped from your bed like a man with a rat on his backside, the poor little chit burped.’

Baldwin eyed his son sombrely. Every meal he took led to screaming, or so it seemed most of the time. It was simple enoughto cure him — a series of gentle pats on the little devil’s back always did the trick — but the immediate effect was shockingin the extreme. For one with such a small frame, the monster could generate a huge amount of noise.

Now, though, having woken both parents and, from the sounds behind the house, the hunting pack too, little Baldwin appearedto think that he had achieved all that could be expected of a fellow, and was breathing gently, eyes closed. Jeanne rose andcarried the precious bundle to the little cot beside the bed, carefully installing him before climbing into their bed again.She patted the blanket beside her, and he returned to it, putting an arm about her.

Yes. Little Baldwin was taking his toll on her. Jeanne’s hair was thinner, and her face was pale and drawn, like one sufferingfrom a long starvation. He had seen people with that look — the women and children at Acre as the siege set in. And then,when the plagues took hold, they too gave women the same bright eyes and anxious, strained appearance. Baldwin was fearful that this son, this cause for celebration, could become a disaster for him. For losing his Jeanne would be a disaster,a catastrophe from which it would be very difficult for him to recover. He dreaded the very thought.

‘Careful, husband. You will crush me!’ Jeanne whispered.

He kissed her gently on her forehead, but did not let her go. Instead he sat still, arm around her shoulder, until he heardher breath grow more regular, and then remained there, watching the sun light the cracks in the timbers of his shutters.

The messenger in the King’s tunic arrived not long after they had breakfasted.

Michael’s Cross tavern, Westchep, London

After the service that marked the beginning of Lent, they gathered again to discuss their predicament. Only a fool would havebeen keen to meet again, Philip thought to himself, but as he sat waiting the others gradually drifted in.

This was a good little alehouse. It was little more than a low undercroft running alongside the road, with a wide window givingout on to the people hurrying past. Once, so Philip had heard, it had been a large building, but then about fifty years agothe church next door, St Mary-le-Bow, had lost her steeple, and it had crashed through this neighbouring property. Well, theplace had to be rebuilt after that, so it was one of the newer, brighter buildings in the road.

Philip had taken a seat on the bench at the window, and he welcomed Janin, Ricard with the boy, and then Adam. The tavernhad a young maid at the bar, and she smiled to see the boy. Soon Ricard had deposited him with her and joined the others.

‘Not managed to lose him yet?’ Adam asked.