Michael Jecks - The Templar, the Queen and Her Lover

No. That was impossible. Sir Charles wandered southward to the great river, and stood a while eyeing it gloomily. There hadto be somewhere that would appeal more to Mortimer. Looking westward, he watched the small boats and merchant ships that pliedtheir trade along the river here. Their sails concealed much of the view beyond the house of Saint-Lazare. This side of theriver there were plenty of decent houses, though. Especially fronting the shoreline. Perhaps Mortimer had taken one of them- perhaps to remind himself of his time in the Tower. That would be ironic.

Sir Charles might be lucky, though. If he were to walk along all the larger riverside houses, he might come across somethingthat indicated Mortimer had been there.

He spat a curse. There was no point. This damned city was too large. The people here were as numerous as ants in a nest. Howcould he find one man here all on his own?

Paul had.

Well, if Paul could do it, so could Sir Charles. With that new resolve, he turned and found himself face to face with Roger Mortimer and seven men.

‘Good day, Sir Charles. I understand you’ve been looking for me,’ Mortimer said. ‘Congratulations. You have succeeded.’

‘Baldwin,’ Simon said. ‘We’re going the wrong way.’

Baldwin said nothing. He was keeping his own watch on the sun. They had gone due east to Artois’s house, and from there theyhad been led south, but now they were walking west, back towards the Château de Bois.

‘What are they doing, Baldwin?’

Simon’s question was soon to be answered. They followed a new roadway, turning right and immediately left, and found themselvesat the city gates again. Passing through, they were confronted with the massive white walls of the Louvre.

‘Baldwin!’

It was with a sinking sensation that Baldwin contemplated the beautiful palace. He had ridden past the place many times whenhe was younger, of course. It was one of those royal châteaux that was a pleasure to behold. He had heard that it had beenbuilt in the times of Richard Coeur de Lion, the great English king who had done so much to protect the Holy Land and hisestates of Normandy and Aquitaine, but who had died so young in a foolish affray while laying siege to an irrelevant littlecastle.

This place would have been a more suitable place to attack. It would have taken a master of siegecraft to force the inhabitantsto surrender.

Now they were walking to the main gate. Over the moat, their feet tramping hollowly on the timbers of the bridge, and thenunder the gatehouse itself, where their steps echoed strangely, before entering the main courtyard, where suddenly they were confronted with a loud and raucous blare of noise.

Flags moved gaily overhead, snapping and cracking in the wind, and Baldwin was forced to halt, staring up at the sky, memorisingthe view, desperate for a last sight of open air to keep with him all the while he was confined. Perhaps the next time hesaw the sky, he would be on his way to the scaffold. Would that be Montfaucon, he wondered, or would he be taken to the Templeitself? The Grand Master had been burned on the small isle in the middle of the Seine, the one that lay between the HermitBrethren’s church and the King’s garden.

Artois was frowning, casting a long look at him over his shoulder. ‘Come along, Sir Baldwin. We can’t keep him waiting.’

It was enough to irritate him. There was no need to hurry a man to his death, as though the slow-grinding wheels of bureaucracymustn’t be put to the inconvenience of a moment’s delay. A sharp rejoinder sprang to his lips, but he swallowed. There wasno point in antagonising people. It would only serve to make Simon’s life more difficult. On leaden feet, Baldwin de Furnshillforced himself onward, and climbed the stone steps behind Artois, walking into a large hall. And here, he thought to himself,I shall meet my doom.

‘Your royal highness, may I introduce Sir Baldwin de Furnshill, Keeper of the King’s Peace in England, and honoured adviserto King Edward II.’

It grated. He was being forced to submit to them, while they paid him every sign of respect, as though they seriously intendedto give him some form of honour. Still, as Artois and Simon bowed, he thought he might as well follow suit. He bent at thewaist as though his spine was broken, but still watched the King closely.

The King of France was a tall man, slightly taller than Baldwin himself. Like Edward, he was good-looking, with abundant fair hair and the regular features that were so highly prized amonghis peers. He was clad in silk and velvet, and as they walked in he was standing discussing a falcon with some other men,who looked as though they could well be his falconers. As Artois introduced Baldwin, and then Simon too, the King looked themboth over, and then handed his bird of prey to one of the men and motioned to them to leave.

‘So, Sir Baldwin, and Bailiff Simon le Puttock. I am glad to meet you both. You have provided some services to my dear sister.Please, would you accept wine?’ He moved from the middle of the hall to a large table, where he already had a large gobletof gold. In moments a servant had filled three more, and brought them to Artois and the friends. At a sign from Artois, Baldwinand Simon stood upright, and Baldwin cast a look over his shoulder. To his astonishment, the other men were all gone. Theywere alone in this room with the King of France and only a few servants. No one else.

‘Artois, have you discussed the matter with them?’ the King asked.

‘No, my liege. I obeyed you and told them nothing.’

‘I see. Good. Sir Baldwin, I am aware that you wish to speak to a delightful gentleman, Père Pierre Clergue. May I ask whythat is?’

‘I think you know, your highness,’ Baldwin said warily.

‘Perhaps I do. Could you tell me, though?’

Baldwin took a deeper draught of the wine than was, perhaps, sensible. He was unused to strong wines, and rarely drank muchof any alcoholic drink. Today, though, standing in front of the King, he felt the need of courage.

‘Your royal highness, the man Pierre Clergue was present at a house in London when a man and woman were slaughtered most hideously.They were, I think, French. A short while later another man was killed. He was murdered in the London ditch. Then, when we came here, we heard of the murder of the garrison of Château Gaillard, all but two or three men.A short while later, Comte Enguerrand de Foix was killed, then another man, who Robert de Chatillon told us was also a guardat the Château Gaillard. Now we hear that Robert is dead, and so are two others: an executioner called Arnaud, and a guard,also from the château, named Jean.’

‘So, from what you say, the good Père Pierre was present, perhaps, at a murder in London. Apart from that, he has nothingto do with anything you have mentioned?’

‘Except that Sir John de Sapy was asked by the same père to visit Robert de Chatillon, and found Robert dead. Immediately men assumed Sir John had murdered him, but he denies it,and I believe him.’

‘Ah, you mean you trust one of your countrymen more than some loud-mouthed Frenchman?’

‘No. I mean I trust my eyes and ears. Looking at Sir John de Sapy, I felt that he was not acting his horror. And he had noreason to kill de Chatillon.’

‘So you would take his word against that of the good père ?’

Simon thought that the King looked relaxed. But then he grew a little nervous when he saw the man’s eyes. He smiled as hespoke, and yet there was a thick layer of ice in his blue eyes.

Baldwin’s voice was equally frigid. ‘My lord king, I accuse no one. I merely asked to meet him. That is all.’

It was not the words, perhaps, so much as the tone in which they were uttered that made the King’s expression harden. Artoismoved a little, although whether to remove himself from danger or to give himself space to defend his king, Simon wasn’t sure.