‘So I cannot go with him. Yet, if I leave him alone here, defenceless and unprotected, he may be captured and destroyed like poor Piers.’
‘Poor Piers’ Gaveston had been the King’s previous adviser, before Despenser. While away from the King and without protection, he had been grabbed and executed after a brief trial organised by some of his many enemies. King Edward would not leave Sir Hugh le Despenser to suffer the same fate.
‘So you will remain here, then?’ Earl Edward said.
‘If I elevate you to a Dukedom, you will have the authority to pay homage on behalf of the whole of Guyenne. That will satisfy the King of France, and it will satisfy me.’
‘So you are decided?’
‘I think so,’ the King said, but then he tilted his head in that curiously undecided way he had. ‘I do not see any other path. I cannot risk losing Sir Hugh, and your mother and your uncle have both urged that I settle Guyenne on you and that you go and pay homage. I trust neither, so will not!’
‘I do not understand …’
‘Do you think I am a fool? If I sent you to them, your mother would have you under her control. I cannot do that. So I will comply with their wishes. I will go myself. But while I am there in France, I shall leave Sir Hugh as your responsibility. He will advise you in my place, and you will obey all his commands, and see that he is protected.’
He had been talking musingly, as though to himself, but now he appeared to remember his son was present, and span round on his heel. ‘You will look after him, yes?’
Earl Edward nodded, but internally he was sickened. Not by the vacillation of his father, but by his weakness. By the tone of pleading.
Wednesday before the Feast of Mary Magdalen*
Chapelle de Saint Pierre, near the Louvre, Paris
Jean de Poissy stood at the back of the chamber as the priest intoned the prayers, trying to ignore the thick fumes from the censer as they wafted past him. The odour was thick and cloying, and caught in his throat like a pungent woodsmoke.
There was little enough for him to see here, but he felt as though he owed it to the dead man to come and witness his funeral. There were all too few others who would come for an unknown man.
He waited as the body was taken out, watching the priest and the peasants who carried it, his mind on the identity of the poor soul. He was keen to find the man’s murderer, and yet there was nothing to show who the man was, nor why he would have come to the castle. No one had admitted to knowing him.
All Jean knew was that the fellow had come there to see the Cardinal. That was something to mull over, certainly.
The body was gone, and at last the little chapel was quiet again. Jean leaned back against the wall, staring down the empty space to the altar. This close to the royal castle of the Louvre, it benefited from the wealthy men who came to pray. Gilt shone on the woodwork, the floor was neatly paved and tiled, and the altar itself held enough decorative and valuable metalwork to tempt a saint to theft.
It was the delight of Paris, he thought. And Paris was surely the world’s most magnificent city, resting here in the world’s greatest nation. Paris, the jewel of Christianity. All the world’s people envied Paris. They sought her learning in the university, they sought her culture, her beauty. They came from all over the world to enrich themselves, to find a better life. Hardly surprising they came only to Paris, in Jean’s view, bearing in mind how intellectually impoverished so much of the nation remained. The people of the soggy lands north were a bickering, unruly mob; those in the east were merely unmanageable, while those to the south, in the too-dry lands — their people were noted for their feuding. Only here in Paris was there order and calm, the centre of the French nation created by Charles Martel.
‘Mon Sieur Procureur?’ It was a flustered-looking youth clad in a threadbare tunic and bare feet. He had a tousled mop of pale brown hair, and grey eyes with a slight squint, so Jean was unsure whether he was looking at him or not. ‘I have been sent to ask whether you have learned any more about the dead man?’
‘How did you know I would be here?’ Jean asked softly. He stood studying the church without turning to the boy.
‘I think … I was told you would be here.’
‘Ah … I see. By whom?’
‘The bottler to Cardinal Thomas. He told me to find you to learn whether you have any news of this man’s death?’
‘You see, this is most interesting. I have this body, the body of a young fellow who wished to see the Cardinal, and yet the Cardinal says he knew nothing of him. And meanwhile, of course, nobody else appears to have any knowledge of him whatever. It is peculiar, do you not think?’
‘Me?’
The church was certainly not as richly decorated as the cathedral of Notre-Dame, but for a smaller place, which existed mainly to serve the souls of a community of merchants, it had done very well. It was more modest, but still beautiful. A wide, clean space with all the decoration that man’s skill and money could achieve.
There was a thought there, he knew. The thought that the Cardinal was only a more lowly version of the Pope, perhaps. He was as beautifully clothed and bejewelled, just on a smaller scale.
But why had the dead man come to meet the Cardinal?
‘Take me to him.’
Chapter Four
Furnshill, Devon
It was early afternoon when Baldwin heard the clattering and squeaking of a large number of men on horseback. His attention snapped to the road, and Wolf followed his gaze, a low rumble in his throat.
There were few noises which Baldwin found so irritating as these. His little estate was a source of calmness and peace for him. Sir Baldwin had been born here, in this little manor, but when the call to arms came from the Kingdom of Jerusalem, demanding aid from Christians the world over, he had gladly taken up a sword. There wasn’t much for him in England, after all. His older brother would inherit their father’s lands, and for Baldwin there was the possibility of a post in the Church if he wanted, but his martial spirit quailed at the thought of spending the whole of the rest of his life in a convent.
Thus it was that in the Year of Our Lord 1291, Baldwin de Furnshill arrived in Acre, the last city to be encircled by the Saracens. He endured the horror of that siege with fortitude for much of the time, only beginning to sink into despair at the very end. Then, when the heathens exploited a breach, Baldwin and Edgar, the man who was to become Baldwin’s comrade and companion, were rescued by a ship owned by the Knights Templar. The warrior-monks saved their lives and gave them peace to rest themselves in a preceptory until they were whole and hale again, and when they were, Baldwin and Edgar together joined the Order to repay the debt.
For more than a decade they served their Order, until the day when an avaricious French King and detestable Pope conspired to destroy the Order whose only guilt was to have served their God with honour and distinction. Baldwin and Edgar returned to England finally, seeking the sort of peace that could be found only in a quiet rural community.
This noise was a reminder to Baldwin of war and death. It was the sound of armour rattling and chinking, the rumble and thud of a cart passing over rutted roads, the laughter and coarse joking of men-at-arms all together.
‘What is it?’ Jeanne asked, walking to his side as Baldwin stood in the doorway, watching.
‘Quiet, Wolf! I am not sure. I cannot see their flags from here. I would guess that they are men called to fight.’
‘For whom, though?’
Baldwin shook his head. The cavalcade continued on its way, heading southwards and west, towards Crediton, or maybe Exeter. They could have been from Tiverton, from Lord Hugh de Courtenay’s castle, or perhaps they were from some further manor. All told there were seven-and-twenty, by his count. A fair-sized entourage for a minor lord.