No, Jean did not want to re-join them. Instead, he walked up around the line of the wall of the inner enceinte, over the great ditch and in through the gatehouse. He climbed up on to the walls and stood there gazing at the River Seineas it wound its way past the castle and the little town of Les Andelys nearby. It was a lovely place, this. Safe, with goodviews all about the countryside.
There was a shout, and Jean glanced at the sky automatically to see what the time might be. It was the first watch after theirlunch, of course. There was no need to check. And yet there was something that made his hackles rise. Something felt wrong. It was nothing obvious, but there was enough ofa sense of danger to make him move away from the open, crouching down a little while he listened and watched.
For some while there appeared to be nothing to alarm him. No running, no men calling or blowing horns, only a strange sensethat something was not well in the castle. And then he heard it: a rasping, panting breath.
It made him think of a man he had once known. That one had had not an ounce of cruelty in his heart, but he had been chasedto exhaustion like a hart, and when Jean saw him, the fellow was already near to death. He stood in a little clearing, bentover, hands resting on his thighs, looking about him with desperation, so confused by the chase that he couldn’t recognisehis own pasture where he had been a shepherd. He died a short while later — a sword thrust ended his life.
Then Jean saw Berengar, hurtling around the wall like a mountain goat, fleeing some terrible horror. There was already bloodrunning freely from a wound in his scalp, and his fists moved back and forth as though he was trying to punch the air fromhis path. He flew over the court and through the gate to the next section of the fortress, and just as Jean was wonderingwhat he should do, whether he ought to chase Berengar and bring him back, he heard a loud laugh and saw Arnaud leaping oversome rubble and haring off after Berengar, a long, bloody knife in his hand. At the sight, Jean shrank away. Arnaud must havebecome insane.
He heard the skittering sounds of little stones as the two rushed off, and he was tempted to go straight to the stables tofetch his horse, but he couldn’t. He was in the service of the King, when all was said and done, and he must honour that service.So he slipped back down to the gatehouse and walked quietly back towards the guard house.
But he didn’t make it inside. On the threshold, he saw something lying in the dirt. He found his steps slowing. In the doorway there was a body. A bloody mess, a man with only redhorror where his face should have been. It had been pounded with a hammer, from the look of it. Nearby there was another body.This one was still moving, and Jean recognised Guillaume. He was on his back, and the breath was rattling in his throat ashe clutched at the wound in his breast as though to stop the slow pumping of the blood that came in bright, scarlet bubbles.Jean went to him and tried to ease his last moments, raising him and trying to calm him, giving him the only comfort he could,cradling his head in his lap.
Guillaume looked up at him with terror in his eyes, looking into the doorway, then up at Jean. Not for long — thankfully hismisery was soon over. As soon as his body had tensed that last time, then melted, like a child going to sleep, Jean set himback on the ground.
The man lying in the doorway was not le Vieux. The poor old man must still be lying inside. If Arnaud had any sense, he wouldkill the experienced warrior first, and then the others. Still, the fellow could have had little enough sense to have donethis in the first place. The dead man there must be Pons. His hair … and the jerkin he wore. It looked like Pons …Reluctantly, Jean entered the guard room. There at the side of the table was le Vieux, lying on the ground, blood oozing froma wound above his ear.
A clattering of stones from outside. He didn’t stop to think; he couldn’t carry le Vieux to safety, not with a maddened Arnaudbehind him. They’d both be killed. No, he must flee.
Jean ran on light, quiet feet to the small gate that led out to the escarpment. The door was bolted with a baulk of timber,and he pulled it aside silently, then eased the door open a little, and slipped out.
And once out, he ran and ran.
City ditch, London Wall
The musicians heard about their friend’s death later in the afternoon, and were soon there at the ditch just over the other sideof the great wall from the Fleet Prison. The inquest was just finished when they got there, and the body was being carriedaway on a makeshift hurdle, four men transporting it reluctantly, one looking as though he would soon be sick from the smell.Charlie stood studying the proceedings with apparent interest.
‘The poor bastard,’ Ricard muttered.
‘What happened to him?’ Janin wondered.
There was a small crowd already thinning, but one old man showed no sign of wishing to leave the place. ‘It was me found him.Poor little shite-wit. Must have been wandering out after dark to be killed like that. Probably set on by footpads.’
‘He was robbed?’ Ricard asked.
‘They took his purse, yes,’ Corp agreed mournfully. If it had been discovered at the inquest, he’d have been kicking himselffor not finding it first.
‘Poor Peter,’ Adam said.
‘A bad way to die.’
‘Stabbed? Was he knocked on the head? Throttled?’
‘Oh no. He was held under until he choked. They drowned him — in all that muck! Can you imagine?’
It was a short while later, as the four remaining musicians stood in a tavern just along from Temple Bar, toasting their deadfriend, that the thought occurred to Janin first.
‘Ricard,’ he said, ‘why would a man kill him like that?’
‘How should I know? I’m no murderer. Maybe it was a drunk who decided he didn’t like the look of Peter’s face, or something.Or just a cutpurse who thought it’d be easier to kill him than rob him.’
Janin nodded slowly, but without conviction. ‘If that was the case, why drown him? Hitting him over the head would be easier, or stabbing him. Why’d someone want to drown him there?’
‘You tell me.’
‘Someone who knew a man and his wife who are dead, I was thinking. If they wanted revenge on the men who’d killed them, andeveryone was saying there were these musicians who’d been leching after the wench? Perhaps a brother or father? They may wantrevenge — and a death in a nastier way than a quick stab.’
Ricard gazed at him blankly for a long moment, and then longer and harder at Charlie, who was playing and giggling loudlywith another small brute. He hurriedly polished off the remains of his ale. ‘I think we ought to get back to the palace andstay there until we leave the country.’
West of Paris
The old cart rumbled slowly, and yet Blanche had to hurry to keep up. Her hands were fettered, a long chain leading from herwrists to the rear of it, and were she to fall, she would be dragged some way before being able to get to her feet.
Her eyes were tormented by the light still. It was so hard to see where she was going, and while the dust from the wheelsplagued her, worse was the sheer pain of the brightness lancing into her eyes and making her head ache for every moment ofthe journey. She was so unused to the light.
Still, the anguish was worth it for the unadulterated delight of the sensation of being in the open once more. Dear Christin heaven! To hear the birds again, to see trees and the little shoots that showed spring might not be so very far away, wasso overwhelming, she spent much of the journey wondering whether she should laugh aloud, or jump and dance with pure joy.It was like being reborn.
Perhaps, given a little time, she might grow to feel that she had indeed become renewed. It would take much, though, to achieve that. To feel truly alive again she must be able to forget her past. To forget her husband the king of France, toforget their children — to forget the gaoler at Château Gaillard … No. She could not think of such things. Better by farto remain in the present and live for the future. That was sensible. Much more sensible.