A small cry made him pause. There was a short gurgling sound, rather like a mill’s leat chuckling over stones, except there was none here. The river was at the other side of the camp. Baldwin looked about him sharply, wondering if it was another man writing in the snow, but he saw no one.
That noise was all too much like another he knew welclass="underline" a man trying to shout when his throat was filling with blood from severed arteries. Baldwin had heard it too often ever to be able to forget it. He felt his scalp move with the atavistic fear that affected any man, no matter how old, when hearing another slain in the darkness. But Baldwin had been well trained. Although he wanted to return to the tent, to Simon’s companionship and safety, he was a knight, and, more than that, he was here to protect his queen. He would prefer to be damned for eternity than submit to night terrors.
He gripped the hilt of his dagger and pulled it free of the sheath, then started to make his way towards the place from which he thought the sounds had come, although the going was tough, and reaching the place quietly would be extremely difficult. Rather than fall over guy ropes again, he took a wide berth around the tents and made for the source more cautiously.
The noise had seemed to come from the small stand of trees that marked the edge of a little stream. Baldwin had noted this, as he had noted the lie of all the land as they arrived. One aspect of his military training while in the Knights Templar was always to make careful observations of the ground near a camp, and never had it proved so useful.
Beaten into the soil here, was a pathway, and he followed along the track until he came closer to the trees. Once there he slowed, listening intently.
There was little to hear. From all about there came the muffled snores and grumbles of a camp at night. In the short pauses between, when the wind blew from the north and took all such sounds away, there was nothing at all, only the soft, insistent sussuration of snowflakes settling on the ground, like a gentle hissing. A horse whinnied, a dog barked, and a man muttered, cursed and rolled over, trying to get warm, but there was nothing else.
Baldwin closed his eyes to hear the better. The clouds were so thick and low, there was no light from the moon whatever. Not a stray gleam shone in the midst of the clouds. His eyes were all but useless. Slowly he crouched down, frowning, wondering whether he could have been mistaken when he had thought he had heard something. He took a step, his foot crunching on a patch of ice, slipping into the puddle beneath, the mud squelching, and stood utterly still.
There was a sound there … there! He set off more quickly. The man was moving quietly, but his passage would conceal Baldwin’s approach. And then he saw something ahead. It was a man, bent down, so he thought, and there was a little spark of light in his hands. He called out, and ran on, but the man was up and away in the darkness, and Baldwin saw a short flash, a sizzling burning, and then there was an appalling explosion, a vile gout of fire, like raw energy. Flames gushed towards him from the ground, searing his eyes and leaving him blinded, and he screamed as he turned away, falling to the ground, his hands over his eyes, trying to squeeze out the vision of hell leaping towards him.
The screams woke Charlie first, and he shot upright, staring about him wildly, adding to the noise with his own shrill cries of terror.
‘Jesus and all the saints! ’ Janin burst out, springing from his bed. ‘Ricard? Are you all right?’
All the musicians were together in the one tent, and as Ricard held little Charlie close to him Philip stared about him blearily, gathering tinder and striking a spark. As it glowed, he was able to light a taper, and then looked round at the other faces.
Looking at Jack’s bedding, Ricard summed it up for them all. ‘So where has the little shite got to now?’
In his tent, Peter of Oxford woke gradually. The screaming and shouting on all sides was enough to startle him, but he had been so deeply asleep, ready to wake before dawn to celebrate Prime, that it was hard to gather his senses.
‘Do not panic,’ came a voice, and he was about to bellow for help when he realised it was his guest, Pierre Clergue.
‘Father! Do you know what has happened?’
‘No idea, my friend,’ Clergue said. He was at the tent’s flap, and now he turned to peer out. ‘An alarm of some sort, but probably just a squabble over a game of merrills.’
Simon heard the detonation and the scream from his friend, and threw off his blankets. He tugged on his boots, pulled a cloak over his shoulders, and grabbed his sword before hurtling from the tent.
There were some men already standing in a group, talking loudly, and Simon made his way to them quickly. ‘Let me through! Baldwin? Baldwin!’
‘Simon, my Christ, but that flame seared my eyes!’
‘What flame?’ Simon asked. Peering closely, he saw that Baldwin was sitting hunched, his face frowning, eyes squeezed tightly shut. Simon took his hand, and helped him up. Peering closely, Simon could see that there were black powder marks on his friend’s face, and his beard looked as though it had been singed. ‘You reek of the devil, Baldwin! Can you see me?’
‘I don’t … yes. Yes, I can. Thanks be to God! I saw flames coming towards me, Simon. Huge yellow flames which scorched my face. I was blinded for a moment …’
‘You are sure you are all right?’
Baldwin put out his hand shakily and took hold of Simon’s arm. ‘Help me walk, Simon. My legs feel as though they’re made of aspic! I do not think they will support me. In Christ’s name, I never thought I should be so …’
There was a muttering behind Baldwin, and Simon saw torches approaching. Men were gathered together in a group, and Simon was alarmed to see that the men were bending down over something. ‘Christ’s ballocks, Baldwin! What have you done?’
‘Me? What do you mean?’ Baldwin demanded, blinking wildly, but he could hear the footsteps approaching solemnly.
‘Sieur Baldwin, what explanation do you have for this?’
‘Sieur Pierre?’ Baldwin asked. ‘Is that you?’
Sieur Pierre d’Artois peered at him. A servant with him was gripping a large flaming torch, and he held it up as the ageing French knight stooped slightly. ‘What has happened to you?’
It was left to Simon to try to explain. ‘He was attacked by a flame… they burned his face, look.’
‘He has been attacked by something,’ d’Artois agreed. He looked up as a heavy tread announced the arrival of Lord John Cromwell with Sir Charles and Sir John de Sapy. ‘My lord, mes sieurs. We have an embarrassment.’
Lord John bent to peer into Baldwin’s face. Baldwin was still blinking furiously to try to clear his eyes of the stinging grittiness. It felt as though someone had thrown a handful of hot sand in them. He had been fortunate, he knew, but he wasn’t prepared to let anyone else know that.
‘I agree. This is an outrageous state of affairs. When an English knight, here to guard the Queen, with plenteous letters of safe conduct, is assaulted within the camp, it makes for a grave situation indeed.’
‘It must have been the Comte de Foix,’ Baldwin grated. ‘The flames; I am sure that they were his black powder. He set it off as I drew nearer him. He wanted to embarrass me!’
‘You see?’ Lord John said. ‘Where is this comte?’
Sieur Pierre looked at him. ‘You are right. It is very grave. Especially since the Comte is dead.’
Chapter Fourteen
Robert de Chatillon stared down at the body with mixed feelings. This had been his master, his mentor and the source of his livelihood, and although he was never a greatly affectionate lord, yet he was the man who had taken on Robert and maintained him. Without Sieur Enguerrand, Robert was unsure what might happen to him.