However, it went further than a lack of affection. The Comte de Foix was a powerful magnate, a man fully aware of his importance and his place in the world. He had provided food and clothing for Robert, and in return Robert had given him his service, but there was no love in the relationship. Theirs was the companionship of a feudal lord and his servant, nothing more.
Still, it was hard to lose a master, even when he had not been kind or particularly generous. There was a void in his place, a void in which all was uncertain. Robert had no family to which to turn, and he was not convinced that the Comte’s wife would want any reminders of her husband. He had been cruel to her, too. Thus it was that even as he bent a leg at the side of the corpse, he was not certain what his feelings were for this man, who had provided for him during his life, but without grace or gratitude. His tongue had been harsh, and, when he found a fault or a weakness, he took pleasure in exposing it to all.
‘Stand aside!’
Pierre d’Artois was behind him, and Robert scrambled to his feet as the great lord peered down, motioning to men to bring their torches lower that he might study the body more closely. ‘Did any man here see what happened?’
Beside him was the Englishman, the Lord John Cromwell, and he gazed suspiciously at all the men present, rather than staring down at the body, his cold, grey eyes as keen as a hawk’s as he studied the expressions of those nearby.
No one answered, and soon Pierre’s attention left the body and rested on Robert. ‘You were his escuier. What was he doing out here in the middle of the night? Did he have to rise from his bed each night?’
‘No, my lord. He was never wont to get up. He would sleep through the night without difficulty.’
‘Then what was he doing here?’
‘I don’t know. I was asleep. But I am not aware of any reason for him to come here.’
‘Very well,’ Artois said, and turned his attention back to the body, shaking his head and grunting. ‘So perhaps someone bethought himself that this was a stranger, possibly a danger to the Queen, and killed him.’
He would have continued, but now there was a soft voice from behind Robert, and he bowed low even as he turned to face her: Isabella, queen of England.
‘My Lord Cromwell? There has been a disturbance?’
‘This man has died.’
‘And it would seem,’ Pierre d’Artois added silkily, ‘that one of your knights may have had a part in his death. I noticed earlier today that Sir Baldwin and he had been arguing, and now, within a few hours of their cross words, one is dead.’
The Queen gazed over to where Simon and Baldwin stood. ‘I know this knight personally. He would not be guilty of an underhand or dishonourable action, of that I am sure.’
‘My Lord Cromwell, would you have him come here, please?’ d’Artois asked.
Lord Cromwell nodded and beckoned to Simon, who brought his friend with him.
Baldwin was still shaky. His legs were unreliable, and he felt as though he had been riding in a tournament, his heart had been pounding so hard. Now it was calming a little, and he could look down at the body dispassionately, noting the position of the arms and legs, the relaxed expression on the dead man’s face. Nothing odd there. Most corpses had the appearance of calmness. He thought it was the way that the muscles loosened and settled once the energy of the soul had left the body. His eyes passed over the face to the throat. In the flickering torchlight, the pool about his neck looked black on the snow. He had been right: de Foix had drowned in his own blood as his throat was cut. Then, from the look of it, he’d been stabbed as well. A dagger protruded from his breast. And then his eyes locked on the hilt of the knife, and his hand shot to his belt. With some disbelief, he looked down at the empty sheath.
The dagger planted in the man’s breast was Baldwin’s.
Morrow of the Feast of St Edward the Martyr 13
Pois, France
It was a cold, cold morning. The sky was leaden with the heavy clouds covering it, and all looked up, fearing more snow.
Robert had not slept well. Since the discovery of the body, his mind had been unable to disengage from the overriding consideration that his own future was in the balance. Ideally he should ride back to Foix with the body, but in the absence of a murderer, he thought that he should ride with the Queen’s party to the King with the body. If nothing else, the matter could be discussed before the King.
No one had confessed to the murder, but Robert was sure that there was something shifty in the English knight’s eyes when he was questioned by Artois. Artois was considered one of the King’s most intelligent knights, a man with courage, but also a shrewd mind. Often he could read a man’s heart and see what lay within. And today Robert wanted him to study Sir Baldwin and see what he uncovered. There had to have been something. Robert had not been with his master all that day, but he had witnessed the anger and heard the brief but sharp exchange between the two on the road. He’d asked Baldwin about that the night before, in front of Artois.
‘The argument? Yes, we had some words, but it was nothing that could justify my slaying him. He did something that made a noise and scared my horse. That was all.’
‘What did he do?’ Artois had asked.
It was Robert who had been best placed to respond. ‘My lord, the Comte had been demonstrating his new hand-cannon. He fired it and the sound disturbed this noble knight’s horse. But I believe this knight was significantly discommoded by the sound. Perhaps he sought to take revenge on the man who had so scared his mount?’
Artois had nodded, his eyes on Baldwin. ‘Do you know whose dagger that is in his breast?’
‘It is my own. Someone must have stolen it earlier.’
‘You expect us to believe that?’
‘Yes.’ Now it was the other man, Lord John. ‘You do not forget that we travel under the protection of your king? This man is as safe and as free as he ever has been. He knows that, and there is no need for him to dissemble. If he says it was taken from him, you have to believe him.’
Artois had ignored the lord. He had gazed fixedly at Baldwin. ‘I saw you with this man earlier. I ask you: did you have any part in his death?’
‘I did not. He disturbed my horse, and we spoke briefly, but there was no threat in me.’
‘He did not fire his cannon at you?’
‘My lord, I do not know what this hand-cannon is. We do not have them in England, so far as I know.’
‘Really?’
The disbelief in his tone had been plain to all about them. Robert, though, was intrigued by the detail which no others appeared to have noticed. ‘Was there not a loud report here tonight?’
‘I was scorched by the flames he threw at me,’ Baldwin had admitted.
‘You certainly have the appearance of a man who has been burned by a cannon’s flames,’ Artois had agreed.
‘You say his cannon was here?’ Robert had asked. ‘But where is it now?’
That was a question which no one had answered last night. It was not lying near Enguerrand’s body, that was all anyone would say. Now Robert looked over at the racks of weapons at the rear of the tent. The gonne was there, on its long pole.
There was a scratching at the tent’s opening, and he turned to see a pair of scruffy churls waiting. He was ready to shout, but the bellow died as he recognised them. ‘What do you two want?’
Arnaud smiled. ‘Is that any way to welcome us back?’
Neither Simon nor Baldwin had slept since returning to their own tent late in the middle watches.