‘What good would that do?’ Ricard protested. He spread his hands emphatically. ‘De Bouden told us to bring this bastard when he was the last man we wanted along with us.’
‘I still don’t like that,’ Philip said.
‘What?’ Ricard snapped. He was watching Charlie throwing stones at a temporary target made of a pile of sticks. The lad was hopelessly inaccurate. Well, he was only three or so.
‘The way that he appeared just after poor Peter died. It was odd. Such a coincidence.’
‘My arse!’ Ricard spat, turning to look at him. ‘Look, Peter just happened to get himself killed. It happens every night in a city like London. Nothing new in it. So he was unlucky. Yes, I can live with that. I can miss him, too — I do! — but it’s still only a coincidence that Jack was there to replace him.’
‘And was wanted by de Bouden,’ Janin observed.
‘Yes, yes, and was wanted by him. I dare say he has good reasons.’
‘Like what?’ Philip wondered. He was gazing into the middle distance and tapping a rhythm on his thighs. Then he stopped and stared into the fire. ‘I fear the long arm of the Despenser.’
‘Oh, for the love of Christ and all his saints!’ Ricard threw his hand up in disgust. ‘Look, do you honestly think that the Despenser would send one of his henchmen along with us? What would he want a man with us for? We’re a bunch of bleeding musicians, not fighters. You think he wants to spy on us? Win over all our secrets, like Adam’s ambition to play a bloody tune without screwing up? Learn how it is Philip can’t tighten the skin on his nakers? Or maybe he wants to learn how to get the hurdy-gurdy to play without sounding like two cats strangling each other?’
‘Or what the Queen is doing,’ Philip said quietly. His fingers played a simple ripple of sound and stopped. ‘Perhaps that’s what he wants? De Bouden must be Despenser’s man now, after all. He’s not the Queen’s, is he?’
‘De Bouden? He’s the Queen’s own comptroller, for Christ’s pains!’
‘The Queen hasn’t had her own household in a while, has she?’ Janin noted. ‘If de Bouden was put in charge of things for her here, surely that’s more to do with Despenser than her own choice.’
‘Oh, in God’s name, if you’re so damned scared, then we won’t. I just thought it would be safer for all of us if we knew what the hell the bastard was after.’
‘And that we ought to jump him to find out,’ Philip said. ‘But how can we do that when we don’t even know where he is at night?’
‘He walks with us during the day,’ Janin pointed out.
‘Yes,’ Ricard said, ‘and when we halt he helps us get the tent up, doesn’t he? So that’s what we’ll do. We’ll jump him tonight before he runs off and disappears for the evening.’
Jean awoke with the chill settled deep in his bones. The cold was clean and dry, but none the less freezing for all that, and he had to blow on his hands to warm them before he could even think about leaving his little shelter and beginning to prepare a fire.
At least he had been safe enough here. His thick leather jerkin and the old frayed cloak had been enough, with the protection from the wind that the walls afforded. Now, with a small fire lighted, he could take the worst of the chill from his hands and arms.
It was curious, the way that a man would seek a fire before any other comfort. He had learned when a lad that a shepherd who kept moving needed fewer clothes, felt the chill less, than an idle, indolent one. And later, when he was a grown man, and fought, he never felt the cold. When marching across the mountains to pass into other villages, or travelling down into the snowy valleys, he still survived with a good leather jerkin and cloak, while others, merchants and men of their kind, rich, pampered, Catholic men, would shiver and complain from within their furs and expensive velvet clothes. They were the swiftest to call for a halt, a fire, and a heated drink. Well, for Jean, the most delicious drink in the world at this time of year, for a man living in the wilds, was a pot of warmed water made from ice melted over a fire. Fresh, clean, and invigorating.
Only when he was sure that the fire was lit and he could start to feel the warmth did he rest on his haunches and begin to take stock again.
Yes. He was safe enough. The last days had been a panic, what with the discovery of Arnaud’s insane murders, and then bolting as he had had to. But surely now he was secure, because if everyone thought he was dead anyway, they wouldn’t bother trying to find him.
It had been many years since he was last safe from instant arrest. Once it had been the murderous devils under that cool, calm, outwardly kind Bishop Jacques Fournier. At least the man gave the impression that he was actually interested in his victims. He didn’t merely arrest them, torture them quickly and pass them on to the waiting executioners. There were plenty who would do exactly that, after all.
Fournier was a man who saw it as his duty to destroy every aspect of their heretical faith. He arrived without the apparent desire to execute many people. That was itself refreshing for the Waldensians of the area. Why should they be burned at the stake, anyway? What was their crime? Their faith was no less Christian than any other. They believed in preaching, they believed in the same seven principles of the Catholic faith and the sacraments, but they did not believe in Purgatory. That was a mad invention of a venal pope, so Jean’s father had told him. And it was matters like that, matters of deep philosophical significance, that had made the whole Church turn against them.
But what was Purgatory? It was a Catholic invention that allowed corruption and greed to rule. If there was Purgatory, there was an opportunity for the living to pray for the dead, and if they could pray, they could pay the Church to help them do so. Masses for the dead could have little impact — a man was judged by his life, not by the number of Masses that were paid for by his last will. And Indulgences were nothing more than an appalling proof of cynical avarice on the part of the Pope and his bishops. Who could think that paying money into a religious body like the papacy could influence God? No, that was a purely human matter, not something for God.
God would not be impressed by His people today. That was why the Holy Land had been lost to Christendom thirty-odd years ago. When Acre fell in 1291, it was proof, if any were needed, that God had lost all love for Christians. How could He have allowed the land of His son to be taken over by the heathens who now inhabited it? If the Christians had been more honourable, less sinful, more obedient to His will, they would still own the kingdom of Jerusalem and all the other Crusader lands. But no, the Christian faith had fallen into shame and ignominy. Priests would take money and concubines, and with felons and sinners holding Masses supposedly in honour of God, was it any surprise that the faithful should start to emulate them?
For Jean’s family and the other ‘Poor of Lyons’, it was crucial that the Mass should be held by those who were without sin. Those who were pure, who were uncorrupted by the world, should officiate at the religious services. What benefit was there for a man or woman who received the sacrament from a corrupt priest? None. Only a virtuous man could intercede for their souls. Even a woman who knew the correct words was better than a priest who was sunk in dishonour.
His breakfast completed with a handful or two of flour mixed with water and roasted on sticks, he rose. If there was no need to worry about where he went, he would have to make a choice. In the past he would have bolted southwards, back towards the warmer lands and the mountains, those places where a man might live free and safe, away from anyone. No need to wear the yellow cross on his back to mark him out as a heretic, so long as he avoided towns. He should be safe enough.
Except, if he were seen, it could be still more dangerous for him. Fournier had tried to avoid killings, but he might have gone. The man in charge now could be more dangerous. The idea of being captured by someone more fervent than Fournier didn’t bear thinking about. Men like that would break limbs and kill peasant folk without a qualm, and order wine to celebrate the destruction of a soul afterwards.