South was his own homeland. He missed the high mountains, the bright sunshine, the deep blue skies, the freshness of the pastures in springtime, the flowers, the cold, clean streams … his wife and family.
If all he had there was his memories, there was little point in worrying about it. Better to go somewhere else.
Sir John de Sapy was delighted to learn that at last they were going to be riding on. He had little interest in the route they were taking; all he wanted was to reach Paris, complete his mission, and rest with some of the whores in the wine shops that abounded in the city.
‘You don’t seem keen to get there?’ he enquired of Sir Charles of Lancaster.
‘Hmm? Have you been to Paris?’
‘No. It is a place I have heard much about, though. The French sluts are supposed to be more inventive than the wantons from Aragon.’
Sir Charles glanced at him. His eye was amused. ‘You have not been there either, then?’
Sir John was defensive. ‘I have travelled widely in our kingdom. I’ve not had the opportunity or inclination to wander farther.’
‘Then you will see and learn much.’
Sir John frowned quickly. He was of an age with Sir Charles, so he was unsure how to take the man’s insouciance. There was an arrogance in his manner that implied a degree of experience which Sir John could only guess at. ‘You have been there before — what were your impressions?’
Sir Charles smiled openly at that. ‘How to explain?’
How indeed. The last time he visited Paris, he had been a renegade, a fugitive from the wrath of King Edward II. He was only one of hundreds who fled the kingdom in order to save their lives, terrified of the King’s retribution. They had supported the man he loathed more than any other, Lancaster, and once he had executed him, the King set upon any who had served him. Hundreds were captured and executed as traitors, their limbs and heads decorating spikes all over the realm, and the few who escaped, like Sir Charles, were glad to find a country where they could live awhile in safety.
Never one to seek peace for long, Sir Charles heard of some who were planning to return to England by rescuing Roger Mortimer from the Tower of London. They thought that this mighty general could perhaps save both England and them. Mortimer was known for his courage, his intelligence, and his integrity. It was his relentless campaigning in Ireland which had protected that part of the kingdom from Edward the Bruce’s invasion, thrown the Bruce back, and finally led to his death.
But when Sir Charles got to Paris, those who declared themselves co-conspirators were so inept and foolish that he had soon realised that there was no possibility of saving Mortimer. Better by far to save himself, because it was plain even to Sir Charles that such a group must have been deeply infected with the King’s spies. And a man who was known to the King as a member of the conspiracy was likely to have a very short life expectancy on returning to England.
He was in Paris for long enough to lose all his money and his plate to the pawnbrokers. Everything was so expensive, and no matter how much he or Paul, his man, tried to haggle, the prices appeared to remain high for a foreign gentleman in that city. In the end they were forced to leave. And then they had got into a little trouble at an inn, when a fight started. It was long ago, now, but the memory still rankled. A swarthy little toad-like shite had spat at him, and he and Paul had killed him and his friends.
After that, there had been a certain urgency about leaving the area before anyone could catch up with them, and they had made their way to Galicia, to Santiago de Compostela, which was where he had met Simon and Sir Baldwin.
‘All I would say is, dicker like hell for anything you want to buy. Last time I was here they tried to fleece anyone with an English accent in Paris,’ he said after a moment’s consideration.
‘What about the women, though?’ Sir John demanded.
‘I was talking about the women,’ said Sir Charles.
Jack was aware of their looks long before they sprang their attack. If only all enemies were so transparent.
They had reached a town called Pois, and here they were allocated rooms in a tavern, while most of the other members of the honour guard, and the Queen herself, were given rooms in the better inns.
It was a nuisance that the entourage was always so spread about. Jack had been hoping that all their halts would be in larger inns so that he and the others would always be billeted near the Queen and the maids. It was next to impossible for him to keep an eye on her while he and the others were housed over a half-mile away. The distance was no trouble, naturally, but it was difficult to cover it without being observed by the watch. Every time he walked about in daylight, he was aware that he was different from the locals. His dress, his looks — even his ruddy manner of walking — set him apart. The folks here dressed more flamboyantly, they were darker of hair and skin, and Christ’s teeth, they all swaggered as though they were God’s own gift to the land. In contrast, his gait was as sober as his clothing. Dull, dull, dull. And it added insult to injury that that should mark him out as different. Usually, it would make him stand out not at all. He would fade into the background, unnoticed. Not so here.
Ah, he caught a glimpse of Philip circling round behind him. Meanwhile Ricard was right in front and trying to hold him in conversation — that was a first. Did they really think that they could jump him?
Philip began his move in a lumbering manner, just as Jack would have expected. Probably the most dangerous of them, and clearly the most ruthless, Philip was still built more like an ox than a greyhound. He was not built for speed. Where was the boy? He must have been left with someone else.
Jack turned, almost audibly sighing when he saw that Philip was still a couple of yards away. ‘Did you mean to surprise me?’ he asked.
His contempt turned to indignation when his legs were suddenly yanked from under him, and he was thrown to the ground. Only his elbows stopped him from bashing his face on the rough timbers of the floor, and that did not improve his temper. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’
‘It’s what you’re doing that we mean to learn,’ Philip snarled.
His anger was plain enough, but Jack was not about to surrender without a battle. He was on the ground, his face pressed to the boards, and Janin and Ricard had his arms. Adam or someone was on his ankles, holding them together. All in all, it was a remarkably successful assault for a bunch of pathetic, incompetent musicians. Which made it doubly humiliating for a man like him.
‘So? What now?’
Ricard was at that moment staring at a rope which lay on the table some feet away, and mouthing to Janin that he should try to reach it. He looked down at his captive. ‘What?’
‘What do you intend to do with me? Torture me? Pull out my nails? Or just break my legs? Sirs, this is uncomfortable.’
‘We want to know what you’re doing here,’ Philip said. ‘And yes, if you don’t answer, I’ll be happy to tap splinters under your finger- and toenails. It’s up to you.’
‘I am travelling with you and playing music, of course. What else have you seen me do?’
‘Nothing — because every time we stop for a night, you disappear.’
‘What of it?’
‘Nothing. Perhaps. But the fact that you were so enthusiastically pressed upon us makes us all a little nervous,’ Ricard said. The rope was still on the table, and Janin was paying him no attention. ‘Why was de Bouden so keen for you to be a part of our band?’
‘You’d have to ask him that. All I know is that you were coming over here, and I was asked to travel with you to aid in the defence of the Queen.’
‘Who by?’ Philip demanded, simultaneously with Janin’s: ‘By whom?’