Janin peered round at Philip, who studiously ignored him. ‘Eh?’
‘That is for you to guess.’
‘No. It’s for you to tell us,’ Ricard said, and looked at Janin for approval. He felt quite proud of the way that had come out. He sounded quite firm, he thought. Firm and definite. Then Jack’s next words burned any pride away like acid.
‘Since if I tell you, it’s likely you could be killed, I think it’s for you to guess, don’t you? I wouldn’t want Charlie boy to be orphaned again.’
Chapter Seventeen
Beauvais
Baldwin and Simon were glad to be installed in a large, comfortable bed. The previous night had been uncomfortable before the adventure of the explosion and Enguerrand de Foix’s death, and sleepless thereafter, so a bed with a real rope base and a soft mattress over it was an almost undreamed-of luxury. It was worth the risk of lice and fleas to sleep in comfort again.
‘How’s your face?’ Simon asked.
‘Not too bad. The Queen’s salve helped.’
‘It was good of her to bring that stuff to you.’
‘Yes.’
It had been late in the morning when Alicia appeared before them on a little mare.
Baldwin had bent his head to her courteously. He had liked the Queen’s lady-in-waiting when he first met her in London. ‘My lady.’
‘My queen saw how dreadfully scalded you were after last night. She thought a little of this salve might help you,’ Alicia said, holding out a small pottle of some thick juice.
‘The Queen?’ Simon repeated, awed.
‘She was once burned badly,’ Alicia said by way of explanation. ‘She found this mixture always soothed her and took away the pain.’
‘I see. That is most kind of her. Would you give your lady my deepest thanks.’ Baldwin bowed. He could remember hearing that ten or eleven years ago Queen Isabella had been caught in a fire in a tent, and her arms had been dreadfully scarred. She still suffered from burns, it was said.
‘I will.’
‘Do you find the journey pleasing?’
Alicia gave a small smile. ‘How could I fail to? We are out of London and away from all the trials and sorrows that place has brought us.’
‘I only pray that our queen may find more ease when we are returned,’ Baldwin said with feeling.
‘That is not likely,’ Alicia said with a regretful shake of her head. She graced them with a smile each before riding away to rejoin the Queen.
‘She meant Despenser?’ Simon said.
‘Of course. He poisons all whom he meets,’ Baldwin said.
‘But if the Queen succeeds in her mission, that will surely put her back in the King’s favour?’
‘Does he have favour for her any more?’ Baldwin had responded.
Now, though, as he sat on the edge of the bed and contemplated the candle burning on its spike set into the wall, he wondered whether he was being unreasonable. Maybe he was doing his king a disservice by assuming the worst of the man. After all, King Edward had fathered four children on this woman. If she could return to England in honour, with a treaty that did not shame him, would that not make him respect her again? And when a man respected a woman, love was surely never far behind. Possibly this would be the making of them both.
There were only the two options: if the Queen failed to win back the Gascon territories her standing would be destroyed, for if she could not even benefit the King in his dealings with France she was of little value; but if she managed to win back Guyenne and agree a peace, then the whole reason for her marriage to King Edward would be confirmed, and she could go home to England with her head held as high as the skies.
And yet …
The few times Baldwin had seen her during this ride, her excitement, her apparent repressed glee, had been a little out of place. It must be that she was glad to be free again, he thought.
He would have mentioned it to Simon, but when he turned to look at his old friend, he saw that Simon was already asleep.
Baldwin blew out the candle and lay staring up at the ceiling. All he could see was the body of Enguerrand, Comte de Foix, the blood forming a cushion for his head on the snow. Two dead men already, he told himself. The musician in London, as Blaket had said, and now the Comte.
There was nothing for him to trouble himself about, though. No. He rolled over on the bed, and was soon asleep.
They had let Jack go. There was little point in trying to maintain the charade that he was in danger, not when he lay on his belly and smiled at them, as though knowing that they would like to harm him but in truth did not dare. Disgruntled, Ricard had jerked his head, and all had released him.
Philip was the last to speak. He held his fist under Jack’s nose. ‘See this? See this, little mystery man? When I have the chance, one day I’ll use this on you, and you’ll not know what day of the week it is, I swear!’
‘Fearful,’ Jack said, eyeing the clenched fist closely. ‘Wash it first, would you?’
‘You …’ Philip swung twice, hard, the fist striking on the cheek, the nose. Jack was just able to roll his head enough to absorb the blows, but the blood began to trickle from his nostrils.
Ricard grabbed the fist before it could swing again. ‘Philip, get out of here.’
‘Just leave me with him for a little. I’ll find out what he’s about.’
‘Leave him! You want the Queen to hear you’ve been brawling? She’ll abandon you here without a penny. You want that?’
‘He’s a spy. He killed Peter, and now he’s here to spy on us all.’
‘Who’d want to spy on us?’ Janin asked reasonably.
‘I’ll bet he killed the Frenchie too,’ Philip spat, pointing at Jack. ‘And because he says he’ll see us dead, you let him get away with it all!’
Jack watched him throw his hands in the air, then stride angrily from the room. The others were eyeing him cautiously, as though he might at any moment turn and kill them all.
‘Is there any truth in what he says?’
‘What, that I may have killed this man Peter? I never even met the man. And as for the Frenchman — why would I do that? No, I’m innocent, just an ordinary drummer. That’s me.’
Alicia was content enough with the large room she shared with the Queen and the other ladies.
It was hard to find a moment to speak to the Queen without being overheard, but as she washed the dust from her mistress and brushed it from her hair, she could whisper a little.
‘Have you seen him again?’ Isabella asked. Her lips scarcely moved.
‘Yes. There was a shadow down in the doorway when I fetched the water, and Lady Joan was there.’
‘Joan of Bar. My husband’s niece. He does me the honour of a noble spy, at least.’
Alicia smiled at that. Of all the ladies-in-waiting, she was the least by birth, and if it were not for the fact that the Queen had insisted on her presence, she would never have been brought along. The Queen already had Lady Joan of Bar and Alice de Toeni, the Dowager Countess of Warwick. King Edward had pointedly asked why she should need any more people, and Alicia had smiled to herself at the Queen’s indignant response.
‘Why, would you have the King’s ambassador arrive at my brother’s door like a beggar? If you seek a peace with my brother and would have me treat with him as an equal, you will need to allow me to appear as though I have some status in your eyes, my lord. You would grudge me my own maid?’
It was a telling comment. The Archbishop Reynolds supported her, as did Henry Eastry, prior of Christ Church. There were enough men who would be unwilling to see her humiliated before her own brother for the King to acquiesce, finally, albeit with a bad grace.
But there were spies about her at all times.
‘Is she back yet?’
‘No, my lady.’
There was another pause while the Queen considered. ‘She is the King’s lady. She could be sending information to him, but if so, she is also telling Despenser. We must remain careful.’