There was the sound of horns, a blaring, raucous noise, and he turned to see the last bataelge trotting down towards the streams. There they stopped and waited, their flags and pennons flying merrily in the breeze.
The Flemings nearest saw them, and Jean saw them challenging the knights, daring them to come on. ‘Father, are you sure we should …’
‘What?’
The foot soldiers with them were aware now that not all was going as they had anticipated. Their forward trot had slowed, and some of the men were watching the little scene on their right.
When the taunts and challenges failed, some Flemings started to cross the river to attack the French, and as they reached the other bank Jean felt a hideous heaviness form in his belly.
The main body of French knights wheeled, and rode away, their shields still on their backs. A few apparently felt so revolted by the idea of leaving their comrades on the field that they charged forward, only to fall to the hammers and pikes.
And then they were all racing away before the Flemings could reach them. They ran as though the hordes of the devil himself were behind them; they ran as though hell would take any who dithered. And then some knights came through the foot soldiers, fleeing the slaughter among the Flemish lines. Jean saw the knight who, enraged, terrified, and desperate, hacked at the men of his own side who stood in his path as he tried to escape. Jean saw his sword whirling, saw it slice down, and watched with a kind of disinterested fascination as the tip appeared at the other side of his father’s body, sweeping around and out. He continued to watch, all feelings dulled, as his father’s body toppled, his head rolling away, the lips bared, the teeth clicking together pointlessly.
Ah God, yes, Jean had endured enough of war. The terror, the running away, the appalling realisation that the men who had been a part of your life since birth were gone for ever, and there had not even been time to say ‘Farewell’ or ‘Godspeed’. All were terrifying in their own way. And then the relentless hunting down, the horror of being prey to a pack of marauding humans. It was hideous.
And it was all happening to him again; all over again. If he allowed it.
Well, he wouldn’t. He was going to stop this. Someone had lied about him. Someone had deliberately set him up. He would find out who, and why. And if possible avenge himself.
Wednesday before Good Friday 20
Paris
There was a lull in the negotiations during the new month, and Baldwin found himself growing more and more irritable as the days passed, eager to be home. He wanted to see his wife and children again. Already it felt as though he had been idle for too long, when he could have been in their company. This enforced indolence was grating at his patience.
He had thought he must be back at Furnshill by the middle of the summer. It was not that he had promised it to Jeanne; more that he had promised it to himself. The King, when asking him to come here with the Queen, had intimated that he had made it clear to her and to Lord Cromwell that he expected their business to be completed by then, and wanted the Queen to hurry home. It was never explicitly stated, but the clear implication was that he did not trust her while she was away from his side. And of course the mission to France was growing ever more expensive.
The cost would not have been diminished by the state entrance into Paris two days ago. Baldwin and Simon had been there to witness the Queen’s arrival, as befitted members of her guard, but although Baldwin had glanced at her he had spent more time watching others in the roads, ensuring that there was no enemy of the King or herself in the throng. Simon had not been so conscientious. As she rode in towards them, Simon had simply stared. He was not alone. Her appearance induced awe.
Flanked by the Comte de Dammartin and the Lords de Coucy and Montmorency among others, she cut a dashing figure astride her horse, clad as she was all in black velvet. Simon could only guess at the price of such a wonderful garment. It was layered, and so long that only the tips of her riding boots were visible. Her headdress was so modern that Simon did not even know what it was termed, and he had to ask Alicia. She was happy to inform him that Isabella was wearing crespinettes made of gold fretwork dangling from a narrow fillet. Simon nodded knowingly, not knowing what such items were. All he knew was, the Queen looked glorious and utterly beautiful.
But now they had been in Paris for two days, and still there was no possibility of returning home. Negotiations had continued, and even as the King prepared the Easter feasts, letters had been sent back to England with the main proposals. The Queen had carefully prepared each, and Baldwin had no doubt that they would show how hard she had been working on Edward’s behalf. Meanwhile she danced, feasted, and generally enjoyed herself. If she had a care in the world, it was carefully hidden.
Simon, for his part, was enthralled by the city. ‘It is not so great as London, of course, but you cannot deny that there is a certain … liveliness to the place.’
Baldwin cast a dull eye over him. ‘You think so? A dunghill is also full of life.’
Simon glanced at him. ‘Come, friend. What is the matter?’
‘I used to live here. I will never be able to forget the horror. It was here in Paris that I witnessed the execution of my Grand Master,’ Baldwin said quietly. There was a rasping quality to his voice that spoke of his emotion, and Simon grunted and looked away.
He ought to have remembered. There should have been no need for Baldwin to explain his mood, for Simon knew his history. A Knight Templar until the dissolving of the Order, he had witnessed his Grand Master being burned to death on a pyre for so many alleged crimes, the world had been appalled to hear of them. And yet, even as he died, he asserted his innocence and the innocence of the Order. Ever since they had arrived in the capital, Baldwin had grown increasingly grim, and Simon should have realised it was this that was on his mind, rather than some mere petty annoyance at being apart from Jeanne.
‘Where did it happen, Baldwin? I have heard that the execution grounds are at a field outside the walls.’
‘You mean Montfaucon. That is where most died, I suppose. It’s up there. North-east, roughly.’
The two were walking about the Châtelet, near the river, and Simon could see his friend’s eyes turning every so often back towards the Louvre where they had left Queen Isabella.
‘That is fine!’ exclaimed a voice behind them, and both cast glances over their shoulders to where Sir Charles was standing with a new sword in his hand, sweeping it through the air with satisfaction. Paul was perched on a trestle nearby, eyeing his knight’s antics with a sour expression.
‘At last!’ Baldwin muttered, and Simon grinned.
They had come here with Sir Charles and his man Paul as soon as the Queen had told them that she had no further use for them that day. Usually Baldwin would have remained nearby, but by now his temper was all too plain, and the Queen had instructed Lord Cromwell that she would be happier were the ‘grim and despondent’ knight given some little time to wander the city and soothe his bitter spirit. Sir Charles had suggested that they might come here, to the area of the city where the armourers plied their trade, for, he explained, he had a need of a new riding sword. His old one had been dropped during their journey here, and a cart had rolled over it, bending the blade severely.
‘Yes. Try the balance on this, Sir Baldwin.’
‘I am sure that you are more than capable of assessing the quality yourself, Sir Charles,’ Baldwin said evasively.
‘Hah! If you are sure. Then I shall take it myself.’ So saying, he began to dispute the price with the armourer, and once they were both content, Sir Charles pulled the coins from his purse and handed them over.