The weather was warmer now, praise to Christ! Already he could feel the difference in the air as he snuffed it. This was thebest Easter gift God could have given him, he felt.
Already, as he cautiously moved his head about, easing the tension in his muscles, stretching his arms over his head and wincing,he could hear the first stirrings from the houses all about. No bells today. This was the day all men remembered Christ’scrucifixion.
He would have liked to join the congregations. It was so long since he had been able to feel comfortable in the presence ofthe priests amid the flickering candles and slow chanting. All his love of the displays had been eroded as his faith in thePoor of Lyons had grown, and although it was perfectly in order for him to attend church in his village, so as not to drawattention to himself, still he felt uncomfortable. He couldn’t tell whether the priest was an honourable, decent man or not,or whether the service was conducted in the words which God had demanded. Instead, all was spoken in that leaden old tongue,Latin, so that all were denied access and understanding.
Still, he did enjoy the peace of the day. The people, driven to remember the hideous death of Christ, would revel in theirsilence. Men and women who would usually shout and sing would be drawn to silent contemplation. In Jean’s old church, a largecross would be taken up and wrapped in plain linen, before being installed in a stone sepulchre over the tomb of a man whohad been a successful merchant and had paid for the honour of lying beneath the cross each Easter. There would be no Mass on that Friday. Only a steady murmur and mumble as people remembered Christ’s death and Mary’s pain and anguish. A terribleday, but somehow reassuring, because all those taking part knew that on Sunday they would be able to celebrate Christ’s returnfrom the dead.
More than Berengar or the others could manage, he told himself grimly. They were gone for ever.
Drawing his cloak about him, he set off towards the inn where he had seen Arnaud before. He’d waited outside the place yesterday,but there had been no sign of the man. Possibly he would have better luck today.
He trod the streets carefully, always aware that he could be killed at any moment. Jean was a creature of the wild in manyways, and he felt like a feral animal here in the city. Others walked sublimely unaware of their danger from other men, butnot Jean. He had lived too long among the sheep and wolves of the mountains, and for him there were sheep and wolves aplentyhere in the city. But the sheep were less self-aware, the wolves more ferocious.
A full street away from the inn, he paused and took stock. There was no obvious danger, no apparent lounger taking a keeninterest in him. More important, there was no thin, sallow-featured face staring out at him from a doorway. Jean took careto halt and survey the more obvious places where the executioner could have installed himself, but there was nothing.
He continued onward, his eyes flitting from one window to another, constantly looking for any sign of attention, but thereappeared to be no interest in him, and as he approached the inn he began to think that perhaps Arnaud had not realised thatJean knew where he was staying. Of course, it could simply be that Arnaud had seen his danger, and had removed to a differentplace. That was definitely a risk. But Jean felt sure that it was not so. There was something about the indomitable arrogance of the man who was so used to dealing out death that told Jean that Arnaud would not have thought him a risk. No,Arnaud was probably still here.
So he could catch him.
Baldwin and Simon were up early to join the rest of the castle’s guard at the service in the chapel, and then marched intothe hall and took up their bread and cups of water. Fasting was apparently serious on this day. Throughout Lent meals hadbeen provided in the evening after a day of moderate abstinence, but today there was literally bread and water.
The two were about to leave when they saw Sir John de Sapy. Baldwin grinned at the sight of him. He was clearly frozen. ‘Ahard night searching, Sir John?’
‘I wonder whether Sir Charles is so besotted with the idea of revenge that he’s not seen the immense difficulties. He is determinedto stay out there in the city until he kills Mortimer, and yet there’s been no sign of the man.’
‘Perhaps it was merely a cut-purse, as the French have said,’ Baldwin suggested. ‘The sergent stated as much yesterday.’
‘You think so? I reckon it’s too much of a coincidence that Sir Charles and Paul saw a man they thought was Mortimer, andthen Paul died while trying to find him. To me that sounds as if he succeeded.’
‘Perhaps. Except if his search meant that he was wandering the city late at night, it’s all the more likely that he was knockedon the head by a common felon.’
Sir John sneered. ‘Except he wasn’t knocked on the head, was he? He was gutted like a pig. That’s more like deliberate murder,I’d say. Not some chance encounter.’ He bowed and left them.
‘He has a point, Baldwin,’ Simon said. ‘I’ve never known a man killed like that just because he happened to meet a felon in the streets.’
‘Nor have I,’ Baldwin admitted. ‘But did you think that Mortimer was capable of such an act?’
‘He is a traitor,’ Simon said. There was no accusation in his tone; it was a simple statement of fact, so far as he was concerned.
Baldwin nodded. It was the attitude most men would display. Mortimer was guilty of one crime and thus could be guilty of anynumber of others.
‘Baldwin, don’t you think you should keep yourself hidden? After what Mortimer told you about Despenser’s allegation, wouldn’tit be best for you to be quiet?’
It was something which Baldwin had been considering. His first and most attractive thought was to bolt for the coast, buthe had already rejected that. Not only because it would have felt like cowardice, but also because he had agreed to come hereto protect the Queen. Were something to happen to her because he had run away, he would never be able to live with the shame.And Mortimer’s expression had also affected him. There was such a depth of misery and self-loathing in his eyes.
Baldwin knew that feeling only too well. The self-disgust that came from continuing to live when comrades were dead; frombeing alive while loved ones, friends and family suffered — and being unable to help them. It was a foul experience. And nowothers were going to accuse Mortimer of killing Paul as well. And Baldwin felt sure that he was innocent of that.
Suddenly he had a vision in his mind of the day when his Grand Master, Jacques de Molay, had been executed. A frail-lookingold man, his mind somewhat disconnected by the horror of the death to come, he had been a tragic figure. But then, under theshadow of the post at which he would die, he had found the courage to denounce the accusations levelled against him and his Order, to accuse the French king and the Pope ofcorruption, and to call them to account before the throne of God. The injustice of the destruction of the Knights Templarhad coloured every decision that Baldwin had taken since that fateful day.
The reflection stiffened his resolve. ‘I shall try to remain safe,’ he said. ‘But I won’t allow an injustice. If I can preventthat, I will do so.’
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Jean saw him at last. Christ’s balls, but the man had no fear. He could not have realised he was being followed. Sweet Mother of God,how dare he walk the streets like this!
As Arnaud made his way westwards, Jean kept back, his hood up to conceal his face. His hand was already on his dagger’s hiltbeneath his cloak, and his eyes moved constantly, warily looking for any man who might be watching him, but he saw nothing.
Arnaud was making his way towards the Louvre, and as he left the city beneath the western gate Jean cast a glance up at themassive white walls of the fortress. The towers shone in the brief flashes of sunlight, and the flags moved sluggishly inthe still air.