‘Stay with Ricard.’
‘You will be happy with him, you think?’
Charlie sat a little more upright, watching Baldwin closely. ‘Yes. Like Ricard.’
Baldwin nodded. ‘Tell me, Ricard. The man who died from your band — was there any reason you can think of which would explainhis death? Moneylenders? Gambling? Whores?’
‘He was a clean-living fellow compared with others, sir. No, I can’t imagine anything like that. He was happy enough withthe money we earned playing our music, but his wife wouldn’t let him gamble if she had anything to do with it, and he’d nothave bothered with whores. His woman, Marg, was more than enough to keep him happy. No, the more I think about it, the moreI think he was killed because of our coming here. I don’t know why, but I think it must have been Jack who slew him in orderto make sure he would get into our group. That was it. Earl Edmund wanted us to come here with the Queen, and he wanted tokeep an eye on us, so he had Jack kill Peter so Jack could join in.’
‘You told me he had a peacock picture on his bodhran?’
‘Yes.’
‘But he has been very friendly with Earl Edmund?’
‘Yes. Jack and he stood up against Philip and Adam together.’
‘But that makes little sense to me,’ Baldwin said. ‘If the Earl was so keen for you to keep in touch with his man, why wouldhe have your Peter killed? His man would be in touch with you every step in any case. Peter might as well have lived. Thenagain, why bother to have this Jack installed in your band at all? He could have been a hanger-on of the Queen’s cavalcade.’
‘I don’t know. None of it makes any sense to a simple gittern-player.’
Baldwin rose to his feet. ‘Very well. Many thanks for all that. I hope to be able to speak to you again before long. PerhapsI can even explain it all.’
‘I hope so. I would be grateful just for a little less fog about everything.’
‘I will do what I can,’ said Baldwin, looking over to the gate. ‘What on earth is all that about?’
‘All that’ was a sudden roaring from a hundred throats as Sir John de Sapy hurtled through the gates of the castle and demandedthat the gates be locked, the portcullis dropped, before the tide of angry Parisians could storm the whole area.
He gazed back in horror, seeing only a sea of enraged faces. They were bellowing for his blood, calling him a murderer andworse, baying like hounds seeing their prey at the far side of a railing, raging at being unable to bring it down. ‘Dear Christ,what have I done to deserve all this?’
‘Sir John, could you tell me what has happened?’ Lord John Cromwell said with an arctic politeness as he arrived, drawn tothe court by the howling and bellowing.
‘I was at a house where a man was discovered dead. They all blame me for it. I had nothing to do with it!’
Cromwell sighed. It was clear enough that the mob was here for a while. They would not withdraw just because Sir John had managed to find his way into a refuge; this was a more deeply seatedhatred than that of men for a murderer. This was the tribal loathing of a man who was different, who was a stranger, who was foreign. They wanted more than the chance to arrest him; if these people took hold of Sir John, they would tear him limb from limb.
‘You need to get out of their sight, Sir John. I recommend that you take yourself off to the chapel. In there you can prayfor a little understanding from your pursuers. But first: you are sure you had nothing to do with the man’s death?’
‘Absolutely! I just walked in and there he was, his belly opened like a gutted fish.’
‘Who was it? Did you know him?’
‘That man who was with us on the way here. His master was killed?’
‘You mean Robert de Chatillon? The squire?’
‘Yes.’
Lord Cromwell glanced back at the angry crowd beyond the portcullis. ‘What were you doing in his house?’
Sir John shrugged. ‘A friend asked me to go.’
‘Who? What were you to do there?’
Sir John de Sapy cast an eye at the mob. He was reluctant to speak, but if these people were to be persuaded to leave it wasobvious that he had to talk. ‘It was a man I met in London. He was a priest to the King of France, and I was introduced tohim by Sir Hugh le Despenser. Sir Hugh wanted me to show him the way to a particular place in London.’
‘What did you do?’
‘All I did was show him this house. Nothing else, I swear. Look, I was trying to be accepted back into the King’s household.I needed Sir Hugh to help me; I wouldn’t have had a chance without his aid. So I took the priest to the house he wanted tosee. That was all I did.’
Simon and Baldwin had joined them, and Baldwin was listening intently even as he took in the sight of the men and women shoutingand hurling abuse through the stout bars. ‘What house was this?’
‘Just some place in Lombard Street. Nothing special.’
Baldwin snapped around. ‘Lombard Street? When would this have been?’
‘When? I don’t know. About Ash Wednesday, I suppose. Perhaps the Monday of that week?’
Baldwin almost gaped. Then, ‘This priest you say you met. Did you see him again?’
‘He and I celebrated Mass shortly afterwards, and he heard my confession. And I saw him yesterday briefly.’
‘What did he ask this time?’
‘Only that I go to a certain house and deliver a note. But when I got there, the man was already dead. I swear it, Lord John!The man was already dead. I did nothing to him!’
‘Then why are all these folk here?’
‘Another man arrived while I was there. He saw the man and accused me. I didn’t know what to say! I just hit him and ran outand back here.’
‘It was de Chatillon,’ Cromwell said to Baldwin in an undertone. The noise at the gate was beginning to die down, and he feltalmost sure that the worst of the crowd’s fury was already past. ‘Look, you get off to the chapel as I said. I’ll see if wecan’t calm these people down.’
Sir John nodded, and was about to go when there came a bellow from the gates.
‘LORD CROMWELL! There’s a man here says he’s from the French king, wants to talk to you about some murder?’
Jean caught up with the crowd before long, and as he stared about in the broad space before the King’s castle in the woods,all he could see was an expanse of heads wearing all kinds of hats. The different colours formed a confusing wash in front of him: scarlets, greens, dull ochres and the occasional yellowor pink. One or two were purple, but they were so rare as to hardly show. Instead he found himself seeking out the bare-headedbrown of Arnaud.
There was no sign of him nearby. All about him there were only woollen hats, and even when he stood on tiptoe and strained,he saw no one like Arnaud. But the man wouldn’t be here at the back, would he? He’d be up at the front of this mass of people.Jean must get there too. There was no other way to reach him. Jean must force his way through the crowd.
He began elbowing people out of the way. Some grumbled; a few dug their elbows into him, or kneed him as he passed by. Oneman on his left almost managed to fell him with a deft blow to his leg that all but killed it. The only way he could remainstanding was by grasping the jerkin of the nearest man to his right, who turned to spit at him, but then offered him somehelp when he saw Jean’s trouble.
‘Make way! This man’s hurt!’ he roared, and grudgingly people began to part for them both.
It was a slow progress through the reluctant crowd. Nobody wanted to move and let someone else get a better view. Still, Jean’ssaviour was a large man, for all that he was short, and his stentorian voice ensured that people realised there was someonecoming through who needed help. Gradually they made their way towards the castle, where Jean could see the folks roaring andshouting at the portcullis. Behind it was a small guard of men in breastplates and helmets with polearms of different types.Men were gathered nearby, but they appeared to be watching uneasily, and not doing anything that might upset the crowds.