And then he saw him.
Arnaud was at the right of the portcullis, shouting and pointing, clenching his fist and waving it in the air, bellowing at his neighbours, rousing them to greater effort and noise. Jean sawhim turn towards him, and dropped his chin quickly, hoping that he hadn’t seen him. Then he heard shouting and noises of adifferent sort. There were disconcerted calls, and when he risked a glance, he saw that behind him there was a man on a greatdestrier, a knight with all the pride and haughty contempt of his class. Jean loathed him instantly.
The man was safe even in this mêlée. Jean could see that all about him was a great ring of polearms, their sturdy wooden shaftsstanding at an angle to guard him. It would take more than a rabble like this to penetrate his defence, Jean could see.
Looking forward again, he stifled a moan of disappointment. Arnaud was gone!
The fool! He thought he could surprise Arnaud, did he? The executioner to the King was not some ignorant cretin to be slainby the knife of a peasant from the Comté de Foix.
Arnaud allowed himself to be drawn back into the crowd by the action of all those who were striving to push forward. He kepthis head low, and as he went he took off his scarf, binding it carefully so that he could wrap it about his head like a cap.Soon, he felt comfortable enough to look up. There, a scant five yards or so from him, was Jean. Arnaud ducked his head downonce more, and began to make his way at an angle towards the man. It was not easy, but soon he felt he was close enough. Thatwas when he looked up and saw that Jean was staring straight at him.
It was the act of a moment. He drew his knife, holding it good and low, and then, when a man moved, he was in. The executionernever saw it coming. He was there, staring with pure hatred at Jean, and then Jean lunged forward, as much as he could in the press, and felt his knife slide in under Arnaud’s jack. At the same time, Arnaud’s own dagger slipped in so smoothlythat Jean was scarcely aware of its progress until he felt the blade scrape on his lowest rib.
If he was to die, he would make sure that his assailant did too. He jabbed with his fist, shoving up as hard as he could,trying to use the edge of the blade to cut upward into Arnaud’s body, but the knife had turned in his grasp. As the pain beganto spread from his belly to his chest, he started to panic. His knife wouldn’t move. He tried to twist it and turn it, butthe thing was hard to shift. It was only when Arnaud started to drop to his knees, dragging clear of the knife, that Jeanunderstood that both of them were dying.
Suddenly there was a shrill scream. Then a series of muttered curses, and the men all about grabbed the pair of them. Arnaud,Jean saw, had a feral, brutal expression fitted to his face, his teeth bared in anger and anguish, and even as he registeredthe curious ferocity, Jean realised that his own face probably reflected the same emotions.
They were apart. Jean had Arnaud’s knife still in his belly, and he looked down at the hilt with near disbelief. Sinking tohis knees, he found that breathing was hard. His own dagger clattered to the ground as he opened his hand, and then he lethimself fall forward to all fours, breathing shallowly, the stabbing agony spreading all over him. So this was what deathfelt like, he thought.
There was a liquid drooping sensation, like a lover slipping from his woman’s body, and he heard a little metallic rattleas Arnaud’s weapon fell from him. The whole of his belly felt like a bladder of boiling water, stinging and heavy. His headwas heavy too, like a lump of rock at the end of his neck. Impossible to hold aloft. He must allow it to dangle. The cobbleswere smooth under his hands. They looked so comfortable compared to this hideous exhaustion. He let his elbows bend, and closed his eyes as his cheek approached the stone of the roadway.
Pierre d’Artois had ordered his men to force a way through the crowd to the portcullis, and then allowed his mount to walkeasily between the lines of polearms to the gate. The guards manning it saw who it was who approached and scrambled to getthe great shutter lifted to allow Artois to enter, while behind him his men held their weapons horizontal, trying to clearthe space immediately in front of the castle.
He looked about him as he entered the main grounds. ‘My Lord Cromwell. I hope I find you well on this fine morning?’
‘I am always happy when I meet you, my lord.’
Artois allowed himself a small grin at that. He glanced back at the crowds being shoved and cursed back. ‘You have many gueststhis day.’
‘There was a murder, and some mistakenly assumed it was one of my knights who was responsible.’
‘I had heard so. And who was the knight so accused?’
‘Sir John de Sapy.’
‘I see. You are sure of his innocence?’
Cromwell hesitated only a fraction of a second, but it was enough for Artois to raise a corner of his mouth sardonically.‘You are that sure?’
Before Cromwell could comment, Baldwin had attracted his attention. ‘My Lord John, it would appear that someone is hurt outthere.’
Artois stared back over his shoulder. His men were forcing the crowd away from the entrance to the castle, and as the tideof Parisians washed backwards, two bodies were exposed lying on the ground.
‘You there! Go and bring those two men in here. Hurry!’
Chapter Forty
Baldwin had not realised who it was who lay on the ground, but as the first men brought in the pale, blue-grey-faced figure of theKing’s Executioner, he frowned quickly, and then peered out at the second man being brought inside.
‘The man from Poissy,’ he breathed. ‘Simon, this is the man who killed the old fellow and hurt Robert de Chatillon.’
Simon gazed at the two men. ‘I wouldn’t worry. I doubt that either is likely to last long.’
Artois had heard their words. ‘You say this man was at Poissy, Sir Baldwin? Can you be sure?’
‘I am certain of it. I saw him walking with the man who was killed there. The other man was being hunted by him. Why wouldthat have been?’
‘You must ask them, if they ever recover,’ Artois said. ‘Now, Lord Cromwell. This man de Sapy. It has been suggested thathe was responsible for the death of Chatillon. I have to decide what to do about this allegation.’
‘Who says he is guilty?’ Cromwell demanded.
‘A man of the highest reputation, I fear. A priest from the south, who happens to be a friend of one of the King’s own advisers.You may have heard of François de Tours? No? He is held in the very highest regard by the King, and the accuser is his ownchaplain, Père Pierre de Pamiers.’
‘Would it be permitted to speak to this père?’ Baldwin asked.
Artois looked at him steadily for a moment. ‘I suppose that might be possible.’
‘Then I should be grateful if you could arrange it.’
‘And what of his accusation?’
Lord Cromwell sighed. ‘I swear to you that de Sapy shall not leave this castle until he is shown to be innocent. If he isnot, he is still protected by the safe conducts I hold, and I expect them to be honoured. However, I would send him back instantlyto England were he discovered to be guilty.’
‘That is well.’
‘If you will both excuse me,’ Baldwin apologised, ‘first, my lords, I think I should arrange for these two men to be takento a place of healing. They will most certainly expire here.’
Both men nodded, and Baldwin began to arrange for men to carry Jean and Arnaud indoors to the little chapel.
De Sapy was already inside, kneeling and praying most assiduously at the altar, when Simon and Baldwin entered, Baldwin directingthe men carrying the biers to opposite alcoves from where the injured men could see the cross. ‘And please bring wine andwater for them,’ he urged the men as they deposited their burdens.
Simon and he spent a while checking both men. There was little they could do other than try to cool their brows, but evenwith such action Baldwin was unsure that either would recover consciousness, let alone revive enough to recover. Still, heand Simon waited until Peter of Oxford arrived.