‘Dear God in heaven!’
‘I do not think it will be long before they meet Him,’ Baldwin said. ‘Sadly these two had an altercation in the road outsidethere.’
‘And came to blows?’
‘Yes. We saw this one hunting the executioner yesterday morning, and although he got away that time I think he tried the same assault today, but this Arnaud was able to defend himself.’
‘I will do all I may for them,’ Peter said, and bent to pray at the side of the nearer, who happened to be Jean.
Baldwin and Simon walked away a short distance as Peter finished his prayers and took up a cloth to begin washing the facesof the dying men. Blood was leaking from their biers on to the floor.
‘Sir John,’ Baldwin said. ‘I could not help but overhear what you told Lord Cromwell earlier. You took this priest to a housein Lombard Street?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
He rolled his eyes. ‘You know how it is. My Lord Despenser asked me to, and I wanted to remain in his favour. I was tryingto become rehabilitated.’
‘And he told you what he wanted at this house?’
‘All he said was that there was a French couple in there. That was all.’
‘A couple?’
‘Oh, he mentioned a boy as well, I think.’
‘What did he do to them?’
‘How should I know? He asked me to take him to the house, and I did. Then I waited outside.’
Baldwin remembered the look of horror on Ricard’s face. ‘He came out with blood over him, didn’t he?’
‘He might have done.’
‘And you heard later of the murders, didn’t you?’
Sir John looked at him steadily. ‘I was asked by Sir Hugh le Despenser. I didn’t trouble myself beyond that. It was his will,and I was helping him.’
‘I see,’ Baldwin said. He withdrew slightly, then shook his head, spun on his heel and walked back down the nave towards the entrance. On his way, he stopped at Jean’s side. ‘Peter, I believe this one is dead already.’
Sir John happened to look across as he spoke. His face hardened, and he pointed at Arnaud on the other bier. ‘That man! Heis the one who came in and accused me in Chatillon’s room!’
‘Arnaud, the executioner?’ Baldwin muttered. ‘What was he doing there?’
Ricard was out in front of the hall, playing catch with Charlie. He tossed the ball gently, and the boy, chuckling uncontrollably,holding his hands firmly unmoving in front of his chest, shrieked as the ball landed in his palms and rolled out on to thedirt.
Baldwin smiled to see the lad’s delight. As Ricard retrieved the ball again, and returned to attempt to teach him how to catchonce more, Baldwin walked to him.
‘Master Ricard, I do not know whether my suspicions are correct, but in the name of all that matters to you, keep this boyat your side no matter what. You understand? You must not let him out of your sight, and never allow any man who is Frenchto look after him. Yes?’
‘Certainly, Sir Baldwin. But why?’
‘I am not sure. But it is possible that this little boy holds the key to all these murders,’ Baldwin said.
As he walked away, leaving Ricard looking at the boy with a bemused expression on his face, Simon muttered, ‘Baldwin, whatdo you think is happening here? What secret could that little boy hold?’
‘He may know who it was who killed his parents,’ Baldwin said. ‘And that could itself be dangerous for him. Worse, though,is my concern that he might be the target himself.’
‘Who’d want to kill a little boy?’
‘There are many who would like to kill the children of powerful men and women, Simon,’ Baldwin said. And then he glanced back at Charlie, who was giggling as he tried to catch again andfailed. He scampered through the dust to grab at the ball, and as Ricard watched fondly he swung his arm, and carefully hurledthe ball over his head and behind him some six yards. ‘And anyone who tries to hurt a lad like that deserves every pain thedemons in hell can inflict.’
Arnaud felt the cloth at his brow, but his mouth was so dry, his lips felt gummed together. He tried to speak, but a calmvoice told him to be still. Too tired to even think of opening his eyes, he moaned softly. His entire belly felt as thoughsomeone had filled it with boiling lead. It was an enormity of anguish, and he was sure that he must soon be dead.
He could remember every thrust of that dagger. It was lucky he got his blow in first. He had been quicker than Jean. His knifehad slipped in as easily as a blade spearing a leg from the fire. Soft pressure, smooth and lovely. He’d seen the recognitionin Jean’s eyes as soon as he’d started to rip upwards, slicing through the man’s guts — and then he’d felt it himself. Thatsnagging, parting, wet, foul sensation that meant Jean’s own knife was reaching up through his vitals.
‘Père … je voudrai mon père …’
‘Easy, friend,’ Peter said. He recognised enough French to understand the man’s demand. ‘I am a chaplain. You want me to hearyour confession?’
‘No, my own … my own father. Own priest.’
Peter gave an understanding nod. Sometimes men wanted their own priest. It was natural enough to want the man who’d seen themevery day, for every Mass through their lives. ‘Who? Where? You haven’t much time, my friend.’
Arnaud’s eyes opened. He looked down at his belly, and his eyes widened. He had killed often enough to know a deadly wound when he saw one, and the slow pumping of his blood from the great gash meant he had little time indeed.
With a shudder of horror, he closed his eyes and began to make his full confession.
It was the middle of the afternoon when a man came to the Château de Bois, clad in a tunic that bore Artois’s insignia, andasked to speak to Baldwin.
‘Sir, my lord asked me to fetch you. You wish to meet the Père Pierre Clergue?’
Baldwin shrugged on a cloak. The weather was warm enough, but there were some grey clouds on the horizon that threatened anunpleasant change before long. With Simon at his side, he set off after the man.
Their journey took little time. Soon they were in a broad courtyard, where Artois waited for them. ‘Good afternoon,’ he saidcourteously enough, bowing, but there was a reserve in his voice.
‘The father?’ Baldwin said, looking about them.
‘He is not here. He’s only a short way away. Come with me,’ Artois said, and set off. Baldwin and Simon glanced at each otheras they followed him, but both were thinking more of the men behind them than the one in front, because as soon as they startedwalking twelve men-at-arms took up station immediately behind them.
‘I hope Artois has honourable intentions,’ Simon muttered.
‘If he has not, there is little we can do about it now,’ Baldwin responded.
Besides, he thought, what other intention could Artois have? The man had nothing against Baldwin or Simon so far as they knew.And yet the men behind them were a constant reminder that they were a long way from home and any possible aid. The trampingof their boots sounded like the drumbeat of an executioner’s escort, and Baldwin could not stifle the grim apprehension that grew in his breast. When he glanced at Simon, he could see that his companion was in the same mood,but neither felt it necessary to speak. They trudged on behind Artois, both dully aware of their danger.
But it wasn’t Simon’s danger. Baldwin knew that. It was he who had been a Knight Templar, who had not submitted to the Popeand the French king when the Order was disbanded, and who was now legally an outlaw evading justice. If caught, he could expectto be hanged or burned at the stake.
Baldwin could see in his mind’s eye his wife and their children. His beautiful little Richalda and his tiny son. Somehow,even as he was thinking of them, the face of Charlie kept intruding. It was irritating at first, seeing that little boy inhis mind’s eye, but then he welcomed it. Charlie would serve as a happy image of what his own son might look like one day.And if he was to be held in a prison soon, at least that boy’s face would be there in his head. No matter what else happened,he would keep Charlie’s smile with him. A little picture like that was worth much to a man in gaol, he had heard.