It was a shame to think that after almost ten years in England, living quietly and happily down in Devon, he was to die here.There was something about Artois’s silence that assured him that Mortimer had been correct: his secret had become known, andnow he was being marched to his doom.
‘Simon, I’m sorry,’ he said quietly.
‘Hmm?’
‘Where do you think they’re taking us?’
Simon’s face showed his bewilderment. ‘What, now? To see the priest, aren’t they? Do you think they’ll offer us somethingto eat?’
Baldwin found it impossible to say more.
Sir Charles had encountered Sir Peter twice today, but neither had enjoyed any fortune. ‘I will try nearer the river,’ Sir Charlessaid the second time they met.
Sir Peter sucked his teeth. ‘Where’s Sir John?’
‘I suppose he’s returned to the castle,’ Sir Charles said shortly.
‘The idea of food is appealing. Perhaps, Sir Charles, we would be better served to pay someone to keep an eye open for him?’
‘And whom exactly would you trust with such a task?’
‘I have my own men,’ Sir Peter pointed out.
Sir Charles was aware of that. He was also painfully aware that he was without a man-at-arms to support him. If there werea number of men about the place looking for Mortimer, and one of them found him, not Sir Charles, then he would lose alclass="underline" the chance of revenge for Paul’s murder, and the money that Mortimer’s head would bring. ‘I don’t think it’s sensible to usehired men instead of ourselves. How much would you want to pay them as their share of the bounty?’
‘Let us go and find some food, and then we can discuss it sensibly. I don’t know about you, but this weather feels as chillas a Scottish winter to me.’
‘You go. I’ll wait here until you return.’
‘Do you not think we should consider returning to see the Queen is safe? It would be an enormous embarrassment were she tobe in any danger while we were engaged on this hunt.’
‘My first duty is to my dead man,’ Sir Charles said.
‘Not to your King?’
The coolness with which the question was uttered was enough to make Sir Charles want to whip out his sword and attack thesupercilious bastard right there, but the risk of retribution was enough to stay his hand. Better that he should keep oneman on his side, than that he should lose all. ‘You go and find some food. I shall wander down towards the river and see whether there’s any sign of Mortimer there.’
With an ungracious ‘Very well. Do so, then’, Sir Peter turned abruptly and marched back the way they had come at daybreak.
Sir Charles gritted his teeth and looked all about him. Apart from a couple of lounging, lazy French sons-of-the-devil upto the north in this road, there was no one in sight. One, a man in a light beige or orange jack, glanced in his direction,but there was nothing to remind Sir Charles of Mortimer in his face.
Paul must have seen the bastard. He had been down this way, Sir Charles knew. It was the same direction in which Sir Charleshimself had seen the man. But what was strange was that there were no decent houses down here. A man like him would prefera decent place. Unless he was concealing himself in a mean hovel.
No. That was impossible. Sir Charles wandered southward to the great river, and stood a while eyeing it gloomily. There hadto be somewhere that would appeal more to Mortimer. Looking westward, he watched the small boats and merchant ships that pliedtheir trade along the river here. Their sails concealed much of the view beyond the house of Saint-Lazare. This side of theriver there were plenty of decent houses, though. Especially fronting the shoreline. Perhaps Mortimer had taken one of them- perhaps to remind himself of his time in the Tower. That would be ironic.
Sir Charles might be lucky, though. If he were to walk along all the larger riverside houses, he might come across somethingthat indicated Mortimer had been there.
He spat a curse. There was no point. This damned city was too large. The people here were as numerous as ants in a nest. Howcould he find one man here all on his own?
Paul had.
Well, if Paul could do it, so could Sir Charles. With that new resolve, he turned and found himself face to face with Roger Mortimer and seven men.
‘Good day, Sir Charles. I understand you’ve been looking for me,’ Mortimer said. ‘Congratulations. You have succeeded.’
Chapter Forty-One
‘Baldwin,’ Simon said. ‘We’re going the wrong way.’
Baldwin said nothing. He was keeping his own watch on the sun. They had gone due east to Artois’s house, and from there theyhad been led south, but now they were walking west, back towards the Château de Bois.
‘What are they doing, Baldwin?’
Simon’s question was soon to be answered. They followed a new roadway, turning right and immediately left, and found themselvesat the city gates again. Passing through, they were confronted with the massive white walls of the Louvre.
‘Baldwin!’
It was with a sinking sensation that Baldwin contemplated the beautiful palace. He had ridden past the place many times whenhe was younger, of course. It was one of those royal châteaux that was a pleasure to behold. He had heard that it had beenbuilt in the times of Richard Coeur de Lion, the great English king who had done so much to protect the Holy Land and hisestates of Normandy and Aquitaine, but who had died so young in a foolish affray while laying siege to an irrelevant littlecastle.
This place would have been a more suitable place to attack. It would have taken a master of siegecraft to force the inhabitantsto surrender.
Now they were walking to the main gate. Over the moat, their feet tramping hollowly on the timbers of the bridge, and thenunder the gatehouse itself, where their steps echoed strangely, before entering the main courtyard, where suddenly they were confronted with a loud and raucous blare of noise.
Flags moved gaily overhead, snapping and cracking in the wind, and Baldwin was forced to halt, staring up at the sky, memorisingthe view, desperate for a last sight of open air to keep with him all the while he was confined. Perhaps the next time hesaw the sky, he would be on his way to the scaffold. Would that be Montfaucon, he wondered, or would he be taken to the Templeitself? The Grand Master had been burned on the small isle in the middle of the Seine, the one that lay between the HermitBrethren’s church and the King’s garden.
Artois was frowning, casting a long look at him over his shoulder. ‘Come along, Sir Baldwin. We can’t keep him waiting.’
It was enough to irritate him. There was no need to hurry a man to his death, as though the slow-grinding wheels of bureaucracymustn’t be put to the inconvenience of a moment’s delay. A sharp rejoinder sprang to his lips, but he swallowed. There wasno point in antagonising people. It would only serve to make Simon’s life more difficult. On leaden feet, Baldwin de Furnshillforced himself onward, and climbed the stone steps behind Artois, walking into a large hall. And here, he thought to himself,I shall meet my doom.
‘Your royal highness, may I introduce Sir Baldwin de Furnshill, Keeper of the King’s Peace in England, and honoured adviserto King Edward II.’
It grated. He was being forced to submit to them, while they paid him every sign of respect, as though they seriously intendedto give him some form of honour. Still, as Artois and Simon bowed, he thought he might as well follow suit. He bent at thewaist as though his spine was broken, but still watched the King closely.
The King of France was a tall man, slightly taller than Baldwin himself. Like Edward, he was good-looking, with abundant fair hair and the regular features that were so highly prized amonghis peers. He was clad in silk and velvet, and as they walked in he was standing discussing a falcon with some other men,who looked as though they could well be his falconers. As Artois introduced Baldwin, and then Simon too, the King looked themboth over, and then handed his bird of prey to one of the men and motioned to them to leave.