The Templar, the Queen and Her Lover

by Michael Jecks

Genres: General Fiction; Medieval; Historical Mysteries

Synopsis

1325: In the gilded cage that is the Palace of Westminster, Isabella, Queen of England, is troubled by court intrigue. Her jealous husband, Edward II, has removed all her privileges, her regal status and even her children. When Isabella is dispatched to France to negotiate peace with the French King, Sir Baldwin de Furnshill travels with her to ensure her safety.

But it seems that no one can be trusted, not least the Queen’s own retinue. Murder, betrayal, adultery and cold, calculating evil are just the beginning of Baldwin’s tempestuous journey into the dark hearts of powerful nations at war with each other.

Release date: February 27, 2014

Publisher: Soundings

Print pages: 512

Sample

This is a great digression from my usual Dartmoor, English-based stories, and perhaps I should say a few words about what
led me to have my friends Simon and Baldwin thrown into the heart of European politics.


As those who have followed the careers of my two characters will already know, I try to base all their adventures in solid
historical fact. Thus many of the stories I have written have been based upon actual murders and felonies in Devon in the
early 1300s. At the same time I have attempted to capture the essence of the way people lived, and how they were affected
by the degenerating national politics over this period.


Making use of people living in ‘real time’, for want of another phrase, has its own problems. It does mean that one must be
cautious that one book doesn’t start before the predecessor ended, for example. It is also important that the larger themes
of political incidents are treated fairly. Those matters which would not have been brought to the attention of rural folk
hundreds of miles away can happily be ignored.


However, in these times, the King made regular use of messengers across his own country and over Europe, who could all travel
thirty to thirty-five miles each day. That means that even Devon would only have been a week or so behind events in London.
We know that monasteries, cathedrals and other religious foundations had extensive networks of communications connecting them
too. If anyone should doubt the ability of medieval man to maintain efficient lines of communication, one need only consider the fact that throughout the Middle Ages it was possible to buy fresh sea fish
anywhere in England. Bearing in mind the trouble that would be involved in moving fish from the coast to places in the Midlands,
it is clear that people were capable of moving swiftly when necessity demanded. And with them would come news – some of it
accurate!


In the year 1325, the most important aspect of politics, internal or international, was the treaty to be signed with the French.
There had been continual haggling over the precise rights of the French king compared with the feudal duties of the English
king for those lands and provinces which happened to be situated in French territory. The initial disputes had been over Normandy
and other parts of the great Angevin empire. By 1325, though, most of these had already been lost by the English, partly because
of their own incompetence, partly due to superior French policy-making. Having the greatest and best-equipped force of men
and cavalry in Christendom was no doubt something of an advantage at the time. It is astonishing to consider that when the
English entered the Hundred Years War a dozen years later, the rest of the world looked in amazement at this upstart little
nation trying to sting the massed ranks of French chivalry. Nobody seriously believed that the English could achieve much
– and that is as true for the English as for anyone else. The English thought they were participating in some small-scale
chevauchées, raids in search of booty, in effect.


When they defeated the French host with tactics refined over years of battling with the Scots, it was a shock to the whole
of Europe. It shouldn’t have been such a surprise, though. The British had a small but experienced army which was used to
fighting on foot, just as the men of Morgarten had been, and those at the ‘Battle of the Golden Spurs’ at Courtrai. At both battles groups of supposedly ignorant and incompetent peasants had destroyed more powerful French armies.


But in 1325 the conflict, the truce, and the negotiations between the English and the French were crucial to the whole period.
Not only because they were to set the stamp on the subsequent suspicion and dislike that existed between English and French
in the run-up to the Hundred Years War, which itself polluted relations between the two countries right up until the Franco-Prussian
wars of the later 1800s, but because at the time this difficult and protracted parley itself helped Mortimer and Isabella
plot their invasion, and gave them a ready source of supporters – the British who had been exiled under the reign of the deplorable
Despenser.


So I am afraid poor Baldwin and Simon, the long-suffering companions, have been thrust into the limelight for this story.
They have been cast into France for their sins, and now must live perilously amid the great forces at work to start a fresh
war.


Some may be surprised by the account of the troubles of the unfortunate Lady Blanche, once princess bride to the man who was
to become Charles IV. Sadly the story is all true.


The affair of the silken purses has been covered in another book1, so I shall not go into detail here. Suffice to say that two royal princesses were shown to be carrying on adulterous affairs
with a pair of brothers. The men were killed, rather horribly, and the women locked up in 1314.


Marguerite, the older of the two, was thought to be more responsible, and was thrown into a freezing cell in the Château Gaillard.
She survived a short while, but the cold and poor diet put paid to her in a matter of months.


The second was Blanche, wife of Charles. She too was thrown into a dungeon at the château.

It is said that she was made pregnant by her gaoler, and gave birth to a child in 1323. A little while before that, while
she was pregnant, her marriage had at last been annulled, and in 1325 (I think – the sources grow a little vague over precise
details) she was allowed to move to the convent abbey of Maubisson. Here she survived only one more year, dying perhaps because
of the damage done to her constitution over the previous eleven years of incarceration.


So – was her gaoler her enthusiastic lover? Did she welcome the attentions of any man, no matter how lowly? Or was there a
plot set in train by the French king or his courtiers to have her proved adulterous so that the Pope would be forced to annul
the marriage? Could someone else have had a similar desire to see the marriage annulled?


I do not know the truth. However, it is all too easy to sit in judgement after some seven hundred years and take the 21st-century
view. What would it be? Well, first that it was shocking that these two women should have been so appallingly treated for
their sexual misdemeanours. Second, that clearly the poor woman in the cell would never have courted the attentions of a mere
castle gaoler.


And yet . . .

These people lived in a different era. The two princesses were guilty not merely of betraying their own husbands. That was
unforgivable enough. But they had committed a vastly worse crime: they had risked the bloodline of the kings of France. So
heinous was their offence that it may have helped kill off the reigning king, Philip IV. Then, because of the women’s behaviour,
their existing children had to be rejected by their fathers (presuming, of course, that the princes involved were the genetic fathers, which was the concern and doubt).


By a sad twist of fate, the princes concerned all proved to be short-lived. By 1328, all had died, and there were no male heirs.
The Capetian line had died out. That led to the election of the first of the Valois kings of France, which itself contributed
to the Hundred Years War, because the English had a claim to the French throne through Isabella. However, the French refused
to consider her and her descendants’ claims. It was not surprising. Edward probably thought of himself as a Frenchman, but
all the French thought him English. They would not have him.


So the adultery of these women was to have far-reaching consequences for hundreds of thousands in the coming century. Perhaps
if they had remained obedient and chaste, European history would have followed a different course. It is an interesting speculation.


Michael Jecks

Northern Dartmoor

April 2007

Sir John de Sapy looked up as the door opened, anticipation lightening a face that had been full of trouble.

The last years had been unspeakable. Christ’s blood, but a man was hard pushed to survive just now. Even friends of the mightiest
in the land could be brought to destruction, the realm was so stretched with treachery and mistrust.

He had been a knight in the King’s household until seven years ago, but then, when Lancaster was in the ascendant, he had
switched allegiance and joined the Earl. Except the Earl had successfully squandered all his advantages, and ended up being
executed by the King his cousin after raising a rebellion.

‘The arse,’ Sapy muttered.

There were few things more surely calculated to irritate Sir John than a man who promised much and then died leaving him in
trouble – and he had been in trouble ever since the damned fool had gone and got himself killed. Sir John had been declared
an outlaw, had had all his livings stolen from him by the King’s men, and now he was without funds, family or prospects. The only hope he had was that his brother, Sir Robert, who was still in the King’s household, might be able
to help him to return to favour.

The door opened again, and for the second time he looked up eagerly, but there were two men hooded and cloaked in the doorway,
not one, and he turned bitterly back to his wine. Robert wouldn’t come. He knew it, really. He’d hoped and prayed that his
brother would forgive him his foolishness in trusting that churl’s hog, Earl Thomas, but how could he? To forgive John would
be to open himself to the accusation of harbouring a traitor. In the years since the battle of Boroughbridge, which saw the
final destruction of Earl Thomas’s host, hundreds of knights and barons up and down the kingdom had been taken and summarily
executed, many of them for minor offences committed on behalf of the Earl. For a man who supported one of the Earl’s followers,
and aided him in hiding, the punishment would be worse.

No, this was pointless. He was wasting his time. His sodding brother could hang himself. John wouldn’t sit here all night
like some beggar seeking alms. If his brother wasn’t going to help him, he’d find someone who would. There were barons in
France who’d welcome the strong arm and ruthlessness Sir John exhibited.

He was setting his hands on the table to push himself up when a hand fell on his shoulder. ‘Brother, stay there.’

‘Robert?’ Sir John was torn between irritation at the lateness of his brother’s arrival, and immense relief that he had come
at last. It made him feel less alone. ‘Who’s this?’

‘This is someone who’s going to assist you, I think,’ Sir Robert said. ‘Meet Father Pierre Clergue. He would like your help.’

‘My help?’

‘Yes, mon sieur. Your help in seeking a heretic!’

The cell was tiny. Like a coffin. And she was sure that, were she not rescued from this hideous half-life soon, it would become
her tomb. A woman of only eight or nine and twenty years, she had already lived long enough. The idea of death was not so
dreadful. It would rescue her from this living horror.

Sometimes she dreamed that she had been to visit this fortress before she had fallen from grace; perhaps she had even stayed
here once, although not down here in the filth and the cold. No – then she had been installed in a great chamber in a lofty
tower that stood high overhead. But if it were true and not some dream that had been sent to torment her, then it was so long
ago it might have been a different life. In those days, she dreamed, she had had servants of her own, maids, rich clothing,
and an entire household to see to her needs. She had been pampered, beautiful – royal.

As a princess, she had lived in great towers and palaces. There had been wonderful food to eat, jewels to decorate her fingers
and throat, carriages drawn by the finest horses. Her clothing was all crimson and velvet lined with fur, shot through with
golden threads, and when she retired to her chamber she could fall on to a bed that had been made for her, the sheets smooth
and soft, the mattress filled with down, while quilts were settled over her to keep the chill away. All who heard her would
submit to her slightest whim. Men desired her; women loved her.

When she fell from grace, Blanche de Burgundy might as well have died.

In many ways she had.

‘Oh, shite!’

Ricard de Bromley ducked as the jug flew past his head and smashed against the lathes behind him. There was a burst of wild
laughter from the front room of the tavern, and he glanced at his companions quickly.

‘What now?’

Adam Trumpeter was in no doubt. ‘We get out of here. There’s no point trying to play to them in there. Listen to them!’

Janin, a tall skinny man in his late twenties who wore his long, greasy dark hair in a thin queue tied with a thong, peered
round the doorway with his amiable face fixed into a look of nervousness. ‘I don’t think we’d be welcomed.’

‘Welcomed?’ Adam was an older man by fifteen years, barrel-chested and with a belly like a sea-going cog’s massive rounded
prow. Under his hood, he scowled, his leathery features lined and wrinkled like an old alaunt’s. ‘They’re likely to rip our
arms off and beat us with the soggy ends.’

Ricard set his jaw and sneaked another look. ‘They said they’d pay us twelve pennies each,’ he said mournfully, his moustache
drooping as though to signal his disconsolation.

At the mention of money, it was Peter the Waferer who pulled the group together, as usual. He was always the one who kept
an eye on the finances and mediated between fights. ‘I’m not giving up on twelve pennies for any number of rowdies,’ he declared.
He took up his tabor, settling a small cudgel on his wrist, bound there by a strip of leather. ‘If they want to stop me, they
can try.’

He marched in, his arrogance settling the noise inside almost as soon as he pushed in with his tabor in one hand, a recorder
in the other. A dexterous man, he could play the two simultaneously. With his tabor, which was one of those smaller ones which
a man could carry with ease, he made a daunting figure, standing there blocking the doorway. With the unconcern of a man who knew that his master would be greatly
displeased were he to be harmed, Peter strode to the farther side of the room and placed his tabor on the floor so that the
royal insignia could be clearly read on his breast. Alone of the band, he was a genuine servant to the King.

The others looked at each other for a moment. Ricard shrugged, then picked up his gittern. ‘Can’t let him get all the money.’

Adam wore a look of resignation on his greying features. ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you,’ he said as he hefted his trumpet.

Last to make his way in was Janin. He tossed his head and sent his long ponytail over his shoulder. Then he squared his narrow
shoulders and followed them inside.

Queen Isabella rose from her prayers and nodded to Peter, her chaplain, before walking from the chapel and making her way
to her chamber.

The weather was foul today. As she glanced out through the tall lancet windows, she could see the rain slashing down into
the turgid waters of the Thames, making the river froth and boil. Certainly not the weather to be going abroad today.

Abroad. There was a word imbued with many meanings. To a peasant it could mean any foreign place – a vill some twenty miles away or a different
kingdom. To her it could mean walking in the garden, perhaps riding with her hounds, or even travelling to her favourite manors
– Eltham or Castle Acre. In truth, she would be happy anywhere just now. If she could only go away, escape this highly decorated
prison that was the palace of Westminster.

When she had first come here, she’d been delighted by it after staying in the Tower of London for a while. That was a fortress,
constructed to keep the London mob subdued, and had the creature comforts of a stable, as far as she was concerned. This palace at Westminster was different; this was built
with comfort in mind.

King Edward I, her husband’s father, had constructed the Queen’s chambers and decorated them to meet Queen Eleanor’s stringent
tastes. Even the other rooms were magnificent. She had heard tell of the King’s Painted Chamber when she was still living
in France, a mere child. All knew of the wonderful paintings that covered the walls of that massive bedchamber.

In truth, the palace here was one of the most marvellous she had ever seen. As daughter of a French king, Isabella could admit
to herself that this place was as glorious as any fortress owned by her brother the king of France. And yet now it was repellent
to her: it was nothing more than a gilded cage in which she might sing or flutter, but from which she could not break free.

She might die here.

As he walked along the great corridors, Roger Mortimer was reminded constantly of how low he had sunk, simply by looking at
the expressions of the men all about him.

There had been times when the idea of coming here would have been so inconceivable that it would have been laughable. Only
three or four years ago he would have deemed such a suggestion to be ridiculous. Ridiculous! The word was a poor tool for
him. It could not convey the depth of feeling he had now, walking behind these squires, hoping to meet with the King.

He hadn’t been here long. When he first fled England, escaping from the Tower under sentence of death for plotting treason,
he had made his way to Normandy. There he’d been able to live for a while without being troubled by his new enemy – England’s king, Edward II, Mortimer’s old friend. Men were sent to seek him in Wales and Ireland, both countries Roger
knew well, and as the days dragged into weeks the King and Despenser both grew distraught.

Mortimer’s concerns were focused on his children, and his dear Joan. When he escaped, King Edward had immediately set to persecute
any of his friends, allies or family who were within reach of his hand. Roger had heard that Joan had been taken from her
home and installed in a royal castle in Yorkshire, and all the men of her household had been removed and made destitute. Most
of his children had fared still worse – his sons thrown into prison, his daughters incarcerated in secure priories, with less
money to live on than a criminal in the Tower.

But there was good fortune. First, he was still alive, and so were they. Then Geoffrey, his third son, had been in France
at the time of his escape, and so had avoided the fate of his siblings. He was the sole heir to Joan’s mother, who had owned
some of the de Lusignan lands, and had very opportunely expired just before Mortimer’s escape, so through Geoffrey Roger had
access to money while he was in France. Then again, the French could see the advantage in pulling the tail of the English
king while they could. Which was good – but Mortimer had no illusions about the longevity of their interest in him. Once the
matter of the Guyenne duchy lands was settled, his usefulness would be over, and his life worth little once more.

His heart’s desire was revenge upon the King and Despenser, and to see his wife and children released from their incarceration.
How he could manage that, though, was the matter which tormented him just now. He had already attempted to assassinate Despenser
and the King by the use of magic, but the sorcerer involved had been betrayed, apparently, by his own assistant, and there
appeared to be no other means of settling the score. Rack his brains though he might, there seemed nothing to be done.

The guards halted and opened the door, and Roger Mortimer entered the long hall of the Louvre, bowing instantly at the sight
of the King.

Like his father, Charles IV was known as ‘the Fair’ already. It was curious to think that the kings of both France and England
should be singularly tall, well formed and handsome, but perhaps it was simply proof of God’s approval of them both. At his
side was a watchful falconer, while nearby was his most trusted adviser, François de Tours.

‘Lord Mortimer. I am grateful that you could come to see me at such short notice.’

‘It is an honour to be summoned, my lord. How may I serve you?’

The King had been studying the cold-eyed killer on his gauntleted wrist, but now he passed the creature back to the falconer
and pulled off the thick leather glove. ‘I am sure I will find a way,’ he said drily. ‘However, for now, I wish to speak of
other matters. You have been most useful to me recently. Your presence has been invaluable in my negotiations with King Edward.
However, soon you may become an embarrassment. You will leave Paris.’

‘Where would you have me go?’

‘You do not question my command?’

‘My king, you are master of your realm. If you tell me I must leave your side, I will obey.’

‘A shame that more of my men do not show the excellent good manners you hold in such abundance,’ the King commented. He beckoned
a servant, who hurried over with a jug and goblet. The man bowed low as he held out the poured wine. King Charles took it
and sipped. ‘Yes. In a little while I think that the Queen my sister will come to negotiate the truce in Guyenne. It would be difficult were you to be here still when that happened.’

Mortimer said nothing. His failed assassination attempt would make his appearance in court rather troublesome. That much was
obvious.

‘There is another matter, though,’ the King said. ‘The Queen, I believe, has been generous towards your good lady?’

The simple mention of his Joan was enough to bring a lump to Mortimer’s breast. His lovely Joan, thrown into a prison for
something that was nothing to do with her. She was innocent, as innocent as his daughters. And they’d all been imprisoned
because the King would only listen to the sly insinuations of that son of a whore, Despenser. ‘Your sister has been most kind,
your highness. She has interceded on my wife’s behalf, I know. I only hope that Joan realises how much she should thank her
highness. Without the Queen’s aid, I do not know what would have become of her.’

‘Perhaps she feels a certain guilt for all that she has caused to happen to other wedded couples,’ the King said with an edge
to his voice.

Gradually, Ricard de Bromley became aware of his surroundings as a fine drizzle fell on his bearded face. He grunted to himself, and
then groaned more loudly as he tried to climb to his feet. ‘Not our best one, boys,’ he muttered.


Beside him was Janin, his body curled into a ball about his vielle. Will prodded at him with a finger. ‘Jan? Are you dead?’

‘How’s my . . . ?’

‘It’s fine. Get up.’

There were some memories of the evening before. Ricard could distinctly recall certain moments – the arrival of a massive
jug of ale, leathern pots provided for the musicians; a great bull of a man standing and singing a song so filthy, so bawdy,
that Ricard had immediately tried to consign it to his memory for use in another venue; the first little fight between some
young apprentices in a corner as they tried to force their way into the tavern and were repulsed; the woman who wandered over
and sat on his knee, intimating that she would be happy to relieve him of some of his money by relieving him. God, yes! She’d
the body of a practised whore, and her smile was as lewd as that of any Winchester Goose, but her accent was odd. Not English, certainly. Called . . . called Thomassia,
that was it! She sounded more like one of the wenches from Guyenne; her husband . . . Shit, her husband was there. Guy . .
.


Feeling jaw, belly, and breast, Ricard was glad to be unable to discern any apparent harm. The man had been angry, but had
not started anything. Even so, that was the point at which his memory of the evening became unclear. And now the only damage
appeared to be his head. That bastard son of a hog who brewed the ale in the Cardinal’s Hat must have mixed something in with
his hops.


Belching, he watched Janin roll over and lie still again, a beatific smile spreading over his face. ‘Wake me when it’s time
to get up.’


‘It is now, and your vielle is underneath you. You’ll break it.’

‘Shite! Shite! Shite! The strings’ll be buggered!’

Janin’s sudden urgent scrabbling to rise to his feet was enough to make Ricard grin to himself again. He gazed about him,
trying to remember how he had come to this closed yard, and where his companions could have got to. The sunlight, grey though
it was, was enough to make him wince. There was a man who had led them here, wasn’t there? Someone from the tavern?


The woman had been foreign. Not happy talking English, from what he could tell. She’d said she was a cook, hadn’t she? Ah,
yes. That was it: she’d been a cook’s maid in a castle, lost her job there when the kitchen staff were all thrown out, and
came over here to London. Bloody foreigners coming over and making all the men regret being already married – she had one
hell of a body on her, though. He could remember that! Lips that could suck the sap from an oak tree, thighs that’d crush
a walnut, bubbies like bladders . . . Ah! Yes!


He wondered sadly how his evening had ended. She wasn’t here now, that was for certain. Suddenly his hand clapped over his
purse, but he could breathe easily. It had not been emptied.


‘Where are we?’ Janin asked plaintively.

‘Good question. We were at the Cardinal’s Hat, which is just off Lombard Street, but this doesn’t look like it.’


Janin nodded, gazing about him. ‘When did we leave the place?’

‘If I could remember that, I might remember when we came here,’ Ricard growled.

‘There was that woman,’ Janin remembered. ‘Her husband turned up.’

‘Yeah, but he didn’t hit me,’ Ricard said absently.

‘Only because the other fellow knocked him down.’

‘Which fellow?’

‘The one behind him. He called the man some name or other and felled him.’

‘Hmm. Good. I think.’ Suddenly he felt nervous. ‘Let’s get going, eh? We have a job to do.’

But Janin had the tail of an idea now, and he was refusing to let it go. ‘That was it, wasn’t it? You had that wench on your
lap, her old man tried to hit you, and someone else hit him, so we drank some more until those bravos appeared.’


‘There are times when talking to you gives me a headache,’ Ricard said. He pulled some timber aside from a pile at one wall,
glancing behind to see whether the others were hiding.


‘What was the man’s name?’

‘Hmm?’

Hearing a rumbling, Ricard peered up towards a low doorway. The door, like the rest of the yard here, was partially hidden
by trash that had heaped up before it, and he had to clear some of it, sweeping it away with his boot, before he could peer
inside.


There, snuggled together, he saw Philip and Adam. A loud snoring seemed to imply that Peter was behind them. As his eyes grew accustomed,
he saw that there was a pair of boots near Adam’s head. Carefully cradled in Adam’s arms was his trumpet.


It gave him a pleasing idea. He took hold of his horn, and licked his lips, then drew a deep breath before blowing a blast
that would have served, so he felt, as the last trump.


Adam’s eyes shot wide and he sat up, looking more like a corpse than ever; Philip tried to sit up, but his greater height
caused his head to slam into the upper lintel of the low door, and his eyes snapped shut with the pain as he bent down to
rest his bruised forehead in his hands. The boots disappeared from view, and Ricard was pleased to hear a complaining whine
from the Waferer.


‘Morning, boys!’ he called with satisfaction.

‘The man? What was his name?’

‘Which man?’

‘The one who felled the woman’s old man. Didn’t you know him?’

‘No. Should I have?’

This was less a yard, more a grubby little alleyway, Ricard considered. Sweet Christ, but his head was bad. His belly felt
as if he’d been drinking a tanner’s brew of dogshit and piss – faugh, he daren’t fart or belch. Both ends felt equally hazardous,
damn his soul if they didn’t.


There was a little mewling cry, and he frowned. It seemed to come from nearby, and he set his head on one side, peering about
him. Bending, he saw a loose slat in the side of another little building – probably a hutch for a dog or a chicken, he thought,
but when he peered inside the figure he could just make out was an entirely different animal.


Père Pierre Clergue was pleased when the man appeared at last. He had been growing a little anxious.

‘Mon sieur, I am glad to see that you were successful. Please, viens! Viens ici!’


He watched the man halt. ‘How do you know I was . . .’

‘You have the . . . the appearance of a man who has done a great thing for the Pope and for his friends. You have done a marvellous thing, mon sieur.’


‘It feels as if I have done a terrible thing.’

‘That is so often the way of things, my friend. Now, no need to tell me more. Let us kneel and pray.’

‘You will hear my confession?’

‘You can tell me anything you wish, but my lips will be sealed, naturally. And I know what I asked of you, so all is