one day humiliate one of them, and in just such a manner as they had done to him so many years ago when he had been no more than a lad, a stupid young boy who had idolized their holiness, their strength, their dedication. Whenever one or more of the supposedly virtuous knights had chanced to appear on the streets of Nottingham where he had lived as a child, he had rushed to watch them ride by on their gleaming horses, imagining the valiant deeds they would perform in the Holy Land, and the infidels they would kill in defence of the pilgrims they protected.
Now his thin lips curled in wry amusement of how feeble-witted he had been to believe the stories that circled the Templars like halos of glory. Holy monks who fought for Christ it was said, but they were no better than mercenary soldiers, lower even, for what they did was not for monetary profit, but for love of their own vanity, and to promulgate their sordid vices. He could still remember the day he had managed to scuttle through the gates into the yard of the Templar preceptory in Nottingham, how he had hidden behind some bales of hay and watched a few of the knights at sword practice. They had seemed like giants to him rather than mere men, wielding flashing blades of light as the swords arced up and down, thrusting, cutting, parrying. So intent on the dazzling display had he been that he had not heard the brown-robed serjeant approach him from behind, nor been aware of his discovery until a hand clad in a gauntlet of leather had clamped down on his shoulder. Then he had been swung from his hiding place and tossed out onto the edge of the practice field as lightly and easily as if he had been a flea thrown from a dog.
“It seems we have an intruder in our midst,” the serjeant had called, and the knights had ceased their swordplay to come and look at Jack, who had crunched himself into a fearful ball at the serjeant’s feet. From his vantage point, too frightened to look up, all he could see were the dusty boots of the men around him, and the hems of their surcoats.
“Is he armed?” one of the knights had asked jocularly. “You had best search him, Eubold. He might be a Saracen in disguise, with a scimitar concealed beneath those rags he is wearing.”
“No, no,” another knight had said. “He is more likely to be one of their eunuchs, come to see how whole men comport themselves.”
Much laughter had followed this, then another knight called, “Perhaps we should see for ourselves. Strip him, Eubold, let us see if he truly has any balls, or if it is as de Limenes says and he has been parted from his manhood.”
Jack had tried to struggle to his feet but the serjeant, Eubold, had dragged him up by the hair of his head and quickly divested him of his tunic and hose, then dangled him by his heels in front of the watching knights.
“It seems, lords, that he still has all the equipment God gave him at birth,” the serjeant had said, laughing along with the rest as he gave Jack a shake that made his head flop and his senses spin in a sickening circle. Even now, he could still hear their laughter and the scorn with which they had jested about his exposed genitals.
“Ah, well,” said the first knight who had spoken. “I did not really suppose he was lacking proof of his manhood, else he would not have been brave enough to sneak in here.”
“What shall I do with him, lords?” the serjeant had asked.
“Throw him on the dung heap,” answered one of the knights lazily. “Or whatever you will, Eubold. Just make sure he is gone from here and knows beyond doubt that he is not to come into the preceptory again.”
The spectacle of his humiliation had now lost the knights’ interest and most of them turned away and resumed their sword practice. The serjeant had tossed Jack into the air, catching him by the shoulders as he fell. Then the soldier carried him to the back of the preceptory and flung him, and his clothes after him, into a pile of pig dung that was heaped outside a pen containing about a dozen of the animals. He had watched in amusement as Jack had tried to scramble to his feet and rescue his clothes, the foul-smelling muck sticking to him more and more with every movement. When he had finally pushed himself clear of the heap of excrement, the serjeant had put his boot to Jack’s bare arse and kicked him all the way to the door of the compound. There the guards that manned the gate had laughed as he had run out into the street, where passersby had first looked in amazement at the naked lad, then backed off as the smell of the ordure reached them. From a distance they had tittered with amusement as he had struggled into his clothes and run all the way home.
To Jack, that day had been branded in his memory and his adoration for the Templars had turned to hatred. It had also marked the beginning of the time when his life went sour. His father, a seller of mediocre quality parchment, had died the very next week, his only legacy to his youngest son an unfinished teaching of the rudiments of his letters. A few days later his stepbrother, older by some ten years, had decided he did not want to bear the cost of feeding the brat his father had sired in old age, and had thrown Jack out of the family home and told him to fend for himself. Hunger had forced Jack to steal, and then steal again, until a narrow escape from being caught while robbing an angry pie merchant had led him to take refuge in the greenwood. Through all those years, and the ones that followed, he had never forgotten the humiliating incident in the Templar preceptory, or the irrational belief that the Order had somehow been the cause of all his misfortune. How many times had he fervently prayed for heaven to give him an opportunity to take his revenge? Now his prayers had been answered and requital was at hand. And, if providence smiled on him further, not only would he have the Templar in his power, but also that thorn in his side, Fulcher. His mouth stretched into a smile as he contemplated such a coup.
Twenty-four
Godfroi De Ournay had not accepted Richard Camville’s invitation to join the armed party that was following in Bascot’s wake. He had given the condition of his horse as an excuse for declining. The animal had indeed become slightly lame on the last leg of the journey from Boston, but Godfroi had checked on him earlier that day and had found the tenderness in his mount’s foreleg almost disappeared. He could, in any case, most probably have secured the loan of a horse from the Camville stables, but had left Richard before his friend could offer one.
The real reason he had refused to accompany the sheriff and his men had been that he had wanted some time alone, to think. Ever since he had spoken to the Templar and had been told of the suspicion that Hubert had been involved in, or had knowledge of, a plot against the king, his mind had been in a whirl. Although he had vociferously denied the charge to the Templar, and to Richard Camville when the sheriff’s son had asked about it, both denials had been a lie. Inwardly he cursed his dead half brother. Hubert had plagued them all his short life, always whining and complaining, and now, even in death, his well-remembered nasal voice threatened the peace of his family. Godfroi got up and replenished the wine cup from which he had been drinking with the contents of a flask kept beside the bed in the small cramped chamber he was sharing with Richard. As he took another swallow of the vintage, Godfroi thought back to the time, some months ago, when Hubert had been on a visit to his mother at the de Tournay manor house in Boston. William Camville had often given the boy leave to go home for a short space- most probably glad to be rid of him for a while-but this time neither he nor his brother Ralph had been aware of Hubert’s presence until it was too late.
They had been ensconced in an upstairs chamber when he had arrived and it was not until Ralph had gone outside to use the garderobe that they had discovered Hubert lingering outside the door. Their half brother had made out that he had just arrived and been preparing to knock when Ralph had opened the door, but both Godfroi and Ralph had wondered afterwards if he had been listening to their conversation. Hubert’s play of innocence had reassured them and they had thought of it no more. But Godfroi was thinking of it now, and cursed his half brother once again.
He got up and strode to the arrow slit high in the wall that served as a window for the chamber. His vantage point looked south, the direction from which King John would come. His thoughts raced, trying to untangle the reason for Hubert’s murder. Had the lad, as he and Ralph had at first suspected, eavesdropped on their conversation and discovered that they were privy to a plan being hatched in the northern part of the kingdom to overthrow John and place Arthur on the throne? If that conversation had been the basis for the barely concealed innuendos Hubert had apparently been so fond of spouting, it was likely that the murderer was someone who had also been party to the plot, and had killed their half brother to still his wagging tongue. If that was so, had Hubert been murdered soon enough, before he had revealed Godfroi and Ralph’s names to any who would betray them?
Godfroi felt cold sweat break out on his brow, from where it dripped and ran into his eyes, as he thought of what his fate would be if the king became aware of their treachery. That the proposed plot had come to nothing
