Dispensation of Death: (Knights Templar 23)
Page 11
‘Sir Hugh, I would discuss matters with you in private,’ the Queen said.
‘My Lady, I would be delighted,’ he lied. Motioning to the chairs, he graciously invited her to sit.
All he wanted just now was time to consider what had happened. Jesus! Jack had never failed before, but this time he’d killed Mabilla instead of the Queen, and Sir Hugh had no idea why. True, the woman was the one whom the Queen wanted removed, and her death was opportune from that point of view, but no one had told bloody Jack to kill her. Although it was a damn good job he had got the wrong victim. Sir Hugh was confused, and confusion made him angry. He wanted to talk to Ellis and see what the fool had done. More than that, he wanted to find Jack, grab him warmly by the throat and both congratulate him and shake the truth from him. How could he have missed the bloody Queen?
‘Sir Hugh, you and I both know that even in a magnificent hall like this there are places where a man might secrete himself and hear all he wished. No. I should prefer that you walk with me in my cloister for a while.’
‘Let me just fetch …’
‘There is no need for a guard in my cloister,’ she interrupted coldly. ‘Besides, I am sure that you would be an adequate defence against any assassin, would you not?’
He had no answer to that. Mutely he followed her as she led the way from the hall and out into the Lesser Hall, thence into her cloister. Eleanor started to follow them, but the Queen stopped and stared at her. ‘You are not required, my Lady. You will remain here.’
Despenser nodded to Eleanor. There was no need for her to join them.
It was a quiet little corner of the palace, this cloister of the Queen’s. He had always imagined that Isabella would have had it decorated in some gaudy colours, for with her French ancestry, she had a love for all fashions. It was not Sir Hugh’s way. He had been raised in the court of King Edward I, and there all things martial tended to be exalted, rather than the vanities of the modern court. But much of that was the responsibility of the King, not his wife.
‘Sir Hugh, you are investigating the murder last night?’
‘Yes. I have men all over the palace to find the culprit, and I am sure that the maid will be avenged.’
‘Are you? I am not so sure. It would be useful, I think, if there was no great effort to locate the guilty man, hein?’
He did not know how to respond to this. Having grown up as the son of a courtier, he understood the dangers of politics better than any other. His man Jack atte Hedge had failed in his original task, but still, he had succeeded in one way. Sir Hugh would like to know why, but the result was beneficial. There was a small line of defence and attack here which he could use to his own advantage.
‘That may not be quite correct, my Lady. Actually, I have already heard that Mabilla had teased a man and flaunted herself at him, but when he tried to respond, she deliberately snubbed him.’
If there was one thing this Queen always adored, it was a salacious rumour. ‘Oh? Who?’
‘I fear I have been told it was Earl Edmund of Kent,’ Sir Hugh said smoothly, lowering his voice. ‘You know how downcast he has been since the ridiculous way he was ejected from Guyenne. Well, I think he grew enamoured of her, and pressed his suit too keenly. She was horrified to see how he had misunderstood her flirting, I think, and refused him. There was a guard who witnessed it all.’
‘Ah. So perhaps I misunderstood, you mean?’ She almost looked as though she was about to laugh. ‘Mabilla’s removal was not your act? In truth, I applaud you, Sir Hugh. You have such skill and wit in the way in which you play with people!’
They parted shortly after that, and it was a curiously contemplative Despenser who entered the small chamber near the Lesser Hall, where he had a parlour. In there he took a seat. Perhaps the Queen was coming round to liking him, after all. There was something renewed in her eyes when she spoke to him – a certain regard, or perhaps respect. She had wanted a sign, and Mabilla’s death was the proof of their pact.
Her manner had definitely changed for the better. Perhaps it was his straightforward approach with her. She could see that here was a strong man with whom she could deal, not some feeble-minded dollypoll who relied solely on bribery and violence, as she might once have believed. It was an odd thought, but perhaps he could collaborate with her, after all. She would be a marvellous ally.
His wife entered just as he was reaching this conclusion, and she stood before him, her breast rising and falling with emotion. Although she was silent, he found her presence enough of a distraction to make him look up.
She was furious. It was in her eyes.
‘Husband!’
‘Eleanor, my love. She didn’t want much – I’ll let you know later.’
‘Husband – was it you?’ she burst out.
‘Eh?’ Despenser was so surprised at her question that he felt unable to answer immediately. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Did you try to have the Queen murdered? Because if you did, you killed my maid Mabilla!’
‘Woman, be quiet,’ he hissed. ‘That is not the kind of accusation I want to hear in here.’
‘And I don’t want to have any more of my maids slaughtered before my eyes!’
‘Madam, you overstretch the mark.’
‘Sir, I will not have any more of my women servants killed.’
His jaw clenched, and then he reached out to her. All his frustration at recent events boiled in his blood. On his feet in a flash, he grabbed her by the throat and spun her around, throwing her against the nearest wall, his fingers tightening.
‘Bitch, you don’t speak to me like that. Ever. And if I hear you talking about me being involved in the death of anyone at all, I shall be seriously unhappy with you. You do not want me to be so angry with you … so be still. You have duties. Go to them!’
She dropped, choking, from his grasp, and almost fell on all fours, but he was heedless of her as he strode back towards the Great Hall. He had other things to consider.
‘Ellis? Ellis!’ he roared. ‘Where in the name of Satan is he?’
Chapter Eleven
Friday, Vigil of Candlemas1
Thorney Island
Richard Blaket was bleary-eyed, weariness battling his fear as he listened to the men talking about the sort of punishment that could be meted out to anyone who held back.
All the guards from last night were down here. The men from the walkways, those from the New Palace Yard, those from the Green Yard, and those from indoors too. First to be grabbed and drawn away was old Archer from the southern wall. The stupid son of a Sheppey goatherd didn’t have the brains he was born with. Every night he was wont to put a pack under his head, wrap himself in a blanket, and snooze his duty away. No one minded too much. All the lads on the walkway said that he was a hopeless old sod, and they might as well let him sleep. He’d only get in their way if he was awake.
But last night, even the alarms and screams hadn’t stirred him. When the castle’s keeper hurried to check all the walkways, he found Arch snoring loudly. Kicking him achieved little. The old git was dead to the world.
Well, he was often pissed. The ale barrels down near the kitchens where the guards had their meals were too tempting for an old soak like him. Richard didn’t know how he made it up the ladder sometimes. Last Sunday, on the Feast of St Julian, he was so hammered he barely reached the walkway, giggling and lurching from side to side. Richard himself had helped him to his post, and as he walked away he heard Arch singing, then the little clatter as he took off his steel cap and placed it between the battlements before lying down to sleep it off.
He wasn’t alone in doing this, but at least the others woke when there was a genuine alarm. Only Arch failed.
The sound of the old fool getting a beating came through the walls perfectly clearly. Arch was being punished for sleeping when a lady was killed and the Queen herself threatened. It was useful for men like Sir Hugh le Despenser to have a focus for their anger, and tonight it was Arch.
Because he was safe from accusations of irresponsibility, Richard was treated as a mere servant, and told to fetch Arch out, take him to the gaol.
‘Oh, Christ’s pains, Arch! What’ve they done to you?’
It was hard to lift the old man. The blood had made his wrists too slick to grip. He lay sobbing on the ground, his chest bared to the freezing stones, scraped and bruised where their fists had thumped at him, trying to beat a confession from him. The frail old man heard his voice, but both eyes were closed, the lids swollen and purpling already.
‘Come on, old friend. Let’s get you up, eh?’
Eventually, by putting his hands under Arch’s armpits, he managed to drag the fellow to a bucket. There he got Arch to sit while he fetched water to clean the worst of the mess away.
‘Why did they do this to me?’ the old man wept.
‘Eh?’
‘I told them all I could,’ Arch choked.
He coughed, spat out a gobbet of bloody phlegm and put a hand on his belly. His breath rasped in his throat, and Richard was sure that Arch’s ribs were broken. They moved too easily with his breathing. ‘Be easy, now,’ he counselled.
‘But why did they do this to me? Why?’ he wheezed.
‘Because you always got drunk before you went on duty – and they knew that. No one was going to protect you when they found you still snoring it off. If you’d been awake you could have raised the alarm, but no – you were asleep, so the killer was able to climb inside the palace. If you had been sober …’
‘But I was sober! Last night, I didn’t drink a drop! You ask at the kitchens! I didn’t have anything last night. I was stone cold sober!’
The Queen walked about her small enclosure with her hands in a little furred stole, a heavy cloak over her shoulders, feeling the gentle tickle of the squirrel fur at her throat and wrists. As she walked, she hummed a melody from her childhood, ‘Orientis Partibus’, a pleasant tune that always lifted her spirits.
Despenser wanted her dead. She’d known that for months. Her husband’s sudden rejection of her had been a terrible shock, a fearful thing. She had seen how others had earned his enmity and been destroyed, utterly, but she had always thought that she was safe from such treatment. She had loved Edward. And he her. Or so she had thought.
But in the last years his behaviour had grown ever more erratic. One favourite was taken from him and slain, and afterwards her loyalty had brought him back to her. She had never failed him. Those years after Gaveston’s death had been lovely. She had possessed him entirely then, and he had even demonstrated his love for her and for their children. But then he had thrown her over for his latest lover.
This second sodomite had taken all his affection. She had tried, she had been as warm and loving to her husband as any woman could be, but his mind was so fixed on the body and person of Despenser that there was nothing left for her or their children. Edward had broken up her household, sent all her friends, companions and servants from her, reduced her to the status of a beggar at his door. It was humiliating!
Milord Despenser was clever, but he had overreached himself.
She had been sure that he was going too far when she had first heard of the threat to her life from Peter, her Chaplain. Bishop Drokensford had many spies, and the news that Despenser might seek her death was shocking. She had not dreamed that he might try such a bold move. Fortunately she had challenged him and his response was clear – he had removed the bitch who had threatened her. But he didn’t realise what he had done.
This action was bound to be bruited abroad, and that would only gain her allies. And meanwhile, her letter begging for aid would soon reach her brother the King of France. News of this attack to her lady-in-waiting would add lustre to her tale.
Eleanor was clever. Witty, good company, and kindly. As a gaoler, one who had ultimate power and authority over Isabella, she was quite amiable. But she was also so easy to read. And to confound. When Isabella wanted to write a letter, she did so. Twice. The first she submitted to Eleanor, while the second she secreted about her person. And then she would demonstrate her need for communication with her Chaplain. Perhaps to confess a little sin, or to demand a Mass. And not the first visit to him, not the second, nor even the third would she do anything, but on the fourth or fifth occasion, she would deem it right, when Eleanor was already tired and fractious, just like her darling little Joan.
Joan. Only three years old and these devils had taken her. She was staying with the Monthermers, Eleanor said, but Isabella did not know how much she could trust her. Mother of God, but she missed her children! Her two youngest, Joan and Eleanor, were together, Lady Eleanor said. Of course Isabella had no way of telling whether that was true or not. She missed her boys, too: John and Edward. The girls had been taken from her by Eleanor and Despenser, while Edward had his own household now he was thirteen and an adult. Not old enough to be able to ignore his father, though. The King would not allow him near his own mother.
Only John remained nearby, under the control of Lady Eleanor Despenser, and she refused to allow Isabella to see him. It was a means of keeping the Queen under control. ‘Behave and I may allow you to see your little son – misbehave and you will not.’ No. She could not trust my Lady Despenser.
Lady Eleanor could be so like her little daughter Joan in some ways. And in others she could be as unpleasant, scheming and mendacious as the wife of Sir Hugh le Despenser would have to be. Well, Isabella could be even more scheming, even more mendacious. Despenser had taken away her life. She had lost children, authority, friends – all that made up her life but breath itself. Soon he would seek to stop that too. But she would prevent him if she may, which was why she had made him aware that she communicated with her brother. Despenser might doubt it, but he would wonder. And meanwhile she would send her messages by means of her Chaplain. When she received the Body of Christ, she could slip a letter into his hand, and Eleanor was none the wiser.
Like last night. The thought that if the assassin had been successful, she would now be dead, that her letter would have been her last, made her shudder. She would make Despenser pay for his actions, she thought, baring her teeth in a feral humour. For every insult, every indignity, every theft. And especially for the proposition. Oh yes. For that, he would suffer the most exquisite agonies she could devise.
The Chaplain looked up as soon as she appeared, and stared behind her to make sure that she was for once alone, before slowly closing an eye in a wink.
Another letter was on its way to her brother.
Baldwin glanced about him with interest, but for him there was far less novelty value. Simon was new to this world, whereas Baldwin had been in London and here to Thorney Island before.
In those days, of course, he had been a man of power and authority, a Knight Templar. On occasion he had been sent here to England to discuss issues with the knights of the London Temple or, more rarely, the English King, Edward I, because it was understood that a knight who spoke the common language of those with whom he was to negotiate would have a greater understanding of the finer points.
That was all a long time ago. Yet he could not but help glancing up along the line of King Street, northwards, to where it met Straunde. Up there, he knew, was the outer wall of the City of London, with the great wall and defences. And just west of it lay the Temple. His heart and soul ached to see it again.
Not today, though. The Bishop was in a hurry to get inside the wall of the Great Hall and begin his discussions. It was no surprise.
Baldwin had been given plenty to think about after his talk with the Bishop of Salisbury.
‘I fear I heard you last night,’ he had said in the morn
ing at Salisbury, while Simon was still asleep.
Martival looked at him, smiling wryly. ‘I dare say most of the servants here heard us arguing the other night.’
‘The Queen suffers greatly, so I have heard.’
‘It is said by some that she could be a traitor.’
‘Only by those who would see her destroyed. Perhaps their actions have made her an enemy to them. But to the King? She has had his children. I refuse to believe that she could be so dishonourable as to be the enemy of their father.’
‘There are examples of other women who have been still more … unnatural.’
‘Bishop, you do not believe that our Queen is capable of such acts any more than I. I heard you, remember.’
Martival had studied him carefully over the rim of his goblet at that. At last he set the drink down. ‘You overheard much that you should not have. But very well – no, I do not. This smacks of politicking, and taking advantage of those who are weak or incapable of defending themselves in order to protect others.’
‘Is it true, that there are moves to annul the marriage?’
Martival pulled a grimace. ‘That is what is said. That the King would seek to have his marriage declared null so that he might seek another wife. Perhaps.’
Baldwin did not rise to that bait. All knew the rumours of the homosexual nature of the King’s relationship with Sir Hugh le Despenser. ‘That would mean that all their issue …’
‘Yes. All the Queen’s children would become bastards. Our own Edward, the Prince of Wales would be disinherited, no more to be considered than the King’s other bastards.’
For all the accusations of homosexuality that had eddied about the King, there was no disputing that he was a virile man. He not only had the four children by Isabella, but all had heard how distraught he had been to hear of the death of Adam, his natural son, while they were on campaign against the Scots some years before.