Dispensation of Death: (Knights Templar 23)

by Michael Jecks

  ‘To find the man who killed the assassin and Mabilla, of course.’

  ‘I must find them too, Simon, but I cannot allow the man who seeks the Queen’s death to continue to walk abroad safely, can I?’

  New Palace Yard, Thorney Island

  William Pilk was in the yard as the dribs and drabs of men returned from their searches. Him, he was still angry at the way those two churls had dared to question him. They’d made him feel a fool; moreover, they’d got more from him than he should have given, as he was uncomfortably aware. He kicked a stone disconsolately, wondering how long it would be before they accosted his master and told him what he, William Pilk, had told them about Jack.

  He knew how his master would respond, and he quailed at the thought.

  Sighing heavily, Pilk watched dully as another man rode back into the yard, just as Ellis appeared at the gateway from New Palace Yard out to the Green Yard. Ellis stood peering about deliberately as always, ensuring that the way was clear, before standing aside for Sir Hugh to stride out. There was nothing abnormal about any of this. Sir Hugh always sent Ellis on ahead, and William scarcely gave it all a second glance. Just now, what he was more interested in was how his master would respond to the idea that he had …

  The flash of metal came from the right of the little alehouse, the one which was patronised by the palace guards. That was odd, Pilk thought, despite himself. There shouldn’t be anyone there. The area was used as a general midden, nothing else. All kinds of garbage and trash went out there, along with slops from the old barrels, the solid stuff sinking down and gradually filling the pit dug there for that purpose, the liquids all leaving by the little channel that led through the wall to the spur of the River Tyburn.

  The midden was the sort of place any normal person would avoid if they had any sense. So who could have gone there?

  In that moment he made the connection, and time stopped for him, before he bellowed, ‘’Ware! Archer!’ and threw himself across the yard towards the midden.

  All appeared to happen so slowly. He couldn’t understand afterwards, how those few seconds had seemed to last his lifetime. Every moment was firmly imprinted upon his brain as though seared there with a brand.

  ‘Ellis! Archer!’ he shouted again. And now he saw him – a thin, ferrety fellow with a green gipon and brown hood. He had a small crossbow – and as William hurtled forwards, he saw the bow shudder and the foul bolt fly off. Horrified, William was about to throw himself to the ground, when he realised the thing had already buzzed past his ear like an angry wasp. He imagined it slamming into his body, the point like a bodkin sheathing itself in his breast, the steel tip penetrating bone and shivering it into pieces with the massive shock of the metal and the hardwood shaft. He had seen men hit by bolts, and the wounds were always hideous. Terrifying.

  He was at the midden now, and the man was hurrying away to the right, behind the stables. William kept on slogging forward. His heart was thudding painfully, his head light, his ears hissing and his thighs complaining. It felt as though his whole body must explode with the effort.

  Then he saw the man again. He was climbing hand-over-hand, up a rope towards the wall’s walkway.

  ‘Stop that bastard! He tried to murder my Lord!’ he gasped.

  A guard turned, saw William, then spotted the murderer. He gaped, but only for a moment. Then he was rushing at full speed towards the rope. The killer saw him, made two ineffective lunges upwards to reach the safety of the walkway before the guard, and recognised defeat. Instead, he let himself fall from the rope, hitting the ground hard and rolling. In an instant he was up again, but he was winded. His weapon was beside him on the ground, but he knew there was no time to reload. Instead, he drew his sword, a wicked, dark-bladed weapon.

  William had no time to think. He was closing with the fellow, and as he drew his own sword, an ancient, rusty-bladed one with more nicks in it than a saw, he heard a loud crack and his quarry suddenly fell to his knees. There was a noise like a hatchet striking a log, and he saw the man’s eye erupt with blood as an arrow-point came through it. He toppled over.

  Staring all around, William saw the four archers on the walkway, one with another arrow nocked and ready. Two were gibbering and capering at the destruction their arrows had inflicted.

  William Pilk walked forward slowly, and studied the man. The last arrow had penetrated his skull from behind, the arrow protruding a bloody twelve inches or more from the ruined mess of his eye. Another, the first, had taken him in the thighbone just above the knee and shattered his leg. It was no wonder he had crashed to the ground like that. The other two had both hit him full in the chest, one of them sinking so far into him that not even the fletchings were visible. All the clothyard had gone through him at that range, and was sticking out behind him. The man shivered, and then his right foot twitched with a curious rhythm. It was still doing that when William realised that Ellis had joined him.

  ‘Know who he is?’ Ellis asked.

  ‘My God, no! I’ve never seen him before. Did you see him go down? It was like someone had taken his legs away. Look! He is still moving.’

  ‘Calm down, Will. He’s not the last dead man you’ll see,’ Ellis growled, his eyes up on the walkways. ‘Someone’s going to pay for letting him in with a crossbow. How’d he get in?’

  ‘I just saw the flash over there, and I thought, Why’s someone there in the midden? That was all. And then I knew, see, I knew – so I ran, and—’

  ‘Yes. You did well, Pilk,’ Ellis said with finality.

  A messenger was running to them, and he hailed Ellis.

  ‘Not now, man!’ Ellis snarled at him.

  ‘But, master, I—’

  ‘Are you deaf or just thick?’ Ellis said, and suddenly pirouetted. He took the messenger’s gipon in one hand and hauled the man, squeaking, towards him; Ellis then booted him in the backside and he fell to the ground. ‘Now shut up!’ And he was already making his way back to his master.

  ‘Shit! He’s the stupid one, the bastard!’

  The man’s evident distress forced Pilk from his self-absorption. He reached down to help him up.

  ‘That man obviously wants to see his master dead,’ the messenger said viciously, dusting his uniform down.

  ‘Why’s that then?’

  ‘Because I know something that would be to his benefit.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Why should I tell you?’

  William had not had a good day so far. He was still feeling a little shaky after his sprint and then witnessing the death of the assassin. ‘How about because if you don’t, I’ll break your legs. Or I’ll tell Ellis you held something back from us. He wouldn’t break your legs, though. He’d …’

  ‘Christ’s bones, all right. You’ve made your point, mate! Tell your master this, then: the knight who’s looking into the death of Lady Mabilla and that other man, he’s found out where the assassin came from. He’s found the man’s name and his horse, and the horse has the Despenser’s brand on it. Understand? The knight knows the assassin was one of your master’s men.’

  William nodded. He looked back at the body. The foot had stopped its little dance now, and there was only a tiny movement of a finger, which was unnervingly like a beckoning gesture. It made William feel sick, but then even that stopped. There was another shudder that ran through the man’s frame, and then it seemed to almost sink in upon itself. It was odd, like a pig’s bladder when someone had taken all the air out of it and it slowly collapsed. The man seemed to just – well, end.

  Sir Hugh was calling. Still in a slight daze, William Pilk realised he was being summoned, and he tried to go to his master, but his feet wouldn’t obey. He looked down at them, and it was only with a physical command to his legs that he was able to stumble forward.

  ‘Pilk, you did well. You saved my life.’

  ‘I only did what I …’ He didn’t know how to continue.

  ‘You did it well. I am proud of you. There will be a r
eward for you when you return to the Temple this evening.’

  Even Pilk could see that Sir Hugh was shocked. Usually so urbane and suave, just now he was frigid, like a man holding his breath to stop the shakes taking him over. His attention was not even vaguely directed towards the walls or the possibility of another threat, though. His eyes were fixed on Ellis, Pilk and his other men.

  ‘Does anyone know who he was?’

  ‘No, my Lord,’ said Ellis. ‘I don’t recognise him. Some discontent, I’d guess. Some bastard prickle from the household of Lancaster, or maybe another paid man from Mortimer. Christ knows how many there are would like to see you hurt.’

  ‘Find out where he bloody came from,’ Despenser spat. ‘I don’t pay you for “guesses”, Ellis! I pay you for results. Just now Pilk saved my life and you did nothing. I am unimpressed with that.’

  ‘Master, I —’

  ‘Go and see if anyone else here knows the man. Get that lazy prick the Coroner out here and see what he can achieve. What is he paid for? Where is he? Sweet Jesus!’

  His rage was understandable. Pilk knew that his master, the Despenser, was suffering from the shock. Had it not been for Pilk’s warning, the bolt would have passed through his throat and he would be dead. It was only Pilk’s shout and his quick appreciation of the danger he was in that had saved Sir Hugh’s life. That and Ellis. Ellis had thrown himself in front of his master even as the bolt flew towards them.

  That nasty missile had found its mark in the gate-post to the Green Yard, and Sir Hugh went to it now, touching the hardwood shaft and goose-quill fletchings. ‘Have that taken out and saved for me,’ he ordered the guard standing and gawping at it. ‘I will keep it as a reminder.’

  It was only now that Pilk suddenly recalled what the messenger had said. ‘My Lord Despenser! May I speak?’

  As he repeated what the messenger had told him, relief flooded his entire body. There was now no need for Sir Hugh to learn that Pilk had told Sir Baldwin about Jack. The innkeeper had done so. Yes – Pilk was safe!

  But others were not, not if the expression in Sir Hugh le Despenser’s eyes was anything to go by. William Pilk was inordinately glad to have been the sole bearer of good news today.

  ‘That fucking tavernkeeper?’ Sir Hugh cursed. ‘Right! I’ll have to show my appreciation for all his help, damn his bowels!’

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Bishop of Exeter’s Hall, Straunde

  Simon and Baldwin were late into the Bishop’s hall for the main meal of the day. This was usually eaten late in the afternoon, but today being Sunday and the day after the celebration of Candlemas, there was less food and no meats available for the Bishop’s guests. Neither Simon nor Baldwin felt remotely hungry in any case.

  Baldwin was looking so pale and fretful, most unlike his normal self. Simon had only ever seen him like this once before, when he had been about to ride into a tournament to the death. It had been a similar situation to this: knowing that the likelihood of his surviving was remote, and also knowing that his death would have repercussions for others. On this occasion, those at threat were his own family, and Baldwin had been like a man half-asleep since the full danger of his position was brought home to him.

  The Bishop was already seated. ‘My friends, please join me and try this delicious dish. It is a little pie which my cook has created to tempt my appetite … Sir Baldwin, are you quite well? You look as though you are feeling indisposed.’

  ‘I thank you, I have had a shock today,’ Baldwin said.

  ‘Please – tell me, that I may try to help you.’

  ‘It is not a pleasant tale, my Lord Bishop,’ the knight said sadly, and related all that they had learned.

  The Bishop listened, his eyes almost staring. ‘But this is ridiculous! My friend Sir Hugh would never plot to have the Queen killed!’ he whispered.

  ‘My Lord Bishop, I really would be happier to think that this was conjecture or simple error, but it is not. We saw the horse, we heard from the innkeeper that the guest was this man Jack atte Hedge, and when we left, I asked him to come tomorrow and view the body. He agreed, after some persuasion. I am sure that he will be able to confirm that the body is that of Jack atte Hedge, and then all follows logically: we have the contract, we have the horse, and we have the dates when the man was there. It is plain that Sir Hugh paid this assassin to come and kill Queen Isabella, and that the attempt failed only because someone killed the assassin first.’

  ‘When the King ordered you to seek the killer, did he ask you to learn exactly who had sent him?’

  ‘He asked me to find out who was responsible for the deaths of Mabilla and Jack.’

  ‘Perhaps … I do not mean to make the waters muddier for you, but I do have some experience in political matters, Sir Baldwin. Sometimes the art is to avoid the unwholesome repetition of details which can serve no useful purpose. In your case, I think you are worldly enough to be aware of the risks you take in letting the King know that his favoured companion has planned a peculiarly evil act. Better, perhaps, if that aspect could be avoided, simply not mentioned. Would it really serve any useful purpose? All it could do would be to expose you and your family to danger. Let us not be foolish – Sir Hugh has a dreadful temper, and he has many men at his command. If you embarrass him, it can do you no good, but it will probably not even greatly affect him, because he can deny it all, and the King will probably believe him.’

  ‘The King ordered me to perform a task for him, and you are asking me to be dishonourable?’

  ‘To be dishonourable, you would have to lie. You would apportion blame where it did not truly lie, you would put another man in danger instead of yourself. Those would all be deeply dishonourable acts. To not put yourself and your family in danger, that is logical and sensible. To avoid hurting a man who is so much more powerful than you – that is nothing more than commonsense.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘The indenture you speak of: do you have it safe?’

  Baldwin hesitated, then tapped his breast.

  ‘You carry it with you?’ the Bishop demanded, appalled. ‘And what if you are attacked on the road? There are footpads all about the palace, Sir Baldwin. If not that, it could fall from you and become illegible in a pool of mud, or, or … please, let me have it. I can store it safely.’

  Baldwin and Simon exchanged a look. Simon was happy to allow the Bishop to hold it for them. He had known Bishop Walter for many years. His friend was more reluctant, he saw, but that was perhaps because Baldwin knew how dangerous the scrap of parchment might be. Still, there was force in the Bishop’s arguments, and after a moment, Baldwin passed it to him.

  ‘I will lock this away in my chest tonight.’

  The Bishop continued with his attempts to persuade Baldwin not to tell the King, and as the evening wore on, the knight gradually began to wear a more composed look about him. By the time the Bishop yawned and said he was off to bed, Baldwin was apparently back to his usual affable humour.

  In their bedroom, as they undressed by candlelight, Simon looked over at his friend. ‘Well?’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘Did he convince you with all his arguments?’

  Baldwin crossed his arms and drew his linen shirt over his head. He stood silently, naked, the shirt still dangling in front of him, sleeves held at his wrists. ‘His arguments? I tell you now, Simon. All the while he spoke, all I could see was the look on the Queen’s face when she saw him the other day as we escorted her back to her cloister, and I had to wonder what it really was that lay at the back of his mind. I did not like the conclusion I reached.’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘You remember I told you that the Bishop wished to see the King’s marriage annulled? A man with no scruples might seek a swifter resolution. I am sure that Sir Hugh is ruthless enough for that. I now begin to wonder whether Bishop Walter could himself be an accomplice.’

  New Palace Yard

  Coroner John squatted near the inn and
peered down the length of the yard towards the gate to the Green Yard. Try as he might, he could make little sense of this. He had been told how the Despenser had walked this way, ready to leave the yard and go home, when this second assassin tried to kill him.

  Pensively, the Coroner walked along the dirt and mud to the gatepost where the squared hole showed the place at which the bolt had struck.

  This was all growing just a little too dangerous. It was bad enough that he had been given the job of Coroner to the court, without assassins springing up and trying to kill all and sundry. There were too many demented fools with sharpened lumps of steel dangling at their hips already, in Sir John’s opinion. He would be happier in a world where only those who needed such weapons were given access to them – men such as coroners.

  Not rural knights like this fellow from Furnshill. They were … unreliable. Coroner John wanted only one thing – to clear up this mess and ensure that the King and his Queen were safe. That was all that mattered to him. Because no one, no one at all, was above the law. Not the Coroner, not Sir Hugh le Despenser. But this Furnshill man wasn’t so interested in seeking the truth, Sir John was sure of that.

  There were several reasons for his conviction. The fact that the man had arrived in Bishop Stapledon’s retinue was against him, for the Bishop was known as one of the most self-serving and avaricious of all the King’s advisers – after Sir Hugh himself. Second, Sir Baldwin had obstructed him when he tried to speak to his friend Simon Puttock about his thoughts as they looked over the assassin’s body. Interesting, that. The man had the right idea, too: that one baron could have been making a comment about another. That in itself was interesting enough, but Coroner John had immediately seen that the court’s politics were likely involved. It was hardly a great intellectual leap: there were enough petty disputes at all times, and many involved men who would stop at nothing in pursuit of their own advancement. Men like Despenser.

  Until this latest attack, the coroner had assumed Despenser to have been involved in the two killings. Mabilla’s death was incomprehensible, as was the assassin’s, but John was sure he would learn that they were both to be laid at Despenser’s feet. It was the natural assumption to make whenever Sir Hugh was involved.