But here was another attack, and this time it was against the Despenser. Was it possible that this was the third in a series, that the three murderous assaults were all connected? That was something to make a man take note. However, more interesting was the fact that it might mean that Sir Hugh himself was innocent just this once. And someone else was leaving a message for him: Next time we could do this to you, perhaps. Or: Next time, do not hire a killer to do your own dirty work. If he had to gamble, that would be the construction Coroner John would place upon it.
But what an intriguing thought – that Sir Hugh might not have intended that assassin to die; that he was not, just this once, guilty of a murder … but could instead be a potential victim.
An intriguing, and a wonderful thought!
Swan Tavern, Chelchede
Henry was tired out after brewing the latest batch of ales. He lay back in his soft palliasse with his arm about his naked wife, pulling her close. At this time of year, the only way to keep warm was the oldest, and he nuzzled at the nape of her neck until she responded and allowed him to turn her on her back.
His lips had found her breast when the noise of hooves came from outside.
‘What the devil …?’ he muttered.
This late at night there was never usually any sound from outside, other than the occasional owl screeching into the blackness or the murmuring of dozing cattle in their byres. Even the dogs were asleep. His wife had stiffened at the first sound, too, and now she sat up. ‘Who is it, Henry?’
‘Don’t fret, woman. No one you need worry about.’
But as he spoke, he rose and pulled on hosen and a shirt against the freezing cold. He slipped his knife’s thong over his shoulder, the easier to grab it at need, and walked over to the shutters. Pulling one aside, he peered out.
There was a sizeable force of men down there, some gripping torches in their fists, and as he watched, two men came from his stable with Jack’s great horse. ‘Oh, Christ’s knackers!’
‘Henry? What is it?’
‘Despenser’s men.’
That was enough to still her. All knew what that evil bastard was capable of. At least the knight today had said he wouldn’t tell Despenser, and Henry had believed him.
Until now.
A voice from outside shouted up at him. ‘Keeper, open your door. We want ale, and lots of it.’
‘You’ve got your horse back, masters,’ Henry said. ‘I’ll be happy to sell you ale any time, but just now we’re abed.’
‘Bring your wife too. We don’t mind.’
Henry grimaced to himself. He was ready to bet that they wouldn’t. ‘She’s happier to stay up here and sleep.’
‘Just you, then, master keeper. Come down here and let us talk to you. We understand you had a knight here today. We want to know what you told him.’
The man doing the talking was a short, pugnacious-looking fellow, and Henry looked at him a while, debating with himself what the safest course would be. But against a force like this, there was little he could do. He grunted to his wife to slide the timber bar over the bedchamber door when he had left, closed the door behind him, and made his way reluctantly down the stairs.
‘Ah, good man,’ William Pilk said when the door opened. ‘What, your lady not here to serve us?’
‘She will remain in her bed, master,’ Henry said firmly.
‘Nice for her,’ Pilk said, smiling without humour. Then he snapped his fingers, and two men grabbed Henry’s arms. Pilk stepped forward and jerked the knife from about his neck. ‘I think some of my men would like to keep her warm up there, though. She’ll enjoy that, won’t she, eh?’
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Feast of St Gilbert of Sempringham1
Great Hall, Thorney Island
This was not his first meeting in the Great Hall for affairs of great importance to the realm, of course, but this time Sir Hugh le Despenser did not feel the usual lifting of his spirits as he walked in and gazed about him. Instead he was aware of a shrinking sensation, as though expecting at any moment to feel the thud of a bolt strike his spine.
Ever since Jack’s failure and death, all had gone wrong for him. It was one thing to lose an assassin, but to have the target remain to threaten him was highly disagreeable. And dangerous, because he was always open to potential counter-attacks: anyone could get close enough to him to slay him.
But not a jot of nervousness could be shown in here, among all his peers. They would try to capitalise on any sign of weakness immediately.
There were already some thirty or forty barons and prelates gathered there. He nodded without expression at some few. To smile or acknowledge them any more than that might make them think that they ranked higher in his estimation than they did, and he had no need of them or their patronage. No, he was the giver of patronage here.
Look at that man over there – Earl Thomas of Norfolk. He had acquired several manors in recent months, and it had nothing to do with him being the King’s brother. It was because Sir Hugh had seen that keeping the man on side would be more beneficial than not. Occasionally it was best to have a man inside the tent and pissing out, than outside pissing in. Although sometimes it was best just to remove that man altogether. Still, Norfolk had his uses. Unlike his younger brother, the cretinous Kent. He was there, too, standing with that suspicious look in his eyes. Ach, the arrogant prickle made him sick. He was so blown up with his own importance and the affectation of rage at Despenser. Perhaps some time he’d have to get rid of the little prat. A dagger between the ribs could be a wonderful silencer. Sir Hugh had detested him ever since King Edward had given him his earldom. Despenser had expected that for himself, but still, in retrospect it was no great loss. He had much of Wales now, as well as the other little gifts which the King had showered on him.
Yes. He had been fortunate. He had always intended to be rich, and that was the end to which he had bent his mind, but he’d never expected to be able to win such a fabulous position so quickly. It seemed as though Edward only understood how to keep his lovers by giving away his own inheritance to them. Some would say it was simple generosity, but Despenser knew better. It was weakness.
The King was scared that someone could try to remove his Despenser as they had taken his Piers, his lovely Pierrot. Sweet Jesus! And now Edward had been told that, last night, someone had tried to do so.
Sir Hugh smiled grimly to himself, recalling the sight of Pilk rushing forwards, bellowing something incomprehensible, while that useless tub of lard Ellis stood gaping … and then the thrumming through the air as the bolt flashed past, so close it almost felt that the fletchings must cut his temple, and Ellis knocked him to the ground. Christ’s bones, it had left him entirely confused: he scarce knew whether to be furious or shit himself, the bolt had come so near!
At one long side of the hall a series of tables had been set out with cups and horns. Next to these were racks of ale and wine. Sir Hugh beckoned a servant, who nodded, drawing off a pint and hurrying to bring it to Sir Hugh. The strong red wine made his belly warm and he felt a voluptuous shudder run down his back and into his buttocks.
He had thought that no one would dare to stand in his path – not since they’d seen how traitors and those who’d fallen out of favour with the King were likely to be treated. Since Boroughbridge, the King had launched a series of relatiatory attacks against all those responsible, and the ferocity of his revenge had been a lesson to all those who’d ever considered thwarting him.
Hugh le Despenser had been secure in the patronage of the King, unassailable, feared by all. The fact that someone had dared to attack him left him furious – and feeling strangely impotent. His problem was, if people thought others would dare assassinate him … more might take up the challenge.
Which made him still more angry to think of that innkeeper. The man should have come to him, told him about the horse, not gone shooting his mouth off to those other men.
And the knight Baldwin would have to be persu
aded to mind his own business. His investigations into the death of the bitch killed in front of the Queen and Jack’s murder were exercising him a little bit too much. He was starting to poke his nose into affairs that were none of his concern.
Perhaps the fate of the innkeeper would be a lesson to him.
Simon entered the hall with a feeling of awe.
He had grown up knowing rich and powerful men – his father had been steward to the Baron de Courtenay at Okehampton and Tiverton, and it was not as though Simon could be daunted by the sight of a man wearing a coat-of-arms, but as he stood in the entrance to the screens passage, he felt the weight of the authority in that enormous chamber oppressing him. It was as though the wealth and power of the entire realm had accumulated in that one spot. Lords and Earls, Bishops and Archbishops stood in their finery, and Simon was aware only of the shabbiness of his jack and hosen, his stained gipon and worn boots. In this company, he felt as out of place as a nun in a brothel.
‘Can we go home now?’ he whispered to Baldwin.
‘If only that were possible,’ the knight responded. He walked in, glancing back at Simon and beckoning him with a tilt of his head.
Simon took a breath and nodded, walking in. The Bishop was already there, talking to some other churchmen, and Simon bowed as he saw one of them looking his way.
It was then that he saw Despenser. The knight was standing in a small group; to Simon’s eye it was a curiously fawning little assembly. All were clearly trying to win the approbation of the man who scarcely listened to any of them.
Despenser said something, and the men about him turned as one to stare at Simon and Baldwin, and then guffawed with sycophantic laughter. Each, though, was laughing with one eye on Simon, the target of their mirth, while the other eye was on Sir Hugh. In those circles, Simon thought, no one would feel safe. Their backs were always waiting for a metaphorical – or literal – dagger.
Baldwin snapped his fingers at a servant and soon he and Simon had large cups of wine. Baldwin sipped cautiously – he knew that in the past, the King had provided strong wines, and this was no exception. At his side, Simon was similarly careful. He had no desire to make a fool of himself here with the magnates of the realm watching him.
Yet he soon realised that no one was terribly interested in Baldwin and himself. All eyes were on the Despenser, who stood in all his finery, and yet whose face was mottled, like a man who had not slept well. Simon would have said that his features reflected the dissipation of his soul and the repellent arrogance that led him to believe that he could capture, torture, or even murder with impunity.
‘Have you seen his expression?’ Baldwin grunted. ‘Either he is sorely tormented with constipation, or he has something to fear.’
His voice was not quiet enough. A man behind them overheard his words. ‘Sir Knight, you are quite right. Have you not heard about the attack on him last night? As he was leaving the Green Yard, an assassin tried to shoot him with a bolt. The assault failed – just. It was a close thing, though.’
‘Ah. And who was the assassin?’
‘No one recognised him. He wore no arms.’
‘Has he said …’
‘He was struck dumb by three or four arrows. They had to shoot him to keep him from harming others,’ the man shrugged.
Baldwin nodded. No one would be very likely to live after being hit by three clothyard arrows.
‘So that would explain his temper today,’ Simon whispered.
‘Yes. And whoever had the guards silence his attacker ensured that the fellow would never speak about who had hired him to try to kill Despenser,’ Baldwin noted.
There was an excited chattering from the door, and then the room was hushed. A herald entered, slammed his staff on the floor three times and bellowed, ‘My Lords, the King!’
Chapter Thirty
Baldwin nudged Simon as he bowed low, going down on his knee. Simon was unused to court etiquette, and the last thing Baldwin wanted was for his friend to be arrested for a failure of simple manners before the King.
It was many years since Baldwin himself had needed to worry about such things. The last time he had seen the King had been in that small chamber with only a few men about. This was different. A failure of protocol here could result in a painful chastisement, and Baldwin had no desire either to suffer that nor to see Simon do so. He had to remind himself, though, of the rules of such encounters: never look the King in the eye, keep the head bent, always face him: even when leaving the King a man should walk backwards, head bowed, until out of The Presence.
He should have warned Simon, he reflected with irritation.
The King was walking at a stately pace along the hall. He nodded occasionally to those whom he wished to acknowledge: his brothers, a Bishop here or there, and the Despenser.
Sir Hugh was the only man who bowed but did not kneel, Baldwin saw. For some reason that struck him as the most appallingly conceited action of the man. Sir Hugh was clearly so settled in his power that even in public he felt no need to show his respect to the King or the Crown. Instead he walked over to the King and led him to the throne.
There was a ripple that passed through the crowd as the King took his seat, resting his hands on the throne’s arms. At last he lifted a hand, palm uppermost. The men in the hall stood straight once more, and the council was begun.
‘My Lords.’
Baldwin was slightly shocked, for it was not King Edward who was talking, but Despenser, standing beside the throne and reading the King’s words from a parchment.
‘There are matters pertaining to the Crown and the security of the realm which require that you advise me. I am your leader, and have supreme responsibility for the protection of our realm and Crown, doing all necessary to save them with your help, advice and guidance and all your strength. I have never acted without your counsel, and think that I have shown that I have always listened to your advice. I have asked you all here today to discuss matters affecting the realm, and I ask that you all individually speak at your peril to let me know your minds.’
Baldwin felt his own mind wandering. There was a great deal more in a similar vein, telling the assembled men that King Edward wanted their views, point by point, both from the laity and the clergy, and that they should be put in writing too, so that no man could deny his advice later. There would be no covering-up or evasions.
‘My Lords, the King of France has demanded that I go to him to swear allegiance for the provinces which I hold in France as Duke. I wish to hear your thoughts and deliberations.’
One after another, different Lords spoke, and all was quite civil until at last a man near Baldwin cleared his throat and cast a look on all sides.
‘My Lord King, my Lords – we are in this position because the French King illegally and unreasonably began to undermine our King. We all know what’s been going on. Any petitioner who comes to listen to our King’s justice and doesn’t like it can then go to the French King to demand his aid – and King Charles always sides with them against our own courts. And he used that as a pretext to make demands of us. He took our lands by devious and unreasonable means, my Lords, and he will take more. He will take over all our King’s possessions if he can, and none of us will be able to keep our lands. Make no mistake, that is what he intends, my Lords: to remove all our estates, and then, perhaps, to expand over here and take our country as well. At present our King is expected to go to France every few years to swear allegiance to their King for the lands he holds in fief. But if we leave him an opportunity, if he has an excuse, he will eventually be here, sitting there in that throne, demanding allegiance for all our lands.’
At this a Bishop began to shake his head emphatically. ‘That is nonsense, and my Lord of Norfolk knows it! The French King has justified claims upon those who attacked and murdered his officials. He has every right to ask that our King should go to France to give homage. He has done so to other members of the French Royal Family in recent years. Why should this
one be any different?’
Bishop Stapledon had joined Baldwin and Simon, and now he whispered softly, ‘That is Bishop Orleton. He is most unhappy about the recent disputes and wishes for peace.’
‘What of that man?’ Simon asked, nodding towards the first to have spoken.
‘He is the King’s brother, Earl Thomas of Norfolk. He is distressed to think of the damage being done to our lands in France, for if the King should die, they would come to him,’ the Bishop said drily.
Another man had started to speak, and as he subsided, so another took over, and thus the debate rolled about the Great Hall, while the sun moved slowly across the sky and the shadows from the great windows roved across the faces of those present.
The Bishop who had spoken already, Orleton, spoke again, scowling about the room. ‘My Lords, the King has already given homage to this King’s brothers, and to his father. What is so different now? If our King were to go to France, surely Charles of Valois could at last see how he means the French Crown no ill-will, and their friendship could swiftly be renewed.’
Earl Thomas lifted his eyes to the heavens. ‘You mean that, my Lord Bishop? You think that this French King would be satisfied with our Liege’s apology and humble homage? He has Aquitaine already. We have lost Normandy, we have had Guyenne overrun – all on a pretext that will not hold water – while he gives sanctuary and friendship to our most hated enemy, Lord Mortimer. You really think it makes sense for our King to go there under those circumstances?’
‘I think it would be better for our King to be proved honourable!’
‘Honourable!’ the Earl sneered. ‘I suppose you would think any defeat for our King, for our Crown, for our honour, to be preferable to fighting for them.’
Dispensation of Death: (Knights Templar 23) Page 27