Dispensation of Death: (Knights Templar 23)

by Michael Jecks

  He rode on, and his guards, three men-at-arms from his personal retinue, kicked their mounts into a canter to keep up with him.

  ‘What was all that about?’ Rob demanded as they hurried after the Bishop.

  ‘He is a man who is suddenly grown aware of his mortality,’ Baldwin said wonderingly. ‘I have never seen it before in him.’

  ‘He’s an old man,’ Simon said unsympathetically. ‘And right now I expect his piles are playing merry hell with him.’

  ‘You are a rough, untutored fellow,’ Baldwin said with a chuckle. ‘But you may well be right.’

  Hall of the Bishop of Bath and Wells, Straunde, London

  It was almost dark when Bishop John of Drokensford heard the horses at his yard, and he sat a moment, his reed still in his hand.

  There were many who felt that same anxiety, he knew. The noise of horses could mean many things, but in these sad times, the common fear was that it might be the King’s men, or perhaps Despenser’s, come to grab someone and take him away. And since the visit of Earl Edmund the other day, he felt more than usually uneasy about the risk of such a visit.

  No one was safe. Even those who did not plot to curb the King’s powers were at risk, because Edward trusted no one. No one but Despenser, and he was a terror: he was scared of no man. And why should he be? He was rich beyond the dreams of most, with a host of men at his beck and call, with the ear of the King, and the ability to do whatsoever he desired. And this complete power had entirely corrupted him and others.

  There were boots on his steps now, and Bishop John leaned back in his chair with a fleeting increase in his heart’s pounding. It made him feel light-headed, as though he had partaken of a vast quantity of wine or ale, and then his mind told him to be calm. There were only a few pairs of boots. If Despenser had learned of the message he had sent to the Queen, he would have come with more men than this.

  ‘My Lord Bishop.’

  ‘My Lord Despenser,’ he said suavely. ‘How can I serve you?’

  Sir Hugh le Despenser looked about him with that reptilian coldness Drokensford recognised so well, and pulled off his gloves as three men behind him entered the room, gazing about them suspiciously. ‘I would welcome an opportunity to discuss some matters with you.’

  ‘Please take a seat,’ the Bishop said drily as Despenser sat. He set his reed aside, glancing down at his notes. His guest was not welcome. ‘I suppose you want to protect yourself against me?’ he said, indicating the men at the back of the hall.

  Despenser gave a half-grunt, half-smile. Turning, he told the men to wait outside. When they were gone, he said directly, ‘We are not friends.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘However, the realm needs all magnates to pull together and discuss what is best for the country and the Crown. Just now, unanimity is crucial in the face of the threat from France.’

  ‘Yes. I can agree with that.’

  Despenser sat back and considered the Bishop for a while. At last he said, ‘The French King demands that King Edward should go to France to pay homage for the lands he holds as vassal to the King.’

  ‘Yes. We all know that.’

  ‘I need hardly say to you how dangerous that could be.’

  ‘You suggest that the French may seek to injure our King?’ Drokensford asked with feigned surprise. That was a subject for open conjecture amongst the Bishops, and he was convinced it must be also for the secular barons.

  There was no humour in Despenser’s face, as there was none in the Bishop’s. Both knew how serious affairs were between the English and French.

  ‘They have already taken the majority of the King’s lands over there, after creating a pretext. That fool, Kent, lost our King his inheritance.’

  ‘I understood that he received no help from here when he should have been able to count upon it,’ Drokensford said mildly.

  ‘There were problems with sending and receiving messages, it is true, but he should have acted on his own initiative.’

  ‘I thought he did.’

  ‘Perhaps. If so, his best was not good enough. His initiative may well have cost us Guyenne.’

  ‘So we are agreed, then,’ the Bishop said. ‘At all costs this rift between the two Crowns must be healed.’

  ‘Exactly. We cannot afford to see relations damaged further.’

  ‘So we must send more ambassadors.’

  Despenser leaned forward. ‘Who, though? You know what they have offered. They want us to send them either the King to make his peace with Charles, or to send his son to make homage. But either could be enormously dangerous. We cannot afford to put them into the hands of this French King.’

  ‘He would give safe conduct, surely?’

  ‘What would that be worth? In God’s name, Bishop, how much would you trust that Frenchman? He has Roger Mortimer of Wigmore still in his household, so they say. The worst traitor who ever threatened an English King, and the French give him a home!’

  ‘Perhaps you think you should go yourself?’

  Despenser looked at him coolly. ‘There is no love between me and the French King. If I were to go, I should be slain, and the cause of peace would not be helped.’

  ‘Then who?’

  ‘There is one: the Queen herself.’

  Drokensford peered at him. The temptation to gape was almost overwhelming, but he refrained. ‘I had thought that you and she did not agree on many matters?’

  ‘To be blunt, I do not like the woman, but she is the sister to the French King, and we must use any lever we may. She could, perhaps, exert some beneficial influence on her brother and save the realm from losing a vast territory.’

  ‘It would surely be a grave humiliation for you?’

  ‘Perhaps, a little. But better that, than a war or the simple loss of so much of our Lord the King’s lands. It must be immensely worrying for him to have this matter drag on so.’

  ‘So what do you ask of me?’

  ‘Two things: that you let your friends know that I would seek to let Queen Isabella go to Paris and negotiate with her brother; and that you support me in parliament when it comes to a debate on the matter. Could you do that?’

  ‘I shall have to consider, but … yes, I am sure I can support you in this.’

  ‘Good! Good. That is what I hoped to hear.’

  He stood, bowed, and strode from the room.

  Picking up his reed again, Drokensford sat for a long while, staring at the door with a mild frown on his face.

  ‘So, my Queen, I hope this shall prove satisfactory for you. I wonder what you intend next, eh, my Lord Despenser?’ he said aloud, quietly, and then he glanced down at his hand. It was trembling like a drunkard’s after missing his morning whet, and as he watched, a gobbet of ink fell from the tip and smudged the parchment beneath. ‘Christ save me from that spawn of the devil,’ he muttered, and crossed himself.

  Salisbury

  Roger Martival, Bishop of Salisbury, could have been a brother to Walter Stapledon of Exeter. Both had the same slight stoop, the same slender frames, and the same intensity of intellect. The key difference between them was in age – where Stapledon was some sixty years old, Martival was only some five-and-thirty, in Simon’s estimation.

  Still, he proved to be a cheerful host, and within a short time of arriving, the whole cavalcade was within the Cathedral’s close, the horses being groomed by a small army of ostlers, the guards taken to a small tavern near the main gatehouse together with Rob, while Baldwin, Simon and the Bishop were escorted to the Bishop’s palace for a meal with their host.

  ‘Only fish, I fear, my friends, but I hope that your appetites may be tempted by the skill of my cook.’

  It was after their meal that the two Bishops chatted for a while, and then Baldwin and Simon were given to understand that there were matters of some delicacy which the two must discuss. Nothing loath, the two friends left them to their deliberations and went to their chamber to sleep.

  Later, much later, Simon found
himself woken. He lay in the pale light of the sickle moon, wondering what it was that had stirred him. There was no sound of rats about the floor, nor in the ceiling overhead. When he glanced across, he could see Baldwin lying on the bed beside him, chest rising gently with his breath, and that sight itself was almost enough to send him back to sleep. If a warrior who had been forced to live on his wits for much of his adult life had not been jerked awake, whatever the noise was, it was probably natural and of no concern.

  Only then did he hear the voices.

  ‘They are doing untold damage to us all!’

  ‘So who would you have in their place?’ Two voices, both raised in anger. The first the Bishop of Salisbury, the second Simon’s friend Walter of Exeter. He had no wish to eavesdrop on them both, but when they shouted at each other, it was impossible not to hear every word.

  Simon could hear Stapledon’s voice, dropped to a murmur now, but insistent. Then there was a moment’s quiet, before Roger Martival burst out: ‘She has had her children taken from her, do you call that rational? … I know, but you say she might force her own children to be traitors to their father? Her husband? … Bishop, do not insult my intelligence! I may be younger than you, but my mind is perfectly able to function. This is not a marital dispute, it is systematic persecution of the lady. She’s had her income taken from her, her properties confiscated, her lands – even her household has been dispersed and all the Frenchmen arrested … Annul the marriage? Could they do that? For expediency? In God’s name, I deny it! Support this? I should rather support a goat as my chaplain!’

  There were more soothing noises then, and the voices calmed, to the extent that Simon could make out little more. He frowned over what he had heard, but it made no sense to him. Ecclesiastical courts occasionally had to consider difficult cases of marriage breakdowns, when the only possible solution appeared to be a divorce, he knew, and he wondered briefly whether they were talking about a couple in the Bishop of Salisbury’s See, but then he shrugged to himself. It was nothing to do with him.

  He rolled over, and would have gone straight to sleep, had he not caught sight of Baldwin.

  The knight was still breathing silently like a man asleep, but now as Simon looked, he saw that Baldwin’s eyes were wide, and frowning with deep contemplation, as though he was struck with a new and terrible thought.

  Chapter Seven

  Saturday, Vigil of the Feast of St Julian1

  Salisbury Cathedral

  The dawn sprang upon them without warning.

  Simon had slept fitfully, his aching muscles only allowing a shallow, unrefreshing rest. In the cold predawn light, he rolled from the bed and grabbed for his clothes, shoulders huddled against the chill as he foraged on the floor in the darkness. Tugging on his underclothes, the material of his shirt felt damp against his flesh as he slipped his tunic over his head, pulled on his thick travelling jerkin of leather and set his sword belt about his waist. With his cloak over the top, draped about him, and his gloved hands holding the two edges together, he began to feel a little more normal.

  ‘You awake?’ he called to Baldwin, but there was no answer, and when he turned to Baldwin’s side of the bed, it was empty and cool to the touch. He had been up some while.

  His friend was in the Bishop’s hall where they had eaten the previous evening. On a large trestle there was a great breakfast laid out, with cold fowls, cuts of beef, and jugs of ale as well as heavy, crusted loaves. Baldwin was seated at the far end with Bishop Roger, and the two looked up as Simon entered. He saw the candle flames glittering in their eyes as they welcomed him, and he smiled in response, but when he took his seat, he was half-convinced that there was a meaningful pause, as though the two had been speaking confidentially on matters of great importance, and his intrusion was unwelcome. Still, the moment passed, and before long they were all discussing the merits of alternative paths onward, before Bishop Walter arrived, and took his own seat next to Martival.

  ‘I trust you slept well, my Lord Bishop?’ Martival said.

  ‘Perfectly, I thank you,’ Walter Stapledon responded, but he kept his eyes away from the other.

  Simon was already on his horse in the greyness before the Bishops were ready to part. They had held a brief Mass for the travellers before beginning the latest stage of their journey, and then Bishop Walter went with Bishop Roger Martival for a few words of private conversation. Baldwin, Simon noticed, was more quiet and reserved than usual, and it gave Simon some pause for thought, but then the Bishop mounted his horse, and the gates to the Close were opened, and they were trotting gently down towards the city gates, waiting for the dawn and the gates’ opening. With the help of a canon from the Bishop’s retinue, a grumpy porter was persuaded to open them a little early, and then they were on the road to London, their horses’ hooves thudding on the muddy roadway. And when they had gone only a short distance, the sun appeared before them, flooding the entire landscape in golden light.

  To Simon it was a surprise. In his experience the sun rose slowly, and the light only gradually washed over the fields and woods. Here, the country was so flat, it seemed to spring up from nowhere. Night became day in an instant.

  ‘You were having a long talk with the Bishop,’ he said when he drew nearer to Baldwin.

  ‘You guessed, old friend? Well, I thought it might be as well to be warned about the political situation in London before we arrived.’

  ‘And what did you learn?’

  Baldwin sighed. ‘There are moves afoot to remove our Queen. That is what we both heard the good Bishops arguing about last night. What I find sad is that it is our own friend who is proposing this action – in order to, as he says, “remove the canker in our King’s household”.’

  ‘He said that of our Queen?’ Simon was appalled. He had always borne great respect for the Bishop. Walter Stapledon had been a heroic figure when he was younger, a man who fought for what he believed to be right at all times, who became Bishop of his Diocese and used his wealth to endow schools and colleges for the benefit of others. He was a great man.

  ‘He said that, I fear, yes. And a great deal more. He said that he desires to see the King’s marriage annulled. I believe that is the reason for his journey to London – to seek a way to remove the Queen.’

  Sunday, Feast of St Julian2

  Thorney Island

  In the chapel of Queen Isabella’s apartments, her Chaplain, Brother Peter of Oxford, was still sweating as he stood, his head bent, before the altar. The fear was with him much of the time now, but rarely so concentrated as today.

  He disliked this charge intensely. Never would he have seen himself as a messenger before, and certainly not one who was working against the interests of the King. If anything, he would have tried to support Edward. But when his Bishop, John of Drokensford, asked him to do something, he was not going to refuse. His Bishop held the powers of patronage, and it was important that he keep him contented.

  As soon as Peter had knelt with his master to hear his Confession, the Bishop had grasped his wrist and whispered urgently.

  ‘It is vital that you let her know this as soon as you can,’ he had said.

  ‘You want me to try to get it to her now?’

  ‘No. You have to wait until there is no suspicion. We have to pray that her enemies will not jump before her next visit to the chapel. Dear God, I only hope that we shall not be too late.’

  That was the trouble about being the Queen’s own Chaplain, Brother Peter thought: it meant that no one trusted him even slightly. Never had there been a court that was so riven by internal politics, or so he reckoned. This place was full of intrigue, and no matter to whom he turned, he knew that, without fail, every word he spoke would be used or at least measured and weighed and recorded, just in case it might, at some point in the future, become useful. And of course there was never an opportunity to see his Queen alone, except at Confession. If he were to ask to see her, it would immediately raise suspicions.

  Wel
l, let them weigh and measure. He was no fool, and he was perfectly content to hold his tongue and only speak when he was sure of his words. If any man chose to try a more physical approach, he’d be ready for him, too.

  The sun was fading already, he saw. This was an awful time of year. The trees over at the riverbank opposite were all denuded of leaves as though dead. To his eye, the whole countryside looked barren. Skeletal boughs thrust upwards, foul and rotten in their nakedness. Even those plants that retained a few leaves were brown at the edges as though they had been touched with a scorching chill. All was disgusting. It reminded him each year of God’s bounty when he looked at this – and he understood the pagan fear that spring might never return. All the peasants felt it, especially as their teeth started to pain them, and the gums to bleed, as the winter scurvy took its toll.

  Not here at court, though. Peter sighed. Spring would come, no matter the outcome of all this plotting. Bishop John had been most insistent that he should come here: he wanted someone in the palace who could listen to the Queen and help her, someone who was above the temptation to take a bribe to see her poisoned. And someone who could maintain certain lines of communication with her.

  Such as delivering little notes.

  They had a system now. When there was something urgent, he would pass it to her praying hands during Communion, and she’d read it with a face like stone, the little slip of paper sitting in her cupped hands as he passed her the bread, taking it back from her as she sipped the wine and concealing it in his little towel. This time in particular, he was impressed with her resolution. Her face did not change. She could have been a housewife reading a missive from her husband directing her not to forget to feed the chickens, for all the impact that note had apparently had upon her. There was little to show how devastating it was.