Dispensation of Death: (Knights Templar 23)

by Michael Jecks

  Clearly it would be no surprise if poor Hugh grew so disenchanted with the treatment she gave him that he turned to drastic methods to remove her. She was the key obstacle to the two men’s happiness. Always there, always a morose reminder of a past life, bringing a sour taste to everything. If only she had kept quiet.

  Quiet? It was not the way of her family. Her father, King Philip IV, was powerful, autocratic and demanding. All his people were terrified of him, and he was ruthless in pursuit of his own interests. It rather looked as though her brother, Charles IV, was built in the same mould. He saw only opportunities for cheating Edward out of his inheritance. Sweet Christ! They were trying to take Guyenne now. He was damned if he would let them do that!

  ‘Sire? Are you all right?’

  He remembered poor Sir Hugh, kneeling on that uncomfortable floor. ‘Stand, my friend. Don’t tell me about Isabella. I do not want to know what you have done. Non!’ And he placed a finger on Hugh’s mouth before he could enunciate his protests. ‘I know you, and I know of what you are capable. Do not deny these things to me. Just love me …’

  Baldwin felt a shiver run down his spine, and then he puffed out his cheeks and shook his head. He was too old for this kind of behaviour.

  ‘Wait till I tell Meg,’ Simon breathed. ‘I’ve seen the King!’

  Baldwin gave a pained smile. ‘Let us wait until we get safely home before thinking about things like that, eh? Bishop – can you tell me how I can get a message to the Queen? And I want to view the body of the lady who died last night. I must know where she is being kept. Also, the body in the hall – we should leave him there until the Coroner has returned and can view him.’

  ‘The hall is needed for the council,’ Stapledon pointed out.

  ‘The law says … ah, but I suppose the King is the embodiment of the law. Well, we shall leave the man there until the Coroner returns, if at all possible. When is the council to begin?’

  ‘Tomorrow is Candlemas. If possible the hall should be free for that, and then the council will begin on the Monday after.’

  Baldwin caught sight of Rob. Suddenly concerned that the boy could open his mouth and get himself into trouble, Baldwin asked him to go and make sure that their horses were being well looked after, and then fetch himself some food, and waited until he had gone before speaking. ‘Very well. Then we must make sure that the Coroner has a chance to view the body today so that it can be tidied away for the festivities tomorrow. Anything else?’

  Kent was frowning. ‘If someone has attempted to kill the Queen once, surely he will make another attempt, since he has failed this first time.’

  ‘He is dead,’ Stapledon pointed out.

  ‘The alleged assassin is,’ Baldwin said. ‘The man who paid him is not. It is possible he may try again.’

  ‘There are some who have plenty of men at their disposal,’ Kent said, with a meaningful look at the door through which the King and Despenser had just left.

  Soon afterwards he stood and left the room, and as Baldwin watched him stride off through the doorway, he was struck with a very dangerous thought: at the time he had assumed that the Earl was thinking of Sir Hugh le Despenser when he said that some fellows had plenty of men at their disposal. But now he wondered whether he had understood him aright – was it possible that he thought the King himself could have tried to have his wife murdered?

  Queen Isabella sat on a small turf bench in her cloister. At her feet were two ladies-in-waiting, Alicia and Cecily, both seated on small cushions against the chill ground. Queen Isabella had demanded a lighted brazier to keep them all warm, and the red-hot coals gleamed and spat in the basket.

  Behind her, she knew Eleanor was resting on a comfortable, low couch.

  Poor, pale, downtrodden Eleanor. This afternoon when she had appeared, the Queen had been tempted to ask her to return to her bedchamber. If she had felt even a particle of sympathy for this woman, she would have done so. But Eleanor was her gaoler, Sir Hugh’s spy. She was the abductor of Isabella’s children. She could no more feel compassion for Eleanor than fly up into the sky.

  At least Eleanor was no threat. If anything, the Queen thought that Eleanor would try to protect her from actual physical assault. She wondered if Eleanor knew just what her husband was capable of. Perhaps she did. There was a set of bruises about her neck that looked like a man’s hand-mark. One on the right of her throat, just under her jaw, four more on the other side. Isabella had seen men’s violence towards women before. She had even experienced it at the hand of her husband. The marks were easily recognisable.

  Perhaps that was why, a short distance behind Eleanor, as though she needed any reminder of the terrible attack last night, there was a man with an enormous polearm standing ready to defend her. Such a shame he hadn’t been there last night for Mabilla.

  There were few places in this palace where Isabella felt she could relax. In the other palaces, her delightful Eltham, or the great castle at Windsor, there were lovely gardens where she could sit and dream. Here she had tried to recreate a little of the splendour of a French garden, with roses climbing and spreading their scent all about, while camomile was sown in among the grasses so that in the summer when she sat, there would be refreshing odours at all times. At this time of year there was little enough to be smelled, but there was still the pleasure of the open air. And yet her pleasure was constricted by the presence of the man behind her and the knowledge that someone had dared to try to execute her.

  So they had found the assassin’s body. The effrontery! The bare-arsed nerve of the man! To clamber in here and try to slay her! But no less shocking was the mind of the man who had put him up to it. Only one could have dared. Only a man who was convinced that he had all power already and that any misdemeanour on his part would be overlooked by his King. Even the risk of ruining his King’s estates in France would not stop a man with the intolerable rapacity of Sir Hugh le Despenser.

  She looked down at her hands. They were palm-uppermost in her lap, and if she lifted them but an inch from her thighs, she knew that they would begin to shake uncontrollably again.

  It was curious, that. As the attack took place, she was utterly calm, as though she knew that no one could possibly harm her – Isabella, a member of the reigning French Royal Family, wife to the English King, mother of princes and princesses. It was intolerable that someone could even think of harming her.

  And yet as soon as the man had turned and fled from Alicia’s bold defence, she had felt her calmness begin to fail her. It started with her right hand, she noticed. A faint trembling at first, which grew. And initially, she had viewed it with simple enquiring interest. It was a peculiar reaction. There was no apparent reason for her hand to behave in this manner. There were no other indications of alarm or concern, she thought. Except then her left hand began to twitch all on its own, and suddenly she thought that it would be very easy to start sobbing. Only she knew full well that were she to do that, it would be enormously difficult to stop. And that sort of behaviour might suit a lowly washerwoman, but it was out of the question for a woman of French royal birth.

  The tears had ceased to threaten; that itself was a blessing. But the trembling had not gone away. She must leave her hands resting at all times just now, in case others saw how fearful she had become. And she would never offer that kind of balm to Despenser’s soul!

  At least his damned assassin was dead.

  Palace of the Bishop of Bath and Wells

  A single horse approaching was never a problem, and Bishop Drokensford only frowned a little as he listened. It was but a short time before the knock came at his door and the messenger was ushered inside.

  ‘My Lord Bishop,’ he said, bowing low.

  ‘You have a message for me?’ The Bishop rose from his chair and set his goblet of wine down upon the table.

  ‘Yes, my Lord,’ the man said, reaching into his little pouch and pulling out a slim cylinder of parchment.

  Taking it, the Bishop saw tha
t the seal was Peter of Oxford’s, and he ripped it off, reading the note inside with haste.

  ‘That is well. You may go and seek refreshment. Tell my steward to give you anything you want until I call for you.’

  ‘My Lord.’

  Drokensford scarcely noticed the man bow his way from the room, he was so engrossed. Peter had the gift of brevity, and his succinct message took only a few words. Assassin dead; Queen’s maid dead left the Bishop without a full understanding. However, there were inferences to be drawn. An assassin had been found and slain, but sadly he had killed a Queen’s maid first. Despenser must be feeling enormously fragile, then. Someone might put two and two together and come up with Sir Hugh’s name. Almost everyone would think him alone capable of such hubris.

  He tapped his reed against his front teeth, considering. The Bishop was not committed to support Sir Hugh any more than he was committed to supporting any other man or woman, but this precipitate attack on the Queen implied to him that Sir Hugh was grown even more arrogant than Drokensford had believed. And it was clear that a man who overstepped the bounds of normal behaviour in so marked a manner could not control his passions. Equally, a man who was not in control of himself would soon fall prey to one of the other men in the court who was seeking power.

  Yes. Perhaps now was the time to consider who could take over the management of the realm once Sir Hugh was gone. There might soon be need of a fresh face.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Tramping boots brought the Queen back to the present. She listened, with her heart fluttering at the thought that it could be men come to destroy her, but then she heard a calm voice speaking, and the confirmation of the guard, and knew that this must be safe.

  Nonetheless, Alicia was on her feet before anyone had entered the garden, and Richard Blaket crossed to stand beside her, glowering ferociously, his polearm at the ready, while even Cecily rose to kneel immediately before Isabella. It was in Blaket that she put her faith, though: no one would pass him to harm his Queen.

  It was Alicia who offered the challenge. ‘You are trespassing on the Queen’s private cloister, lordings – what are you doing here?’

  ‘My name is Sir Baldwin de Furnshill, Lady. I am the Keeper of the King’s Peace in Devon, and I have been asked to learn all I may about the terrible incidents of last night. This is my friend and companion, Simon Puttock. He is a Bailiff to the Abbot of Tavistock, and experienced in seeking felons. We would like to speak with your Lady to learn all we may about last night’s attack.’

  Isabella considered a moment. This man’s voice was reassuring, certainly. She had a good ear for a man’s voice. Many times she felt certain that her assessment of a man was better than almost everybody else’s, because she could hear when there was deceit. ‘Let them come forward so that I may see them,’ she said, and studied the two for a moment as they bowed. ‘Stand up, gentles. I can hardly see your faces when you turn them to the ground, can I? Yes. I like your faces. You may stay.’

  ‘May we speak about the attack, please?’ Baldwin said. He spoke in French, and she looked at him appreciatively.

  ‘You have an excellent accent, m’sieur. What would you like to know? A man sprang out at us, he struck at the lady-in-waiting nearest to him, and then fled. Clearly he was appalled himself by his actions.’

  ‘Did you recognise him?’

  ‘Am I in the habit of consorting with assassins? He was masked, in any case.’

  ‘What kind of mask did he wear?’ Baldwin asked.

  ‘It was leather,’ Cecily interrupted breathlessly. ‘Cuir bouilli, I should think. Shaped in the image of a face with holes for the eyes.’

  Baldwin looked at her, a short, plump young woman with a round face and pleasing green eyes. ‘How was he clad?’

  ‘He had all dark clothing. Nothing black, but all grey or brown, with a dark green gipon.’

  The Queen smiled coolly. ‘Are you here to question my maids as well as me?’

  ‘I apologise, my Lady. Did you see his weapon?’

  ‘A long-bladed knife. You know, like those which the Welsh wear? He had it in his hand before we came along the corridor.’

  ‘I see,’ Baldwin frowned thoughtfully.

  She was a beautiful woman, this princess of France. Her skin was pale and perfect, her eyes clear blue. She was clad in a pelicon, a fur-trimmed mantle that was quite voluminous, making Baldwin wonder how many tunics he would be able to cut from the one item of clothing. At a rough guess he reckoned six.

  Her arm was clearly giving her some pain, for when she moved as she spoke, it made her wince. Baldwin remembered hearing that some years before, maybe ten or so, she had been trapped in a fire when her tent had caught alight, and she had been badly burned. Apparently this was one of those injuries that healed only poorly. However, the aspect of her clothing that struck him more than any other was the almost shameful nature of her bodice – it was cut lower than any he had seen in England before. He was forced to keep his eyes from her décolletage as he spoke to her.

  ‘Could you please take us to the corridor? I should like to see it.’

  ‘Of course. Alicia, you come with us.’

  ‘I shall come too,’ Eleanor said quickly, making an effort to rise from her couch.

  ‘There is no need,’ the Queen said with disarming civility. ‘You were so shocked after last night, you remain here and rest. Cecily, you keep her company. I shall hardly be in danger when Alicia is with me.’

  ‘My Lady, I must insist,’ Eleanor began.

  Baldwin intervened. ‘Madam, I swear I shall bring her straight back here to you as soon as we have made our investigations. I apologise, but I shall wish to speak to you later as well.’

  Isabella smiled sweetly at her gaoler, and strode past the guard to the door that led through to her chambers. She walked along the corridor to the chapel. ‘I was in here, and walked back through this corridor to my bedchamber, and it was here where he attacked. Look, you can yet see the poor woman’s blood on the flags there.’

  Baldwin did not need to touch the washed stones to smell the blood. It had permeated the atmosphere here. Where the Queen indicated, there was a niche in the wall. Just there, a man might hide very efficiently at night when the light in a corridor was invariably dim. The sight affected the Queen, and in the darker light of the corridor she appeared pale.

  ‘My Lady, are you quite well?’ Baldwin asked solicitously, and seeing her unease, he sent Alicia to fetch some wine.

  ‘I will be fine in a moment,’ she muttered as her maid ran along the passageway.

  ‘I am sorry to have brought you back here, my Lady, but it is important that I see where the attack took place. Now, do you have any idea who could have wished to see you murdered? Is there anybody who has been so angry with you that he might have chosen to order a man to kill you?’

  ‘Tell me, my friend. Do you know anything of your country’s politics?’ she enquired with mock-seriousness. Then, seeing his agreement, she gave a slow, weary nod in return. ‘Then you know who is most likely to wish to harm me. Do not expect me to commit petit treason by naming them. You know who they are.’

  Baldwin felt as though a knife was in his own belly and being twisted. Petit treason was the legal term for any form of treason against a Lord – including that of treachery against a husband. It was enough of a clue.

  ‘Thank you for that, madam. And now … just a few more questions. The woman who died – she was …?’

  ‘Her name was Mabilla Aubyn. A pleasant enough child, I think, and a bondswoman to Eleanor de Clare.’

  ‘And she was walking with you?’

  ‘Yes. There were five about me. Two before me, and two behind, with Alicia following at the rear. Mabilla was on my right, Cecily on my left, and Joan behind me on my left, Eleanor on my right. As I say, Alicia was behind us all. When the man appeared, we were all struck with fear, I believe. Mabilla was dead in an instant. Ah – I would be wary of trusting to Cecily’s memory of the
man who attacked us. She fainted away as soon as she saw the man’s knife. Only Alicia showed real courage. She thrust herself between the man and me, even when Joan was screaming and flying back towards the chapel in her terror. Only Alicia will be able to tell you what the man looked like. You must ask her. She must have terrified the fellow – he fled before her.’

  ‘And you were all walking in the dark, or was there light?’

  ‘What a question! Mabilla carried one candle, Alicia another. Why?’

  ‘No matter. I just wondered – would a man assume that you would walk before your servants?’

  ‘Not if they know me and this place, no!’ She need hardly point out that this palace was to her a prison. Alicia returned with a mazer of strong wine, and Isabella drained it.

  ‘Mabilla had a candle, as did Alicia,’ Baldwin noted. ‘Tell me, Alicia, did you recognise the man?’

  ‘If any of us knew the man, we would have denounced him for attacking us, of course!’

  ‘Yes. What of Mabilla? Did she scream, turn to run, make any move to show she recognised this man?’

  ‘We were all screaming, m’sieur. It was late at night and a man had appeared before us with a blade in his hand, ready to strike. Of course we were all scared.’

  ‘Naturally,’ Baldwin said with a mild smile. ‘And now, let me escort you back to your cloister. It is a most pleasant garden you have created there, madam.’

  ‘Thank you. It is a little haven from the storms of political life,’ she said and looked down, for she suddenly realised that her hands were perfectly still. There was no more shaking in them at all.

  As she walked back to her cloister, she mused on the strange calmness which had come over her, but when they were at the gate to her cloister, the shaking came back.

  ‘Ce diable!’

  Baldwin heard her hissed words, and followed the line of her sight. At the far end of the Old Palace Yard he saw Bishop Stapledon.