Dispensation of Death

Chapter Fifteen

Sir Hugh le Despenser followed the King along the corridors and up the stairs into Edward’s private chamber. From here, in the warm room with the blazing fire, Despenser could see out through the tall, narrow windows over the Thames. Below, vessels of all types and sizes were plying their trade, oars and sails propelling them up- and downriver. In the past he had found the view to be a pleasant, relaxing sight, and he and the King had enjoyed many a evening up here. Not today, though. There was an edge to the King’s expression and his voice.

‘Sir Hugh, that man. Is he competent? I need no more upsets with my wife.’

‘My Lord, I am sure that he is capable, if the good Bishop says so. Bishop Walter is a most wise man.’

‘Meaning you accept no responsibility for anything that goes wrong, eh?’ Edward muttered petulantly. He walked to the window and put an arm up to the thick stone mullion as he stared out. ‘This … this attack, and now a man discovered dead. It is a dreadful day. I have never seen such things, not in my palace. I do not like it and I will not have it!’ He span on his heel and stared at Despenser. ‘Answer me honestly, Hugh. Was it you? Did you instruct an assassin to kill my Isabella?’

‘Me? Good God, my Lord, my King!’ Despenser took the easier option of falling to his knees rather than trying to play the actor in front of him. Edward II was too good an actor himself not to see the signs of falsity; Despenser had learned that long ago. Now he kept his eyes downcast. ‘If I have ever given you cause to doubt my loyalty or integrity, my Lord, take my life now. You know I love you. I would never do anything that could hurt you or harm your marriage. The woman is hard to deal with, I know, but that would be no excuse to have her killed. We need to wait to hear from your envoys to the papal Curia.’

‘And then see about sending her to France,’ the King reminded him. ‘But there she could be even more troublesome.’

‘I am sure the lady means you no ill-will or harm, my Liege.’

‘Are you?’ the King asked rhetorically. ‘You do not see how she looks at me sometimes. I swear, I have never meant her any harm, but …’

He stopped himself. His old friend knew all the secrets of his mind, and there was little point in voicing oft-repeated fears.

When he had married her, it was in truth because he had been told to. There had been no desire to marry her — he had never met the woman. But there was a vital need for the English Royal Family to strengthen its bonds with the French, so a marriage was contracted. He travelled to France as the contract demanded, and there he wedded his wife — and was surprised to learn that he had acquired a beauty.

She was plump, fair, pale-complexioned, and clearly amiable in spirit. All she could do to please him, she attempted. They were both French-speakers, so they were able to communicate easily, although he could not share all with her. He could not tell her of his love for Piers Gaveston. Not that he needed to. His affection for Piers was all too obvious.

That had led to a troubled early stage in their marriage, but if it was hard for both, they persevered, and he was inordinately glad that this was the case, for when certain barons captured Piers and murdered him, paying two local men, both dregs of the kennel, to run him through with a lance then hack off his head, the only person he felt he could truly trust and go to for consolation was his wife. His royal lady, Isabella.

At that time their marriage flowered into full friendship. He found that possessing a woman with an individual mind could be stimulating. She had a different perception of some matters, and her viewpoint was intriguing. For him, of course, ruling was tedious and dull. He wanted none of it. He wanted to be out, doing things, not sitting in a draughty hall dispensing justice or listening to the complaints of the petitioners who came to moan and whine about his barons and what they had done. It was nothing to him. No, better by far to delegate all powers and responsibilities, as he had with Piers. And then he could do what his soul demanded, trying out peasant skills such as hedging, ditching, thatching, or going for long swims to keep himself exercised, and watching plays. He always adored the arts.

But like all the other happy times for him, this could not last. Isabella took against Sir Hugh from the start. What had he ever done to her, to merit her enmity? God’s name, but a man had to wonder sometimes at how a woman’s mind worked. Here was Hugh, determined to do all in his power to help the King, and yes, of course, he would be rewarded — richly rewarded — for that. But what business was that of hers? None. No, but there she was declaring that a third person had come between her and her husband. Well, Hugh, darling Hugh, was an important part of Edward’s life, and she ought to recognise that. She was only his wife, and she had no right to demand more of his time than she had already taken. She had four children, for God’s sake. What more could a woman ask?

It was no surprise that Edward was more keen to run to the comforting arms of his lover than stay with his wife.

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 that 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.