Dispensation of Death

Chapter Twenty-Five

Great Hall, Thorney Island

The Coroner made his way to the kitchen, where he learned that the sergeant-cooks could remember nothing about seeing Arch in there on the night of the murder.

‘Yeah, he’s usually here before dark, long before he has to get up to his post, but I think he was knackered after the day before, and he didn’t come down as usual. Not that I remember, anyhow.’

John left the kitchen with a vague feeling that something was beginning to come together into a coherent story. On a whim, he went up to Arch’s post and gazed about him. These walls were solid stone, and stood yards high. When he peered over the top, he shook his head. Anyone throwing a grapnel up here would be heard. If Arch was truly sober, he must have been alerted by the ringing of steel. A man might muffle it with a cloak about the metal, but that held its own dangers, for the metal could miss its mark.

No. He must have been drunk.

Returning across the Old Palace Yard, he saw a guard standing at the gate and recognised him as Blaket.

‘Do you recall anything special about the moon on the night the Queen’s maid died?’

Blaket looked at him blankly. ‘The moon?’

‘Yes. Did it have a halo?’

‘Oh, yes. It was still and cool, and when the clouds cleared late into the evening, there was a great halo about it. That was late, though. About the middle watch.’

‘Was it really?’ Coroner John said to himself. He gazed about him, leaving the guard at his post.

If Arch was awake enough to see the moon that late, then the man couldn’t have been drunk, as had been alleged. He had been knocked down, if his story was to be believed. The assassin must have done that. And then he made his way down to the corridor to kill Mabilla, leaving Arch lying unconscious up on the wall.

Arch was not guilty of dereliction of his duty. He had been tortured for no purpose. But that was of secondary interest just now. John had to see whether he knew any more.

Pilk found himself alone. Sir Hugh had entered the King’s private chamber, and Ellis remained outside the door together with one of the King’s own men, both guarding their masters. It left little for Pilk to do, so he wandered aimlessly along the corridor, then went down the staircase to the ground floor. He was about to leave by the Great Hall’s screens passage, when he heard the voices approaching.

There was nowhere to hide. He could have retraced his steps, but before he could try that, the Bailiff and the knight turned the corner and stood facing him.

‘You are with Despenser, then?’ Baldwin said, eyeing Despenser’s arms on Pilk’s breast.

‘Yes. I am one of his trusted men.’

‘I am sure of it. You look a trustworthy fellow. Tell me, did you know the dead assassin well?’

Pilk curled his lip. ‘No. I hardly knew him at all.’

‘But you did know him?’

‘Jack? Many of us did.’

‘And by “us” you mean?’

Pilk was aware of a sharpness in the knight’s voice. It made him wary. ‘Just people. Nothing more.’

‘You weren’t thinking of any group in particular?’

‘No.’

‘Your name is?’

‘I don’t have to give it you.’

‘No, you don’t. However, if I were to go to your master and tell him how grateful I was for all your help, and the fact you told me that all his household knew the dead assassin … do you think he would be happy? You see, Sir Hugh had already told me he knew nothing about the man. I doubt he will be glad to know you’ve shown him to be a liar.’

Pilk said immediately, ‘Jack was known by some of us, that’s all. Sir Hugh probably never met him.’

‘Don’t lie to me, fellow! I have been lied to by experts, and you are not one of them. What is your name, I asked.’

‘Pilk. William Pilk.’

‘Well, now, William Pilk. What did you know of this assassin?’

‘Nothing. He was just one of those men you see about occasionally.’

‘And when did you last see him?’

‘I don’t know!’

‘Days ago? Weeks? Months?’

‘Weeks, I suppose.’

‘Where?’

‘In the …’

‘In the Temple,’ Baldwin completed for him. ‘And who was there with him?’

‘You ask Sir Hugh. Leave me alone.’

‘Good, Pilk. So it was Sir Hugh, then. And who was Jack supposed to kill?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘The Queen?’

‘No! If I knew anything like that, I’d not have- I’m no traitor, and I won’t have anyone say I am!’

‘Then I must ask you again: who was Jack told to kill?’

‘I don’t know! I wasn’t there.’

‘Where were you?’

Pilk looked at him resentfully. ‘I was with Jack when he first got there, but they sent me off. Didn’t want me listening, I expect.’

‘A shame. Still, perhaps you could still be of use.’

‘Oh, no.’

‘Where were you on the night that the assassin Jack and the woman Mabilla were killed?’

‘Me? I was at the Temple. We all were.’

‘Your entire household?’

‘Yes, probably.’

‘Who was not there — probably?’

Pilk looked at the knight, bitterly angry. ‘Are you like this all the time? I don’t know. The man, Jack — they say he tried to kill Mabilla and died early in the morning. I’d have been asleep, and so would all sensible folk. I don’t know more than that.’

‘You know the palace, though, don’t you?’

‘What palace?’

Baldwin allowed a gentle silkiness to infect his voice. ‘This palace, Pilk. This one in which we stand right now. Do you know the thoroughfares here?’

‘I know a few corridors, if that’s what you mean.’

‘It is precisely what I mean. Can you show us the quickest way from the Great Hall to the Queen’s solar?’

Pilk looked at him and then shrugged. If that was the way to get rid of them … ‘Yeah. If you want.’

With his assistance Baldwin and Simon soon reached the Queen’s cloister. They were led along a passageway with windows that looked out over the river, then up some stairs and down others with enough turns to make even Simon confused.

‘It is easier in the countryside where you can keep an eye on the sun,’ he grumbled.

Pilk said nothing, but his contempt for rural peasants who could not make sense of a simple set of corridors was evident in the look he gave Simon. At the door to the Queen’s chambers, he left them with a scowling pair of guards.

‘We are looking into the murder of the Queen’s lady-in-waiting, on the orders of the King,’ Baldwin said, but the guard shook his head.

‘I’ve been told no one’s to go through here today. If I could, I’d let you pass, Sir Baldwin. I want to know who was responsible for killing Mabilla as much as the next man, but I can’t break my orders.’

‘Could you do the next best thing then, and pass a message through to the ladies inside? We wish to speak with Lady Eleanor and Madam Alicia.’

‘I can try. If you’ll wait here,’ the guard offered, and when Baldwin and Simon agreed to wait, he opened the gate and passed inside.

He was gone some little while, and then the gate opened, and a petite blonde woman came through it.

She was young, with a round face and thinnish lips that could have looked hard, if it were not for her laughing eyes. They were slanted, and the clear blue of cornflowers in the summer. When she looked at Simon, he was convinced that she was a flirt. She had that kind of slightly over-wide eye, an appraising look to her, that spoke of a maid keen on the natural pleasures.

‘I am Alicia. You wanted to speak to my mistress, Lady Eleanor? I am afraid that my Lady received a message this morning advising her against aiding you, gentles. Perhaps it was thought that your interrogation might unsettle her delicate spirits?’

‘Perhaps it was,’ Baldwin agreed. He smiled. ‘I assume you would not suffer in a similar manner, then?’

‘Oh, Sir Knight, I do not think that there is anything a man could do would alarm me overmuch.’

‘I believe you, if all I have heard is true.’

‘You mean the attack when Mabilla died? Yes. That was a dreadful experience.’

‘Can you describe the man?’

‘No. I am afraid I didn’t take much in — I was so shocked and fearful. All of us were.’

Simon frowned. ‘But we heard that you were fine. You stood up to the man boldly enough.’

‘Ah, but I am only a woman, sir. He was a fearsome man, masked and armed. The picture of masculinity and malice. I could not recall anything about him.’

‘You are sure of this?’

She looked up at him with wide, less-than-innocent eyes. ‘But of course, Sir Baldwin. Why, would you like to put me to the test?’

There was a lazy eroticism in the way she spoke, tilting her head and moving ever so slightly, the skirts of her tunic swaying suggestively. And as he coloured, she laughed with genuine delight, walking back through the gate, nodding to the guard, and glancing once over her shoulder at them, before she disappeared.

‘You shouldn’t trust all she says.’

Simon and Baldwin turned to see Joan. She was the lady-in-waiting to the Queen who had fled at the sight of the man, Baldwin recalled. ‘Mistress?’

Unlike Alicia, who appeared fully recovered, Joan had clearly not got over her shock yet. Baldwin supposed that it was natural enough in the circumstances. Sadly, it made almost anything she could tell them largely irrelevant. Baldwin had often found that eyewitnesses were unreliable, but the worst were those like this woman, who had been so terrified that, after a mere glimpse of the scene of horror, she had run away.

‘Alicia says things to spice up her life,’ Joan explained. ‘She likes to flirt, Sir Baldwin.’

‘What would you not trust about her evidence?’

‘She said she did not remember the man? I think she did.’

‘Do you remember what he looked like?’ Simon asked.

‘Of course, sir. He was a little under your height, Sir Baldwin.’ She stepped towards the knight and studied his face. ‘And younger. Much younger. Less of a paunch, I would say, and very light on his feet, like a dancing man.’

‘I thank you for your observations,’ Baldwin said, smiling a little. ‘Why do you think he was younger than me?’

‘You mean because of his little mask? Ah, even in the candlelight there were very few wrinkles or worry-lines about his mouth. And his hair had no hints of grey,’ she added, reaching up to gesture at his own greying temples. ‘And the way he moved, it was plain to me that he was a fit, young man — although he wasn’t a knight.’

‘Oh? How do you know that?’

‘His neck was not so thick and muscled. A knight who is trained to the joust will always have a neck that is built to hold the weight of a tilting helm, will he not? And this man’s shoulders, too, were not so bulky. He was altogether a smaller-framed man than you, Sir Knight.’ She glanced back towards the gate to the garden.

‘His clothing?’

‘He had all grey and brown, except for his gipon. That was different, because although it was not emerald, it was a good, fresh green.’

Sir Baldwin gruffly cleared his throat. ‘Joan, we are keen to learn all we can about the man who entered the palace and was killed. Do you know of anyone who could help us?’

‘There is one, I think,’ she said. ‘Arch, the guard up at the wall, was found the next morning, snoring.’

‘Yes?’

‘It’s said that he’s often up there in the morning, usually snoring because he drinks so much.’

‘What of him?’

Joan shrugged and pulled her mouth into a little moue. ‘I am often sent to fetch wine and ales for my Lady and the other ladies-in-waiting. When I spoke to the steward in the buttery next morning, he said that Arch hadn’t been near the ale that night. He reckoned he must have gone somewhere else. But I wonder whether Arch could have been telling the truth, and had been on the wall as he should have been.’

‘He was a heavy sleeper? He snored?’

‘A man may snore and sleep heavily without ale, Sir Baldwin,’ she said, but there was no cheekiness now. ‘If he is knocked down, he will also snore.’

‘Who would have done that?’

‘An assassin entering the palace clandestinely would want no one to give the alarm, would he?’

Ellis was exercising his brain, an activity to which it had grown unaccustomed, and he was finding his conclusions more confusing than enlightening.

If what he had heard from the discussions between his master and Sir Baldwin were correct, someone had been trying to kill his sister and not the Queen after all. But who could have wanted Mabilla dead? She was a sweet girl, no one’s enemy.

Except the Queen’s, he thought with a start.

And then there was Jack’s death.

The only people who’d known about Jack were him, his master, and Jack himself — and Ellis knew full well that Jack would never have told anyone about his mission. Equally, he knew that he himself had said nothing, and so perhaps the confession from Sir Hugh that he might have given away the plan to Piers was not so wide of the mark.

Piers was a spy. His trade was lying and passing on news to others. Perhaps he had sold Sir Hugh’s plot to someone else. Earl Edmund was his master when he wasn’t with Sir Hugh, so had he mixed his loyalties and found solace in the fact that for once he was acting in some form of good faith by aiding the Earl? The only alternative to that was that the Queen herself had plotted to remove Mabilla.

And surely that was unthinkable.

Simon and Baldwin soon found their way to the gaol. It was down a dank corridor far beneath the King’s chambers, close to the river itself, and as the gaoler opened the door to the cell, Simon was very aware of the great river just a short distance beyond the walls. There was a perpetual trickling, tinkling sound, and it was impossible for him to ignore it. He had never much liked being underground. The thought of the weight of stone and timber overhead was always unpleasant to him, and never more so than here.

There was a scattering of straw on the ground, but not enough. A bucket held some water, brackish and foul from what he could see, and there was a stench of urine and excrement about the place.

Not that the occupant appeared to care. He lay crouched in the far corner, his eyes on them like those of a whipped hound, his arms wrapped about him against the cold.

‘Dear God,’ Baldwin murmured. ‘Are you Arch?’

At first Arch didn’t seem to understand. Simon saw him shake his head and pull his arms tighter, ducking his chin to his breast as though that would hide him from his tormenters.

They had been busy on him. Blood marked him, and mucus and slobber had drawn trails in the filth on his face. His hair was awry, but there was more blood among it, and Simon thought that clumps had been wrenched out. And then he saw the missing fingernails and felt sick.

‘Leave me, masters, please leave me. I know nothing.’

His whine was pathetic. Although his eyes looked towards them, it was plain to Simon that he did not see them. Instead, he saw his tormentors returning to inflict more pain.

Baldwin crouched near him, sniffing at the bucket. Suddenly angry, he stood and would have kicked it over, but for the fact that it would have added to the chilly misery of the cell. Instead he gritted his teeth. Arch, I want to know what happened on the night that the maid was killed.’

‘I’ve told you all …’ Arch was huddled away from them, rocking gently.

‘Not me, my friend. Just tell me: did you see anyone up there on the wall that night?’

‘I was just looking out over the river, and I heard a rat. That was all. But I didn’t have a drink, not that night. I was sober. It was just a rat.’

‘Arch, look at me. What sort of noise?’

‘It was a rat eating at wood. I heard the crunching. You hear them down here. They’re all over the place.’

‘Are you sure you didn’t drink anything? You were still sleeping the next morning.’

‘I was just so tired. And my head hurt.’

‘You had a hangover?’

‘No. My head hurt.’

Baldwin shrugged and glanced up at Simon helplessly.

But Simon was convinced. ‘This headache — is your head sore?’

‘Ach!’ Arch rolled into a ball, his hands gently covering his head. ‘No more, please, no more …’

Patting him gently on the shoulder, Baldwin signalled to Simon that they should go, and leave this poor fellow in peace.