Dispensation of Death

Chapter Twenty-Six

‘Was that any help?’ Baldwin wondered. ‘I should have liked to take a look at his head, but the poor fellow was terrified.’

Simon was more sanguine. ‘If Alicia’s right, and he didn’t get any drink from anyone, then why would he have a headache? I think Joan was right. I knew a miner once. He was struck on the head by a felon, and he was found out on the moors because he was snoring so heavily. Sometimes a man who’s been knocked out will snore like that. I don’t think it was a rat that Arch heard: I reckon it was someone creeping along the walkway behind him, and who then knocked him down.’

‘The assassin? Unless it was the other killer, the one who killed the assassin,’ Baldwin mused. ‘Who on earth was that, though?’

As he spoke, he was leading the way to the stairs that gave onto the walkway about the inside of the palace walls. After speaking to another guard, Simon and he learned exactly where Arch would have been standing on duty. There was another man there already.

Baldwin explained who they were and asked for the man’s name. He was wary, but gave his name as Will Fletcher, and was helpful enough when he realised that they were only interested in the morning when Arch was found.

‘He was often drunk up here, I know, but I never heard of him still sleeping the next dawn.’

Simon listened as Will said a little about Arch, how he was always scrounging ale and wine, and was looked down upon for his laziness. ‘But he’s no traitor, I’d wager. He’s honest enough in his own way, but he’s too old for this job; at his age he needs a warm fireside rather than a chilly, wet wall like this.’

Simon was peering over the walls at the wetlands beneath. From the look of it, the mud there would be waist-deep. No one could clamber across that without making a row about it and broadcasting his presence to all the guards on the walls. When he looked eastwards, there was only the Thames itself. Even a quiet boat would alert guards. No, Simon was convinced the man hadn’t come from the south wall or the east. Which meant that either he had climbed over the north wall, or the western one. Since there was no point approaching from the north and having to pass all the other guards on their rounds, surely he had come from a nearer post.

Satisfied that his logic was solid, Simon walked to the nearer part of the western wall and peered over into the Abbey’s grounds. ‘What’s happened here?’

‘That? They had a fire there thirty-odd years ago. They’re still trying to clear the ruins and rebuild them.’

Simon could see the ladders and ropes, and, like Ellis before him, knew that this was how the assassin had entered the precinct. He said so.

‘I agree. It is likely,’ Baldwin said. ‘The abbey grounds would be easier to enter than the palace walls by the river. There must be several places to enter the abbey quite easily.’

‘And not even clandestinely,’ Simon noted. ‘A man could have entered the place pretending to be a workman, hidden himself until nightfall, and then climbed up here.’ He drew away from the wall, peered back into the Palace yard. ‘So we can be sure that the man came up here, struck down the guard Arch, and then sneaked into the Queen’s cloister, before perhaps losing his way in his panic following Mabilla’s death, and heading to the Great Hall by accident,’ Simon theorised.

‘Unless he had been paid not to harm the Queen — whom he didn’t approach — but instead to kill another. Eleanor? Cecily? Joan, or Alicia? Or was he meant to kill Mabilla?’

Simon shrugged. ‘Who could have wanted Mabilla dead?’

‘Earl Edmund is the obvious man.’

‘And he is not fond of Despenser.’

‘No. Neither is enamoured of the other,’ Baldwin agreed. ‘Perhaps that has some bearing on the murder.’

Earl Edmund of Kent had been drinking, and seeing the rain falling so steadily outside, he chose to remain indoors with his two henchmen.

Usually he did not bother with guards, especially when he was in the palace grounds, but today he felt jumpy. Sir Hugh le Despenser was a dangerous man at the best of times, but never more so than when he felt himself in a corner — as he must do now. The discovery of the assassin had come as a shock to him, Edmund was sure, and the fact that he lied about knowing him meant little: the Despenser was almost incapable of telling the truth, Edmund knew that. Who else would have considered hiring an assassin to come and murder the Queen? There was no one apart from him who could have been so brazen in their actions.

Mad. Bloody mad. As soon as the Queen died, her brother in France would demand the heads of those responsible, and all knew exactly how much Sir Hugh hated and feared her. He would be the number one suspect.

At that moment, Sir Baldwin and Simon appeared. Seeing the Earl, Simon pointed him out to Sir Baldwin, and the pair crossed the yard towards him.

‘My Lord, would you object to answering some questions?’ the knight asked. ‘As you know, your brother the King has asked us to investigate the murder of the woman Mabilla.’

Simon was eyeing the Earl as Baldwin introduced them, and try as he might, he could not shake the description which Alicia had given them from his mind. She had said young, which was fair enough, but she’d also described a less muscled neck, and shoulders that could not have graced a knight. This man was living proof of his skills with lance and sword. His shoulders were broad as befitted one who trained with weapons every day of his life; his neck was strong enough to hold a man sitting on his head. Still, he could have hired a man to kill the woman, he supposed.

‘If you must,’ the Earl said with a bad grace.

‘We have heard that you knew the woman Mabilla.’

‘Have you?’

‘Is it true that she rejected your advances?’

Earl Edmund coloured with anger. ‘What is that to you? Oh, I forgot, my dear brother told you to investigate this little affair, so naturally you had to come here to me. Well, yes, the brazen little bint did waggle her arse near me once too often, and I succumbed. It was after Christmas, and she was obviously demanding some attention. Christ, you know what some of the bitches can be like. She was on heat, and I was ready. So I chased her out of the hall and into the yard here. It was clear what she wanted, and I was happy enough to supply it. I mean, last year …’

What could he say? That last year hadn’t been his best ever? By the Gospels, that was an understatement. He had been sent out to Guyenne with the King’s host to protect the lands, and then when the French arrived, his military career was shredded. They had the son of the devil himself, Count Valois, there, and that experienced old bastard had trounced Edmund at every turn. There was nothing to do but retreat, and finally Edmund had been surrounded at La Reole. By late September, Charles Valois had conquered all, and Edmund was forced into a humiliating truce.

When he finally returned to England, he had hoped for some sympathy, but no. There was nothing, only contempt for his actions and failings. No one wanted to listen to him or to hear his side of the story. All they cared about, as the King himself had said, was the loss of their lands. Well, so did he!

Mabilla was the only one who ever gave him the time of day during those miserable lonely weeks. She obviously had the hots for him, and he thought she was lovely, although he waited for a signal. And when she seemed to give him the come-on, he rallied, set his lance to the rest and charged.

‘She was a lovely wench, I’ll give her that.’ The Earl sighed heavily. It was dreadful to think she was dead.

‘But she rejected you?’

‘Look, I’m a man, and I’ve had many maids — most willing, some not — and I know when one of them wants to play hide the sausage! She was keen — she made that obvious. And then, when I followed her out from the hall, and tried to grapple with her in the Green Yard, she swore at me, screamed and accused me of rape, God help me!’

Simon said, ‘You’d been drinking?’

‘Oh, you can look at me like that if you want, Bailiff, but you hark to me! That wench knew how to wriggle her arse as she passed by, how to bend just low enough to give me a view of her bubbies, and she would sit so close to me I could hardly put my hand down without resting it on her thighs. That went on for weeks. And then, the first time I gave chase, I got the brush-off and accusations of rape. It was ballocks! Pure ballocks. She’d been drawing me on, and as soon as she had my blood up, she lost interest. She’s damned lucky I didn’t rip her clothes off there and then and give her a good bulling!’

‘Why didn’t you? She deserved it, for being a tease,’ Simon said sarcastically. It was the excuse he had often heard in his own court.

‘I’m no rapist,’ Edmund said hotly. ‘And in any case, if I was found to have done something like that, I’d have had my arse in gaol instantly. My name is no protection — not after last year.’ He said bitterly, ‘Even the King would have been happy to see me, his own brother, out of the way.’

‘Interesting,’ Baldwin said as they walked away. ‘What do you make of that?’

‘The Chaplain told us he thought that there was a gleam in Edmund’s eye towards Mabilla. But surely if he had killed her, he would have denied any flirtation between them. Why should he admit it, and tell us the story straight out like that?’ Simon shrugged. ‘It didn’t seem the act of an ashamed or guilty man.’

‘I agree. Which means that the rest of his tale could also be true. In which case, what was the girl doing, teasing and tormenting a man like him until he felt he had no choice but to bed her? Clearly she did not want that, so why tempt him?’

‘What motive could she have had?’ Simon agreed.

‘I do not know. But it is something I intend to try to understand,’ Baldwin said.

They were almost at the gate to the Green Yard now, but then they heard Baldwin’s name being bellowed, and turned to see a messenger running towards them at full tilt.

Earl Edmund was still at his table when he heard the shouting and saw a rider approaching through the rain. He rode in at full tilt, yanking the reins about as he cleared the gatehouse, so that his beast thrust both forelegs out stiffly; the man was out of the saddle almost before the horse registered that he had stopped.

‘What’s his hurry?’ Earl Edmund wondered aloud.

The man pelted in towards the palace, but before long he was running out again. He grabbed the reins, pulling the horse to a mounting block near the gatehouse, he sprang up into the saddle again, and then sat waiting for someone else.

Men were running about, and two more horses were quickly brought out and saddled. Then Baldwin and Simon hurried over, and in a moment the two and their guide had spurred their mounts and hastened off through the gate, heading west.

Edmund finished up his drink, belched, and wiped his mouth. If they were going, it left much of the palace empty. That was good. It gave him a little time to do a few things himself.

The news that Jack atte Hedge’s lodging had been found gave Baldwin a whole new view on their position. As though this mere snippet of information could protect him and his family, he grabbed at this chance.

Chelchede was the name of the small vill to which the messenger took them. It was one of those places which Baldwin always disliked; built in the loop of the Thames, the area was prone to flooding. It was very damp now, in the middle of the winter, and puddles and mud predominated. The trees which survived were stunted and unhealthful, because of the sodden soil. At least the people looked fit and well. Their diet must include a large quantity of the wild fish that swam in the river, Baldwin guessed.

‘Where is it?’ he asked, and the messenger led the way to a quiet little inn at the far side of the village.

Walking into the single broad chamber, Baldwin was struck by the thought that only very few men could have come here from outside the village itself, and that must be why it had been selected by the assassin. For him it was ideal — secluded, and only a short walk from Thorney Island.

‘Who are you?’

The innkeeper was a portly man called Henry atte Swan, the tavern’s name. He stood at least five feet eight inches tall, and was clad in a tatty linen shirt, a thick jacket of fustian that looked as if it had been made for someone a lot thinner, and a heavy leather apron. He had been brewing when the messenger arrived, apparently.

‘I don’t want to be in here while my wort’s heating. I have to get out there and see to it.’

‘Then you should be attentive and help me quickly so that you can hurry back to it,’ Baldwin said easily.

‘I don’t see how I can help much.’

‘You can begin by telling us about the man who stayed here.’

‘I told him all about the fellow,’ the innkeeper said, jerking a thumb at the messenger at Baldwin’s side.

‘Good. Then you can tell me as well, now you have refreshed your memory,’ Baldwin said, a hint of steel entering his voice.

‘Ach, Mother of Christ, I don’t …’ Then the publican caught sight of Baldwin’s expression and shrugged. There was a barrel near the wall. He walked to it, poured a couple of jugs full and placed them in front of Baldwin and Simon, then fetched another for himself.

He had a ruddy face with watery eyes, and he looked like a dangerous witness to Simon. The Bailiff was all too used to men who would seek money by entering a court and telling fantastical tales of other men. Many believed that all judges wanted to convict men, that any case should be treated neatly: for every crime there should be an equal and corresponding number of felons discovered and gaoled.

If this had been his old courthouse at Lydford, Simon would have looked at this man and instantly doubted him. He looked too much like someone who depended upon the ale he brewed for his opinions. One who was incapable of thought without a large jug in his fist.

However, to be fair, although Henry atte Swan may have enjoyed the results of his brewing, there was nothing in his manner or his delivery to suggest that he was anything other than reliable. There was no hesitation, no ‘humming and hahing’ to indicate invention.

‘His name was Jack atte Hedge,’ he began. ‘I’ve known him for many years. Used to come here to stop fifteen year ago when he was a sailor. Back then, he was in trouble all the while. I had to knock him down once for upsetting a villager. If I hadn’t, he’d have been killed by the locals here. A wild boy, Jack was.’

‘What was a sailor doing here?’ Baldwin asked.

‘Sometimes he’d get into a fight or something, and the master would throw him from the vessel. He had several jobs up and down the river, working with the barges. After some years, he was said to have killed a man and ran away. I heard he went to become an outlaw — I think that was where he met Sir Hugh. That’s what I heard, anyway. He was not the sort of man to talk about such things.’

‘What else did you hear?’

The innkeeper gave Baldwin a long, considering look, then glanced up at the other faces around him. ‘Yeah, well, anyone else here will tell you: I heard he joined ships that preyed on others. Lived out of a port on the South Coast and turned pirate. When Sir Hugh le Despenser took to the seas as well, Jack got hired.’

‘As a perfectly ordinary seaman, I do not doubt,’ Baldwin said mildly. He looked up at the messenger. He did not know whether this man was in Despenser’s pay, but he was sure that, were news of this story to get back to Despenser, it would be dangerous for him, especially after that curious outburst with Ellis earlier. ‘You may wait outside.’

The man left eagerly — which almost persuaded Baldwin that he was wrong to suspect the fellow — but then he concentrated on the innkeeper again. ‘Was he just an ordinary seaman?’ he said in a lower voice.

‘I don’t know. You would have to ask the men down there who knew him. All I do know is, he got a reputation. He certainly knew Despenser. When Sir Hugh was up here in one of his palaces, Jack would come here sometimes. Always had a polite word for me and the missus.’

‘Where did he live?’

‘Now? Don’t know. Somewhere back up the river, I think, because he always came here from the west and went home again that way.’

‘Did he have a mount or walk here?’

‘He used to walk, but this time he rode, and on a magnificent beast, too. Lovely animal.’

‘So he has come into some money?’

‘Well, I don’t think he’s a horse-thief, if that’s what you’re asking.’

‘Quite. So when did he come here?’

‘This last time? It was around the Feast of St Hilary. Hmm. That was the Sunday — I think he got here early on the Monday after, so the morrow.’

‘You sound very sure of that,’ Simon said.

‘Yes, I am. I have a good memory for days.’

There was no guile. Not even offence that Simon had suggested he was lying. Simon nodded, content for the moment.

‘So,’ Baldwin continued, ‘he was here then. What did he do?’

‘That same night he joined a little boat and went for a ride on the river. I know that — I saw him. Then most days he stayed in and kept quiet.’

‘He stayed here in the tavern with you?’

‘No. He wanted to sleep out in the hayloft above the stables. Said he always preferred peace and quiet. Plus he was worried that someone might steal his horse.’

‘Did that not strike you as strange?’

‘No. Why should it? More strange was that he used to come here at all. Unless it was for the value of my company. I never pretended to understand that.’

‘When was he last here?’

‘About the Feast of Michaelmas last year. Then he was here about the Feast of Honorius, too.’ He gave them three other dates in the previous year.

‘This time he has been here two weeks — no, more,’ Baldwin said. ‘Was he usually here so long?’

The innkeeper shook his head slowly. ‘No. But this was unlike other occasions in many ways. Normally, he was never here for more than a couple of evenings, and when he was, he’d stay here and be social. Not this time.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Generally he was here almost all the while during the day and off out at night. He even stayed away for a few nights.’

‘You reported this?’

‘No. He was no felon out robbing, or I’d have heard. What should I have reported?’

‘That a man was known to wander at night. After curfew, that is illegal.’

‘I saw no harm in it.’

‘Then you are a fool.’

‘I don’t deny that, Sir Knight. I am only a lowly tavernkeeper, after all,’ Henry said sarcastically.

‘The night before last. Did you see him then?’

‘That was when he disappeared for good. From what your man said, it’ll be the very last time, eh?’

‘You heard what happened to him?’

‘Of course I have. Everyone hereabouts is talking about how a stranger climbed into the King’s hall and was killed there, and then your man comes here and asks me about Jack. What would you think?’

‘What would he have wanted to do there?’

‘Look — I don’t know what he was up to, but whoever did that, they picked the wrong man. Jack didn’t deserve that sort of treatment. He was a good fellow. He always paid for his rooms and things, always happy to buy an ale for another man. He was a pleasant character.’

‘Really? We have heard it said that he was an assassin, a man who took money to murder others.’

‘I’ve heard of worse. Ha! I’ve had worse in here!’

Baldwin was too astonished to respond. He tried not to gape, but he could not help his expression showing his shock.

‘Oh, come now!’ the innkeeper said with a hint of anger. ‘You know men who have killed. So do I.’

‘Was he a nervous, fretful man?’

‘Jack? Good God, no! He was calm, considerate. The sort of man any would want as a companion for an evening.’

‘But he was a murderer.’

‘You probably have killed men yourself. Are you any different from him?’