Dispensation of Death

Chapter Eleven

Friday, Vigil of Candlemas¹

Thorney Island

Richard Blaket was bleary-eyed, weariness battling his fear as he listened to the men talking about the sort of punishment that could be meted out to anyone who held back.

All the guards from last night were down here. The men from the walkways, those from the New Palace Yard, those from the Green Yard, and those from indoors too. First to be grabbed and drawn away was old Archer from the southern wall. The stupid son of a Sheppey goatherd didn’t have the brains he was born with. Every night he was wont to put a pack under his head, wrap himself in a blanket, and snooze his duty away. No one minded too much. All the lads on the walkway said that he was a hopeless old sod, and they might as well let him sleep. He’d only get in their way if he was awake.

But last night, even the alarms and screams hadn’t stirred him. When the castle’s keeper hurried to check all the walkways, he found Arch snoring loudly. Kicking him achieved little. The old git was dead to the world.

Well, he was often pissed. The ale barrels down near the kitchens where the guards had their meals were too tempting for an old soak like him. Richard didn’t know how he made it up the ladder sometimes. Last Sunday, on the Feast of St Julian, he was so hammered he barely reached the walkway, giggling and lurching from side to side. Richard himself had helped him to his post, and as he walked away he heard Arch singing, then the little clatter as he took off his steel cap and placed it between the battlements before lying down to sleep it off.

He wasn’t alone in doing this, but at least the others woke when there was a genuine alarm. Only Arch failed.

The sound of the old fool getting a beating came through the walls perfectly clearly. Arch was being punished for sleeping when a lady was killed and the Queen herself threatened. It was useful for men like Sir Hugh le Despenser to have a focus for their anger, and tonight it was Arch.

Richard himself was one of the few who were in the clear, since he hadn’t been on the walkways last night. He had been indoors, and was one of the first at the scene when Lady Eleanor screamed for aid. It was Richard who arrived and stood over the ladies until another party arrived and helped take them back to their chambers.

Because he was safe from accusations of irresponsibility, Richard was treated as a mere servant, and told to fetch Arch out, take him to the gaol.

‘Oh, Christ’s pains, Arch! What’ve they done to you?’

It was hard to lift the old man. The blood had made his wrists too slick to grip. He lay sobbing on the ground, his chest bared to the freezing stones, scraped and bruised where their fists had thumped at him, trying to beat a confession from him. The frail old man heard his voice, but both eyes were closed, the lids swollen and purpling already.

‘Come on, old friend. Let’s get you up, eh?’

Eventually, by putting his hands under Arch’s armpits, he managed to drag the fellow to a bucket. There he got Arch to sit while he fetched water to clean the worst of the mess away.

‘Why did they do this to me?’ the old man wept.

‘Eh?’

‘I told them all I could,’ Arch choked.

He coughed, spat out a gobbet of bloody phlegm and put a hand on his belly. His breath rasped in his throat, and Richard was sure that Arch’s ribs were broken. They moved too easily with his breathing. ‘Be easy, now,’ he counselled.

‘But why did they do this to me? Why?’ he wheezed.

‘Because you always got drunk before you went on duty — and they knew that. No one was going to protect you when they found you still snoring it off. If you’d been awake you could have raised the alarm, but no — you were asleep, so the killer was able to climb inside the palace. If you had been sober …’

‘But I was sober! Last night, I didn’t drink a drop! You ask at the kitchens! I didn’t have anything last night. I was stone cold sober!’

The Queen walked about her small enclosure with her hands in a little furred stole, a heavy cloak over her shoulders, feeling the gentle tickle of the squirrel fur at her throat and wrists. As she walked, she hummed a melody from her childhood, ‘Orientis Partibus’, a pleasant tune that always lifted her spirits.

Despenser wanted her dead. She’d known that for months. Her husband’s sudden rejection of her had been a terrible shock, a fearful thing. She had seen how others had earned his enmity and been destroyed, utterly, but she had always thought that she was safe from such treatment. She had loved Edward. And he her. Or so she had thought.

But in the last years his behaviour had grown ever more erratic. One favourite was taken from him and slain, and afterwards her loyalty had brought him back to her. She had never failed him. Those years after Gaveston’s death had been lovely. She had possessed him entirely then, and he had even demonstrated his love for her and for their children. But then he had thrown her over for his latest lover.

This second sodomite had taken all his affection. She had tried, she had been as warm and loving to her husband as any woman could be, but his mind was so fixed on the body and person of Despenser that there was nothing left for her or their children. Edward had broken up her household, sent all her friends, companions and servants from her, reduced her to the status of a beggar at his door. It was humiliating!

Milord Despenser was clever, but he had overreached himself.

She had been sure that he was going too far when she had first heard of the threat to her life from Peter, her Chaplain. Bishop Drokensford had many spies, and the news that Despenser might seek her death was shocking. She had not dreamed that he might try such a bold move. Fortunately she had challenged him and his response was clear — he had removed the bitch who had threatened her. But he didn’t realise what he had done.

This action was bound to be bruited abroad, and that would only gain her allies. And meanwhile, her letter begging for aid would soon reach her brother the King of France. News of this attack to her lady-in-waiting would add lustre to her tale.

Eleanor was clever. Witty, good company, and kindly. As a gaoler, one who had ultimate power and authority over Isabella, she was quite amiable. But she was also so easy to read. And to confound. When Isabella wanted to write a letter, she did so. Twice. The first she submitted to Eleanor, while the second she secreted about her person. And then she would demonstrate her need for communication with her Chaplain. Perhaps to confess a little sin, or to demand a Mass. And not the first visit to him, not the second, nor even the third would she do anything, but on the fourth or fifth occasion, she would deem it right, when Eleanor was already tired and fractious, just like her darling little Joan.

Joan. Only three years old and these devils had taken her. She was staying with the Monthermers, Eleanor said, but Isabella did not know how much she could trust her. Mother of God, but she missed her children! Her two youngest, Joan and Eleanor, were together, Lady Eleanor said. Of course Isabella had no way of telling whether that was true or not. She missed her boys, too: John and Edward. The girls had been taken from her by Eleanor and Despenser, while Edward had his own household now he was thirteen and an adult. Not old enough to be able to ignore his father, though. The King would not allow him near his own mother.

Only John remained nearby, under the control of Lady Eleanor Despenser, and she refused to allow Isabella to see him. It was a means of keeping the Queen under control. ‘Behave and I may allow you to see your little son — misbehave and you will not.’ No. She could not trust my Lady Despenser.

Lady Eleanor could be so like her little daughter Joan in some ways. And in others she could be as unpleasant, scheming and mendacious as the wife of Sir Hugh le Despenser would have to be. Well, Isabella could be even more scheming, even more mendacious. Despenser had taken away her life. She had lost children, authority, friends — all that made up her life but breath itself. Soon he would seek to stop that too. But she would prevent him if she may, which was why she had made him aware that she communicated with her brother. Despenser might doubt it, but he would wonder. And meanwhile she would send her messages by means of her Chaplain. When she received the Body of Christ, she could slip a letter into his hand, and Eleanor was none the wiser.

Like last night. The thought that if the assassin had been successful, she would now be dead, that her letter would have been her last, made her shudder. She would make Despenser pay for his actions, she thought, baring her teeth in a feral humour. For every insult, every indignity, every theft. And especially for the proposition. Oh yes. For that, he would suffer the most exquisite agonies she could devise.

The Chaplain looked up as soon as she appeared, and stared behind her to make sure that she was for once alone, before slowly closing an eye in a wink.

Another letter was on its way to her brother.

Baldwin glanced about him with interest, but for him there was far less novelty value. Simon was new to this world, whereas Baldwin had been in London and here to Thorney Island before.

In those days, of course, he had been a man of power and authority, a Knight Templar. On occasion he had been sent here to England to discuss issues with the knights of the London Temple or, more rarely, the English King, Edward I, because it was understood that a knight who spoke the common language of those with whom he was to negotiate would have a greater understanding of the finer points.

That was all a long time ago. Yet he could not but help glancing up along the line of King Street, northwards, to where it met Straunde. Up there, he knew, was the outer wall of the City of London, with the great wall and defences. And just west of it lay the Temple. His heart and soul ached to see it again.

Not today, though. The Bishop was in a hurry to get inside the wall of the Great Hall and begin his discussions. It was no surprise.

Baldwin had been given plenty to think about after his talk with the Bishop of Salisbury.

‘I fear I heard you last night,’ he had said in the morning at Salisbury, while Simon was still asleep.

Martival looked at him, smiling wryly. ‘I dare say most of the servants here heard us arguing the other night.’

‘The Queen suffers greatly, so I have heard.’

‘It is said by some that she could be a traitor.’

‘Only by those who would see her destroyed. Perhaps their actions have made her an enemy to them. But to the King? She has had his children. I refuse to believe that she could be so dishonourable as to be the enemy of their father.’

‘There are examples of other women who have been still more … unnatural.’

‘Bishop, you do not believe that our Queen is capable of such acts any more than I. I heard you, remember.’

Martival had studied him carefully over the rim of his goblet at that. At last he set the drink down. ‘You overheard much that you should not have. But very well — no, I do not. This smacks of politicking, and taking advantage of those who are weak or incapable of defending themselves in order to protect others.’

‘Is it true, that there are moves to annul the marriage?’

Martival pulled a grimace. ‘That is what is said. That the King would seek to have his marriage declared null so that he might seek another wife. Perhaps.’

Baldwin did not rise to that bait. All knew the rumours of the homosexual nature of the King’s relationship with Sir Hugh le Despenser. ‘That would mean that all their issue …’

‘Yes. All the Queen’s children would become bastards. Our own Edward, the Prince of Wales would be disinherited, no more to be considered than the King’s other bastards.’

For all the accusations of homosexuality that had eddied about the King, there was no disputing that he was a virile man. He not only had the four children by Isabella, but all had heard how distraught he had been to hear of the death of Adam, his natural son, while they were on campaign against the Scots some years before.

‘They say that he can’t father children now. Since the birth of Joan he has grown so infatuated with Despenser that he can’t sire another with a woman. It’s been some years,’ Martival muttered contemplatively.

‘There are many couples who cannot breed to command,’ Baldwin pointed out.

‘We all know that. However, he is the King, and it is his duty.’

‘Things have come to such a pass that it is unlikely his Queen would happily accept his advances now, surely?’

‘True enough.’ The Bishop was quiet for a few minutes, and then he said, ‘You are an intelligent man, Sir Baldwin. I get the impression that you are not entirely in accordance with the opinions of Bishop Walter? He would seek to have the marriage annulled. He actually requested my support for such an action.’

‘I should consider such an annulment to be a cynical denial of oaths made before God,’ Baldwin said heavily.

‘You should be aware, then. I would not have you launching yourself into a void without aid. There are other rumours: that Despenser may have tried to force himself upon the Queen,’ Martival said.

That stilled Baldwin. All knew how dangerous an enemy Sir Hugh le Despenser could be, and for the Bishop to repeat a story like that, was either astonishingly foolhardy, or meant that it was common knowledge.

‘Yes, I know the dangers of repeating such rumours,’ said Bishop John, reading the knight’s expression correctly, ‘but you are going to speak with men such as he, and I would not have you advising the Bishop or others without being fully informed. The Queen has enemies — and chief among them is Despenser. You know what Bishop Adam Orleton called him?’ The Bishop cleared his throat. ‘Perhaps that is one detail I should not impart. Suffice it to say that the man is viewed with alarm by many of us in the Church, Sir Baldwin.’

‘Why are you so assured that I am a safe person in whom you may confide all this? I could be a Despenser ally, or someone seeking preferment.’

‘You could — I agree,’ Martival shrugged. ‘However, I do not think so. Your reputation has reached here. It is said that you detest any form of injustice, that you prefer to see men go free than convict an innocent man. Someone like that is hardly in the same mould as Gilbert Middleton or the other felons from the King’s household.’

Baldwin smiled wryly at that. Middleton, a knight from the King’s household had been upset when a relation was gaoled for making deprecating comments about Edward and his northern policies. In revenge, Middleton set out on a spree of robbing and killing that culminated in the capture and assault of two papal legates on their way to Scotland to try to agree a new truce between Bruce and King Edward. ‘No, I hope I am not made in the same way as him.’

‘So do I,’ Martival said, and would have continued, but then Simon walked in, and both men turned the conversation to less turbulent matters.

It was interesting, though, Baldwin thought now, that the two Bishops disagreed so radically; maybe that in itself was an indication of the kind of dispute he could expect here at the King’s council. Although, of course, he could not be sure of the reason for the Bishop of Salisbury’s extraordinary frankness. Perhaps it was largely because members of the Church were growing alarmed at the increasing tyranny of the Despenser family, father and son.

The country needed a counterweight to balance their power. Sadly, at the same time it needed to resolve the dispute with the French King in order to rescue English territories over the water.

All of which should make for an interesting time, Baldwin told himself. He glanced back at the Abbey and the palace area. Both were close enough now that only the grander buildings could be seen above the walls: the enormous belfry in the Abbey’s precinct, and the roof and towers of the main abbey church. Beyond was the roofline of the mighty hall behind its own walls.

There was the abbey gatehouse right ahead of them. Baldwin had thought that they would enter here, but instead the Bishop took them about the walls, into Thieving Lane, and up to the gatehouse where King Street met the Great Hall’s wall. Here there were houses built for the merchants who came each year for the Abbey’s fair, as well as smaller dwellings for the servants who worked in the Abbey or the palace.

The Bishop’s party rode past, entered the King’s palace area at the main gate, trotted past an inn, and then all dismounted at the rail near a stable-block.

Baldwin took in the scene. This was New Palace Yard, a wide space, but filled with timber buildings of all sizes, some houses, some kitchens, some storage-sheds. Alehouses lined the walls, and pie and cookshops were mingled among them to cater for those who visited to present their suits at the King’s courts or who came to see the clerks of the Exchequer. Stalls had been erected in the middle of the court, and the lawyers and clerks hurrying by were plied with sausages, pies, roasted thrushes, all manner of sweetmeats, and drinks.

Everywhere was bustle. Children played in the freezing mud, dogs snarled and bickered over bones, men gambled at an impromptu cock-fighting pit, while stevedores unloaded cargo from the barges on the dock and carried provisions to the undercrofts. A sergeant cook walked among the cattle, choosing which should die first, while pig and mutton carcasses lay nearby on trestles, a merchant and a carter arguing over their cost. And in among all this, men clad in the King’s arms barged past: messengers and purveyors, sergeants-at-arms and kitchen grooms, all hurrying about.

To the south, a wall ran along from the main outer wall down to meet the Great Hall. Beyond that wall were more yards, he guessed, but those would be only for the Royal Household, not for visitors and the likes of him.

And then he noticed two other things. First, there was the sound of hounds baying nearby, but for once Baldwin took no heed. Of much more interest than hounds or alaunts were the men who stood with polearms ready, each of them studying him and the other members of the party with suspicion.