Dispensation of Death

Chapter Fourteen

Earl Edmund of Kent was unused to being thrust from the path of a lowly cleric, and he turned to bawl at the man, but Ralph had already fled.

‘What is the matter with him?’ he demanded. He pushed his way through the crowds, and entered the Great Hall, then stopped dead when he saw the body on the ground. ‘What in God’s name is this?’

‘Who are you?’ Baldwin asked coolly, his eyes on the corpse.

‘I am Edmund, Earl of Kent. Who are you — and what are you doing here?’ To Kent’s surprise, the fellow was kneeling beside the dead man, behind the throne. And when there was no reply from him, Edmund burst out: ‘Will someone tell me what’s happened here?’

That earned him a frosty look from the Bishop. ‘A man, my Lord Earl, has been murdered.’

Baldwin straightened up and turned. ‘I am Sir Baldwin de Furnshill,’ he said. ‘The good Bishop has asked me to exercise my skills to learn what has happened. My Lord, do you know many people about this court?’

‘Quite a few, I suppose. I don’t know the servants.’ He walked up to stare at the body before him. ‘Don’t know him. What is that in … good God!’

‘Yes. He was killed, and then, I think, that was done to him,’ Baldwin said. ‘Too many people have already been in here, not that there would be much to discover here, I dare guess. Steps on stone are difficult to follow. You see this? There is no sign that he has had his hands bound behind him. If I feel his head … no, there is no indication of any swelling there, so I can infer that he was not struck down before this was done to him. What killed him, then?’

His hands were moving over the body as he spoke, and as he ran them over the man’s chest, he drew his mouth down into a moue of surprise. ‘Somehow I anticipated a simple murder from an opponent. Perhaps …’ He turned the man over and felt his back. ‘Ah, here. One … no, two … three deep wounds. One at least must have pierced his heart, and the others would have struck his lungs. From the look of him, I would expect that the one through the heart killed him, though.’

‘Why?’ the Earl asked.

‘If he was drowned in his own blood, I’d expect to see much more of it about his mouth,’ Baldwin answered shortly. He was up from the body already and investigating the area behind the tapestry where the corpse had been secreted. ‘There is some blood here, Simon. Not much, though. The moisture appears to be water,’ he added, smelling the fabric. He frowned, head set on one side. ‘But I can smell wine too.’

The Earl had not noticed the Bailiff and servant, and was startled when he heard Simon respond from behind him.

‘You think he wasn’t killed here, then?’

‘He certainly wasn’t killed right here, no. He died somewhere else and was pulled here. Someone cut off his privy member and shoved it into his mouth, and then rolled him away and out of sight.’

‘Could this man be the assassin who tried to kill the Queen last night?’ the Earl wondered aloud.

‘Come now. There is no certainty that anyone tried to do such a thing,’ Despenser said smoothly. He had entered from the screens area, and now he stepped slowly and crisply along the flagged floor towards them. ‘A man struck down a maid,’ he explained to the gathering. ‘Unfortunately, the Queen was there, and saw the whole unhappy event, but that doesn’t mean that the attempt was on her life. It could as easily have been on my own wife’s life. My dearest Eleanor was with the same party, after all.’

He had reached the body and stared down at Jack’s bloated face with the repulsive second tongue, and pulled a grimace of disgust. ‘Whatever must … he have done, to deserve that? It is a repellent act.’

‘Yes — why would someone desecrate him like that?’ Stapledon asked in hushed tones.

‘The normal reason is because of intemperate behaviour,’ Baldwin said. Then, seeing the blank confusion on Simon’s face: ‘Come now, Bailiff, you must have seen such things before? An adulterer discovered in the act, or a sodomite? There are many in the world who seek to punish others for their genuine or perceived misdemeanours.’

‘Adultery and sodomy are hardly mere “misdemeanours”,’ the Bishop protested.

‘Perhaps. But the man who could commit an act like this would put more fear in me than either of those,’ Baldwin said.

Ellis wiped the tears from his eyes and barged past the guards into the open air. His mood was one of deep, black loneliness. Ever since his childhood, he had been with his sister. Oh, she’d left him when she married, and he didn’t see her every day, but that didn’t matter. When their parents were gone, when the women he loved left him, he knew that Mabilla was there, somewhere. She was the rock to which he clung when life’s waves washed over him.

And now she was gone. Taken from him.

In all his years, he had not wanted anything. He was Sir Hugh’s man because they both recognised something they needed in the other. For Sir Hugh, it was simple: loyalty and obedience. He knew that no matter what the task, Ellis would take it on if Sir Hugh asked him. Sir Hugh used him as a last bulwark against the world. When there was a problem in the vast estates he owned, when a man stood in his path, it was always to Ellis he turned.

But Ellis needed his master just as much. Sir Hugh gave him more than a bed and food. Ellis Brooke was an intelligent man, and he did not exist purely for violence. He craved more — the opportunity to see a plan developed and moulded to fit Sir Hugh’s needs, and then to be allowed to execute it perfectly. It was not the simple financial reward he sought, it was the personal fulfilment of seeing an intricate design succeed.

There were men on all sides discussing the body found in the Great Hall, and now he bent his steps that way. He arrived a few moments after the others had left and, ignoring the guards at the door, he marched across the hall, his hand on his sword-hilt, until he reached the body.

‘Jack, aye,’ he muttered to himself, then angrily dashed the tears from his eyes once more.

The two most important people in his life were his master, Sir Hugh le Despenser, and his sister Mabilla; and now he must avenge one. Walking out into the Green Yard, he stared about him, wiping his nose with his sleeve. With Mabilla gone, he was unsure what to do next, but he was convinced of one thing.

Nothing and no one would stand in his way as he tried to make her killer pay.

They had withdrawn to a smaller chamber, and Baldwin eyed the others as they waited for a servant to bring them ale. He was tempted to send Rob away, but the lad was keeping quiet, and while he behaved himself, he saw little need to evict him. One single interruption, though, and he’d boot him out.

‘So no one knew the man?’ Simon said reflectively, into the silence.

Baldwin saw Earl Edmund glance quickly at Despenser before shaking his head. ‘I don’t consort with assassins.’

Simon frowned. ‘Why do you say that?’

‘He must be the same man who launched an attack on the Queen. I think we ought to be thinking about who might wish to harm her.’

Baldwin saw how he threw another significant look towards Despenser. Sir Hugh le Despenser was meanwhile watching Baldwin. ‘You said your name was Furnshill — and you are the Keeper of the King’s Peace in Devon. Have you visited my estates in Iddesleigh recently?’

‘I have visited much of Devon,’ Baldwin said stolidly. Then, bringing the conversation back to the matter in hand. ‘Do you know anything of an attempt upon the life of the Queen?’

‘I consider that an offensive suggestion, Sir Baldwin,’ Despenser said softly. ‘If I had heard of such a treasonous attempt, I should immediately have reported it to the King and the Queen herself. But there is only one man who would seek an assassin to remove someone from power just now. That treacherous hound, the Earl of Wigmore, Roger Mortimer.’

Baldwin nodded. He was glad at least to have deflected the present discussion away from talk of Iddesleigh. There he had thwarted the Despenser plans to evict other landowners, and prevented a minor war from breaking out between Despenser and Hugh de Courtenay. He was pleased with what he had achieved, but to bring it up now could make Sir Hugh le Despenser into a very dangerous enemy. Once Sir Hugh took against a man, his life could be significantly shortened.

‘What more can you tell me about the attempt on the Queen’s life?’ Baldwin said, trying to put that thought from his mind.

‘I can provide you with witnesses, should you require them,’ Despenser said. ‘My wife was there.’

‘I shall need to do that. They may be able to provide a clue as to who killed this man.’

‘What does that matter?’ Despenser asked irritably. ‘He was clearly a felon. He murdered a lady-in-waiting, and then was seen and killed. Who cares who killed him? He was a murderer himself.’

‘Perhaps he was,’ Baldwin said, ‘but we have no proof of that as yet. He could have been an innocent. The true assassin may have attacked him, dressed him in his own clothes, and then made good his escape in his new outfit.’

‘A far-fetched story!’ Despenser sneered.

‘But in case this man was intending to kill our Queen,’ Baldwin went on, ignoring him, ‘I shall ensure that no stone is left unturned in finding out whether the right man is dead.’

Despenser narrowed his eyes. ‘Surely this must have been the assassin, Sir Knight. Your suggestion is highly unlikely.’

‘You are happier to consider that some competent assassin tried to murder the Queen, but failed and was instead himself killed by a retiring manservant? And that the manservant in question has sought anonymity? That is surely more unlikely! His executioner must know that his King would shower money and titles on him for saving the Queen’s life?’

Despenser allowed his head to drop. ‘Perhaps.’

‘You mentioned Mortimer,’ Sir Baldwin went on. ‘He is a resourceful man. Perhaps he did order this assassin to attack the Queen. But if so, would he have left anything to chance? From all I have heard of him, when one attack fails, he would be likely to have a second ready to try. He was a master of strategy, I think, when he was the King’s General.’

A voice behind him answered, ‘Yes. He was.’

Baldwin turned, but even as he took in the tall, fair-haired man with the handsome features marred by one drooping eyelid, he was already aware that the rest of the men in the chamber had already bent their knees in submission, and he hurriedly followed suit, relieved to see that Simon had done likewise. Rob stood gaping for a moment, until Baldwin signalled to him with an urgent jerk of his head. Then the servant almost tumbled to the ground, he bent so swiftly.

‘My Lord.’

King Edward looked about the room, and when he spoke it was in fluent Norman. ‘We are concerned that someone could have made an attempt on a lady-in-waiting to our Queen. It is intolerable that an assassin should feel able to break into our palace and commit such a foul act. If there is the remotest possibility that this could have been an attack from the Mortimer, we must learn it.’

Bishop Stapledon was crouched low. It sounded to Baldwin as though he was speaking directly to the floor as he responded in Norman. ‘My Liege, we do not have many who would be capable of learning such secrets.’

‘Is there no one used to investigating crimes among you?’

‘There is this man, Sir Baldwin de Furnshill,’ the Bishop said, and as he spoke Baldwin set his teeth. He did not wish to become the King’s own spy and be set to investigate crimes here near London, many leagues from his home. He wanted to interrupt, but he daren’t offend his monarch.

‘Stand, Sir Baldwin. Let me look at you.’ Baldwin took a deep breath and obeyed. He found himself subjected to a lengthy study, and while the King glanced with some distaste at his scuffed and muddy boots, his sweat-stained and threadbare hosen, and his worn and faded red tunic, he felt himself flush a little.

The King was taller than him, but not by much. Edward II was just over six feet tall, and he had the frame to carry the height, being muscular and powerful. His shoulders were square, with none of the slouching that older knights sometimes displayed. His hair was golden and curling, and hung to his shoulders, while his beard and moustache were neatly trimmed. He was handsome, but there was a kindliness that shone from the crow’s feet at his blue eyes, and the broad, high forehead showed that he was no fool. Any man with a head that size, Baldwin felt, must have something inside it.

‘You have had success in seeking felons?’

‘In my native land, my Lord. In Devon.’

‘Then you will exercise your mind here too, and we can say that you have had success in my territories, no matter where they lie,’ the King smiled. He glanced at Despenser. ‘I desire you to come with me, Sir Hugh. There are matters to discuss.’

‘My Lord!’ Baldwin said hurriedly. The King glanced back at him, frankly surprised to be delayed. ‘My Lord King, if you wish me to investigate, you must allow me to question all whom I deem necessary.’

‘Of course,’ he said with a nod, and began to walk away.

‘My Lord, that includes your wife. May I speak with her?’

The King hesitated. Then he slowly turned and stared hard at Baldwin.

Suddenly Baldwin saw the other side to this man. The blue in his eyes had frozen to ice. ‘You may speak to all you wish, Sir Knight, but if my wife chooses to evade you, that is her right. You may not command my Queen.’

Baldwin dropped his eyes and bowed again. ‘I have given offence. I apologise, my Liege.’

But the King made no further comment. He gestured to Sir Hugh le Despenser again and swept from the room, leaving Baldwin feeling drained and slightly shivery.