Dispensation of Death

Chapter Two

Thursday after the Feast of St Hilary¹

Lydford, Devon

Simon Puttock listened as the sound broke on the wind in the early morning. It was the sort of sound that a man who was used to the countryside would recognise from a great distance: a horse riding at a steady canter. Neither pounding along the roads with the urgency of a knight at the gallop, nor the steady plodding of a farmer with a packhorse, this was a man who had ridden some distance already, who had a need of haste, but who would have farther to ride, so was measuring his pace.

Simon was in his small hall when he heard it. A tall man, in his late thirties, with the broad shoulders of a farmer, and calm grey eyes set in a face that was sunburned even now in the winter, he was no coward, but he knew what the horse presaged.

Grabbing his staff, he ran out through the screens to the rear of his house. The stables were over on his right, and he made for them, his ear all the time cocked to the hooves pounding along the road. He had some time to escape, but not enough.

His wife, Meg, was gathering bundles of twigs and sticks to fire the copper ready to brew ale. There was a space behind the stalls which they always used as an overflow for their log pile, and as Simon came into the stables, he found her bent over, collecting some of the smaller twigs.

The temptation was too great. He grinned, and clapped a hand to her buttock, making her squeal, not entirely happily.

‘It’s not my fault,’ he protested, ‘such temptation …’

She eyed him coolly, a tall, blonde woman with her hair awry after her morning’s exertions. ‘It may be a period of rest for you, husband, but I still have a house to maintain and run.’

‘Oh, Christ’s pains!’

‘What is it?’

In answer, Simon jerked his head. She was still for a moment, listening, but then her face cleared. ‘The messenger?’

‘It must be.’

‘Would they have decided already?’

‘Meg, John de Courtenay was furious when he saw that Robert was to be made Abbot of Tavistock. He told me that he would contest the election as soon as he had been defeated.’

‘Yes, you told me,’ she said.

‘So — he will already have itemised all those aspects of the election which he feels may look as though something underhand has happened, and probably he has instructed a proctor. All he wants now is any other information on Robert. And I don’t have anything to give him!’

If only he did! Simon was not convinced of the integrity of the new Abbot, any more than he was of many other men. His only certainty was that John de Courtenay was even more unfitted for the post of Abbot than Robert Busse. John was from wealthy stock, and his main interests struck Simon as being modern fashion and hunting, as well as his wine-cellar. Of course, as the son of Baron Courtenay, he could muster some influential friends, and Simon was unpleasantly aware that the other man could make his own life difficult, if he chose.

‘But if he has his own proctor involved-’ Meg began, but Simon cut her off.

‘No! He has the support of two or three Brothers already, I suppose — John Fromund and Richard Mountori, certainly — but that’s not the point. Even when he’s put in his complaint, he’ll try to mobilise as many people as possible within and without the monastery to aid him. And he looks on me as having influence.’

‘Because your father used to be his father’s servant,’ Meg nodded.

‘Yes. And because he set me to spy on Busse, and will seek me to work for him again. That is why I must hide from any Abbey messengers.’

‘But it could be that it’s Robert Busse who is sending for you.’

Simon groaned. ‘In God’s name, I pray it’s not! For he’s the man whom I spied on, and I still don’t know what he has attempted in order to win the abbacy for himself. I trust neither of them, and whoever I offer support to, the other may win, and then destroy me. Our livelihoods depend upon the Abbot, whoever he may be, and to have to pick one now is a task I should much rather avoid. So if it’s a messenger from the Abbey, keep him here, Meg, please. Just give me a few moments. Tell him I’m at the castle, love, and I’ll bolt from the rear here.’

Meg shook her head in exasperation at the weakness of her husband. ‘I’ll try to, Simon, but some messengers can be most insistent.’

He looked at her, and she raised her eyebrows. ‘What?’

‘Nothing.’

He grinned to himself as she walked back to the little lean-to building which contained the copper and brewing barrels, and then turned and fled.

Tower of London

The guard at the door snapped to attention as soon as he recognised the coat-of-arms. Only a fool would not show respect to this man.

Edmund of Woodstock, Earl of Kent, half-brother to the King, barely noticed him. The discipline of a prickle-witted guard was nothing to him.

Inside the large chamber he saw the man he was expecting. ‘Well?’

‘My Lord.’

The man rose and now bowed low for him. Edmund set his teeth, but he could not in all conscience insult him for displaying the correct deference. ‘Yes, yes. Please, sit. Now, what can you tell me?’

Piers de Wrotham had been loyal to him even before he had joined the Earl at the attack on Leeds Castle. Short, with a slim build and thick black hair that was greasy and stayed plastered to his brow when he swept off his cap, he was narrow-featured, and had the look of a clerk rather than an astute spy and information-gatherer. However, the Earl knew that he could collect news more efficiently than ten of the King’s men. ‘My Lord, there are many dangerous stories. However, I fear that nothing is good for you.’

Kent growled. He had expected such news, but it didn’t make it any the more palatable. ‘Since those bastards pulled the rug from beneath my feet, they’ve done all in their power to destroy me — I’ll not accept it, damn their souls!’

Piers watched him with unblinking eyes. He had a gift of silence and stillness that was oddly owl-like. When his master had kicked a chair and slumped into it, he began again. ‘You were foully betrayed in Guyenne, and many believe that to be the case now. Yet still Despenser pours out more lies to justify his own position.’

‘He never supported us. Didn’t give a ha’penny for all the King’s lands over the water. All he wants is money. He’ll take it, too, you mark my words. He’ll bloody take it. There’s no picking so rich that he won’t get his hands on it, the bastard!’

‘My Lord, you are still young. He is a middle-aged man, while you are in your prime at five-and-twenty. You are an Earl, while he remains a knight. You have years on your side.’

Edmund gave a short laugh. ‘You think he will remain a knight? He has already been granted the Temple, and as soon as Despenser the elder dies, my brother the King will endow him with the Earldom of Winchester, whereas I’ll be left to moulder. I’m only the King’s half-brother — and the youngest of us. Sweet Christ, I’m nothing to them. No, the crafty shite will take all in the end.’

‘Not if people can be made to appreciate how badly he let the nation down in the matter of Guyenne,’ Piers murmured. ‘My Lord, you have been accused of surrender and accepting a less than adequate truce. We know that was because you received no aid from Despenser. But now there is a need for a lasting peace — and without the King losing all his territories in France. Perhaps if you could be shown to have been instrumental in preparing a magnificent arrangement with the French that protected the good King’s lands, it would enhance your reputation at the same time as damaging the Despenser’s?’

‘If you could so arrange matters, I would be even more in your debt,’ Kent said. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. ‘Could you do this?’

Piers was still again. In his eyes Kent thought he saw a little flare of contempt. Surely not. Maybe it was hurt that he could doubt his own spy-master’s ability. ‘I don’t question your skills, man,’ he said briskly. ‘Only the numbers of enemies about us. Look at the allies of Despenser …’

‘There are as many who now profess loyalty to him as used to be loyal to others. A rich man can attract allies, but once let there be a suggestion that he may lose all his money, that his power and influence are on the wane, and see how his friends will flee.’

‘Like who?’ Kent wondered aloud, for to him it was all but inconceivable that a man of integrity could desert his master or friend.

‘My Lord, you need only look at some of the men of the Church. If you were to be instrumental in winning a victory for peace with France, you would have many of them on your side. Adam Orleton, Bishop of Hereford, is already Sir Hugh’s enemy. Then there is Henry Burghersh, Bishop of Lincoln, John of Drokensford, Bishop of Bath and Wells — all these could soon become Despenser’s enemies. Even Roger Martival of Salisbury could grow disillusioned with him and turn to your side.’

‘None of them have ever been close to him.’

‘No, but many have not declared for him. If Lincoln, Bath and Wells and Salisbury were to grow even more opposed to the Despensers, their weight would tilt the balance and others would grow bolder. So many are already disillusioned with the rule of these tyrants, it may take little to persuade them to turn against Despenser. But this time, no exile. The two Despensers must be removed utterly.’

‘That would be to the good of the country. But how can we do this?’

‘By the judicious use of near-truths, untruths and wholesome lies. Men are always prepared to believe lies, so long as they reinforce their own prejudices,’ Piers said with a smile. ‘All you need do is lie in the way they wish to hear.’

Queen’s Cloister, Thorney Isle

Alicia hurried along the corridor, her skirts held up to keep them away from the mess that had accumulated here. She was on her way from the Queen’s rooms to the chapel.

The Queen’s Chapel. How ironic. The one woman who was not permitted to wander freely, who couldn’t write a letter without it being checked, who had seen her children stolen from her, who was incarcerated here without even the solace of her own household — it was named for her. While the woman who had all the real power here, who held in her dainty little fingers the keys to the Queen’s chambers … she was merely termed a ‘lady-in-waiting’.

It was hateful to Alicia, this place. There was nothing here for a young woman like her. Sweet Mother Mary, how could any woman survive amongst such poison? My Lady Eleanor, wife to Sir Hugh le Despenser, was amiable enough, but she had married him, and any woman married to such an evil soul was bound to become infected.

Not that their charge was any better. The Queen was a devious and vengeful woman. Alicia was convinced that Isabella would be cruelty personified if she should ever come to power. Which was part of the reason why she was happy to take messages from the Queen occasionally. Perhaps in years to come, her kindness would be remembered.

Alicia allowed a sneer to mar her pretty features. No. She’d be stuck here with the Queen for many long years until they were both old and raddled hags. There would be no peace for them here. Not ever.

At the door to the chapel was a guard. She recognised him at once, of course. Richard Blaket was a good man. He’d been respectful to her as well as to the Queen when she’d been here before. Perhaps if he had been of even moderately good birth, she would have considered him as a mate.

He had the looks. Fairly tall, but not too tall. Bright, dark eyes, almost black, set in a long and humorous face that always seemed to light up when he saw Alicia. It was the sort of look that a girl desperate for a little male attention could hardly miss.

It was the same today. As soon as he saw her, his face softened and his stance altered imperceptibly. ‘Maid Alicia.’

‘Lady Alicia to you,’ she responded tartly.

‘Oho, yes. My Lady.’

And although she should have been angry at his taunting tone, it lightened her mood a little as she brushed past him and marched into the chapel.

Lydford, Devon

Here, at the edge of Lydford, the town was set atop a little ridge that ran roughly east-west from Dartmoor. Behind the stable was a track, invisible from the house, which led down to a hillside paddock under a line of trees. Simon took this track now, hurrying down until he reached the paddock, where he paused and watched his horses.

For all his amusement in the presence of his wife, he knew that this election had put his job at risk.

For many years he had been a contented Bailiff on the moors, working to maintain the peace between tinminers and landowners, upholding the law among two irascible and sometimes irrational groupings. Yet for all the headaches and strife, that had been easier than his last position. In order to reward him for his devotion and loyalty, the good Abbot Robert had given him a post in Dartmouth, as the Abbot’s own representative as Keeper of the Port.

It should have been a marvellous opportunity. Anyone in Simon’s position would have managed to enrich themselves quickly, because all mariners were prepared to pay a small subsidy to him to ensure that their cargoes were dealt with expeditiously. And yet Simon could not grow keen on the job. He had been forced to leave his wife and children behind, which was a sore trial, and he found himself growing depressed with the daily grind of checking figures in long lists. He had no interest in lists.

And all the while he knew that his patron, the kindly Abbot Robert, was growing weaker. He was wasting away, and Simon was reluctant to add to his troubles by complaining about the job. No, he hoped that soon the Abbot would recover, and then Simon could ask for his old job back. Except Abbot Robert had not improved. One morning Simon had been called to his office to be told that the Abbot was dead, and that his own job was to be passed over to another.

Since then, apart from a short journey to Exeter, he had managed to remain here in Lydford, and he had adapted to the slower, calmer pace of life again. He had learned to accept that his daughter was gone for ever. Where once he had been proud of his little Edith, now it was a source of pride and pain that his occasionally gauche and gawky daughter was grown into a seventeen-year-old woman with all the fire and beauty of his wife. She was a child no longer.

His son had filled the gap. A more boisterous and careless boy could hardly be imagined. When Simon had left to take up the posting in Dartmouth, the child had been some twelve or eighteen months. Now the little monster was almost three, but he had a perpetual smile fixed to his face, and no matter what he got up to, people always looked on him with affection. Even when he got into the neighbour’s shed and opened the tap on her cider barrel, leaving it wide as he went out and emptying an entire nine gallons over their floor, the mistress was cold only towards Simon. For Perkin she reserved a special smile and a piece of sweetened bread.

The last months had been very happy. The Puttocks had enjoyed a pleasant Christmas and Simon had been hoping to be left alone with his wife and family, preparing their land for the scattering of crops. It was unreasonable for the Abbey to demand his aid again. Especially since it would be one monk bickering with another.

‘Mistress asks you to come up to the house.’

Simon started. He had been so deep in his gloomy ruminations that he hadn’t heard his servant Hugh arrive. ‘She said so?’

‘That’s what I said, isn’t it?’

Hugh had recently been bereaved, and since then his nature, never better than truculent, had grown more aggressive. Simon understood him well, though, and merely nodded, sighing as he followed Hugh up the path back towards the house.

So which was it? The Abbot who’d been elected, calling on Simon to offer some form of support? Or the one whom Simon despised and felt sure would ruin the Abbey, John de Courtenay, whose plans would inevitably involve Simon befriending the new Abbot again and then betraying him.

Simon wanted nothing to do with either.

Lesser Hall, Thorney Island

Sir Hugh le Despenser bit at his inner lip as the King stood and stamped his foot. The man’s tantrums were as extreme and irrational as any child’s. The difference was, that he was the anointed King of the Realm, and anyone who dared to make fun of him could have his head removed. Even Sir Hugh was cautious when Edward was having one of his fits of petulant rage.

‘The bastards demand, you say?’ Edward roared. ‘The bastards demand that I submit? I suppose they won’t be happy until I’ve passed them the keys to this island and the keys to my treasury as well!’

Today his anger was not abnormal; indeed, since the shameful truce imposed on him by the French, it had grown ever more evident. Despenser remained seated. ‘Sire, since the King of France wishes only to reacquire all the lands of Guyenne at as little cost to his pocket as possible, it is scarcely to be wondered at.’

‘Do not think to lecture me!’ Edward bawled. Tall, fair, with the flowing hair of an angel and a manly beard, he was the epitome of a noble English knight. No one was better-looking than King Edward II, and he spent a lot of money ensuring that this remained the case, but his temper was that of a tyrant.

Sir Hugh le Despenser shrugged. ‘What do you say, Stratford?’

‘As you know, these proposals were thrashed out with the aid of the Pope’s envoys, my Lord. If I have failed you, I apologise, but it was the best I felt I could achieve.’

‘Summarise them again for me,’ the King snapped, sulkily turning his back to them.

‘Guyenne is entirely in the French King’s hands, my Lord. He says that the province could be returned to you if you do homage to him, and also grant him the Agenais and Ponthieu.’

‘So he would snatch all my territories, would he? I suppose he wants Thorney Island too, or is he prepared to leave that for me?’

Stratford rolled his eyes. He had read out the proposals and summarised them three times already. Still, one didn’t argue with the King. Taking a deep breath, he began again. ‘He has made three proposals. In effect all are connected, and you will have to agree to each being satisfactorily completed before the next takes place. First, he demands that you make over the Agenais and Ponthieu; second, he would return Guyenne — to be held from him, and for that you would have to do him homage; third, do so and he will consider giving you other lands, and will remove his direct control of Guyenne.’

The King threw out his arms theatrically. ‘Is this fair? Is it reasonable? He sends an army into my lands — mine — and then imposes rules on how I might win them back!’

‘There is another matter, my Lord.’ John Stratford, Bishop of Winchester, was reluctant to add to Edward’s woes, but this was too important not to be raised. At least the King’s worst temper appeared to be dissipating, and so the Bishop felt more comfortable about mentioning it now. ‘King Charles also complained that you were attempting to form an alliance with his enemies. He mentioned Spain, Aragon, and Hainault.’

‘I am a King! I can negotiate with whomsoever I wish!’

Despenser smiled to himself. Any suggestion that someone was encroaching on King Edward’s rights always made him jump like someone had jabbed a knife in his arse. Leaning forward, he twisted the dagger a little. ‘My Lord, the French King is aware of that, of course. And yet he is your liege-lord. You owe him loyalty.’

‘Only for Guyenne, damn his soul! That hog’s shit has no right to expect me to surrender my rights to negotiate! Would he have me submit all my policies to him for approval? That bastard encroached on my rights on my territories, and then demanded that I submit to him, and now he intends to make me little more than a puppet king, an arm of French law and nothing more!’

Despenser sat back, the seeds of additional discord already fruiting nicely. He had little care about the provinces which exercised the King so much. He had no need of them. What he was interested in lay here, in the kingdom of England, where he had all but total power. What point was there in him worrying about Guyenne when he was already the wealthiest man in England, saving only the King himself? However, it was true that all power resided in the person of the King. And if King Edward II were ever to be weakened or threatened, Despenser’s own position would go the same way. It did not bear considering that he could be left to the mercies of the barons in this country. That had happened to Piers Gaveston, and he had been captured and slaughtered by them nine years ago. Despenser did not intend to suffer a similar fate.

‘My Lord, it is natural that the French King should ask that you go to him to pay homage for lands which are held in fief from him. It is his right to demand this,’ Stratford said quietly.

Despenser glanced sidelong at him. Bishop John was a very astute, calm man. He’d been a thorn in the King’s side when he took on Winchester, because the King had set his own heart on an ally, Baldock. Bishop John had returned from the Papal Curia, at which he had been intended to promote Baldock, with the position in his own purse. Furious, the King had accused him of greed and pushing his own interests, before confiscating all the Bishop’s lands. Stratford had been forced to pay twelve thousand pounds to recover his property from the Crown.

However he was a natural diplomat, cautious, shrewd and detached. A dangerous enemy, in fact, and Despenser was unsure about him. What, for example, was the meaning behind this latest suggestion? That the King should go to Paris? How could that benefit Bishop John, he wondered. Not that he was too concerned. He was sure he could persuade King Edward to ignore that sort of suggestion.

He tried a tone of hurt shock. ‘You expect your King to go to Paris? You really want him to suffer another humiliation at the hands of the man who confiscated all his French territories last year? When all his enemies are there, living openly and under the protection of the French court?’

‘Yes — you expect me to abase myself before that thief?’ King Edward raged suddenly. ‘Had you heard that traitors are there? You want them to have a chance to assassinate me?’

‘My Lord King, I say no such-’

‘But you want me to go to Paris, don’t you?’

‘Perhaps the good Bishop is not aware of the risks involved,’ Despenser muttered.

‘The risks?’

‘Yes!’ the King shouted. ‘The risks, my good Lord Bishop! Don’t you know that the realm’s greatest traitor, that duplicitous bastard Mortimer, is there at the French court? Eh? And he’s not alone, is he? No! There are enough other men in that court who would want to do me damage!’

As he ranted, Hugh le Despenser nodded sagely. It had not been difficult to plant concerns about the King’s safety were he to go to France. His obsessional paranoia since the last wars was in fact entirely rational. Edward had killed his own cousin, Earl Thomas of Lancaster, and then embarked on a campaign of reprisals against all those who had attacked him and his authority. That was over two years ago, but rotting limbs of the knights and lords who had been executed were still dangling above the gates to all the major cities in the land, while their heads adorned spikes. Some had managed to slip away without capture, and most of them had gone to the French court, where the King liked to bite his thumb at his English brother-in-law. Now they lived there, more or less openly, at the expense of the French.

‘I will not submit to this! I want my host! Send my men-at-arms to France — I will crush this bastard!’

Despenser saw how quickly the Bishop’s eye dropped to hide his amusement, and he curbed the smile that threatened his own mouth. To openly deride the King’s martial expertise would be dangerous even for him.

‘My Lord,’ Stratford said quietly, ‘you have no host. The French King has right upon his side. You are a vassal for the Guyenne. And do not forget that the Pope wishes for peace, and he begs that you do homage for the lands you hold from King Charles IV.’

‘Sir Hugh?’

Despenser made a show of raising his hands and shaking his head. ‘My Lord King, I suppose any obfuscation must result in losing Guyenne. My Lord Bishop is quite right to say that homage must be paid.’

‘I will not go there. Must I accept the demands of this upstart who has stolen my lands from me? No! I would sooner give up my Crown! And I do not have to.’ He span on his heel and pointed at the clerk sitting in the corner. ‘I will send a delegation to Castile. We will offer my son in marriage to the Castilian woman, this … this … Sir Hugh, what was her name?’

‘Leonor, my Lord,’ Despenser said.

‘Yes. We will send ambassadors to them there. Demand three thousand men to help protect our provinces from this French King. Then we can …’

Despenser saw Stratford fiddling with the parchment in front of him. His unease was all too plain. The King was taking actions that could infuriate the French, who had the most powerful host in all Europe. Despenser shivered, and tried to cover it by lifting his arms over his head and stretching. But there was no concealing the dangers and threats from himself. He had to remain on the alert all the time.

Especially, he thought as he caught another sideways look from the Bishop, from men like this. Stratford knew that the last thing Despenser could afford was to allow the King to leave his sight. If he were to go to France, Sir Hugh le Despenser could not go with him. The French King had already declared that Hugh was an enemy of France and would be executed if he set foot on French soil.

No. He couldn’t go to France, and if he couldn’t, the King mustn’t. To be left alone here in England while Edward crossed the Channel would mean an alliance among the barons, and Sir Hugh’s neck on a block. There were few in whom he could genuinely place his trust, were the King to leave him to the wolves.

Chief among his enemies was the Queen. She despised him, because when the King lost his infatuation for her, he took all her wealth and property and used it to reward the man he adored. She blamed Hugh for that, he thought with a slow smile. As well she might. It was he, together with the avaricious Bishop of Exeter, Walter, who had hatched the scheme which would reward both by impoverishing her. Only a short while ago she had been one of the wealthiest magnates in the land; now she was reduced to the status of a humble corrodian at the King’s court.

All of which had made her Sir Hugh’s most implacable enemy, which was why he had decided she must be removed. To have someone with her resourcefulness, with her injured pride and intense desire for revenge, sitting at court and retaining the title of ‘Queen’, would be like setting a magnet in a box of iron filings and hoping it would remain clean. Better by far to remove all the filings or — since that was impractical — remove the magnet.

He wondered how Jack atte Hedge was getting on.

Lydford, Devon

Simon scowled at his wife as he entered the hall. She was not alone.

At the table, sitting on Simon’s bench and drinking a pot of ale with every sign of delight, was a Lay Brother from Tavistock. Simon thought he recognised the fellow, although he did not know his name, but he had no doubt that whoever had sent him, it would not be for his own benefit.

‘Ah, Bailiff, I am glad to see you again,’ the man said.

‘Yes?’

Meg smiled and left the room with a special grin for her husband. He glowered back.

‘Bailiff, I have a message for you.’

‘Is it from the Abbot or John de Courtenay?’

The Brother blinked. ‘Neither, Bailiff. It came straight from Bishop Walter of Exeter. He wishes for you to join him. In London.’