Dispensation of Death

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Feast of St Gilbert of Sempringham¹

Great Hall, Thorney Island

This was not his first meeting in the Great Hall for affairs of great importance to the realm, of course, but this time Sir Hugh le Despenser did not feel the usual lifting of his spirits as he walked in and gazed about him. Instead he was aware of a shrinking sensation, as though expecting at any moment to feel the thud of a bolt strike his spine.

Ever since Jack’s failure and death, all had gone wrong for him. It was one thing to lose an assassin, but to have the target remain to threaten him was highly disagreeable. And dangerous, because he was always open to potential counter-attacks: anyone could get close enough to him to slay him.

But not a jot of nervousness could be shown in here, among all his peers. They would try to capitalise on any sign of weakness immediately.

There were already some thirty or forty barons and prelates gathered there. He nodded without expression at some few. To smile or acknowledge them any more than that might make them think that they ranked higher in his estimation than they did, and he had no need of them or their patronage. No, he was the giver of patronage here.

Look at that man over there — Earl Thomas of Norfolk. He had acquired several manors in recent months, and it had nothing to do with him being the King’s brother. It was because Sir Hugh had seen that keeping the man on side would be more beneficial than not. Occasionally it was best to have a man inside the tent and pissing out, than outside pissing in. Although sometimes it was best just to remove that man altogether. Still, Norfolk had his uses. Unlike his younger brother, the cretinous Kent. He was there, too, standing with that suspicious look in his eyes. Ach, the arrogant prickle made him sick. He was so blown up with his own importance and the affectation of rage at Despenser. Perhaps some time he’d have to get rid of the little prat. A dagger between the ribs could be a wonderful silencer. Sir Hugh had detested him ever since King Edward had given him his earldom. Despenser had expected that for himself, but still, in retrospect it was no great loss. He had much of Wales now, as well as the other little gifts which the King had showered on him.

Yes. He had been fortunate. He had always intended to be rich, and that was the end to which he had bent his mind, but he’d never expected to be able to win such a fabulous position so quickly. It seemed as though Edward only understood how to keep his lovers by giving away his own inheritance to them. Some would say it was simple generosity, but Despenser knew better. It was weakness.

The King was scared that someone could try to remove his Despenser as they had taken his Piers, his lovely Pierrot. Sweet Jesus! And now Edward had been told that, last night, someone had tried to do so.

Sir Hugh smiled grimly to himself, recalling the sight of Pilk rushing forwards, bellowing something incomprehensible, while that useless tub of lard Ellis stood gaping … and then the thrumming through the air as the bolt flashed past, so close it almost felt that the fletchings must cut his temple, and Ellis knocked him to the ground. Christ’s bones, it had left him entirely confused: he scarce knew whether to be furious or shit himself, the bolt had come so near!

At one long side of the hall a series of tables had been set out with cups and horns. Next to these were racks of ale and wine. Sir Hugh beckoned a servant, who nodded, drawing off a pint and hurrying to bring it to Sir Hugh. The strong red wine made his belly warm and he felt a voluptuous shudder run down his back and into his buttocks.

He had thought that no one would dare to stand in his path — not since they’d seen how traitors and those who’d fallen out of favour with the King were likely to be treated. Since Boroughbridge, the King had launched a series of relatiatory attacks against all those responsible, and the ferocity of his revenge had been a lesson to all those who’d ever considered thwarting him.

Hugh le Despenser had been secure in the patronage of the King, unassailable, feared by all. The fact that someone had dared to attack him left him furious — and feeling strangely impotent. His problem was, if people thought others would dare assassinate him … more might take up the challenge.

Which made him still more angry to think of that innkeeper. The man should have come to him, told him about the horse, not gone shooting his mouth off to those other men.

And the knight Baldwin would have to be persuaded to mind his own business. His investigations into the death of the bitch killed in front of the Queen and Jack’s murder were exercising him a little bit too much. He was starting to poke his nose into affairs that were none of his concern.

Perhaps the fate of the innkeeper would be a lesson to him.

Simon entered the hall with a feeling of awe.

He had grown up knowing rich and powerful men — his father had been steward to the Baron de Courtenay at Okehampton and Tiverton, and it was not as though Simon could be daunted by the sight of a man wearing a coat-of-arms, but as he stood in the entrance to the screens passage, he felt the weight of the authority in that enormous chamber oppressing him. It was as though the wealth and power of the entire realm had accumulated in that one spot. Lords and Earls, Bishops and Archbishops stood in their finery, and Simon was aware only of the shabbiness of his jack and hosen, his stained gipon and worn boots. In this company, he felt as out of place as a nun in a brothel.

‘Can we go home now?’ he whispered to Baldwin.

‘If only that were possible,’ the knight responded. He walked in, glancing back at Simon and beckoning him with a tilt of his head.

Simon took a breath and nodded, walking in. The Bishop was already there, talking to some other churchmen, and Simon bowed as he saw one of them looking his way.

It was then that he saw Despenser. The knight was standing in a small group; to Simon’s eye it was a curiously fawning little assembly. All were clearly trying to win the approbation of the man who scarcely listened to any of them.

Despenser said something, and the men about him turned as one to stare at Simon and Baldwin, and then guffawed with sycophantic laughter. Each, though, was laughing with one eye on Simon, the target of their mirth, while the other eye was on Sir Hugh. In those circles, Simon thought, no one would feel safe. Their backs were always waiting for a metaphorical — or literal — dagger.

Baldwin snapped his fingers at a servant and soon he and Simon had large cups of wine. Baldwin sipped cautiously — he knew that in the past, the King had provided strong wines, and this was no exception. At his side, Simon was similarly careful. He had no desire to make a fool of himself here with the magnates of the realm watching him.

Yet he soon realised that no one was terribly interested in Baldwin and himself. All eyes were on the Despenser, who stood in all his finery, and yet whose face was mottled, like a man who had not slept well. Simon would have said that his features reflected the dissipation of his soul and the repellent arrogance that led him to believe that he could capture, torture, or even murder with impunity.

‘Have you seen his expression?’ Baldwin grunted. ‘Either he is sorely tormented with constipation, or he has something to fear.’

His voice was not quiet enough. A man behind them overheard his words. ‘Sir Knight, you are quite right. Have you not heard about the attack on him last night? As he was leaving the Green Yard, an assassin tried to shoot him with a bolt. The assault failed — just. It was a close thing, though.’

‘Ah. And who was the assassin?’

‘No one recognised him. He wore no arms.’

‘Has he said …’

‘He was struck dumb by three or four arrows. They had to shoot him to keep him from harming others,’ the man shrugged.

Baldwin nodded. No one would be very likely to live after being hit by three clothyard arrows.

‘So that would explain his temper today,’ Simon whispered.

‘Yes. And whoever had the guards silence his attacker ensured that the fellow would never speak about who had hired him to try to kill Despenser,’ Baldwin noted.

There was an excited chattering from the door, and then the room was hushed. A herald entered, slammed his staff on the floor three times and bellowed, ‘My Lords, the King!’