Dispensation of Death

Chapter Five

Thursday before the Feast of St Julian¹

Hall of the Bishop of Bath and Wells, Straunde

Edmund Woodstock, Earl of Kent, was disgruntled to be made to stand here, kicking his heels until the Bishop deigned to appear. Apart from anything else, he was hungry. He’d come here as soon as he could, before even breakfast, to catch the Bishop first thing after his morning Mass.

He was an Earl, half-brother to the King, an important man, and this petty cleric kept him hanging about like a berner awaiting his lord and master’s command to set the hounds loose. He had half a mind to leave this damned palace and make his way homewards to the inn he was renting, when he heard feet on the steps outside.

If only he was home again. Although it was no warmer than here, he liked Gloucester, where he had his main castle and manors. Here in London and the area all about it, he was unsettled. He’d never liked it, not from the first. Give him open lands and his hounds and he’d be happy, but here in London he felt cooped like a hen. Especially now he had at least two men with him at all times.

Piers had best be correct. The fellow was too damned uncertain. When they had met the other day, he had looked so petrified. Earl Edmund had hoped that Piers would have produced something rock-solid on which he could plan, but no. Just the same old hints and things of no value, like the news that Despenser hated him and could plot to have him killed. As if he didn’t know that already!

Edmund was no fool, but there were times when life was truly confusing. Just now, he knew that all he did must be circumspect and cautious, because otherwise, he could well lose his head. Literally. The messages he had been receiving from Piers left him with no doubts.

The realm needed strong government. The populace were sheep to be herded carefully, and shorn in due season. There were the three classes of man, as all knew: the bellatores, the clergy, and the commonfolk. The bellatores were the men who had a duty to protect all others; the clergy existed in order to maintain the souls of the rest of society; and beneath both were the commoners, who were there to labour and, by their efforts, feed all others. It was the way of all communities. It was how they functioned.

He had been loyal — no: devoted. All his life, he had fought to support his half-brother, the King. Edward II demanded ever more devotion from his men, even when his household was splintering and his own knights were leaving him to join Thomas of Lancaster, before Edward removed his head. When Edward had needed help in allowing the Despensers back into the country after they had been exiled, who did he turn to? Edmund. When he wanted Leeds Castle besieged and Bartholomew Badlesmere captured? Edmund. When he wanted loyal men to take Thomas of Lancaster’s chief residence? Edmund. When he wanted his own men to hear Andrew Harclay’s trial and judge him? Edmund. He, more than anyone else, had repaid the wealth and honours given to him. God’s eyes, he had earned his rewards.

All the time he’d felt the sneering, though. Christ Jesus, yes. All the while, while he worked his ballocks off to help the King, he had known that they’d all looked down on him. No matter that he had successfully completed many active battlefield campaigns, they still looked on him as a lesser man. Bloody Despenser, with his airs and graces — when all was said and done, he was nothing more than a knight. Edmund was born the son of a king, the son of Edward the Hammer of the Scots. He was a man of honour and breeding.

He heard the mutterings all the more now, of course. Yes, while courtiers reckoned that his star was descending, they all started to show their callous disregard for him. And he knew full well that many of them laughed at him behind his back. He didn’t need Piers to tell him that. Christ’s bones, it was obvious enough. It wasn’t only the Despensers, either. There were some whom he had always looked upon as friends who now were all too content to make his life a misery.

If that were all, he’d not be too worried, but it wasn’t. He knew as well as any that among those who laughed at him was his own brother, the King. And his other brother. Thomas of Brotherton, the older by one year, had never quite enjoyed Edmund’s successes. And truth be told, Edmund had always had that feeling that he was the least of all Edward I’s sons. He was but six when his father died, and it had left him wondering what sort of a man he had truly been. Perhaps little better than any other. Certainly his brother, Edward II, was scathing enough about him. But then, King Edward I had exiled his son’s great friend, Gaveston, and Edward never forgave his father that.

This grudge-bearing trait was one with which Edmund was all too familiar. Ever since he had signed that truce with the French last year, he had found himself marginalised, an embarrassment. And all the others seemed to think that they could manage not only Guyenne, but the whole Kingdom better without him.

‘My Lord Kent.’

The suave voice shook him from his reverie. Fitting a grin to his face, Edmund turned and took the proffered hand, kissing the Episcopal ring. ‘My Lord Bishop.’

Drokensford was a heavy-set man with a florid complexion. His face was square and lined, as befitted a man who never based himself in any home, but who moved constantly from one manor to another, usually visiting all sixteen of those within his See each year, as well as the other properties dotted about the country. His voice was gruff, and he still sounded like a farmer from that little Hampshire town where he had been born. ‘My friend, it is my honour to see you here. Would you like some wine?’ He looked across the room at the guards the Earl had brought with him.

‘If you please, my Lord Bishop.’ He jerked his head at the guards, and they walked out to wait in the screens passage.

‘I think that here we may speak as equals,’ Drokensford said quietly.

The hall was a large one, but Edmund looked about him carefully. There were hangings on two walls which could have concealed a man. A closed door could all too often hide a listener. He recalled Piers’s words, and knew that no one could be trusted.

‘My Lord Bishop — John — you will know already that I am not entirely in favour at court.’

‘I had noticed your sad absence. I was sorry, for I have always respected your judgement.’

Edmund took the goblet presented to him and sipped, eyeing the Bishop.

Drokensford smiled, then held his arms out as if to indicate that both were a long way from any wall. ‘You may speak freely, my Lord Kent.’

‘Then I say this: if it were only me, I should be content with my lot. I would give up the governance of the realm to the King and his advisers, and I would retire to my estates. I have no need of political power. I am a simple man, a warrior. The King had need of me, but has so no more. So I should leave. But there are matters which concern me.’

‘They are?’

‘To speak plainly: Sir Hugh Despenser. When I was in France, he had control of all policy in Guyenne; he did little to help us. The fleet was supposed to sail in August, but did not; he never responded to our demands for men and matériel. No, he sat on his haunches and did nothing, until at the last, we lost all. I was confined in La Réole until I could negotiate a truce, without any help or advice from him.’

‘And now we must negotiate if we are to keep even a part of our territories over there,’ the Bishop murmured.

‘Precisely. And who is advising the King on all this? Despenser. The very same man who has been in control of the affair at all stages. The man who cost us the war last year.’

If the Bishop noted that it was Edmund himself who was in charge of all the forces there at the time of the French invasion and overrunning of the English lands, he kept the observation to himself. ‘And you wish to make a point?’

‘You know what I’m saying. If Despenser was incapable of protecting the Crown’s interests last year, what hope is there that he can do so now? And if he was not incapable, his incompetence begins to look suspicious.’

‘You suggest that he was a traitor?’

‘Never to his own affairs! I only say what is obvious.’

‘I am merely a Bishop, my friend. What would you expect a man of God to do about such affairs?’

Edmund’s lip curled a very slight amount. ‘Yes — you are a man of God, just as I am brother to the King.’

Drokensford took a long pull from his wine and nodded to himself. ‘I am afraid that I have little influence myself. Certainly not enough to interpose myself between the King and his advisers. Especially his … his most trusted advisers.’

There was no need for him to emphasise the point further. All knew that Despenser was closer to the King than any other man. Most suspected that the two must be lovers. There were even rumours that Despenser had tried to entice the Queen into his bed, according to Piers, although Edmund found that too unbelievable. The idea that the woman would have allowed him close enough to her to make such an improper suggestion was not credible. She hated him — as well she might.

‘And yet all who hold love for our realm must wish to support our territories against our enemies,’ said Edmund.

The Bishop eyed him. ‘The realm is the King’s, and the territories belong to him and the Crown. We are only subjects.’

‘But we must still try to protect his lands.’

‘And how could we achieve this?’

‘There is one way: we must have an ambassador go to the French King. Someone whom he will trust, someone who can speak for our King.’

‘I believe I understand your aims now,’ Drokensford muttered.

It was not new. In the last day the Earl had visited several Bishops and senior peers of the realm to try to put Piers’s suggestion into action, and each of them had listened and then studied him as though wondering whether he had more information he could impart. No one trusted another in this court. The King’s household was wrapped in a miasma of fear. Nobody dared to think for himself, and certainly nobody would think of thwarting Sir Hugh le Despenser.

‘What else?’ he said. ‘We must have the Queen go to France. Who else can achieve anything? If only Earl Pembroke had not died last year, he could have been sent. Stratford has achieved much — but he is not capable of miracles. The only person who can be expected to win over the French is our Queen.’

‘And?’

‘You know as well as I do that the Despenser would not have her sent. He wishes her here. He has never trusted her, and trusts her less than ever now. I’ll wager you that he fights to prevent her being sent.’

‘Come now! He and she appear to be happy in each other’s company.’

‘You think so? Then why …’ He paused.

‘Why what? There is nothing more to be said. Sir Hugh le Despenser is perfectly happy with her, I am sure. They are amiable before each other, after all.’

‘I do know that, my Lord Bishop. In public, I agree, they seem perfectly content. But there is some news which I have heard recently. It concerns me, directly. But I must ask that you keep this to yourself.’

‘What would that be?’

‘What if I were to tell you that Despenser has already sworn to kill me? He cannot bear to think that the truth should ever come out about his malodorous handling of French relationships. The murderous bastard wants me out of the way. Anyway, he’s always been jealous of my Earldom. Despenser has always wanted it for himself.’

Drokensford was looking at him with a cynical twist to his face. The man wanted more. Edmund returned his stare with resolution. There was little else he could say to persuade the man. Grasping at the nearest straw, he blurted, ‘You know what sort of man he is: ruthless.’

‘That is a measure of many a knight,’ Drokensford said.

‘Not many are in his league. If he dares to harm me, to kill me, who would be next? A Bishop? Would there be any who would be safe?’

The Bishop hesitated, his goblet at his lips. ‘You have given me much to consider, my Lord.’

‘No one is safe from him.’

‘And you think the Queen could make a good fist of negotiations in France?’

‘Of course. Ha! She would be grateful too, to be safe from Despenser’s clutches.’

‘Why do you say that? How could it benefit him, were the Queen to die?’

The Earl had not considered this. His words had only been intended to mean that she would be safer from him were she abroad. Now he grew pensive. ‘If she were to die, he would be the King’s sole companion.’

The Bishop looked across at him. ‘You should be more careful with your language, my friend. Such talk could be considered irreverent, even treacherous.’

‘My Lord, you have heard the same rumours as me. It is said that the Queen was evicted from his bedchamber some while ago. While the Despenser …’

‘I do not deal in gossip,’ the Bishop snapped harshly.

‘Neither do I. Very well. There is another reason for him to wish to see the King’s wife dead. She is a great magnate in the land. Her wealth is based in Devon and Cornwall, where she possesses great mining profits and the forestry from the moors. You know how acquisitive the Despenser is. If she were dead, he could perhaps persuade the King to make all that over to him.’

‘It would be hard to envisage such bold treachery!’

Earl Edmund blinked. To his mind such ruthlessness was entirely natural from that evil spirit Despenser.

Seeing his frank surprise, the Bishop was forced to look away. He didn’t honestly doubt that Sir Hugh would be capable of it either. He could not deny that the Earl’s words would make a deal of sense to almost everyone in the land. There was no doubt that if any could consider such a dreadful act, it was Sir Hugh le Despenser. Rumours of his vicious treatment of widows and others who legitimately possessed lands or beasts which he coveted were too numerous to be discounted. He frowned. ‘You are sure the Despenser wishes you dead?’

The Earl glowered. ‘Yes. He knows I would curb his power.’

‘Then, my friend, you must take extreme care in all that you do. He is a most dangerous opponent.’

‘I know that! In God’s name, can’t you give me better advice than that?’

Drokensford peered at him, and suddenly his Hampshire peasant’s eyes were hard as crystal. ‘Yes. If he has determined to harm you, I would pray to God and prepare your soul for death.’

Queen’s Chapel, Thorney Island

Seeing the girl walking down the passageway towards him, Richard Blaket felt his heart begin to pound just that little bit harder.

Fair of hair as she was fair of face. In God’s name, but she was his soul’s delight. If he could win her heart, he would be glad for ever.

‘Master Blaket.’

‘My Lady Alicia.’ He inclined his head seriously, then grinned as he stood aside.

She looked away, and he felt his heart drop. Still, it was no surprise, not really. They had enjoyed a little banter, but that was common enough in a place like this, where there were so many men and so few women. But perhaps she was offended that he had been too familiar — not in action, but in tone. Even a man’s voice could be regarded as an instrument of love-making, so he had heard.

Well, damn her if she did! It wasn’t as though he had shown any lack of respect, and for her part she had been saucy enough in front of him, so long as others weren’t watching.

And then he saw that behind her was the Queen.

Queen Isabella walked slowly, like a woman on the way to the gallows. Alicia and Mabilla were before her, and Lady Eleanor and Joan followed behind. Many would think that the Queen was merely being accorded the respect due to the most senior woman in the realm, but after listening to Alicia a little, he knew that it wasn’t so. It was merely the guard about the prisoner.

It gave him a stab in the heart to see how this magnificent woman was brought so low. She should be up in the Great Hall, entertaining at her husband’s side, not locked away in these little corridors to moulder.

He snapped to attention, his chin up, proving his respect by his smart salute, and he was sure that he saw her smile as she passed, acknowledging him with a delicate nod of her head.

Not that he cared a short while later when he felt Alicia’s soft, warm hand on his own, touching him as delicately as a bee landing on a rose, he considered, his heart so full he thought it must burst.