Dispensation of Death: (Knights Templar 23) Read online

  ‘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.

  Chapter Twelve

  Thorney Island

  On Friday morning, after very little sleep, Sir Hugh le Despenser was sitting in the Exchequer, when he saw from the window the new group arrive. Despite his fatigue, he was already leaving the room before they had dismounted, beckoning a guard. ‘You! Come with me.’

  This was becoming one of the worst days he could remember. There were those other bad days he had suffered, like the one when he and his father were banished and condemned to exile, or the one when he had been told that he was to lose the Gower. But both times he had prevailed. Other, seemingly more powerful barons had been arrayed against him, but he had beaten them all in the end. This time he would succeed again, he told himself.

  ‘Who are you?’ he demanded as he approached the newcomers, his hand on his sword.

  Apart from the three men-at-arms who were in the lead, the first man there was a tall fellow in a faded red tunic with an old stained and frayed cloak. He had a hood, but it was thrust back behind his head, and his greying hair and beard were neatly trimmed. He had a scar at the side of his face that spoke of a martial past, but any man reaching his age would have a number of scars. It was a part of life as a knight.

  ‘I am called Sir Baldwin de Furnshill. This is my Lord Bishop, Walter of Exeter.’

  ‘My Lord Bishop, I apologise, I didn’t see you there,’ Hugh said immediately. The Lord High Treasurer was not a man to insult – not just now.

  Stapledon gave him a cool enough greeting, and held out his ring to be kissed, before commanding the others to see to their mounts while he spoke with Sir Hugh. He then set off side-by-side with Despenser to the Great Hall.

  ‘I am concerned that our policy is not being adequately communicated to others,’ the Bishop murmured.

  Sir Hugh shot him a look. ‘That is hardly my province, my Lord Bishop. Our arrangement was, you would convince the Bishops and I would convince the Lords. I have upheld my side of the bargain.’

  ‘I have difficulties with some of them. Martival has rejected our ideas out of hand. We know that Orleton will do anything to thwart you, and now we h
ave others against us too. I am dubious about Bath and Wells.’

  ‘You will have to find a means of convincing them, then. I have enough to do without ordering the obedience of the Church.’

  Stapledon nodded. They had reached the Great Hall now and entered, staring up the length of the chamber at the throne with the rock beneath it, the Stone of Scone which the King’s father, Edward I, had captured from the Scots. There were two guards in the hall although the place was empty but for them. ‘There are more guards than usual.’

  ‘Yes. Someone entered the grounds last night and slew a lady-in-waiting.’

  Stapledon frowned. ‘What! A man from outside, you mean?’

  It was sometimes hard to realise that this fellow had one of the sharpest financial minds in all Christendom. Despenser nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘An assassin?’ Stapledon’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. ‘Was it you?’

  ‘Why would I murder a lady-in-waiting? It would serve me no benefit, would it?’

  The logic of that was inescapable, and the Bishop knew it. ‘But why should a man kill a lady-in-waiting? Who was it? Are you sure that the assassin was aiming his knife at her, and didn’t simply strike down the wrong woman?’

  ‘Anyone would recognise the Queen, and if he killed the wrong lady, it would have been easy to shove the other women aside and kill the Queen herself.’

  Stapledon eyed him doubtfully, but then nodded his head in agreement. ‘You’re right. There could be no reason to kill a maid. Which one was it?’

  ‘Mabilla Aubyn. You remember her? She was the daughter of Sir Richard.’

  Stapledon nodded pensively, but he gazed at Sir Hugh with a frown. It was clear enough what he was thinking.

  ‘Look, my Lord Bishop, she was worth nothing. She has no lands or wealth. I had no reason to seek to harm her.’

  ‘Very well. I take your word for it,’ the Bishop said. ‘What actions have been taken to seek the assassin?’

  ‘We’ve searched the whole place, but it seems whoever it was managed to break in, and then escaped as well.’

  ‘How did he get in?’

  ‘We’re still trying to find out. The wall has not been breached so far as we can tell. It’s possible that they may have got in from the river, but unlikely, I’d have thought. There were no boats seen.’

  ‘Let me know if you come to any conclusions.’

  ‘I will. And in the meantime – those two men with you. One called himself Sir Baldwin de Furnshill. Is he from Devon?’

  ‘Yes. Why?’

  ‘I believe I have heard his name before.’

  The news of the attack on the Queen’s little party was swiftly spread all over the palace, and nowhere was the news bruited about so speedily as in the New Hall Yard, where all the guests mingled in the taverns and alehouses.

  Piers de Wrotham, Earl Edmund’s spy, was sitting on an old barrel in a tavern when he himself heard the rumour of an attempt to kill the Queen. Finishing his horn of ale, he set it down with a coin, and made his way towards the Exchequer, slowly absorbing the full horror of his position.

  He knew that Sir Hugh le Despenser was behind the murder. It never occurred to him that another could have been responsible. No – Sir Hugh detested the Queen, always had, and he must have been looking for a means of removing her for some little while.

  It had seemed odd at the time, when Sir Hugh told Piers to persuade Earl Edmund to extol the virtues of the Queen as negotiator over the stolen territories. At the time, Piers was convinced that the man was playing a different game of his own, because it made no sense for the Queen to visit her brother, King Charles IV of France. Once there, she must be safe from Despenser. But at least she would be out of his hair – and perhaps that was all he was thinking of. If so, then he had gambled badly on this throw: a successful attack upon the Queen was one thing, but a botched effort like this, which only served to kill a maid – that was a disaster. The French King would go mad – immediately demand satisfaction. Only the head of Despenser would suffice.

  The woman who had died – Mabilla – was the lady who had given the come-on to Earl Edmund, then rejected him when he got too keen. Yes, and all knew that he had been furious, threatening to rape her when she had done that to him. Perhaps many would see this as a foul act on his part, killing the woman who had spurned him? And all his advice in the last few months would be assessed against this new revelation about him.

  His reputation would be destroyed. Aha, Piers thought, and a slow smile spread over his face. Perhaps that was what it was all about.

  Simon and Baldwin were directed to a small stable set against the northern wall of the court, and there with the three men-at-arms, they unloaded their belongings so that the horses could be properly rested. Rob was left with the horses to groom them – much against his will – and Simon and Baldwin parted from the others there.

  ‘So that – that’s the Great Hall?’ Simon asked, awed.

  ‘Well, it’s not the smaller one,’ Baldwin said drily.

  ‘Is there one?’

  ‘Down the far side of this one. The King uses that more often, I imagine. This one is just too immense for comfort.’

  ‘Especially at this time of year,’ Simon agreed. Both had spent enough time in large halls in Exeter and beyond during the winter to know how long it could take for a fire to heat a chamber of any size.

  ‘Come – let us seek some warmed ale,’ Baldwin muttered. It was cold, and talking about it only served to remind them just how icy the air was.

  They made their way to the inn beside the gatehouse and entered. There was a bar set over two barrels at the far end, and they repaired to this, ordering ales, and then taking their seats on low stools near a little fire that threw out a lot of smoke and not much warmth.

  ‘I wonder when the Bishop will be finished,’ Simon said.

  ‘Soon, I dare say. He doesn’t enjoy long journeys, and he’ll be keen to eat and find a bed.’

  ‘There are a lot of guards here. Do you think that the King always has this number of men about him?’

  Baldwin was tempted to say that any tyrant must rely on a large contingent of guards to see to his defence, but forbore. ‘This is a large palace, and I suppose he has all the Crown’s jewels with him. It’s only natural that he should feel the need for protection.’

  A grizzled old veteran of many winters in the King’s service had overheard their conversation, and now he leaned forward. To Baldwin’s mind his round, flushed features spoke of a better than nodding acquaintance with the ales served here.

  ‘Hadn’t you heard?’ he asked. ‘There was a murder here yesternight. A poor maid was struck down.’

  ‘A lover?’ Baldwin asked. It was the usual first question. He always found that in murders, especially the murders of younger folk, the killer almost invariably proved to be someone closely related. A man killed his wife, a lad his girl – sometimes it was the woman killing her spouse. More rarely it was a brother killing a sister because she had brought shame on the family.

  ‘Don’t know. The fellow ran off as soon as she was dead.’

  ‘There were witnesses?’ Simon asked.

  ‘Four or five of them. It was a lady-in-waiting to the Queen, and the Queen was there with the others when it happened.’

  ‘Did the man show any evil intent towards our Queen?’ Baldwin demanded quickly. Coming straight after the news that the King might seek to annul his marriage, it appeared to be the logical conclusion.

  ‘No, not that I heard. He just jumped out and stabbed Mabilla, and then fled the scene.’ The fellow clearly had nothing more to tell, other than vague allegations and suppositions.

  ‘What do you think of that then, Simon?’ Baldwin asked.

  Simon belched, leaned back against the wall and spread his legs luxuriously. ‘Me? I think I’m as pleased as a hog in shit that for once, this is nothing to do with us. We can stand back and watch some other poor bastard get on with the work of finding out who was
responsible. It’s none of our concern. And in the meantime, let’s have another ale, eh?’

  There was one man who was concerned about the death of the maid though, and he was in the Queen’s chapel with Mabilla’s corpse.

  ‘Oh, Mabilla! How could you have come to this? Mabilla, my sister, I miss you! I shall avenge you, I swear it, on the Gospels!’

  And with that Ellis Brooke, Sir Hugh’s most trusted henchman, stood, wiped his face, and made his way from the room.

  Despenser left Bishop Stapledon and headed back to the Exchequer through the Green Yard. At least here it was peaceful. This little sanctuary was shielded from the madness and busyness of the main court north of the Great Hall. It might not be as restful as the Queen’s cloister, but it was damn near as quiet.

  Sir Hugh stopped for a moment. Indecision assailed him, and he stood for quite some little while, simply staring at the Exchequer buildings while a great lassitude washed over him. Never before had he felt so enfeebled. All his life, he had been driven by his passions. He could still remember when he had been a young man, saying to a friend, ‘I desire nothing so much as money. One day I will have plenty of it. I will be rich.’

  Well, that prophecy had come true. Yet for every new pound or mark which he accumulated, he grew ever more aware of the risks of his method of acquiring it and the likelihood that he would lose all.

  Once he had. When those bastards the Lords Marcher decided to clip his wings, they did so by taking his castles and laying waste all his manors. It was a typical chevauchée, a fast ride over all his property, stealing or burning everything. The bastards first wrecked him and then saw him condemned to exile. Well, never again. No mother-swyving churl would ever be able to take away what he had built up, and he didn’t give a damn who knew it.

  But something was going wrong here for him. Jack should never have attacked Mabilla, and if he did, why should it have stopped him from carrying on and killing the Queen? Although, thank God he hadn’t. Jack had been in tougher situations before, and being thwarted by a clutch of women would not normally have prevented him from finishing the job.