Dispensation of Death: (Knights Templar 23) Page 17

  ‘You must excuse the mess in here. It’s not usually occupied by a corpse, but where else can we store him, eh? No, better to keep him out of the way, that was what I thought. So out here he came. Trouble is, it’s damned dark in here, eh? Still, a candle will serve where the sun won’t! Did you see him in the hall? Nasty business. Who’d do a thing like that to a man, eh? Cut off his tarse and shove it in his mouth. Barbaric, eh? Oh, by the way, I am Coroner John of Evesham, at your service.’

  Baldwin was already at the victim’s head, and stood looking down the length of his body. Simon, having a less resilient stomach, had taken up his own station nearer the doorway, where the obscene protrusion from the dead man’s mouth was hidden by Sir John’s thick little body.

  ‘Was there anything at all about this man that could indicate where he came from, what his usual trade was, or anything of that nature?’ Baldwin asked.

  ‘Nothing. All deny ever seeing him before, which is hardly surprising, but the porters say that they haven’t seen him before either, which is odd. If one of them had seen him enter the New Palace Yard, they would surely have said so, and it’s not as if there’s been too many people for them to notice recently. No, if they say they didn’t see him, I believe them.’

  ‘I shall wish to walk about the perimeter of the Palace, then, just to see whether there’s an obvious place where he could have gained entry,’ Baldwin said. ‘Tell me, how easy would it be for a man to learn what the Queen’s movements are?’

  ‘The Queen’s? Probably very easy. How many hundreds of servants are there here, eh? Any one of them could have been bribed, I dare say. It’s all too common.’

  ‘And the Queen has a fairly rigid structure to her day, I suppose.’

  ‘Ah,’ Sir John said, smiling and tapping his nose. ‘Not all that structured, no. All too often she rises at the oddest hours to go and hear Mass, I’ve heard. She likes to keep her people on their toes.’

  That made Baldwin frown, but before he could continue, the two assistants had pulled off the last of the dead man’s garments and Baldwin and John leaned forward with professional enthusiasm.

  ‘Clearly his own tarse, then,’ John said with detachment. Simon felt his belly lurch.

  ‘Dead first, I’d think,’ Baldwin said.

  ‘Oh, definitely, definitely. He must have had a blow to the heart which killed him, and then the murderer removed his, um, and shoved it into his mouth. It could have indicated disapproval of the assassin’s way of life, say, if the killer knew him and resented him for being a sodomite?’

  Baldwin shrugged off his words. He had spent too much time living in the East, where men would sometimes form close liaisons with other men. He did not find it as fearful a lifestyle as some.

  However, Simon was taken by another thought. ‘What if it was an indication of disrespect for someone else, though?’

  ‘Like who, my friend?’

  In another man, this patronising tone would have irritated Simon enormously, but he felt himself warming to the Coroner. Sir John seemed affable, but Simon could sense a strong intellect, and felt that he was covering up a sharp mind with his buffoonery. Perhaps it was necessary in a political household such as this. ‘I was wondering: if a powerful baron wanted to leave a brutal warning to another, perhaps he could do this?’

  ‘But why?’ John said, a smile still on his lips, but a faintly anxious expression in his eyes.

  ‘If he was leaving a message for a baron who was a sodomite, that might be the way he’d do it,’ Simon guessed.

  Baldwin gave a chuckle. ‘I think that’s more than a little far-fetched, Simon. No, I feel sure that this is a reflection on the man found dead, and his lifestyle. It’s surely a little extreme to think that someone could find the right assassin, kill him, and decide to leave a message for the man who could be his paymaster. Now – what else is there?’

  And while Simon was left feeling ruffled at the way the two men had dismissed his suggestion, the Coroner and Keeper bent to study the corpse once more.

  ‘Distinguishing marks – a large scar over his breast here, as though a sword has taken away a flap of skin. He’s had that arm damaged, too. Look at it!’

  Baldwin nodded. At some time the limb had been badly crushed, the bone broken and reset, as was so often the case, slightly crooked. There was a great deal of scar tissue about it, too. ‘He must have suffered every day from that.’

  ‘I wonder how he did it?’ Sir John murmured. ‘And now, let us roll the fellow over and see if there’s anything else to be learned, eh?’

  The two men completed their careful investigation and when they were both satisfied that there was nothing more to be gleaned from the man’s body, they pulled a sheet over him and wiped their hands on a few rags they found nearby.

  Baldwin was first to leave, but when Simon tried to follow him, he found the Coroner in his way: the man had sprung into his path. ‘I am very interested in your idea about the dead man, Bailiff. Perhaps we could meet to discuss it further?’ he said, to Simon’s surprise.

  Simon gave a grunt of agreement. The two men had so clearly indicated their lack of interest in his suggestion, yet now the Coroner wished to talk about it. It made no sense.

  In the stables, Baldwin and Simon found Rob, sulking at the horses. ‘The Bishop said for you to follow on to his house. Told me to wait here for you.’ He gave a long-suffering sigh.

  Baldwin nodded, glancing at the activity in and around New Palace Yard. As the sun was sliding down in the west, people were starting to make their way homewards. Some were already installed on benches at the taverns, while the hawkers and vendors were packing up their wares and making for the gatehouse.

  ‘Come on, you two,’ he said. ‘It’s time we copied them.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  It took some little while for them to reach the Bishop’s house, and on the journey Simon found himself gaping at all the fine buildings, for it seemed to him that every few yards there was a palace.

  ‘This road is called King Street,’ Baldwin said. ‘It leads us north for a while, and then we head east on the road called Straunde.’

  Rob frowned. ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘A “straunde” is a beach, and this is the old line of the Thames, I think,’ Baldwin said. ‘When I was first here, many years ago, there were still some areas of marsh over there towards the river. It appears all is covered now. They have drained most of the marsh and dumped soil and gravel on top so that they can build on it.’

  Rob gazed about him. ‘Why bother? Couldn’t they go a bit further away and build there?’

  Baldwin smiled. ‘This is the main road from the kingdom’s greatest city to the Palace where the King makes his laws. Courtiers, bishops, innkeepers and pie-sellers all want to be near the seat of power, my friend. It is where the money lies … and that is all anyone is interested in nowadays,’ he added more sadly.

  ‘What is that?’ Simon asked. He was pointing at a great open space with low buildings behind it. Before it, stood a magnificent construction. Some five-and-twenty yards tall, it was a spire, with ornately carved sides. In arches on each face were figures, heads bent in mourning.

  Baldwin sighed. ‘The King’s father, Edward the first, put that up, and eleven others, to commemorate his beloved wife, Eleanor of Castile. She was so dear to him, that when she died, he brought her body in procession back here to London. There is a great tomb for her in the Abbey, back there on Thorney Isle.’

  ‘He must have loved her dearly to have that built.’

  ‘Not just that, Simon, it is only one of twelve. She died in Nottinghamshire, and the King had one of these crosses built at each place where the procession stopped each night. And when they returned here, he had her heart buried in the Dominican House in London so that it was near the heart of her son Alfonso. He had died some years before her.’

  ‘A terrible thing for any mother or father,’ Simon said quietly. He had lost his own first son.

&nbs
p; ‘Yes. That is a useful marker for us, though,’ Baldwin continued, seeing his mood and trying to lighten it. ‘Because for us it indicates the end of King Street. Where that cross stands is the royal mews.’

  Simon said, ‘Ah!’ The wide open space behind the cross was where the royal falcons and hawks would be exercised, then, and the buildings beyond were the houses where the birds could ‘mew’ or moult, as well as housing their falconers. From the sound of baying, he thought that some hounds must also be kept there.

  ‘The King enjoys his hunting, then?’ he said, his mind on happier things, just as his old friend had intended.

  ‘He enjoys mostly alternative pursuits, Simon. He likes to go hedging and ditching, or rowing boats or swimming,’ Baldwin chuckled. ‘Not that that is the worst, sadly. Do you know, he has been known to enjoy acting? There are many scandalised barons who have mentioned that. The thought that a king should enjoy such frivolous pastimes is enough to send some of them into the vapours.’

  ‘Acting, eh? How low can a man sink,’ Simon laughed.

  ‘From here, at Charing, the road becomes known as Straunde. It runs from here to the city of London itself, and there it becomes the Fleet Street.’

  ‘Why so many names?’ Rob grumbled. ‘Can’t they make do with one, like other towns?’

  ‘Because this is not like other towns, boy,’ Baldwin said, adding with a slightly sarcastic edge to his voice, ‘It is too great for one name to suffice. The people here adore display above all else.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ Simon asked. He was staring at a large building on their right. ‘Look at that! It’s as big as the Bishop’s house at Bishop’s Clyst!’

  ‘It’s a Bishop’s London home,’ Baldwin said absently. He gazed at it a moment, brow puckered with the effort of memory. ‘Ah yes, I think that is the Bishop of Norwich’s place. He is nearest Charing and the cross. Then comes the Bishop of Durham’s house, I think. And after that, the Bishop of Carlisle’s home. What I meant about display was that here in London, I always had the feeling that people like to make an impression, above all else. In Exeter or Salisbury or Winchester, or anywhere else, people take pride in beauty for beauty’s sake. They would have a wonderful building because they like beautiful things. A Bishop might commission a painting on his walls to make his cathedral more lovely, a merchant may do the same in his hall – but here, the aim seems to be sheer ostentation. They want to instil a sense of inferiority – or fear – in visitors. It is a harsh, dangerous city. Be cautious when Londoners congregate, that is my advice to you both.’

  Simon could see that he was musing on other things, but knew better than to press his old friend. And to be truthful, he was more keen on looking at the huge manor houses which lined this great road. Ostentatious or not, he found them fascinating.

  ‘This is it,’ Baldwin said shortly.

  Simon followed his pointing finger to a range of small dwellings, mostly little shops and some houses, with an inn. In the midst of them was a grand arched gateway, with a small door to one side. Baldwin rode to the gates and dropped from his horse. This late, for it was almost dark now, the gates had been closed, and he rapped sharply on them with his knuckles.

  There was a grunt and soft curse, and then Simon heard footsteps. A panel shot open in the gate and a pair of scowling eyes peered out. ‘Yes? What do you want?’

  ‘The gates opened, old man. We are here to speak with the Bishop.’

  ‘His inn is just up there. Come back in the morning.’

  ‘We are his guests, Porter. If you wish, we can go as you say, and you can explain to him why it is that the men whom he invited to stay with him were turned away at his door.’

  The eyes looked Baldwin up and down. ‘No one tells me anything!’ he grumbled. The panel slid shut, and shortly afterwards they heard the welcome sound of bolts rattling open and the rasp of timbers being drawn back to unbar the gates.

  ‘Please enter, my Lords.’

  Simon rode into a space that seemed as large as his village green and sat for a while on his horse, simply drinking in the view.

  Ahead of them was the Bishop’s residence while in London. It was a great stone hall with a shingled roof, rather like a smaller version of the King’s Great Hall. It clearly stood over a large undercroft, because the entrance was up a flight of stairs at the left-hand side, while on the right side was a two-storey block which would hold the Bishop’s private rooms and a chapel. Next to that were some stables and working sheds. The middle was one large expanse covered with a thick layer of gravel.

  ‘It’s huge,’ Simon breathed.

  ‘You forget that the good Bishop is one of the most important men in the country,’ Baldwin pointed out.

  ‘But he has the palace in Exeter, and his manor at Bishop’s Clyst. I didn’t think he’d have a property like this in London too,’ Simon said.

  ‘He is a very wealthy man,’ Baldwin said quietly.

  Admitting it before Simon was hard, but Baldwin too was shocked by the size of this palace. He knew how much the Bishop had been forced to invest in the rebuilding works at Exeter Cathedral, and he had also been patron of schools and colleges. To have bought and built this massive property as well in the last fifteen years showed just how much Bishop Walter Stapledon had prospered. It left Baldwin feeling uneasy: so much wealth was hard to explain. However, Bishop Walter had been Lord High Treasurer twice in the last few years, and it was likely that some of the money used here had had its foundation in the King’s Exchequer.

  They led their horses over to the stables, and then Baldwin and Simon marched to the hall.

  Bishop Stapledon was already seated at his table on the great dais. A proportion of his servants were sitting and eating in the lower part of the hall. As soon as he saw Simon and Baldwin, he beckoned for them to join him. The two men had to wait while a servant scurried for seats and trenchers for them both. Then the laver arrived with a bowl, and both washed their hands and dried them on the proffered towel before setting to with the bowls of meat at the table before them.

  ‘Did you get anywhere, Sir Baldwin?’ the Bishop asked when they had taken the edge off their appetites.

  ‘We have learned a little,’ Baldwin said, using a piece of bread to soak up gravy, ‘but there is more we need to find out. The identity of this strange assassin would be a help to us. However, I have no idea how to find out anything about him. Without a clue as to where he came from, it is hard to imagine that we can get any further.’

  ‘Then perhaps this is the end to your investigation?’

  Simon was looking at the Bishop as he said this, and could have sworn he saw a gleam of hope in his old friend’s eye. ‘Surely not, Bishop!’ he exclaimed, shocked. ‘How could we give up when the Queen’s life may be in danger?’ He drank deep from his mazer.

  ‘But if you can learn nothing more …’

  ‘We shall,’ Baldwin said firmly. ‘This was our first afternoon, and already we have discovered much. Tell me, do you know anything about the Chaplain to the Queen?’

  ‘Brother Peter?’ The Bishop’s tone altered subtly, lost some of its warmth. ‘He is a rather disreputable man, from what I have seen and heard. I would not find him a particularly reliable witness.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I cannot say,’ the Bishop said flatly. ‘However, I repeat: I would trust little that he says.’

  ‘I see,’ Baldwin said.

  ‘Now. Tomorrow is Candlemas,’ their host said briskly. ‘There will be no work in Thorney Island, but if you wish, you may join me in visiting the great Cathedral of Saint Paul’s for Mass.’

  ‘It would be an honour,’ Baldwin said. The Festival for the Purification of the Blessed Virgin Mary was always an important festival in the Christian year. Simon was delighted, keen to see how this great day would be celebrated in one of the country’s greatest cathedral churches.

  ‘Good,’ the Bishop said, and stared down at the linen on the table before him. There were so
me breadcrumbs, and he toyed with them, rolling them into a ball and then pushing them forwards and backwards.

  All about them the servants were tidying tables, and men were rising for the second servings of food, when those who had already eaten would serve those who had served them.

  ‘You know,’ Walter went on after a short pause, ‘it cannot be easy to be a king.’

  Baldwin nodded. ‘I expect not.’ He waited for the other man to explain.

  ‘There are enemies all about. Some are obvious, others less so, but a man who would be King must learn to be distrustful, no matter how much his heart craves the companionship of a friend. Sometimes, rulers pick excellent advisers, and sometimes they don’t. But the worst enemies, dear friends, are those whom God has provided – a man’s family. No man can pick his family – except perhaps his wife. And for a king, even that choice is taken away.’

  ‘You are thinking of our King?’ Simon asked discreetly.

  Bishop Stapledon looked at him. ‘Yes. I was.’

  ‘You do not trust her,’ Baldwin said quietly. ‘We have discussed this before.’ Vividly into his mind sprang the picture of Isabella as she caught sight of Bishop Stapledon at the far end of the Old Palace Yard when Baldwin was escorting her back to her cloister.

  ‘She could be enormously dangerous to the nation,’ their host stated. ‘She is not to be trusted.’

  ‘Which is why you advocated action against her?’

  The previous year, after the sudden French attack on the English territories in France, Baldwin knew that Walter Stapledon had worked with Despenser to have the Queen’s lands taken from her. Now, instead of being one of the country’s greatest landowners and magnates in her own right, Isabella was reduced to the status of humble pensioner living from the King’s largesse. She had not even been allowed to keep her household. All her servants, her clerks, her maids, even her two chaplains, as Peter had told them, had been removed from their offices. The final atrocious act was the removal of her three youngest children.