Dispensation of Death: (Knights Templar 23) Page 18

  ‘She is the sister of the French King,’ Stapledon reminded him. ‘We could not run the risk that she might find herself … confused over her loyalties. Naturally we would like to think that her primary loyalties lie with her husband the King, but it is always possible that she might forget that in preference to those to her brother, Charles the Fourth, King of France. It would be natural enough.’

  ‘I have to object,’ Sir Baldwin said bravely. ‘I think that the actions taken against her have ensured that her loyalties will have been affected, where before they were not.’

  The Bishop waved a hand, then leaned nearer and spoke with more caution, eyeing his servants to ensure that he was not overheard. ‘You have not seen how they bicker and argue recently. Until two, maybe three years ago, she was as good and dutiful a wife as any man could hope to possess, but since then she has grown more distant. It is jealousy, I think, which has done this.’

  ‘Sir Hugh le Despenser?’

  ‘You have guessed it. A woman must naturally find it hard to understand the fondness one man might feel for another. Entirely innocent, of course, but still, a man like the King is very affectionate. He craves the companionship of strong, bold men like himself.’

  ‘Sir Hugh has come between the King and his wife?’

  ‘Perhaps she may have perceived that to be the case. But women can get the strangest notions sometimes.’

  ‘And often they can be more perceptive than men give them credit for,’ Baldwin said quietly.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The Queen’s Chambers, Thorney Island

  Lady Eleanor felt better when she had eaten a little supper. She couldn’t eat too much, but a slice or two of capon with some wine to wash it down was perfect. It lay happily in her belly, and she settled herself back on her cushions with a sigh.

  Alicia was a strange child. She seemed so considerate towards the Queen, almost to the point of fawning on her, even though she knew that their job was to act the gaoler and watch every move the Queen made so as to ensure that no communications escaped from the Palace without their knowing.

  And she did have a good brain, it had to be admitted. Others would have automatically assumed, from the way Mabilla died, that the Queen was in danger. But Alicia was the only person other than Eleanor herself to wonder whether another could have been the target.

  Of course, Mabilla herself could have been the intended victim. There were plenty of women who flirted outrageously with the men of the King’s household, and although Mabilla had seemed quite stable in the past, that was no proof that she actually had remained chaste and sensible when the candles were out. Eleanor only hoped that the killer could be shown to be a jealous lover.

  But if it was a jealous lover, who had then executed him in that foul manner? One possibility was that Mabilla had a second lover, one who had sought to protect her, or who heard of her death and then chose to avenge it.

  Of course, the Queen was only too ready to spread rumours and cause trouble. Hugh had only a short while ago tried to entice Isabella into his bed, so she claimed. He had apparently proposed that she should join him and the King. If she refused, he vowed he would take her on her own at the least. She had told Eleanor all this, although at the time Eleanor had not chosen to believe her. The woman was partly deranged by the removal of her children, and she would have said anything to cause a rift between Eleanor and her Hugh.

  Only in this instance of the murder, there was something that had caught at Eleanor’s imagination, a kernel of truth that shrieked at her.

  Many were already whispering that the King might have conspired with his ‘brother’ Despenser to remove the Queen because she could be such an embarrassment. If she were to go to France as the Pope had asked, she could cause untold problems for the English King.

  Eleanor thought that the motive to remove her could be simpler, though. Isabella found the King’s infatuation with Hugh to be frankly, disgusting. And as the daughter of a King of France, and sister to the present French King, she saw no reason to acquiesce to any philandering with Hugh. Perhaps she could have understood and accommodated a female lover, but not a man. If the King sought to kill her, it was to remove the woman who could bruit news of his affair abroad. His sodomy. Were she to do so, Edward II could be excommunicated for heresy.

  Eleanor herself had suspected their affair, but she preferred to close her eyes to it. She was no queen. She was a lady, and had some pride, but she was also a realist. A knight had once told her about Sir Hugh’s nocturnal visits to the King’s bedchamber, and she had laughed at him. ‘What of it? He is my husband, and the King his friend enriches us both in return.’

  It was true, but tears of shame scalded her cheeks afterwards. She knew that men in the household discussed her husband and the King, and in the same breath, made lewd conjectures about her. Perhaps Eleanor was too frigid, they would say. Perhaps she could not make her old man’s tower rise.

  When she had first realised that Hugh was being unfaithful, it had never occurred to Eleanor that it might be with another man. Then, sadder and wiser, she had swallowed her pride, accepting that such things could happen, but hoping that it would be a passing fad of the King’s, and that soon her husband would be free of this foul stain on his soul. But then the affection between them grew, and they became more demonstrative in public, and that was when she faced Hugh with it.

  ‘What of it, woman?’ was all he said, looking at her as if she was simple.

  She had been lost for words at that. As though it mattered not a jot that he was doing something that was declared a vile sin by the Church. And when he laughed at her, she had burst into tears of humiliation. That was when he had suggested that she might like to join him and the King together in bed – that she could add spice to their love-making – and she had fled at that, hearing his bellows of laughter follow her all down the corridors. Perhaps he had made the same suggestion to her mistress, the Queen.

  Eleanor had a new and terrifying thought: if the King and Hugh could think of removing Isabella the Queen so that they might more easily indulge their love … it was as likely that they could think of removing another – Eleanor herself. Or perhaps Hugh still desired Isabella, and felt that Eleanor was a barrier to his possessing the Queen.

  ‘No!’

  It was ridiculous. Why, apart from his irrational outburst the other day, she had never seen her husband look at her with anything other than love or desire in his eyes.

  But the thought was there, snagged in her mind. What if … what if he wanted her removed?

  The Temple

  Sir Hugh le Despenser knew nothing of his wife’s doubts. He sat sprawled in his comfortable great chair in the large solar block of his newest acquisition and looked about him with satisfaction.

  ‘Wine,’ he murmured. There was no need to shout. His servants knew better than to miss his commands. Will Pilk looked at him as soon as he spoke and hurried from the room.

  Even the King’s own servants were not so attentive. Not to the King, anyway. They tended to obey Despenser, however.

  He had returned here late, after a meal with Edward in his private chamber, and although the other man had wanted him to remain, he had gently but firmly rejected his demands. At first the King had been amused, thinking that this was merely some sort of play-acting to taunt and tease, but when he understood that Hugh was serious, he threw a little tantrum. This was developing into a habit now, and it was tedious. If it was anyone other than King Edward, Sir Hugh would have made them appreciate in no uncertain terms, how boorish that behaviour was.

  ‘I must return,’ he gave as his excuse. ‘My wife is not well after the events of last night.’

  ‘What of me, Hugh? I may need your protection. The killer could return, couldn’t he?’

  ‘I think the man who stabbed a lady-in-waiting is unlikely to try to prove himself as a regicide as well, my Lord.’

  ‘Oh, do you? And how do you get to have such detailed knowledge of the ma
n’s mind?’ the King had snapped.

  ‘My Lord, surely you understand, in the circumstances, I have to ensure first that my wife is comfortable?’

  ‘You try to tell me that you could have misdirected the blow?’

  And there it was. In his eyes, in the way that he stood and walked away from Hugh, the way that he averted his eyes from his companion and lover. He was as sure as he could be that Hugh was responsible for the attempt on the ladies. No denial would work here, he had seen immediately, and the two parted on civil, but less than amicable terms.

  And the worst of it was, Hugh had absolutely no idea who had killed Mabilla, nor who had executed Jack. Jack was an old comrade, when all was said and done, and his loss was hurtful. Sir Hugh did not like to lose his servants. It was the sort of thing that could easily get out of control if people thought that they could kill his men with impunity.

  ‘Where is Ellis?’ he asked as soon as the servant returned with his wine.

  ‘I think he is in the main hall,’ Pilk said.

  ‘Bring him to me.’

  Ellis was soon with him. Pilk had brought another horn for him, and once Ellis was standing before Sir Hugh, Pilk passed him the drink, retreating almost immediately to the door.

  ‘I was looking for you today, Ellis.’

  ‘I was busy,’ his henchman said shortly.

  Despenser peered into his goblet. His voice was mildly pensive, as though he was ruminating on a new idea. ‘I had thought you worked for and served me. Perhaps I misunderstood. When I want my servants, I expect them to be there for me. But you were “busy”.’ He looked up from his drink and stared at Ellis.

  Pilk felt that look in his bowels. No man came here to work for the Despenser without realising that he was entirely ruthless. Pilk could kill – he often had – but always there was a faint feeling of remorse afterwards. It felt as though each death niggled away at him, and someday there must be a reckoning.

  Not so with Sir Hugh le Despenser. When he killed a man, there was no compunction at all in his face. Pilk had seen it. He had been there when Madam Baret had been captured by Despenser. The reason was simple: her husband had died and Despenser wanted to acquire all his lands. That meant Madam Baret must give them up, for she was not powerful enough, now her husband was dead, to demand compensation. Not that such a demand could have helped her.

  She had been savagely tortured, to the extremity of sanity, and in the end her mind had been broken along with her body. And what had Despenser done? He had found the sight of her ruined figure stumbling away extremely funny – had laughed out loud. All he cared about was his own purse, and nothing and no one else.

  ‘I went to see my sister’s body, Sir Hugh.’

  ‘Who?’ Despenser appeared genuinely surprised. ‘Oh, the wench. I had forgotten she was your sister.’

  ‘Mabilla, yes. She married Sir Ralph Aubyn some years ago.’

  ‘I remember him. Huge man. A good fighter.’

  ‘My sister was murdered by the man who killed Jack.’

  Despenser sipped his wine. ‘I am concerned. Whoever this killer is, he knew how to offend me. There was a message in the way that they did that to Jack. Cutting off his tarse and shoving it in his face like that was meant for me. It is a challenge, Ellis, and I don’t like to be challenged by those whom I do not know.’

  ‘How did he know Jack was going to be there last night? Did you know?’ Ellis asked.

  ‘No one knew. You know how Jack worked. He was always alone. Never trusted anyone else. Not even me, his paymaster.’

  ‘Was there anyone else could have known?’

  ‘No! Hell’s teeth, man! I’ve already said – Jack was always close.’

  Ellis glowered at the floor. ‘It must have been someone at the palace.’

  Despenser was tempted to throw his goblet in the fool’s face. ‘Is that so?’ he spat. ‘So, someone at the palace found a suspected assassin and killed him, and then chose not to take a reward for his discovery and for thwarting the attempted regicide.’

  ‘If he knew you were behind Jack, he’d probably prefer to remain anonymous. Most men know what you would do if you found out they had stood in your path or killed one of your servants.’

  Especially if they knew I was seeking to assassinate the Queen, Despenser confessed to himself. Aloud he said, ‘How could someone have learned about Jack last night?’

  ‘I don’t know yet, but if it is your will, I’ll find out.’

  ‘It is my will. And when you have done so, come and report to me. Tomorrow I will ensure that this Keeper of the King’s Peace does not go anywhere near the Palace. I will have him and his friend come here for the Feast. That will be easy enough to arrange, with the help of the Bishop. Yes, it would be good to know what went wrong for Jack last night. Especially since it would help us to learn whether someone else has uncovered Jack’s attempt on the life of Queen Isabella.’

  Sir Hugh yawned. ‘One last thing, Ellis. Do not let people know more than you have to. I don’t want the King’s officers coming here for me because you’ve been talking too freely. Understand?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. Now – remind me. At Monkleigh last year there was some trouble, wasn’t there? We were attempting to take over another manor, and someone prevented us. Sir Geoffrey Servington sent us a full report on the whole affair, didn’t he?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Find it. I have a feeling that the name Furnshill is in there somewhere, and I’d like to make sure. I suspect that this Sir Baldwin has been a thorn in my side before – and you know what I do with thorns? I pull them out and crush them.’

  Chapter Twenty

  The Feast of the Purification of the Blessed Virgin Mary1

  St Clement Danes

  The morning Mass was a very special affair, and Baldwin and Simon were up before dawn on the Saturday with the main part of the Bishop’s household. To the knight’s surprise, Simon’s servant Rob appeared quite overwhelmed with the magnificence of the chapel, reverently gawping at the decoration all about.

  After prayers in the Bishop’s chapel, Walter Stapledon led the way to the great gate at the Straunde, and he and his familia strode out into the road.

  St Clement Danes was a delightful church just inside the Temple Bar, and Simon immediately felt at home there. It was one of those friendly churches where the congregation greeted strangers warmly. The priest himself was very proud to welcome the Bishop to his little church and urged him and his guests to enjoy their service when he met them at the door on the way inside.

  Simon watched the priest with a mind empty of all except the beauty of the service, and a certain wariness about Rob’s behaviour, but as he stood watching, he began to grow aware of Baldwin fidgeting at his side.

  The knight seemed to be spending much of the time peering ahead at the altar. It was only after they had finished the candlelit procession that Simon could edge nearer and speak. ‘You look upset, Baldwin. Is there something I can help with?’

  ‘No. It is nothing.’

  He refused to discuss the matter further, but Simon saw his eyes moving towards Bishop Walter several times during the rest of the service. He seemed no more comfortable when they left the church and walked out into the crisp, wintry air.

  ‘Bishop, if you do not mind, I shall walk on to the Cathedral,’ he said. Bishop Walter graciously acquiesced, and Baldwin set off eastwards towards the city, Simon a little way behind him. After a while, he stopped at a great bar set across the road. It was a short distance from the church, and a man had pulled it aside so that it would not hinder traffic, but at night it would lie across the roadway, blocking it.

  ‘That,’ he said to Simon as the Bailiff and Rob caught up, ‘is Temple Bar.’

  ‘Yes?’ Simon gazed at it, seeking inspiration.

  Rob said. ‘Yeah? It’s … big.’

  ‘Quite,’ Baldwin said, but this time with a twitch of his mouth that told Simon he was amused. ‘There are bars li
ke this at every main junction outside the city’s gates. The city set them up to stop traffic during the night, and each day they’re pulled back so that people can use the roads again. They’re only tokens, really. A determined force could easily remove them. But they’re useful as symbols of the extremity of the authority of the city itself.’

  ‘Oh. I see.’

  ‘This one is called Temple Bar because it is here. Outside the Temple,’ Baldwin said, and he suddenly turned to face the enormous gates that stood a few yards away.

  ‘So?’ Rob said.

  ‘Oh!’ Now Simon understood Baldwin’s distraction.

  ‘Yes. That was the New Temple, Simon – the main preceptory for the whole country. A magnificent building, with orchards, gardens, stables, and the main halls, of course. It was the heart of my Order in this country.’

  Simon wanted to rest a hand on his friend’s shoulder, but he knew Baldwin would not appreciate it. The knight was too enwrapped in his memories, for Baldwin had once been a Poor Fellow Soldier of Christ and the Temple of Solomon – a Knight Templar.

  ‘I have wished to come here and see the place one last time for many years,’ Baldwin whispered. ‘And now I am here, I feel that it is a mausoleum only. Dreams lie in there, Simon. Dreams of honour and glory. Dreams of the Holy Land being Christian once more. But no King will honour such a dream.’

  ‘What?’ Rob demanded, staring from one to the other.

  Simon grunted to himself. ‘Lad, I need you to return to the Bishop’s palace and keep an eye on our belongings there. Could you do that?’

  ‘Why? It’ll be safe enough in there, won’t it?’

  ‘Just go and do it,’ Baldwin grated. Reluctantly, the lad set off back to Bishop Walter’s home in London.

  Once he had disappeared from earshot, Simon said softly, ‘I am sorry, old friend.’

  ‘No, do not be. This is the Festival of the Blessed Virgin. Come, stop me from continuing with my black mood, Simon. You have a duty today, to keep me happy and cheerful. Prevent me from thinking about my Order. Ach! What of it. Come! Let us find Saint Paul’s. It is a wonderful cathedral, Bailiff. Almost as grand as the great one at Canterbury.’