Dispensation of Death: (Knights Templar 23) Read online

  Soon after that, she had left him with a gracious nod, swirling from the room with my Lady Eleanor in attendance, the other women about her. Brother Peter noted Mabilla watching the poor lady closely, as if she expected the Queen to run off at any moment. Others, like that little strumpet Alicia, were much more keen on eyeing up Peter himself. She always seemed to have a little curl of her lips for him, and waggled her arse all the way up the passage to the chapel’s door in flagrant temptation. Aye, she had somehow picked up that he was no better than he should be. If it wasn’t for the fact that the Bishop needed someone with certain … skills here, Peter knew he would never have been given this job. No, he’d have been left to rot in gaol, where he rightfully belonged.

  As he polished the goblet, he eyed his reflection in the shining gilt. His dark eyes stared back at him, serious and contemplative, and filled with self-loathing. Well, at least he had passed on the message. She could do what she wanted with it now.

  When she was gone, he had reread the message concealed in his towel. As usual, he was going to eat the little scrap of paper, to deprive unfriendly eyes of the sight of the close, neat writing, but he paused when he saw those words.

  My Lady, beware! Sir H plans your murder.

  It was dark now. Full dark, with the moon hidden behind a cloud that shimmered every so often with the light it concealed, like a floating ball of silk. This was the kind of night Jack atte Hedge liked. An assassin craved the dark.

  He was clad in dark brown hosen and a gipon he had bought in Southwark. It was very tight-fitting, as the modern fashion demanded, and he had dulled its colours by immersing it in the mud of the river for some hours. The stain had made it as dark as the hosen, although not actually black. He disliked black. Many years before, he had noticed that a black dog on a dark night was easy to see – but a brown or grey dog, that was impossible, even from a moderately short distance. So when he took up his new occupation, he decided to make use of that discovery.

  He was on the far side of the River Tyburn. It was a strange little river, this. The Abbey monks had only a short while ago had it extensively reworked, apparently, in order to make it more easily navigable, or maybe to make the tidal wheel work the better on their mill. There was no boat or bridge here, but he’d only come here to observe, nothing more.

  It was not the first night he had spent out here. For the last five evenings, he had simply sat and watched to see what routines there were in the royal household.

  From this position he could look over past the point of the Westminster Abbey wall, straight up to the southern wall of the palace yard. Directly ahead was the Queen’s chapel, then her cloister, before the King’s own chamber. In low tide, Jack reckoned he could make his way over the mud, through the Tyburn, and onto the thicker mud in the angle between the old palace yard and the Abbey’s yard, but if he did, he’d leave clear tracks for others to follow. Better to remain dry, he thought.

  The guards at the wall went to their allotted positions, and he watched carefully. This was a special day, the Feast of St Julian, and he was hoping that the guards would be less assiduous than usual, so that he might assess routes of ingress and egress. Not that they were ever that assiduous: from all he had seen, the men were remarkably slapdash about their duties.

  At the southern tip, the guard there seemed to give a cursory look up- and downriver, and then he followed the line of the wall to the western point, where he disappeared from view. There was some rattling, and then Jack saw him reappear, now wearing a blanket. He took his metal cap off, set it on the wall between the crenellations, and disappeared once more. Soon there was the sound of a man snoring.

  It would be easy to knock him down, Jack thought. Throw him over the wall into the thick mud. He’d probably drown there, and no one would suspect it was foul play. They would simply assume that the fool had fallen asleep and toppled over the wall – if they ever found him. The others knew he slept on duty. They must. Today being a feast day, all would have eaten and drunk more than usual. No doubt half of the guards were snoring already.

  He waited until he was certain that the fellow was asleep, and that no more men were tramping over the walkways, and then he slipped quietly along the Tyburn’s bank.

  Jack had spent the first nights here considering how he might enter the palace yard or wall’s walkway – but last night he had thought of another, easier option. If he could just get inside the Abbey’s grounds, it must be possible to gain access to the palace area from there. There was only one wall between the two.

  Over the Tyburn was one bridge, which led from the Abbey’s south gate towards the mill. He walked to it, gazing along its length, and then slipped over it silently. The man at the gate opposite was clearly asleep, because there was no alarm given. Jack reached the gate cursing to himself at the sound of gravel stones crunching underfoot, but when there was no challenge, he began to follow the line of the wall east to the Thames.

  At the Abbey’s corner, he paused and felt the ground ahead of him. As he had feared, from here to the water it was a thick, silty mess. If he were to step into that, he might sink an inch or a yard; there was no way to tell, and he daren’t take the risk. Instead, he began to feel his way about the wall. The mortar between the stones felt solid. Each had been cemented firmly in place, and the quality of the stone-dressing was good. There were no footholes: climbing this would be difficult. Jack swore silently to himself again. Perhaps after all he should find a different place from which to launch his attack.

  But then he had a stroke of good fortune. As he stood there, gazing out at the water, disconsolate at wasting his time, he noticed a gleam of light on the ground at his feet. He spun about, thinking a man had spotted him and was holding a candle aloft to observe him, but then he realised that there was another way inside.

  Just here, the Abbey had a drain that emptied the yard’s waste into the Thames. It was little more than a culvert, here at the point of the wall, and when he leaned down to investigate it more closely, he saw that it was protected with a metal frame, but that the frame had rusted badly. Testing it, he was convinced that he could pull it away with his bare hands. The vertical bars were badly corroded where they were set into the wall above.

  He squatted back on his haunches. It was possible to enter now, find his prey, finish the commission and be off. Yet he still had a little time left. Better, perhaps, not to act precipitately.

  Rising silently, he crossed the river again, then made his way down to the Thames once more, where he knelt and gazed at the walls. There was the sound of raucous singing from the other side of the wall, and he reckoned that the guards off-duty were making the most of their freedom. As any troops always would.

  This was clearly a good time, then. As soon as the main guards had been changed, and when there had been enough time for the new ones to get the first ales inside them, they would give him a little covering noise to hide his steps.

  He had his means of entry to the abbey. Soon he would be able to infiltrate the Palace grounds, and do his Lord’s bidding.

  Chapter Eight

  Tuesday before Candlemas1

  Exchequer’s Offices, Thorney Island

  Sir Hugh le Despenser woke with that nervousness that had grown so familiar recently. Only a few months before, he had discovered that the devil’s own bastard, Roger Mortimer of Wigmore, had plotted to have him assassinated by the use of black magic. Now each morning he anticipated waking to find a stabbing agony in his belly or head to drive him mad, but so far, thanks to God, he had proved immune.

  At the time, Despenser had written to the Pope himself to beg for papal protection. The response had been sharp, if couched in diplomatic terms; it advocated that he should look to his soul, beg forgiveness for his sins and make amends. At the time it had made him rail against the arrogance of popes, but gradually the rage had failed. The magician in question had been caught and killed, and now he had other matters to occupy him.

  First was the lack of ne
ws from Jack atte Hedge, and in the middle of the afternoon as he sat enjoying a cup of wine after his meal, Sir Hugh mused over the man.

  He was a curious fellow, Jack. Despenser had first come across him when he, Sir Hugh, had been the King’s Chamberlain, more than ten years ago. Christ alive, how his life had changed since then! In those days, the King hated Hugh; he was a symbol of the power of the barons who had ousted his lover Piers Gaveston and murdered him. The King resented his appointment, and for many weeks tried to ignore him, as though pretending Despenser wasn’t there could make him disappear.

  Despenser often had to travel to Winchester, to the old seat of parliament, and in July of the sixth year of the King’s reign, he took part in an action against felons and freebooters there.

  There had always been outlaws living in the forests of England, and the great forest south of Winchester harboured many. It was forty years or more since the last King, Edward I, had led an expedition to Alton Forest to eradicate the outlaws living there. For a time that had cleared the place of the worst malefactors, but in the intervening years some had returned. A group had robbed merchants at the Alton pass, killing some Hainaulters and stealing from all. Despenser heard, and was keen to join in with the posse sent to capture or kill those responsible.

  It was a marvellous forest. The tree trunks were so numerous, they blocked out the view, and the men’s passage was silent: the ground was covered in a thick layer of leaves. But when they rode further in, they found the woods less easily passable. Tendrils of wild rose drooped from the trees, tearing at their faces; hawthorn, blackthorn and holly scratched at the men and their mounts. And then, in a hollow, they were ambushed.

  Most of the outlaws were themselves trained by the King in how to fight, and they used every aspect of the woods to defend themselves while inflicting casualties on the posse. Arrows hissed through the air, hitting their mark with a hollow, sucking sound. In the midst of the mayhem, Despenser heard the ringing of steel on steel, the shrieks of men, the whinnying of horses. It was a short, fierce encounter, in which several of the posse were wounded. Luckily none of them were especially valuable, but it was still a loss to him. One good groom was killed, which was an inconvenience and a source of annoyance for some little while.

  Afterwards, while he and the rest of the men rested, he had seen Jack atte Hedge.

  The man was among the captured felons. At first sight, he was not particularly prepossessing; his face was pretty unremarkable, as was his clothing. In fact, there was nothing special about him at all – except for his eyes. They were extraordinary. In them there was a coolness, a steadiness of purpose, that Despenser had never seen before. When he thought about that first little glimpse of Jack, he could still see those cool brown eyes again, even now.

  Later, he had come to realise that Jack was more than just some handy warrior or man-at-arms to keep in his entourage. Men like those were ten a penny – fellows like Ellis and William Pilk. The country was full of churls like them, who were capable of killing a man as easily as a rabbit or a hog. They were like good alaunts, hunting dogs which would attack any prey they were launched against, but which were often more trouble than they were worth, fighting amongst themselves or attacking the wrong animal. But Jack wasn’t like that. He was more of a hawk. Once he was directed, he would disappear into the air before suddenly launching himself at his prey. Often, his target would not know that he had come, so swift and fierce was his attack. No one could tell when he would appear. Not even Despenser.

  Yes, he had seen the difference between that man and the others, and at the trial, Despenser had bribed the judge and some witnesses to have the fellow released into his custody. And then he had made Jack atte Hedge his own. An assassin who could be relied upon.

  However, his latest commission was not any common murder. Jack had to do it correctly, or Despenser would see to it that he was punished.

  Sir Hugh heard light footsteps approaching outside. He snorted, then placed his elegantly booted foot on the table in front of him. The door opened and he smiled. ‘Hello, wife,’ he drawled.

  Eleanor de Clare, his wife, stood in the doorway a moment, then moved aside and bowed to let in the other woman.

  ‘My Lady,’ Despenser said with a courteous duck of his head, but not removing his boot, as the Queen entered.

  ‘I would speak with you, milord,’ she said.

  Richard Blaket had been a guard for the King for more years than he wanted to remember now. He ached in the chill of the corridor outside the Queen’s chambers, grunting to himself, flexing his fingers every so often, pacing up and down as the flags imparted their deathly chill to the flat soles of his feet. The leather was no protection for a man standing still, not at this time of year.

  Time was, he’d have been out there in the open with his bow and quiver ready. There was good money to be made in those days, knocking a pigeon from its perch. All a lad needed was an arrow with a blunted tip, and the birds would fall nice and easy, straight to the ground. A fellow had once seen him dulling his arrow, cutting it flat and fitting a thick leather patch to it, and had laughed. He’d said Richard was wasting his time. Richard was content to take his word, and passed him a new arrow.

  ‘But if you kill a bird, you eat it, and if I kill one, I eat mine,’ he said. ‘Unless you want to pay a forfeit instead.’

  Out in the woods near his home at Epping, the fool drew and let loose his arrow. It passed through the bird and stuck in the tree’s limb above. The arrow was lost forever. At least the bird fell, but the arrow had passed up from beneath, piercing the guts. The slamming force of a yard of English Ash did not merely puncture the bird’s bowels, it burst them, squirting the contents through the entire carcass. The creature was ruined. Richard Blaket took his own arrow and walked on a short distance. At the top of an oak he saw another pigeon. He drew, loosed his arrow, and the heavy, padded tip snapped into the pigeon’s throat, breaking its neck and sending it and the arrow toppling to the ground.

  The man had to pay Richard a penny not to eat his bird. Richard gave it to a fox that had been raiding his chickens at night, and when the animal was scoffing the bait, he slew it with another arrow he had not modified.

  Memories such as that were a delight when a man was standing in such misery. Not so warming, though, as the memories of last night, of Alicia’s soft, warm lips against his own, or the feel of her hips under his hands, the sweet roundness of her breasts …

  This was the trouble. A man was plagued with the most delicious thoughts when he was standing guard in the middle of the night. And yet he had reason to be extra watchful. All knew that the Queen’s life was in peril, in God’s name, and it was his solemn duty to protect her. He must concentrate on that, not keep harking back to Alicia’s gorgeous body in the candlelight, the orange glow making her form so beautifully shadowy before the fire. The feel of her arms about his neck, her breath against his mouth, her throaty chuckles, her gentle fondlings and squirmings under him …

  There was a rhythmic swishing sound, and his attention was brought instantly to the present, all memories of last night flying from him as he recognised that obscene noise. It was coming from the chapel itself, and he turned to listen, his polearm levelled even as his eyes narrowed.

  It was instantly recognisable, of course: the sound of a stone sweeping along a sword’s blade. Except there should have been no such sound here.

  Gripping his staff firmly, he walked silently towards the sound.

  There were some who said that they cared nothing for the woman, but so far as he was concerned, the Queen was his own mistress. It wasn’t that he was in love with her – God’s teeth, no! His Alicia would have something to say about that! – but he felt some compassion for her. She had been a powerful, wealthy woman for all her life, and now she was brought so low, and yet she suffered all the indignities with stoicism. As her household was broken up and dispersed, she joked with them about when they would all be free to meet again; when the King
reduced her income, she laughed that soon he would have her as a pauper living in his hall and would have to save his alms for her. Never did she bemoan her fate before Richard, and that made him warm to her courage. He would do anything for her.

  The noise was louder. Standing outside the chapel, he peered around the door which stood ajar, and took a deep breath, preparing himself. Steady, steady, deep breath … and shove the door wide! All at once the timbers creaked, hinges complaining, and he was in the chapel’s vestry.

  ‘What is it, guard?’ Peter of Oxford peered up at him with a bemused expression on his face, the sword on his lap, the hone in his hand. ‘Well?’

  ‘Chaplain, I heard a sword being sharpened, and thought it could be someone here to hurt the Queen.’

  ‘Do I look like a God-damned assassin?’ Peter said testily. ‘Get out – and close the door after you!’

  Richard obeyed him, but for a long moment he stood outside, his hand still on the latch. After some while the sweeping rasp of the hone began once more, and he left the door to return to his post.

  He would keep an eye on that Chaplain, he told himself.

  Despenser eyed the Queen dispassionately. It was strange. The woman was so beautiful. Elegant, fair-skinned, and with a body that any man would adore to pull to him, and yet she was so cold. The frigid bitch had frozen his advances, all right. Christ, he had wanted her so much, long ago … once he’d even contemplated taking her by force. He’d even suggested … but that was all in the past now. Since then, her enmity had deepened and strengthened. It was a pity, he thought. Destroying Isabella would be like smashing a perfect ivory carving. So wasteful. But necessary.

  ‘Speak then, my lady.’

  ‘In private, if you please.’

  He lifted his eyes to the ceiling, then shrugged at Eleanor. She gave him a close-lipped nod of agreement and went out, quietly closing the door behind her. ‘Yes?’ he said abruptly.