Dispensation of Death: (Knights Templar 23) (33 page)

‘That horse has a brandmark on it,’ Simon said, jerking his head towards the stalls.

‘Innkeeper, do you know whose brand it is?’ Baldwin shouted into the yard.

‘You ask that messenger brought you here. See if
he
recognises it,’ the man shouted back, busy with his fire and apparatus.

Baldwin glanced at Simon, frankly surprised, then called the messenger in. The fellow was only in with the black horse for a very short while before rejoining them.

‘We are foreigners up here. Do you recognise it?’ Baldwin asked.

‘You are serious, Sir Baldwin? It is the mark of my Lord Despenser.’

The two men rode back in a contemplative manner, neither wanting to say anything of the fears which both now harboured. Not until they were in the Bishop’s house, in the small room where they slept, did they broach the subject again.

‘I feel I need a pint of strong wine,’ Simon said, staring at the indenture. Across the top in large letters was the name of Sir Hugh le Despenser, beside some date which was indecipherable, apart from the year. It was dated in the eighth year of the King’s reign, so had been drawn up somewhere between July 1314 and June 1315. ‘It’s clear enough, isn’t it? The man was Despenser’s own, had been
in his pay for ten years or so, and he was trying to kill the Queen.’

‘Yes – and Sir Hugh gave him that horse down in the stable, either to bring him here to discuss the murder, or as a gift in advance payment.

‘Simon, when news of this gets out, as it will, we will inevitably be viewed by the Despenser as being implacably opposed to him.’

‘What should we do?’

‘We should report this to the King at the first opportunity. However, I do not expect you to do so with me, Simon. Indeed, I would prefer you didn’t.’

‘What?’

‘Old friend, I have to report this. I was the one charged with finding out what I could about the murders and the assassin himself –
me
. It was also me who had the argument with Despenser, not you. He wouldn’t worry about you, only me. I am a knight, whereas you …’

Simon gave a half-grin. ‘Yes. Whereas me?’

‘You are an irrelevance, to his mind. I am sorry, but I know the arrogance of knights, Simon. In his mind you have no value, and therefore you are no threat. Whereas I am a knight. I am no powerful, wealthy man like so many of his enemies, but I have some position in Devon. I am a knight of the shire, I am a member of the next parliament, and I have been asked to come here to help advise the King. All that makes me a potential threat to him, and he will not allow me to grow to become a worse one.’

‘How much risk are we thinking of?’

‘Me to him? Little. He is the King’s favourite.’

‘What of him to
you
? You think he may kill you?’

Baldwin’s face hardened, but only with recognition of his own danger. ‘If he was to feel that I could be a danger to him, yes. He would kill me with as little compunction as a pit owner wringing the neck of a fighting cock.’

‘What of Jeanne?’

‘Perhaps you could take a message for her from me. If it comes to it, I would like you to tell her that …’

‘She knows all that already,’ Simon said, uncomfortable with this sudden turn of events. ‘Baldwin, there must be a way around this.’

‘If there is, I wish I could see it. From tomorrow morning, I must try to tell the King the truth about his favourite adviser and friend: that Sir Hugh has been plotting to have the Queen killed.’

‘But … should you do that?’ Simon wondered, eyes narrowed.

‘What other course do I have?’

‘To find the man who killed the assassin and Mabilla, of course.’

‘I must find them too, Simon, but I cannot allow the man who seeks the Queen’s death to continue to walk abroad safely, can I?’

William Pilk was in the yard as the dribs and drabs of men returned from their searches. Him, he was still angry at the way those two churls had dared to question him. They’d made him feel a fool; moreover, they’d got more from him than he should have given, as he was uncomfortably aware. He kicked a stone disconsolately,
wondering how long it would be before they accosted his master and told
him
what he, William Pilk, had told them about Jack.

He knew how his master would respond, and he quailed at the thought.

Sighing heavily, Pilk watched dully as another man rode back into the yard, just as Ellis appeared at the gateway from New Palace Yard out to the Green Yard. Ellis stood peering about deliberately as always, ensuring that the way was clear, before standing aside for Sir Hugh to stride out. There was nothing abnormal about any of this. Sir Hugh always sent Ellis on ahead, and William scarcely gave it all a second glance. Just now, what he was more interested in was how his master would respond to the idea that he had …

The flash of metal came from the right of the little alehouse, the one which was patronised by the palace guards. That was odd, Pilk thought, despite himself. There shouldn’t be anyone there. The area was used as a general midden, nothing else. All kinds of garbage and trash went out there, along with slops from the old barrels, the solid stuff sinking down and gradually filling the pit dug there for that purpose, the liquids all leaving by the little channel that led through the wall to the spur of the River Tyburn.

The midden was the sort of place any normal person would avoid if they had any sense. So who could have gone there?

In that moment he made the connection, and time stopped for him, before he bellowed, ‘’
Ware! Archer!’
and threw himself across the yard towards the midden.

All appeared to happen so slowly. He couldn’t understand afterwards, how those few seconds had seemed to last his lifetime. Every moment was firmly imprinted upon his brain as though seared there with a brand.

‘Ellis! Archer!’ he shouted again. And now he saw him – a thin, ferrety fellow with a green gipon and brown hood. He had a small crossbow – and as William hurtled forwards, he saw the bow shudder and the foul bolt fly off. Horrified, William was about to throw himself to the ground, when he realised the thing had already buzzed past his ear like an angry wasp. He imagined it slamming into his body, the point like a bodkin sheathing itself in his breast, the steel tip penetrating bone and shivering it into pieces with the massive shock of the metal and the hardwood shaft. He had seen men hit by bolts, and the wounds were always hideous. Terrifying.

He was at the midden now, and the man was hurrying away to the right, behind the stables. William kept on slogging forward. His heart was thudding painfully, his head light, his ears hissing and his thighs complaining. It felt as though his whole body must explode with the effort.

Then he saw the man again. He was climbing hand-over-hand, up a rope towards the wall’s walkway.

‘Stop that bastard! He tried to murder my Lord!’ he gasped.

A guard turned, saw William, then spotted the murderer. He gaped, but only for a moment. Then he was rushing at full speed towards the rope. The killer saw him, made two ineffective lunges upwards to reach the safety of the walkway before the guard, and recognised defeat.
Instead, he let himself fall from the rope, hitting the ground hard and rolling. In an instant he was up again, but he was winded. His weapon was beside him on the ground, but he knew there was no time to reload. Instead, he drew his sword, a wicked, dark-bladed weapon.

William had no time to think. He was closing with the fellow, and as he drew his own sword, an ancient, rusty-bladed one with more nicks in it than a saw, he heard a loud crack and his quarry suddenly fell to his knees. There was a noise like a hatchet striking a log, and he saw the man’s eye erupt with blood as an arrow-point came through it. He toppled over.

Staring all around, William saw the four archers on the walkway, one with another arrow nocked and ready. Two were gibbering and capering at the destruction their arrows had inflicted.

William Pilk walked forward slowly, and studied the man. The last arrow had penetrated his skull from behind, the arrow protruding a bloody twelve inches or more from the ruined mess of his eye. Another, the first, had taken him in the thighbone just above the knee and shattered his leg. It was no wonder he had crashed to the ground like that. The other two had both hit him full in the chest, one of them sinking so far into him that not even the fletchings were visible. All the clothyard had gone through him at that range, and was sticking out behind him. The man shivered, and then his right foot twitched with a curious rhythm. It was still doing that when William realised that Ellis had joined him.

‘Know who he is?’ Ellis asked.

‘My God, no! I’ve never seen him before. Did you see
him go down? It was like someone had taken his legs away. Look! He is still moving.’

‘Calm down, Will. He’s not the last dead man you’ll see,’ Ellis growled, his eyes up on the walkways. ‘Someone’s going to pay for letting him in with a crossbow. How’d he get in?’

‘I just saw the flash over there, and I thought, Why’s someone there in the midden? That was all. And then I knew, see, I
knew
– so I ran, and—’

‘Yes. You did well, Pilk,’ Ellis said with finality.

A messenger was running to them, and he hailed Ellis.

‘Not now, man!’ Ellis snarled at him.

‘But, master, I—’

‘Are you deaf or just thick?’ Ellis said, and suddenly pirouetted. He took the messenger’s gipon in one hand and hauled the man, squeaking, towards him; Ellis then booted him in the backside and he fell to the ground. ‘Now shut up!’ And he was already making his way back to his master.

‘Shit! He’s the stupid one, the bastard!’

The man’s evident distress forced Pilk from his self-absorption. He reached down to help him up.

‘That man obviously wants to see his master dead,’ the messenger said viciously, dusting his uniform down.

‘Why’s that then?’

‘Because I know something that would be to his benefit.’

‘What?’

‘Why should I tell
you
?’

William had not had a good day so far. He was still feeling a little shaky after his sprint and then witnessing
the death of the assassin. ‘How about because if you don’t, I’ll break your legs. Or I’ll tell Ellis you held something back from us. He wouldn’t break your legs, though. He’d …’

‘Christ’s bones, all right. You’ve made your point, mate! Tell your master this, then: the knight who’s looking into the death of Lady Mabilla and that other man, he’s found out where the assassin came from. He’s found the man’s name and his horse, and the horse has the Despenser’s brand on it. Understand? The knight knows the assassin was one of your master’s men.’

William nodded. He looked back at the body. The foot had stopped its little dance now, and there was only a tiny movement of a finger, which was unnervingly like a beckoning gesture. It made William feel sick, but then even that stopped. There was another shudder that ran through the man’s frame, and then it seemed to almost sink in upon itself. It was odd, like a pig’s bladder when someone had taken all the air out of it and it slowly collapsed. The man seemed to just – well,
end
.

Sir Hugh was calling. Still in a slight daze, William Pilk realised he was being summoned, and he tried to go to his master, but his feet wouldn’t obey. He looked down at them, and it was only with a physical command to his legs that he was able to stumble forward.

‘Pilk, you did well. You saved my life.’

‘I only did what I …’ He didn’t know how to continue.

‘You did it well. I am proud of you. There will be a reward for you when you return to the Temple this evening.’

Even Pilk could see that Sir Hugh was shocked.
Usually so urbane and suave, just now he was frigid, like a man holding his breath to stop the shakes taking him over. His attention was not even vaguely directed towards the walls or the possibility of another threat, though. His eyes were fixed on Ellis, Pilk and his other men.

‘Does anyone know who he was?’

‘No, my Lord,’ said Ellis. ‘I don’t recognise him. Some discontent, I’d guess. Some bastard prickle from the household of Lancaster, or maybe another paid man from Mortimer. Christ knows how many there are would like to see you hurt.’

‘Find out where he bloody came from,’ Despenser spat. ‘I don’t pay you for “guesses”, Ellis! I pay you for results. Just now Pilk saved my life and you did nothing. I am unimpressed with that.’

‘Master, I —’

‘Go and see if anyone else here knows the man. Get that lazy prick the Coroner out here and see what
he
can achieve. What is he paid for? Where is he? Sweet Jesus!’

His rage was understandable. Pilk knew that his master, the Despenser, was suffering from the shock. Had it not been for Pilk’s warning, the bolt would have passed through his throat and he would be dead. It was only Pilk’s shout and his quick appreciation of the danger he was in that had saved Sir Hugh’s life. That and Ellis. Ellis had thrown himself in front of his master even as the bolt flew towards them.

That nasty missile had found its mark in the gate-post to the Green Yard, and Sir Hugh went to it now, touching the hardwood shaft and goose-quill fletchings. ‘Have that taken out and saved for me,’ he ordered the guard
standing and gawping at it. ‘I will keep it as a reminder.’

It was only now that Pilk suddenly recalled what the messenger had said. ‘My Lord Despenser! May I speak?’

As he repeated what the messenger had told him, relief flooded his entire body. There was now no need for Sir Hugh to learn that Pilk had told Sir Baldwin about Jack. The innkeeper had done so. Yes – Pilk was safe!

But others were not, not if the expression in Sir Hugh le Despenser’s eyes was anything to go by. William Pilk was inordinately glad to have been the sole bearer of good news today.

‘That
fucking
tavernkeeper?’ Sir Hugh cursed.
‘Right!
I’ll have to show my appreciation for all his help, damn his bowels!’