Dispensation of Death: (Knights Templar 23) (34 page)

Simon and Baldwin were late into the Bishop’s hall for the main meal of the day. This was usually eaten late in the afternoon, but today being Sunday and the day after the celebration of Candlemas, there was less food and no meats available for the Bishop’s guests. Neither Simon nor Baldwin felt remotely hungry in any case.

Baldwin was looking so pale and fretful, most unlike his normal self. Simon had only ever seen him like this once before, when he had been about to ride into a tournament to the death. It had been a similar situation to this: knowing that the likelihood of his surviving was remote, and also knowing that his death would have repercussions for others. On this occasion, those at threat were his own family, and Baldwin had been like a man half-asleep since the full danger of his position was brought home to him.

The Bishop was already seated. ‘My friends, please join me and try this delicious dish. It is a little pie which my cook has created to tempt my appetite … Sir Baldwin, are you quite well? You look as though you are feeling indisposed.’

‘I thank you, I have had a shock today,’ Baldwin said.

‘Please – tell me, that I may try to help you.’

‘It is not a pleasant tale, my Lord Bishop,’ the knight said sadly, and related all that they had learned.

The Bishop listened, his eyes almost staring. ‘But this is ridiculous! My friend Sir Hugh would never plot to have the Queen killed!’ he whispered.

‘My Lord Bishop, I really would be happier to think that this was conjecture or simple error, but it is not. We saw the horse, we heard from the innkeeper that the guest was this man Jack atte Hedge, and when we left, I asked him to come tomorrow and view the body. He agreed, after some persuasion. I am sure that he will be able to confirm that the body is that of Jack atte Hedge, and then all follows logically: we have the contract, we have the horse, and we have the dates when the man was there. It is plain that Sir Hugh paid this assassin to come and kill Queen Isabella, and that the attempt failed only because someone killed the assassin first.’

‘When the King ordered you to seek the killer, did he ask you to learn exactly who had sent him?’

‘He asked me to find out who was responsible for the deaths of Mabilla and Jack.’

‘Perhaps … I do not mean to make the waters muddier for you, but I do have some experience in political matters, Sir Baldwin. Sometimes the art is to avoid the unwholesome repetition of details which can serve no useful purpose. In your case, I think you are worldly enough to be aware of the risks you take in letting the King know that his favoured companion has planned a peculiarly evil act. Better, perhaps, if that
aspect could be avoided, simply not mentioned. Would it really serve any useful purpose? All it could do would be to expose you and your family to danger. Let us not be foolish – Sir Hugh has a dreadful temper, and he has many men at his command. If you embarrass him, it can do you no good, but it will probably not even greatly affect him, because he can deny it all, and the King will probably believe him.’

‘The King ordered me to perform a task for him, and you are asking me to be dishonourable?’

‘To be dishonourable, you would have to lie. You would apportion blame where it did not truly lie, you would put another man in danger instead of yourself. Those would all be deeply dishonourable acts. To
not
put yourself and your family in danger, that is logical and sensible. To avoid hurting a man who is so much more powerful than you – that is nothing more than commonsense.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘The indenture you speak of: do you have it safe?’

Baldwin hesitated, then tapped his breast.

‘You carry it with you?’ the Bishop demanded, appalled. ‘And what if you are attacked on the road? There are footpads all about the palace, Sir Baldwin. If not that, it could fall from you and become illegible in a pool of mud, or, or … please, let me have it. I can store it safely.’

Baldwin and Simon exchanged a look. Simon was happy to allow the Bishop to hold it for them. He had known Bishop Walter for many years. His friend was more reluctant, he saw, but that was perhaps because Baldwin knew how dangerous the scrap of parchment
might be. Still, there was force in the Bishop’s arguments, and after a moment, Baldwin passed it to him.

‘I will lock this away in my chest tonight.’

The Bishop continued with his attempts to persuade Baldwin not to tell the King, and as the evening wore on, the knight gradually began to wear a more composed look about him. By the time the Bishop yawned and said he was off to bed, Baldwin was apparently back to his usual affable humour.

In their bedroom, as they undressed by candlelight, Simon looked over at his friend. ‘Well?’

‘Hmm?’

‘Did he convince you with all his arguments?’

Baldwin crossed his arms and drew his linen shirt over his head. He stood silently, naked, the shirt still dangling in front of him, sleeves held at his wrists. ‘His arguments? I tell you now, Simon. All the while he spoke, all I could see was the look on the Queen’s face when she saw him the other day as we escorted her back to her cloister, and I had to wonder what it really was that lay at the back of his mind. I did not like the conclusion I reached.’

‘What was that?’

‘You remember I told you that the Bishop wished to see the King’s marriage annulled? A man with no scruples might seek a swifter resolution. I am sure that Sir Hugh is ruthless enough for that. I now begin to wonder whether Bishop Walter could himself be an accomplice.’

Coroner John squatted near the inn and peered down the length of the yard towards the gate to the Green Yard. Try
as he might, he could make little sense of this. He had been told how the Despenser had walked this way, ready to leave the yard and go home, when this second assassin tried to kill him.

Pensively, the Coroner walked along the dirt and mud to the gatepost where the squared hole showed the place at which the bolt had struck.

This was all growing just a little too dangerous. It was bad enough that he had been given the job of Coroner to the court, without assassins springing up and trying to kill all and sundry. There were too many demented fools with sharpened lumps of steel dangling at their hips already, in Sir John’s opinion. He would be happier in a world where only those who needed such weapons were given access to them – men such as coroners.

Not rural knights like this fellow from Furnshill. They were …
unreliable
. Coroner John wanted only one thing – to clear up this mess and ensure that the King and his Queen were safe. That was all that mattered to him. Because no one, no one at all, was above the law. Not the Coroner, not Sir Hugh le Despenser. But this Furnshill man wasn’t so interested in seeking the truth, Sir John was sure of that.

There were several reasons for his conviction. The fact that the man had arrived in Bishop Stapledon’s retinue was against him, for the Bishop was known as one of the most self-serving and avaricious of all the King’s advisers – after Sir Hugh himself. Second, Sir Baldwin had obstructed him when he tried to speak to his friend Simon Puttock about his thoughts as they looked over the assassin’s body. Interesting, that. The man had the right idea, too: that one
baron could have been making a comment about another. That in itself was interesting enough, but Coroner John had immediately seen that the court’s politics were likely involved. It was hardly a great intellectual leap: there were enough petty disputes at all times, and many involved men who would stop at nothing in pursuit of their own advancement. Men like Despenser.

Until this latest attack, the coroner had assumed Despenser to have been involved in the two killings. Mabilla’s death was incomprehensible, as was the assassin’s, but John was sure he would learn that they were both to be laid at Despenser’s feet. It was the natural assumption to make whenever Sir Hugh was involved.

But here was another attack, and this time it was against the Despenser. Was it possible that this was the third in a series, that the three murderous assaults were all connected? That was something to make a man take note. However, more interesting was the fact that it might mean that Sir Hugh himself was innocent just this once. And someone else was leaving a message for him:
Next time we could do this to you
, perhaps. Or:
Next time, do not hire a killer to do your own dirty work
. If he had to gamble, that would be the construction Coroner John would place upon it.

But what an intriguing thought – that Sir Hugh might not have intended that assassin to die; that he was not, just this once, guilty of a murder … but could instead be a potential victim.

An intriguing, and a wonderful thought!

Henry was tired out after brewing the latest batch of ales. He lay back in his soft palliasse with his arm about his naked wife, pulling her close. At this time of year, the only way to keep warm was the oldest, and he nuzzled at the nape of her neck until she responded and allowed him to turn her on her back.

His lips had found her breast when the noise of hooves came from outside.

‘What the devil …?’ he muttered.

This late at night there was never usually any sound from outside, other than the occasional owl screeching into the blackness or the murmuring of dozing cattle in their byres. Even the dogs were asleep. His wife had stiffened at the first sound, too, and now she sat up. ‘Who is it, Henry?’

‘Don’t fret, woman. No one you need worry about.’

But as he spoke, he rose and pulled on hosen and a shirt against the freezing cold. He slipped his knife’s thong over his shoulder, the easier to grab it at need, and walked over to the shutters. Pulling one aside, he peered out.

There was a sizeable force of men down there, some gripping torches in their fists, and as he watched, two men came from his stable with Jack’s great horse. ‘Oh, Christ’s knackers!’

‘Henry? What is it?’

‘Despenser’s men.’

That was enough to still her. All knew what that evil bastard was capable of. At least the knight today had said he wouldn’t tell Despenser, and Henry had believed him.

Until now.

A voice from outside shouted up at him. ‘Keeper, open your door. We want ale, and lots of it.’

‘You’ve got your horse back, masters,’ Henry said. ‘I’ll be happy to sell you ale any time, but just now we’re abed.’

‘Bring your wife too. We don’t mind.’

Henry grimaced to himself. He was ready to bet that they wouldn’t. ‘She’s happier to stay up here and sleep.’

‘Just you, then, master keeper. Come down here and let us talk to you. We understand you had a knight here today. We want to know what you told him.’

The man doing the talking was a short, pugnacious-looking fellow, and Henry looked at him a while, debating with himself what the safest course would be. But against a force like this, there was little he could do. He grunted to his wife to slide the timber bar over the bedchamber door when he had left, closed the door behind him, and made his way reluctantly down the stairs.

‘Ah, good man,’ William Pilk said when the door opened. ‘What, your lady not here to serve us?’

‘She will remain in her bed, master,’ Henry said firmly.

‘Nice for her,’ Pilk said, smiling without humour. Then he snapped his fingers, and two men grabbed Henry’s arms. Pilk stepped forward and jerked the knife from about his neck. ‘I think some of my men would like to keep her warm up there, though. She’ll enjoy that, won’t she, eh?’

Feast of St Gilbert of Sempringham
¹

This was not his first meeting in the Great Hall for affairs of great importance to the realm, of course, but this time Sir Hugh le Despenser did not feel the usual lifting of his spirits as he walked in and gazed about him. Instead he was aware of a shrinking sensation, as though expecting at any moment to feel the thud of a bolt strike his spine.

Ever since Jack’s failure and death, all had gone wrong for him. It was one thing to lose an assassin, but to have the target remain to threaten him was highly disagreeable. And dangerous, because he was always open to potential counter-attacks: anyone could get close enough to him to slay him.

But not a jot of nervousness could be shown in here, among all his peers. They would try to capitalise on any sign of weakness immediately.

There were already some thirty or forty barons and prelates gathered there. He nodded without expression at
some few. To smile or acknowledge them any more than that might make them think that they ranked higher in his estimation than they did, and he had no need of them or their patronage. No, he was the
giver
of patronage here.

Look at that man over there – Earl Thomas of Norfolk. He had acquired several manors in recent months, and it had nothing to do with him being the King’s brother. It was because Sir Hugh had seen that keeping the man on side would be more beneficial than not. Occasionally it was best to have a man inside the tent and pissing out, than outside pissing in. Although sometimes it was best just to remove that man altogether. Still, Norfolk had his uses. Unlike his younger brother, the cretinous Kent. He was there, too, standing with that suspicious look in his eyes. Ach, the arrogant prickle made him sick. He was so blown up with his own importance and the affectation of rage at Despenser. Perhaps some time he’d have to get rid of the little prat. A dagger between the ribs could be a wonderful silencer. Sir Hugh had detested him ever since King Edward had given him his earldom. Despenser had expected that for himself, but still, in retrospect it was no great loss. He had much of Wales now, as well as the other little gifts which the King had showered on him.

Yes. He had been fortunate. He had always intended to be rich, and that was the end to which he had bent his mind, but he’d never expected to be able to win such a fabulous position so quickly. It seemed as though Edward only understood how to keep his lovers by giving away his own inheritance to them. Some would say it was simple generosity, but Despenser knew better. It was weakness.