Michael Jecks - Dispensation of Death

Saturday, Vigil of the Feast of St Julian 1

Salisbury Cathedral

The dawn sprang upon them without warning.

Simon had slept fitfully, his aching muscles only allowing a shallow, unrefreshing rest. In the cold predawn light, he rolled from the bed and grabbed for his clothes, shoulders huddled against the chill as he foraged on the floor in the darkness. Tugging on his underclothes, the material of his shirt felt damp against his flesh as he slipped his tunic over his head, pulled on his thick travelling jerkin of leather and set his sword belt about his waist. With his cloak over the top, draped about him, and his gloved hands holding the two edges together, he began to feel a little more normal.

‘You awake?’ he called to Baldwin, but there was no answer, and when he turned to Baldwin’s side of the bed, it was empty and cool to the touch. He had been up some while.

His friend was in the Bishop’s hall where they had eaten the previous evening. On a large trestle there was a great breakfast laid out, with cold fowls, cuts of beef, and jugs of ale as well as heavy, crusted loaves. Baldwin was seated at the far end with Bishop Roger, and the two looked up as Simon entered. He saw the candle flames glittering in their eyes as they welcomed him, and he smiled in response, but when he took his seat, he was half-convinced that there was a meaningful pause, as though the two had been speaking confidentially on matters of great importance, and his intrusion was unwelcome. Still, the moment passed, and before long they were all discussing the merits of alternative paths onward, before Bishop Walter arrived, and took his own seat next to Martival.

‘I trust you slept well, my Lord Bishop?’ Martival said.

‘Perfectly, I thank you,’ Walter Stapledon responded, but he kept his eyes away from the other.

Simon was already on his horse in the greyness before the Bishops were ready to part. They had held a brief Mass for the travellers before beginning the latest stage of their journey, and then Bishop Walter went with Bishop Roger Martival for a few words of private conversation. Baldwin, Simon noticed, was more quiet and reserved than usual, and it gave Simon some pause for thought, but then the Bishop mounted his horse, and the gates to the Close were opened, and they were trotting gently down towards the city gates, waiting for the dawn and the gates’ opening. With the help of a canon from the Bishop’s retinue, a grumpy porter was persuaded to open them a little early, and then they were on the road to London, their horses’ hooves thudding on the muddy roadway. And when they had gone only a short distance, the sun appeared before them, flooding the entire landscape in golden light.

To Simon it was a surprise. In his experience the sun rose slowly, and the light only gradually washed over the fields and woods. Here, the country was so flat, it seemed to spring up from nowhere. Night became day in an instant.

‘You were having a long talk with the Bishop,’ he said when he drew nearer to Baldwin.

‘You guessed, old friend? Well, I thought it might be as well to be warned about the political situation in London before we arrived.’

‘And what did you learn?’

Baldwin sighed. ‘There are moves afoot to remove our Queen. That is what we both heard the good Bishops arguing about last night. What I find sad is that it is our own friend who is proposing this action — in order to, as he says, “remove the canker in our King’s household”.’

‘He said that of our Queen?’ Simon was appalled. He had always borne great respect for the Bishop. Walter Stapledon had been a heroic figure when he was younger, a man who fought for what he believed to be right at all times, who became Bishop of his Diocese and used his wealth to endow schools and colleges for the benefit of others. He was a great man.

‘He said that, I fear, yes. And a great deal more. He said that he desires to see the King’s marriage annulled. I believe that is the reason for his journey to London — to seek a way to remove the Queen.’

Sunday, Feast of St Julian 2

Thorney Island

In the chapel of Queen Isabella’s apartments, her Chaplain, Brother Peter of Oxford, was still sweating as he stood, his head bent, before the altar. The fear was with him much of the time now, but rarely so concentrated as today.

He disliked this charge intensely. Never would he have seen himself as a messenger before, and certainly not one who was working against the interests of the King. If anything, he would have tried to support Edward. But when his Bishop, John of Drokensford, asked him to do something, he was not going to refuse. His Bishop held the powers of patronage, and it was important that he keep him contented.

As soon as Peter had knelt with his master to hear his Confession, the Bishop had grasped his wrist and whispered urgently.

‘It is vital that you let her know this as soon as you can,’ he had said.

‘You want me to try to get it to her now?’

‘No. You have to wait until there is no suspicion. We have to pray that her enemies will not jump before her next visit to the chapel. Dear God, I only hope that we shall not be too late.’

That was the trouble about being the Queen’s own Chaplain, Brother Peter thought: it meant that no one trusted him even slightly. Never had there been a court that was so riven by internal politics, or so he reckoned. This place was full of intrigue, and no matter to whom he turned, he knew that, without fail, every word he spoke would be used or at least measured and weighed and recorded, just in case it might, at some point in the future, become useful. And of course there was never an opportunity to see his Queen alone, except at Confession. If he were to ask to see her, it would immediately raise suspicions.

Well, let them weigh and measure. He was no fool, and he was perfectly content to hold his tongue and only speak when he was sure of his words. If any man chose to try a more physical approach, he’d be ready for him, too.

The sun was fading already, he saw. This was an awful time of year. The trees over at the riverbank opposite were all denuded of leaves as though dead. To his eye, the whole countryside looked barren. Skeletal boughs thrust upwards, foul and rotten in their nakedness. Even those plants that retained a few leaves were brown at the edges as though they had been touched with a scorching chill. All was disgusting. It reminded him each year of God’s bounty when he looked at this — and he understood the pagan fear that spring might never return. All the peasants felt it, especially as their teeth started to pain them, and the gums to bleed, as the winter scurvy took its toll.

Not here at court, though. Peter sighed. Spring would come, no matter the outcome of all this plotting. Bishop John had been most insistent that he should come here: he wanted someone in the palace who could listen to the Queen and help her, someone who was above the temptation to take a bribe to see her poisoned. And someone who could maintain certain lines of communication with her.

Such as delivering little notes.

They had a system now. When there was something urgent, he would pass it to her praying hands during Communion, and she’d read it with a face like stone, the little slip of paper sitting in her cupped hands as he passed her the bread, taking it back from her as she sipped the wine and concealing it in his little towel. This time in particular, he was impressed with her resolution. Her face did not change. She could have been a housewife reading a missive from her husband directing her not to forget to feed the chickens, for all the impact that note had apparently had upon her. There was little to show how devastating it was.