Michael Jecks - Dispensation of Death

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.

Tuesday before Candlemas 1

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.