Michael Jecks - Dispensation of Death

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 news 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 …