Michael Jecks - Dispensation of Death

There was a rhythmic swishing sound, and his attention was brought instantly to the present, all memories of last night flying from him as he recognised that obscene noise. It was coming from the chapel itself, and he turned to listen, his polearm levelled even as his eyes narrowed.

It was instantly recognisable, of course: the sound of a stone sweeping along a sword’s blade. Except there should have been no such sound here.

Gripping his staff firmly, he walked silently towards the sound.

There were some who said that they cared nothing for the woman, but so far as he was concerned, the Queen was his own mistress. It wasn’t that he was in love with her — God’s teeth, no! His Alicia would have something to say about that! — but he felt some compassion for her. She had been a powerful, wealthy woman for all her life, and now she was brought so low, and yet she suffered all the indignities with stoicism. As her household was broken up and dispersed, she joked with them about when they would all be free to meet again; when the King reduced her income, she laughed that soon he would have her as a pauper living in his hall and would have to save his alms for her. Never did she bemoan her fate before Richard, and that made him warm to her courage. He would do anything for her.

The noise was louder. Standing outside the chapel, he peered around the door which stood ajar, and took a deep breath, preparing himself. Steady, steady, deep breath … and shove the door wide! All at once the timbers creaked, hinges complaining, and he was in the chapel’s vestry.

‘What is it, guard?’ Peter of Oxford peered up at him with a bemused expression on his face, the sword on his lap, the hone in his hand. ‘Well?’

‘Chaplain, I heard a sword being sharpened, and thought it could be someone here to hurt the Queen.’

‘Do I look like a God-damned assassin?’ Peter said testily. ‘Get out — and close the door after you!’

Richard obeyed him, but for a long moment he stood outside, his hand still on the latch. After some while the sweeping rasp of the hone began once more, and he left the door to return to his post.

He would keep an eye on that Chaplain, he told himself.

Despenser eyed the Queen dispassionately. It was strange. The woman was so beautiful. Elegant, fair-skinned, and with a body that any man would adore to pull to him, and yet she was so cold. The frigid bitch had frozen his advances, all right. Christ, he had wanted her so much, long ago … once he’d even contemplated taking her by force. He’d even suggested … but that was all in the past now. Since then, her enmity had deepened and strengthened. It was a pity, he thought. Destroying Isabella would be like smashing a perfect ivory carving. So wasteful. But necessary.

‘Speak then, my lady.’

‘In private, if you please.’

He lifted his eyes to the ceiling, then shrugged at Eleanor. She gave him a close-lipped nod of agreement and went out, quietly closing the door behind her. ‘Yes?’ he said abruptly.

The Queen walked to a chair and stood behind it as though needing the support. She still had problems with her arms, he knew. They had never properly healed after the fire at Poissy, when she had been badly burned. Sweet God, that was twelve years ago now, he realised with a shock. It was fearful how time hurtled by.

‘Milord, I have heard dreadful rumours. Some say that there are men who wish to see me dead.’

‘Your Royal Highness, please …’

‘I believe it. That is why I bend my mind to see who could wish this thing. And I wonder, as I look about me, who could be willing.’

‘My Lady, I fear there are many who would be glad to see you … It is not a palatable thought, I know, but while your brother rattles his sword and lances across the Channel, many see any French men or women as possible traitors.’

‘Their Queen? People dare to suggest I could be faithless to my husband?’

‘Some people are terribly gullible.’

‘And you? Do you think this?’

‘No, of course not,’ he lied smoothly.

It was easy, this verbal fencing. Sir Hugh le Despenser had been brought up in the court of the old King, when Edward I’s powers were on the wane. To survive in his household in that period, a man had to have acute political instincts. And, under the new King, Despenser had risen to become the richest and most powerful man in the kingdom. Perhaps second to the King — but since he controlled the other man’s heart and mind, that was little qualification. A woman was no trouble after such a studenthood.

‘Of course,’ she continued, ‘the idea that an assassin could enter the King’s palace with the intention of murdering me is ridiculous, when there are so many guards, eh? Who is responsible for the guards posted about my chambers?’

‘Well, I suppose I have nominal responsibility,’ he admitted. ‘One of my men posts them.’

‘Ah yes. The one called Ellis, non ? He is a very loyal man, I consider.’

‘I have none better.’

‘Good, because naturally, if any man were to harm me, the King of France, my brother, would never rest until the man who had ordered my death were brought to justice. He would use all his powers and wealth to hunt the man down.’

‘I would expect nothing else, my Lady,’ Sir Hugh said. And it was natural enough. Isabella’s death would be a grievous insult to the French Royal Family. That was the marvellous second incentive for having her removed. Not only was she a magnet for all the disaffected barons in the country, her death would make it difficult, if not impossible, for King Edward to go to France. News of Despenser’s ‘close’ relationship with the King was bruited abroad. Many would therefore conclude that the King himself might have had a hand in her death. No guarantee of safe conduct would make Edward feel secure in France.

He smiled at her, but her next words caused his smile to disappear.

‘I have to say, Sir Hugh, it would be terribly sad if your protection was to fail. My brother is known to hold a grudge. Any man who plotted to harm me would be considered his own mortal and particular enemy. And I fear I may have indicated to him that you and I have not always agreed.’

He liked the sound of that rather less. ‘I do not think I understand you.’

‘Oh, I think you do, Sir Hugh.’

Her face was as cold as marble as she emphasised that word, and he comprehended perfectly. He might be wealthy, he might be powerful, but to her, his lowly birth was reason for contempt. And she had already managed to hint to her brother somehow that, were she to die, it would be down to Sir Hugh. A leaden weight settled in his belly.

‘And another matter,’ the lady continued, ‘one of my maids is very slapdash. I would be glad if she could be replaced.’

‘Then you should have mentioned it to my wife.’ He felt a rage building. The arrogance of this bitch — to try to threaten him !

‘I have not felt the need, milord. I leave the affair up to you. I am sure you know which lady I mean.’

‘I cannot imagine. The ladies-in-waiting were all carefully picked by my wife.’

‘One in particular is not in the same mould as these others. I would be grateful, were you to see that she was replaced by someone a little more … ah, sympathique ?’

He allowed a freezing smile to crack his features. ‘My Lady, please do not worry yourself,’ he said smoothly, pleased to see her anger and frustration.

‘I have a brain. I choose to use it, Sir Hugh!’

‘I mean no disrespect, Your Highness. It is only that if a man were to try to harm you, the guards would stop him. And this lady you refer to — we shall have her removed.’

‘Please do so. I would not like to have to be forced to take matters into my own hand.’