Michael Jecks - Dispensation of Death

Walking in her wake, Eleanor felt no need to speak, Queen Isabella knew what she was doing — knew that Eleanor was following her. She was in constant attendance, just like any chaperone — except in Eleanor’s case, the Queen could not send her away. The woman was with her every moment of every day, more gaoler than maid-in-waiting, and both knew it. As was proved by Eleanor reading all the Queen’s correspondence, and keeping the Queen’s seal. Even now, at this time of late evening, there were two maids before the Queen, another and Eleanor here behind her, and Alicia drawing up the rear. There was no let-up in the women’s watchful supervision.

It was all at her husband’s command, of course. Sir Hugh said that he and the King were unable to trust the Queen any more. Isabella had shown herself to be unreliable, and the idea that she might pollute the minds of their children was too appalling to consider. So she must be contained, her children protected, while there was this present crisis with her brother in France.

Eleanor knew all this, but it was still hard. She would have preferred to be at her own home, with her own children, and away from this miserable place. With her husband.

There had been rumours, of course. Well, she had heard snide comments about the King from her own husband, back in the days when his infatuation had been with Piers Gaveston, that son of an upstart Gascon man-at-arms. They’d all talked about his friend — his sodomite friend. Hugh himself had been scathing and then, when the barons captured Gaveston and murdered him, his mood was exultant. Hugh had been a loyal friend to Lancaster at that time, and he had been given a role with the King to help control him. Much as Eleanor was monitoring his wife now.

She didn’t know when it had all begun to change, when the King had started to exercise an unwholesome influence over her husband. At first it was nothing too overt. It was just that occasionally she would realise that their estates were grown again, with the acquisition of manors and lands which had been owned by the King’s enemies. Traitors were being discovered with ever more regularity, and each time their property was forfeit. Someone had to be given it, and all too often it was passed on to her husband.

But it was not only that their wealth was growing. Hugh was frequently being called to advise the King, and had become a well-known political power in his own right; and as his wealth grew, so did his influence with all others in the realm. These days, Sir Hugh le Despenser was all-powerful …

There was a sudden stamp of boots, a rattle as a candle was dropped. A door opened, and Eleanor heard a maid draw in her breath. Then there was a flash of silver and a loud scream, a scream that shivered its way down Eleanor’s spine, and made her want to turn and fly.

She saw a sudden gout of blood, and heard another scream, which soon turned to a low sob and wail. A maid shoved past her, maddened with terror, a second had already fainted away, and Eleanor saw the other on the floor, writhing in agony, her belly opened with a long slash, while the butcher who had done it stood before them, his long knife slick with blood. The last lady-in-waiting pushed past, but this was Alicia, and she was thrusting forward, putting herself between the man and the Queen.

Lady Eleanor felt sick; she wanted to vomit, but she was a de Clare. Instead, she shrieked at the top of her voice: ‘Guards! Guards, help! The Queen is attacked!’

Friday, Vigil of Candlemas 2

London

Simon had been looking forward to arriving in London. He had heard so much about this magnificent city, the greatest in the country, and was excited to think he would soon see it.

They had made excellent time, so Baldwin said. Whereas a King’s messenger would average a good thirty to thirty-five miles a day, they had managed somewhere in the region of five-and-twenty, even without travelling on Sundays in deference to the Bishop. The weather had been moderate and clement for the time of year.

However, Simon’s mood was lowered, even as they approached the city, thanks to the Bishop. Instead of feeling thrilled to see where the King dispensed justice and where the parliaments met most often, the Bishop’s foul mood was affecting him and everyone else in their little party.

It had been bad from the moment that they left Salisbury. Bishop Walter had retreated into his shell, snapping at those about him and scowling at the countryside as though expecting an answer to some deep philosophical question, but finding none.

Even at the various halts, it was clear that the Bishop preferred not to discuss whatever it was that was bothering him. He was a powerful man, and his guards and clerks all preferred to avoid him rather than endure his barbed retorts, which meant that Simon and Baldwin were left with him more and more as the others fled. Neither felt that they should leave their mentor entirely alone, so they paced along beside him, mostly enduring his silence, casting occasional glances at each other as they wondered how on earth to bring him out of himself.

It was only as they reached Cayho 3 earlier today — some six miles from London itself, he said — that the Bishop appeared to shake off some of his depression. He began to point out places he felt would interest Simon, but nothing could prepare the Bailiff for the magnificence of the sights which were to present themselves.

‘And that is Thorney Island,’ the Bishop said at last as they came through a small thicket and wood and paused on the great road.

Ahead of them, Simon could see a great monastic wall about a large abbey church. Outside the wall was a broad river that had been converted into a canal, and as he watched, a small ship was navigating it. Behind it lay the great sweep of the Thames, with some few buildings on the opposite bank, but it was the other buildings behind the Abbey that caught his attention most.

‘Is that really a hall?’

‘It is the Great Hall,’ Stapledon smiled. ‘That is where the King meets with all his advisers and listens to their debates. Everything that affects the realm is decided in there.’

Simon heard Baldwin clear his throat in an expression of cynicism but ignored his friend. He would enquire later why Baldwin rejected the Bishop’s words. ‘What are they?’

‘Those are the royal palaces. On the right is the Queen’s chapel and her cloister, then the King’s chambers and his own cloister is between there and the Great Hall itself.’

Simon nodded, but could not keep his head from shaking in surprise. He had not expected a small city, but in effect that was what he was looking at. The Abbey and palace complex was a small enclosed community, and outside it were roads heading north, west and southwards, and on each of them was a thin straggle of houses and hovels, with their own little patch of garden. The northern road was the most impressive, though. Near the Abbey there were smaller properties, two- or three-roomed dwellings that would be sufficient for merchants passing by. Beyond them were much larger houses — places that would suit a Bishop or very senior courtier. As they marched up towards the north, where the river suddenly bent to the right, the sight there caught his attention, and he whistled.

‘That is London?’

‘That is London,’ the Bishop agreed. ‘The greatest city in the country.’

Simon nodded, and his eyes were fixed upon it as they rode on to the seat of government in England.

Thorney Island

In the Great Hall, Hugh le Despenser grabbed the servant by the collar and pulled him towards him.

‘What do you mean, you can’t find him! I want my man Ellis here now!’ He flung the petrified man from him and kicked his arse for good measure as he scuttled away. Turning, he saw a guard. ‘Well — do you have any brilliant ideas about any of this?’