Michael Jecks - Dispensation of Death

But last night, even the alarms and screams hadn’t stirred him. When the castle’s keeper hurried to check all the walkways, he found Arch snoring loudly. Kicking him achieved little. The old git was dead to the world.

Well, he was often pissed. The ale barrels down near the kitchens where the guards had their meals were too tempting for an old soak like him. Richard didn’t know how he made it up the ladder sometimes. Last Sunday, on the Feast of St Julian, he was so hammered he barely reached the walkway, giggling and lurching from side to side. Richard himself had helped him to his post, and as he walked away he heard Arch singing, then the little clatter as he took off his steel cap and placed it between the battlements before lying down to sleep it off.

He wasn’t alone in doing this, but at least the others woke when there was a genuine alarm. Only Arch failed.

The sound of the old fool getting a beating came through the walls perfectly clearly. Arch was being punished for sleeping when a lady was killed and the Queen herself threatened. It was useful for men like Sir Hugh le Despenser to have a focus for their anger, and tonight it was Arch.

Richard himself was one of the few who were in the clear, since he hadn’t been on the walkways last night. He had been indoors, and was one of the first at the scene when Lady Eleanor screamed for aid. It was Richard who arrived and stood over the ladies until another party arrived and helped take them back to their chambers.

Because he was safe from accusations of irresponsibility, Richard was treated as a mere servant, and told to fetch Arch out, take him to the gaol.

‘Oh, Christ’s pains, Arch! What’ve they done to you?’

It was hard to lift the old man. The blood had made his wrists too slick to grip. He lay sobbing on the ground, his chest bared to the freezing stones, scraped and bruised where their fists had thumped at him, trying to beat a confession from him. The frail old man heard his voice, but both eyes were closed, the lids swollen and purpling already.

‘Come on, old friend. Let’s get you up, eh?’

Eventually, by putting his hands under Arch’s armpits, he managed to drag the fellow to a bucket. There he got Arch to sit while he fetched water to clean the worst of the mess away.

‘Why did they do this to me?’ the old man wept.

‘Eh?’

‘I told them all I could,’ Arch choked.

He coughed, spat out a gobbet of bloody phlegm and put a hand on his belly. His breath rasped in his throat, and Richard was sure that Arch’s ribs were broken. They moved too easily with his breathing. ‘Be easy, now,’ he counselled.

‘But why did they do this to me? Why?’ he wheezed.

‘Because you always got drunk before you went on duty — and they knew that. No one was going to protect you when they found you still snoring it off. If you’d been awake you could have raised the alarm, but no — you were asleep, so the killer was able to climb inside the palace. If you had been sober …’

‘But I was sober! Last night, I didn’t drink a drop! You ask at the kitchens! I didn’t have anything last night. I was stone cold sober!’

The Queen walked about her small enclosure with her hands in a little furred stole, a heavy cloak over her shoulders, feeling the gentle tickle of the squirrel fur at her throat and wrists. As she walked, she hummed a melody from her childhood, ‘Orientis Partibus’, a pleasant tune that always lifted her spirits.

Despenser wanted her dead. She’d known that for months. Her husband’s sudden rejection of her had been a terrible shock, a fearful thing. She had seen how others had earned his enmity and been destroyed, utterly, but she had always thought that she was safe from such treatment. She had loved Edward. And he her. Or so she had thought.

But in the last years his behaviour had grown ever more erratic. One favourite was taken from him and slain, and afterwards her loyalty had brought him back to her. She had never failed him. Those years after Gaveston’s death had been lovely. She had possessed him entirely then, and he had even demonstrated his love for her and for their children. But then he had thrown her over for his latest lover.

This second sodomite had taken all his affection. She had tried, she had been as warm and loving to her husband as any woman could be, but his mind was so fixed on the body and person of Despenser that there was nothing left for her or their children. Edward had broken up her household, sent all her friends, companions and servants from her, reduced her to the status of a beggar at his door. It was humiliating!

Milord Despenser was clever, but he had overreached himself.

She had been sure that he was going too far when she had first heard of the threat to her life from Peter, her Chaplain. Bishop Drokensford had many spies, and the news that Despenser might seek her death was shocking. She had not dreamed that he might try such a bold move. Fortunately she had challenged him and his response was clear — he had removed the bitch who had threatened her. But he didn’t realise what he had done.

This action was bound to be bruited abroad, and that would only gain her allies. And meanwhile, her letter begging for aid would soon reach her brother the King of France. News of this attack to her lady-in-waiting would add lustre to her tale.

Eleanor was clever. Witty, good company, and kindly. As a gaoler, one who had ultimate power and authority over Isabella, she was quite amiable. But she was also so easy to read. And to confound. When Isabella wanted to write a letter, she did so. Twice. The first she submitted to Eleanor, while the second she secreted about her person. And then she would demonstrate her need for communication with her Chaplain. Perhaps to confess a little sin, or to demand a Mass. And not the first visit to him, not the second, nor even the third would she do anything, but on the fourth or fifth occasion, she would deem it right, when Eleanor was already tired and fractious, just like her darling little Joan.

Joan. Only three years old and these devils had taken her. She was staying with the Monthermers, Eleanor said, but Isabella did not know how much she could trust her. Mother of God, but she missed her children! Her two youngest, Joan and Eleanor, were together, Lady Eleanor said. Of course Isabella had no way of telling whether that was true or not. She missed her boys, too: John and Edward. The girls had been taken from her by Eleanor and Despenser, while Edward had his own household now he was thirteen and an adult. Not old enough to be able to ignore his father, though. The King would not allow him near his own mother.

Only John remained nearby, under the control of Lady Eleanor Despenser, and she refused to allow Isabella to see him. It was a means of keeping the Queen under control. ‘Behave and I may allow you to see your little son — mis behave and you will not.’ No. She could not trust my Lady Despenser.

Lady Eleanor could be so like her little daughter Joan in some ways. And in others she could be as unpleasant, scheming and mendacious as the wife of Sir Hugh le Despenser would have to be. Well, Isabella could be even more scheming, even more mendacious. Despenser had taken away her life. She had lost children, authority, friends — all that made up her life but breath itself. Soon he would seek to stop that too. But she would prevent him if she may, which was why she had made him aware that she communicated with her brother. Despenser might doubt it, but he would wonder. And meanwhile she would send her messages by means of her Chaplain. When she received the Body of Christ, she could slip a letter into his hand, and Eleanor was none the wiser.

Like last night. The thought that if the assassin had been successful, she would now be dead, that her letter would have been her last, made her shudder. She would make Despenser pay for his actions, she thought, baring her teeth in a feral humour. For every insult, every indignity, every theft. And especially for the proposition. Oh yes. For that, he would suffer the most exquisite agonies she could devise.