Michael Jecks - Dispensation of Death

Baldwin took in the scene. This was New Palace Yard, a wide space, but filled with timber buildings of all sizes, some houses, some kitchens, some storage-sheds. Alehouses lined the walls, and pie and cookshops were mingled among them to cater for those who visited to present their suits at the King’s courts or who came to see the clerks of the Exchequer. Stalls had been erected in the middle of the court, and the lawyers and clerks hurrying by were plied with sausages, pies, roasted thrushes, all manner of sweetmeats, and drinks.

Everywhere was bustle. Children played in the freezing mud, dogs snarled and bickered over bones, men gambled at an impromptu cock-fighting pit, while stevedores unloaded cargo from the barges on the dock and carried provisions to the undercrofts. A sergeant cook walked among the cattle, choosing which should die first, while pig and mutton carcasses lay nearby on trestles, a merchant and a carter arguing over their cost. And in among all this, men clad in the King’s arms barged past: messengers and purveyors, sergeants-at-arms and kitchen grooms, all hurrying about.

To the south, a wall ran along from the main outer wall down to meet the Great Hall. Beyond that wall were more yards, he guessed, but those would be only for the Royal Household, not for visitors and the likes of him.

And then he noticed two other things. First, there was the sound of hounds baying nearby, but for once Baldwin took no heed. Of much more interest than hounds or alaunts were the men who stood with polearms ready, each of them studying him and the other members of the party with suspicion.

Thorney Island

On Friday morning, after very little sleep, Sir Hugh le Despenser was sitting in the Exchequer, when he saw from the window the new group arrive. Despite his fatigue, he was already leaving the room before they had dismounted, beckoning a guard. ‘You! Come with me.’

This was becoming one of the worst days he could remember. There were those other bad days he had suffered, like the one when he and his father were banished and condemned to exile, or the one when he had been told that he was to lose the Gower. But both times he had prevailed. Other, seemingly more powerful barons had been arrayed against him, but he had beaten them all in the end. This time he would succeed again, he told himself.

‘Who are you?’ he demanded as he approached the newcomers, his hand on his sword.

Apart from the three men-at-arms who were in the lead, the first man there was a tall fellow in a faded red tunic with an old stained and frayed cloak. He had a hood, but it was thrust back behind his head, and his greying hair and beard were neatly trimmed. He had a scar at the side of his face that spoke of a martial past, but any man reaching his age would have a number of scars. It was a part of life as a knight.

‘I am called Sir Baldwin de Furnshill. This is my Lord Bishop, Walter of Exeter.’

‘My Lord Bishop, I apologise, I didn’t see you there,’ Hugh said immediately. The Lord High Treasurer was not a man to insult — not just now.

Stapledon gave him a cool enough greeting, and held out his ring to be kissed, before commanding the others to see to their mounts while he spoke with Sir Hugh. He then set off side-by-side with Despenser to the Great Hall.

‘I am concerned that our policy is not being adequately communicated to others,’ the Bishop murmured.

Sir Hugh shot him a look. ‘That is hardly my province, my Lord Bishop. Our arrangement was, you would convince the Bishops and I would convince the Lords. I have upheld my side of the bargain.’

‘I have difficulties with some of them. Martival has rejected our ideas out of hand. We know that Orleton will do anything to thwart you, and now we have others against us too. I am dubious about Bath and Wells.’

‘You will have to find a means of convincing them, then. I have enough to do without ordering the obedience of the Church.’

Stapledon nodded. They had reached the Great Hall now and entered, staring up the length of the chamber at the throne with the rock beneath it, the Stone of Scone which the King’s father, Edward I, had captured from the Scots. There were two guards in the hall although the place was empty but for them. ‘There are more guards than usual.’

‘Yes. Someone entered the grounds last night and slew a lady-in-waiting.’

Stapledon frowned. ‘What! A man from outside, you mean?’

It was sometimes hard to realise that this fellow had one of the sharpest financial minds in all Christendom. Despenser nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘An assassin?’ Stapledon’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. ‘Was it you?’

‘Why would I murder a lady-in-waiting? It would serve me no benefit, would it?’

The logic of that was inescapable, and the Bishop knew it. ‘But why should a man kill a lady-in-waiting? Who was it? Are you sure that the assassin was aiming his knife at her, and didn’t simply strike down the wrong woman?’

‘Anyone would recognise the Queen, and if he killed the wrong lady, it would have been easy to shove the other women aside and kill the Queen herself.’

Stapledon eyed him doubtfully, but then nodded his head in agreement. ‘You’re right. There could be no reason to kill a maid. Which one was it?’

‘Mabilla Aubyn. You remember her? She was the daughter of Sir Richard.’

Stapledon nodded pensively, but he gazed at Sir Hugh with a frown. It was clear enough what he was thinking.

‘Look, my Lord Bishop, she was worth nothing. She has no lands or wealth. I had no reason to seek to harm her.’

‘Very well. I take your word for it,’ the Bishop said. ‘What actions have been taken to seek the assassin?’

‘We’ve searched the whole place, but it seems whoever it was managed to break in, and then escaped as well.’

‘How did he get in?’

‘We’re still trying to find out. The wall has not been breached so far as we can tell. It’s possible that they may have got in from the river, but unlikely, I’d have thought. There were no boats seen.’

‘Let me know if you come to any conclusions.’

‘I will. And in the meantime — those two men with you. One called himself Sir Baldwin de Furnshill. Is he from Devon?’

‘Yes. Why?’

‘I believe I have heard his name before.’

The news of the attack on the Queen’s little party was swiftly spread all over the palace, and nowhere was the news bruited about so speedily as in the New Hall Yard, where all the guests mingled in the taverns and alehouses.

Piers de Wrotham, Earl Edmund’s spy, was sitting on an old barrel in a tavern when he himself heard the rumour of an attempt to kill the Queen. Finishing his horn of ale, he set it down with a coin, and made his way towards the Exchequer, slowly absorbing the full horror of his position.

He knew that Sir Hugh le Despenser was behind the murder. It never occurred to him that another could have been responsible. No — Sir Hugh detested the Queen, always had, and he must have been looking for a means of removing her for some little while.

It had seemed odd at the time, when Sir Hugh told Piers to persuade Earl Edmund to extol the virtues of the Queen as negotiator over the stolen territories. At the time, Piers was convinced that the man was playing a different game of his own, because it made no sense for the Queen to visit her brother, King Charles IV of France. Once there, she must be safe from Despenser. But at least she would be out of his hair — and perhaps that was all he was thinking of. If so, then he had gambled badly on this throw: a successful attack upon the Queen was one thing, but a botched effort like this, which only served to kill a maid — that was a disaster. The French King would go mad — immediately demand satisfaction. Only the head of Despenser would suffice.