Michael Jecks - Dispensation of Death

Poor, pale, downtrodden Eleanor. This afternoon when she had appeared, the Queen had been tempted to ask her to return to her bedchamber. If she had felt even a particle of sympathy for this woman, she would have done so. But Eleanor was her gaoler, Sir Hugh’s spy. She was the abductor of Isabella’s children. She could no more feel compassion for Eleanor than fly up into the sky.

At least Eleanor was no threat. If anything, the Queen thought that Eleanor would try to protect her from actual physical assault. She wondered if Eleanor knew just what her husband was capable of. Perhaps she did. There was a set of bruises about her neck that looked like a man’s hand-mark. One on the right of her throat, just under her jaw, four more on the other side. Isabella had seen men’s violence towards women before. She had even experienced it at the hand of her husband. The marks were easily recognisable.

Perhaps that was why, a short distance behind Eleanor, as though she needed any reminder of the terrible attack last night, there was a man with an enormous polearm standing ready to defend her. Such a shame he hadn’t been there last night for Mabilla.

There were few places in this palace where Isabella felt she could relax. In the other palaces, her delightful Eltham, or the great castle at Windsor, there were lovely gardens where she could sit and dream. Here she had tried to recreate a little of the splendour of a French garden, with roses climbing and spreading their scent all about, while camomile was sown in among the grasses so that in the summer when she sat, there would be refreshing odours at all times. At this time of year there was little enough to be smelled, but there was still the pleasure of the open air. And yet her pleasure was constricted by the presence of the man behind her and the knowledge that someone had dared to try to execute her.

So they had found the assassin’s body. The effrontery! The bare-arsed nerve of the man! To clamber in here and try to slay her! But no less shocking was the mind of the man who had put him up to it. Only one could have dared. Only a man who was convinced that he had all power already and that any misdemeanour on his part would be overlooked by his King. Even the risk of ruining his King’s estates in France would not stop a man with the intolerable rapacity of Sir Hugh le Despenser.

She looked down at her hands. They were palm-uppermost in her lap, and if she lifted them but an inch from her thighs, she knew that they would begin to shake uncontrollably again.

It was curious, that. As the attack took place, she was utterly calm, as though she knew that no one could possibly harm her — Isabella, a member of the reigning French Royal Family, wife to the English King, mother of princes and princesses. It was intolerable that someone could even think of harming her.

And yet as soon as the man had turned and fled from Alicia’s bold defence, she had felt her calmness begin to fail her. It started with her right hand, she noticed. A faint trembling at first, which grew. And initially, she had viewed it with simple enquiring interest. It was a peculiar reaction. There was no apparent reason for her hand to behave in this manner. There were no other indications of alarm or concern, she thought. Except then her left hand began to twitch all on its own, and suddenly she thought that it would be very easy to start sobbing. Only she knew full well that were she to do that, it would be enormously difficult to stop. And that sort of behaviour might suit a lowly washerwoman, but it was out of the question for a woman of French royal birth.

The tears had ceased to threaten; that itself was a blessing. But the trembling had not gone away. She must leave her hands resting at all times just now, in case others saw how fearful she had become. And she would never offer that kind of balm to Despenser’s soul!

At least his damned assassin was dead.

Palace of the Bishop of Bath and Wells

A single horse approaching was never a problem, and Bishop Drokensford only frowned a little as he listened. It was but a short time before the knock came at his door and the messenger was ushered inside.

‘My Lord Bishop,’ he said, bowing low.

‘You have a message for me?’ The Bishop rose from his chair and set his goblet of wine down upon the table.

‘Yes, my Lord,’ the man said, reaching into his little pouch and pulling out a slim cylinder of parchment.

Taking it, the Bishop saw that the seal was Peter of Oxford’s, and he ripped it off, reading the note inside with haste.

‘That is well. You may go and seek refreshment. Tell my steward to give you anything you want until I call for you.’

‘My Lord.’

Drokensford scarcely noticed the man bow his way from the room, he was so engrossed. Peter had the gift of brevity, and his succinct message took only a few words. Assassin dead; Queen’s maid dead left the Bishop without a full understanding. However, there were inferences to be drawn. An assassin had been found and slain, but sadly he had killed a Queen’s maid first. Despenser must be feeling enormously fragile, then. Someone might put two and two together and come up with Sir Hugh’s name. Almost everyone would think him alone capable of such hubris.

He tapped his reed against his front teeth, considering. The Bishop was not committed to support Sir Hugh any more than he was committed to supporting any other man or woman, but this precipitate attack on the Queen implied to him that Sir Hugh was grown even more arrogant than Drokensford had believed. And it was clear that a man who overstepped the bounds of normal behaviour in so marked a manner could not control his passions. Equally, a man who was not in control of himself would soon fall prey to one of the other men in the court who was seeking power.

Yes. Perhaps now was the time to consider who could take over the management of the realm once Sir Hugh was gone. There might soon be need of a fresh face.

Tramping boots brought the Queen back to the present. She listened, with her heart fluttering at the thought that it could be men come to destroy her, but then she heard a calm voice speaking, and the confirmation of the guard, and knew that this must be safe.

Nonetheless, Alicia was on her feet before anyone had entered the garden, and Richard Blaket crossed to stand beside her, glowering ferociously, his polearm at the ready, while even Cecily rose to kneel immediately before Isabella. It was in Blaket that she put her faith, though: no one would pass him to harm his Queen.

It was Alicia who offered the challenge. ‘You are trespassing on the Queen’s private cloister, lordings — what are you doing here?’

‘My name is Sir Baldwin de Furnshill, Lady. I am the Keeper of the King’s Peace in Devon, and I have been asked to learn all I may about the terrible incidents of last night. This is my friend and companion, Simon Puttock. He is a Bailiff to the Abbot of Tavistock, and experienced in seeking felons. We would like to speak with your Lady to learn all we may about last night’s attack.’

Isabella considered a moment. This man’s voice was reassuring, certainly. She had a good ear for a man’s voice. Many times she felt certain that her assessment of a man was better than almost everybody else’s, because she could hear when there was deceit. ‘Let them come forward so that I may see them,’ she said, and studied the two for a moment as they bowed. ‘Stand up, gentles. I can hardly see your faces when you turn them to the ground, can I? Yes. I like your faces. You may stay.’

‘May we speak about the attack, please?’ Baldwin said. He spoke in French, and she looked at him appreciatively.