Michael Jecks - Dispensation of Death

‘It comes to this, Ellis. We know that someone must have let an ally of the Queen understand that her life was in danger. And whoever that was, he knew that your sister was helping us to monitor her. Other men would have assumed that the only person spying on her was my wife. Who knew about Mabilla?’

Ellis felt as though his stomach had fallen to his feet; there was a curious rushing noise in his ears. ‘Pilk was there that night when you told Jack …’

‘No, Ellis. He wasn’t. Jack threw him out of the room and Pilk went down the stairs. There’s no way he could have learned anything about the plan. And it wasn’t Jack, because he was always too careful. I know how much you adored your sister, Ellis, so it cannot have been you. And I hope you’ll believe me when I say it wasn’t me either. No. So — only one other man knew the plan and could have affected our plot.’

Ellis knew who Despenser meant. They had met him in the cloister yard on the day that they briefed Jack. Just before they saw him.

‘Yes,’ Despenser breathed. ‘It must have been him. Piers de Wrotham.’

Ellis frowned. ‘But you didn’t tell him about Mabilla. How would he learn about her?’

Despenser gave a shamefaced grunt. ‘I am afraid I may have mentioned her to him the next day, while you were out. I let it slip to him.’

Sunday, the Morrow of Candlemas 1

Bishop of Exeter’s house, Straunde

Baldwin was already gone from his bed when Simon awoke. It was still dark, and freezing cold. Walking to the window, he peered out, only to find that the inside of the greenish glass was smeared with ice. Shivering, he hurriedly dressed and strode out to the hall.

‘Ah, Simon, it is good to see you awake,’ Baldwin said as he walked into the room.

Baldwin was standing at the hearth in the middle of the floor, holding his hands to the flames. Although he was the most abstemious man Simon had ever known, regularly drinking fruit juices through the summer when he could, today he had a quart of good ale warming in a jug by the fire, and Simon eyed it jealously before striding to the barrel in the buttery to fetch one for himself.

‘You slept well?’ Baldwin asked as Simon warmed his knife in the flames and then stirred his ale with it.

‘I think I was asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow. The Bishop has magnificent beds. It is impossible not to sleep well on them.’

Baldwin pulled a grimace. ‘Old friend, you could sleep on a bed of rock.’

‘I have grown used to a degree of discomfort,’ Simon agreed happily as the warmth began to seep slowly back into his fingers. ‘It is what a man has to do when he lives on the moors. I had to stay out in all weathers while I was a Bailiff. It makes one appreciate a comfortable bed all the more.’

A servant heard their voices and peeped around the hall’s doorway. Baldwin asked for some food and he disappeared, only to return with a platter filled with bread and cold meats. Baldwin and Simon gratefully sat on a bench at the table and broke their fast. It was early for the rest of the household, but as they were not sure what they would be doing this day, the two men were keen to take advantage of meals when they might.

‘The Bishop is celebrating Mass in his chapel with his confessor,’ Baldwin told Simon, cutting himself a slice of cold chicken. ‘I said that we might go to the church here later. Is that all right with you?’

‘Yes.’ It did not matter to Simon where they celebrated the Mass so long as there was time for them to do so at some point.

In the event, it was late in the morning before they made it to St Clement Dane’s Church. They had to look to their horses first, and Baldwin noticed that their packhorse had a degree of lameness. He wouldn’t leave the animal until he had seen the Bishop’s hostlers and asked them to put a good poultice on it to draw out any bad humours.

Later, when they had returned and eaten a late meal, the two decided to walk about the Bishop’s gardens.

It was still cold as they left the house and walked along gravel pathways towards the river. The way had been landscaped. There was a pretty garden of raised beds with vegetables for the kitchen, followed by bushes of soft fruits for the summer, and then an orchard and nuttery. This last was a very recent planting, and the nut trees were a long way from bearing fruit. However, they gave what would in a few years become a shaded walk down to the private jetty where a boat remained tied up.

Baldwin turned and looked back up towards the house. ‘Look at that.’

‘It is a lovely place,’ Simon said. ‘I can see now why the Bishop stays up here so often.’

‘It is not from choice, Simon. He is forced to stay in London, and I would think much of the time it is against his will. Did you not notice how pale he was last night? That event at the Cathedral terrified him. The mob there could have torn him limb from limb, and he knows it.’

‘From what he was saying, it is all because of a misunderstanding,’ Simon said.

‘That would be little comfort if the misunderstanding led to his death, would it?’

Simon shrugged and grinned. ‘It will hardly come to that. Bishop Walter is a friend of the King.’

‘Simon, Earls and great Lords have been killed in recent years. Do you think that the London mob would hesitate to kill a Bishop if they thought he had been a tyrant to them? I tell you this: Walter should be careful, and he knows it. He is anxious.’

‘If you are right, then he’s already being careful, I expect.’

Baldwin looked at him, then nodded towards the river. ‘How many guards do you see there?’

‘None, but his men are all at the house, of course.’

‘What of a wall, then? What is there to deter a man from launching an attack up here from the Thames?’

Simon had to concede that. ‘But I am sure that Bishop Walter would be assured of his own safety.’

‘I hope so, Simon, because if the Queen herself is in danger, no one is safe. And if an assassin managed to get so close to her …’

He was silenced by a call from the house. Glancing that way, both saw a man on the path clad in the blue of a King’s messenger, Rob standing at his side and waving at them enthusiastically.

King’s Cloister, Thorney Island

‘My Liege,’ Baldwin said, dropping to his knee. Simon copied him, stifling a curse as he felt a stone that seemed to pierce his knee through his hosen.

‘My good knight,’ the King said in his French-accented English. ‘I asked you to investigate matters for me, I think? But I have heard nothing in return from you. I expected to have news earlier than this.’

‘Your Royal Highness, we are continuing to seek to learn all we can.’

‘You have no news for me?’

Baldwin was reluctant to apportion blame yet, especially since the main suspect in his mind was Despenser. He stared down at the gravelled pathway, then sighed. ‘This is all I have learned, my King,’ he said, and explained how he now felt that it was likely the Queen herself was not the intended target. ‘Perhaps this was more mundane than we first thought. A man fell in love, he desired Mabilla, but she would not, or could not reciprocate his feelings. So he decided that she must die.’

‘The dead man, you mean?’

‘I think that he was a hired killer. An assassin. Everything about him seems to show that he was not supposed to be in there. He was not a part of your household, not known by the servants or others. He was a stranger. What would a stranger be doing in your palace at night, Sire, if he was not up to nefarious business?’

The King was silent a moment or two. ‘But this is incomprehensible! Why would a man have set himself against an innocent lady like Mabilla … I know that my wife has enemies, and it would be understandable if someone had attempted to harm her , but Mabilla? She was nothing.’ He was bewildered by the thought.