Michael Jecks - Dispensation of Death

‘Ah — which would be why I had heard that he and she were not happy together in each other’s company,’ the Chaplain nodded. ‘I begin to understand.’

‘So you see why I would wish to speak with the lady herself? I want to learn what she can tell me about the woman Mabilla.’

‘I can understand that, yes. But if you are sure, why not simply tell the King about the matter? He would soon be able to extract any information he needed.’

Baldwin winced. That was one suggestion he could never agree to. He had heard too many stories of the tortures to which his comrades in the Templars were subjected, to ever permit something remotely similar to be inflicted upon another man or woman. The sight of Arch rolling in his own blood and vomit had shown the futility of torture to extract a confession. ‘I would prefer not to see that.’

‘Well, if you want to do everything the hard way, I’ll see what I can do for you,’ the Chaplain said. ‘But it will take a little time. Wait in the Green Yard. I’ll speak to my Lady Eleanor, and either I’ll be there to see you, or I’ll have someone else come to speak with you.’

Piers de Wrotham watched the Despenser walk away in the direction of the stables, and smiled slyly to himself. There were times when he wondered whether he was being a fool, and many, many others when all he could think was that the world was filled with idiots, apart from himself.

Here he was, a simple fellow, who was being paid, fed and clothed by my Lord the Earl of Kent, while at the same time Sir Hugh was paying him handsomely to pass on certain snippets of information, or to persuade his master to behave in such and such a way. In the past, it was a matter of manipulating the Earl to act in such a manner as would ruin his military reputation. Now it was a matter of feeding him certain convictions about his future behaviour. If he spoke out in favour of having the Queen sent to France, Earl Edmund would be thwarting Sir Hugh, in theory — except that Piers knew as well as Sir Hugh that to have Isabella removed from the court, potentially allowing her to defect to her brother, the King of France, would leave the King depending still more upon the advice of Sir Hugh. At least, that was what Piers reckoned the Despenser wanted. It made sense.

He crossed the yard towards a large wooden hall where there was a little bar set up. An enterprising woman from King Street had brewed too much ale, and she was there now, selling quarts of a good brew. Piers took one and settled to drinking.

Life today looked good.

Except when he looked up after a short while, he saw his other master, the Earl of Kent, at the gateway to the Green Yard, and caught sight of the expression on his face.

It was enough to sour his ale.

Sir Hugh left Piers with no easing of the frustration he had felt all day. Ellis was nowhere to be seen just now, nor was Pilk. Useless arses, the pair of them! Since he’d had that chat with Sir Baldwin, he’d been struck with a sense of urgency.

He’d managed to speak to Bishop Stapledon, and the good Bishop had promised his help. Oh yes, he’d promised. But that wasn’t really good enough. Stapledon should have come and told Sir Hugh as soon as the indenture had been given to him. It had been a shock, to hear about it from Sir Baldwin. Sir Hugh would have expected a ‘friend’ to let him know as soon as it turned up. Still, the fact that it had been given to the Bishop for safe-keeping was good. It was under lock and key now.

Still no sign of Ellis. The Despenser ground his teeth. Here he was, unsure when another blow might fall, and his man had disappeared! It was quite intolerable! He and Pilk had better make themselves more useful, or they would learn that neither was indispensable. There were plenty of men who’d be happy to remove them to take their places at Despenser’s side. And just now Sir Hugh would be happy to receive their replacements.

The Chaplain was as good as his word, and soon he returned, holding a skin of wine and three wooden cups. ‘I thought you looked like men who would appreciate a little drink.’

‘We thank you, most sincerely,’ Simon said. He jealously watched the wine being poured and all but drained his cup in one draught. ‘I often find that investigations can be thirsty work,’ he said hopefully, and was reassured to see his cup refilled.

Baldwin glanced at him. There was one question which still troubled him about this Chaplain. ‘Tell me, when I mentioned your name to the Bishop of Exeter, he was not fulsome in your praise.’

Peter was still for a moment, and then he gave a short shrug. ‘He does not like me. I was a failure for a while. Until Drokensford rescued me.’

‘How so?’

Peter grunted. ‘I have no need of secrets from you. I was a priest in a hellish little hole in Kent, far from any civilisation. There I fell in love with a woman. The wife of my patron, and we ran away together. We hoped … well, we intended to escape Kent and England and find a new life in France.’

‘You were captured, though.’

Peter could see that moment again. Waking beside his lovely Margaret to see Sir Walter above him, sword in hand. Peter had escaped only by a whisker, but she was killed by that blow, and Peter had taken the sword and thrust it again and again into Sir Walter’s breast. They found him there at noon, still cradling her dead body. And then he was sent to the Bishop’s gaol until Bishop Drokensford found another little job for him.

‘My Lord Bishop thought that I would be the perfect man to help our Queen. I dislike seeing women caged,’ he said after a moment. And the Bishop kept a close eye on him to make sure he didn’t seduce Isabella, too, he thought. Seeing a flash of colour, he looked up. Ah, here she is,’ Peter said.

Turning, Simon and Baldwin saw the Lady Eleanor crossing the yard. She looked pale. But having witnessed the murder of her servant, it was scarcely surprising that she was wan, Simon thought.

‘My Lady, I am grateful indeed that you could spare us a little of your time,’ Baldwin said.

She nodded, but to Simon she seemed barely aware of the courtesy. To him, she appeared so enwrapped in her own thoughts that the real world could scarcely intrude. ‘Peter told me that you might have information that could help me?’ she said.

‘I fear there can be little comfort for you,’ Baldwin admitted. ‘But you would hardly expect that in this court, would you?’

She said nothing, but a slight fluttering gesture of her hand, like the beating of a butterfly’s wings, appeared to confirm his guess.

‘I shall not attempt to conceal anything from you, my Lady. I feel it is best to tell you what we have heard, so that you are forewarned.’

‘Please do.’

Baldwin glanced at Peter, who began. ‘Very well, my Lady. Mabilla, we have heard, was the brother of Ellis, your husband’s henchman. She was also, we have recently been told, an especial spy for your husband.’

‘No. No, that can’t be right!’ Eleanor said with a shake of her head. ‘He wouldn’t need another in the Queen’s household. He knew I was always there.’

‘Lady, I fear it is true.’ Baldwin’s tone was calm, but relentless. ‘She not only spied on the Queen, but … on others , too.’

As the Lady Eleanor grasped his meaning, her complexion became quite waxen, the colour of a church candle, and Simon moved closer to her, fearing that she might faint.

‘I do not wish to upset you,’ Baldwin said, but now his voice had changed. Instead of the confident retailing of the story, he began to sound quite wretched as he took in her appearance.

‘Continue, I pray,’ she said.

As Peter passed her a filled cup of wine, Baldwin obeyed, clearing his throat.