It was not the first night he had spent out here. For the last five evenings, he had simply sat and watched to see what routines there were in the royal household.
From this position he could look over past the point of the Westminster Abbey wall, straight up to the southern wall of the palace yard. Directly ahead was the Queen’s chapel, then her cloister, before the King’s own chamber. In low tide, Jack reckoned he could make his way over the mud, through the Tyburn, and onto the thicker mud in the angle between the old palace yard and the Abbey’s yard, but if he did, he’d leave clear tracks for others to follow. Better to remain dry, he thought.
The guards at the wall went to their allotted positions, and he watched carefully. This was a special day, the Feast of St Julian, and he was hoping that the guards would be less assiduous than usual, so that he might assess routes of ingress and egress. Not that they were ever that assiduous: from all he had seen, the men were remarkably slapdash about their duties.
At the southern tip, the guard there seemed to give a cursory look up- and downriver, and then he followed the line of the wall to the western point, where he disappeared from view. There was some rattling, and then Jack saw him reappear, now wearing a blanket. He took his metal cap off, set it on the wall between the crenellations, and disappeared once more. Soon there was the sound of a man snoring.
It would be easy to knock him down, Jack thought. Throw him over the wall into the thick mud. He’d probably drown there, and no one would suspect it was foul play. They would simply assume that the fool had fallen asleep and toppled over the wall — if they ever found him. The others knew he slept on duty. They must. Today being a feast day, all would have eaten and drunk more than usual. No doubt half of the guards were snoring already.
He waited until he was certain that the fellow was asleep, and that no more men were tramping over the walkways, and then he slipped quietly along the Tyburn’s bank.
Jack had spent the first nights here considering how he might enter the palace yard or wall’s walkway — but last night he had thought of another, easier option. If he could just get inside the Abbey’s grounds, it must be possible to gain access to the palace area from there. There was only one wall between the two.
Over the Tyburn was one bridge, which led from the Abbey’s south gate towards the mill. He walked to it, gazing along its length, and then slipped over it silently. The man at the gate opposite was clearly asleep, because there was no alarm given. Jack reached the gate cursing to himself at the sound of gravel stones crunching underfoot, but when there was no challenge, he began to follow the line of the wall east to the Thames.
At the Abbey’s corner, he paused and felt the ground ahead of him. As he had feared, from here to the water it was a thick, silty mess. If he were to step into that, he might sink an inch or a yard; there was no way to tell, and he daren’t take the risk. Instead, he began to feel his way about the wall. The mortar between the stones felt solid. Each had been cemented firmly in place, and the quality of the stone-dressing was good. There were no footholes: climbing this would be difficult. Jack swore silently to himself again. Perhaps after all he should find a different place from which to launch his attack.
But then he had a stroke of good fortune. As he stood there, gazing out at the water, disconsolate at wasting his time, he noticed a gleam of light on the ground at his feet. He spun about, thinking a man had spotted him and was holding a candle aloft to observe him, but then he realised that there was another way inside.
Just here, the Abbey had a drain that emptied the yard’s waste into the Thames. It was little more than a culvert, here at the point of the wall, and when he leaned down to investigate it more closely, he saw that it was protected with a metal frame, but that the frame had rusted badly. Testing it, he was convinced that he could pull it away with his bare hands. The vertical bars were badly corroded where they were set into the wall above.
He squatted back on his haunches. It was possible to enter now, find his prey, finish the commission and be off. Yet he still had a little time left. Better, perhaps, not to act precipitately.
Rising silently, he crossed the river again, then made his way down to the Thames once more, where he knelt and gazed at the walls. There was the sound of raucous singing from the other side of the wall, and he reckoned that the guards off-duty were making the most of their freedom. As any troops always would.
This was clearly a good time, then. As soon as the main guards had been changed, and when there had been enough time for the new ones to get the first ales inside them, they would give him a little covering noise to hide his steps.
He had his means of entry to the abbey. Soon he would be able to infiltrate the Palace grounds, and do his Lord’s bidding.
Chapter Eight
Tuesday before Candlemas1
Exchequer’s Offices, Thorney Island
Sir Hugh le Despenser woke with that nervousness that had grown so familiar recently. Only a few months before, he had discovered that the devil’s own bastard, Roger Mortimer of Wigmore, had plotted to have him assassinated by the use of black magic. Now each morning he anticipated waking to find a stabbing agony in his belly or head to drive him mad, but so far, thanks to God, he had proved immune.
At the time, Despenser had written to the Pope himself to beg for papal protection. The response had been sharp, if couched in diplomatic terms; it advocated that he should look to his soul, beg forgiveness for his sins and make amends. At the time it had made him rail against the arrogance of popes, but gradually the rage had failed. The magician in question had been caught and killed, and now he had other matters to occupy him.
First was the lack of news from Jack atte Hedge, and in the middle of the afternoon as he sat enjoying a cup of wine after his meal, Sir Hugh mused over the man.
He was a curious fellow, Jack. Despenser had first come across him when he, Sir Hugh, had been the King’s Chamberlain, more than ten years ago. Christ alive, how his life had changed since then! In those days, the King hated Hugh; he was a symbol of the power of the barons who had ousted his lover Piers Gaveston and murdered him. The King resented his appointment, and for many weeks tried to ignore him, as though pretending Despenser wasn’t there could make him disappear.
Despenser often had to travel to Winchester, to the old seat of parliament, and in July of the sixth year of the King’s reign, he took part in an action against felons and freebooters there.
There had always been outlaws living in the forests of England, and the great forest south of Winchester harboured many. It was forty years or more since the last King, Edward I, had led an expedition to Alton Forest to eradicate the outlaws living there. For a time that had cleared the place of the worst malefactors, but in the intervening years some had returned. A group had robbed merchants at the Alton pass, killing some Hainaulters and stealing from all. Despenser heard, and was keen to join in with the posse sent to capture or kill those responsible.
It was a marvellous forest. The tree trunks were so numerous, they blocked out the view, and the men’s passage was silent: the ground was covered in a thick layer of leaves. But when they rode further in, they found the woods less easily passable. Tendrils of wild rose drooped from the trees, tearing at their faces; hawthorn, blackthorn and holly scratched at the men and their mounts. And then, in a hollow, they were ambushed.