She saw a sudden gout of blood, and heard another scream, which soon turned to a low sob and wail. A maid shoved past her, maddened with terror, a second had already fainted away, and Eleanor saw the other on the floor, writhing in agony, her belly opened with a long slash, while the butcher who had done it stood before them, his long knife slick with blood. The last lady-in-waiting pushed past, but this was Alicia, and she was thrusting forward, putting herself between the man and the Queen.
Lady Eleanor felt sick; she wanted to vomit, but she was a de Clare. Instead, she shrieked at the top of her voice: ‘Guards! Guards, help! The Queen is attacked!’
Friday, Vigil of Candlemas2
London
Simon had been looking forward to arriving in London. He had heard so much about this magnificent city, the greatest in the country, and was excited to think he would soon see it.
They had made excellent time, so Baldwin said. Whereas a King’s messenger would average a good thirty to thirty-five miles a day, they had managed somewhere in the region of five-and-twenty, even without travelling on Sundays in deference to the Bishop. The weather had been moderate and clement for the time of year.
However, Simon’s mood was lowered, even as they approached the city, thanks to the Bishop. Instead of feeling thrilled to see where the King dispensed justice and where the parliaments met most often, the Bishop’s foul mood was affecting him and everyone else in their little party.
It had been bad from the moment that they left Salisbury. Bishop Walter had retreated into his shell, snapping at those about him and scowling at the countryside as though expecting an answer to some deep philosophical question, but finding none.
Even at the various halts, it was clear that the Bishop preferred not to discuss whatever it was that was bothering him. He was a powerful man, and his guards and clerks all preferred to avoid him rather than endure his barbed retorts, which meant that Simon and Baldwin were left with him more and more as the others fled. Neither felt that they should leave their mentor entirely alone, so they paced along beside him, mostly enduring his silence, casting occasional glances at each other as they wondered how on earth to bring him out of himself.
It was only as they reached Cayho3 earlier today — some six miles from London itself, he said — that the Bishop appeared to shake off some of his depression. He began to point out places he felt would interest Simon, but nothing could prepare the Bailiff for the magnificence of the sights which were to present themselves.
‘And that is Thorney Island,’ the Bishop said at last as they came through a small thicket and wood and paused on the great road.
Ahead of them, Simon could see a great monastic wall about a large abbey church. Outside the wall was a broad river that had been converted into a canal, and as he watched, a small ship was navigating it. Behind it lay the great sweep of the Thames, with some few buildings on the opposite bank, but it was the other buildings behind the Abbey that caught his attention most.
‘Is that really a hall?’
‘It is the Great Hall,’ Stapledon smiled. ‘That is where the King meets with all his advisers and listens to their debates. Everything that affects the realm is decided in there.’
Simon heard Baldwin clear his throat in an expression of cynicism but ignored his friend. He would enquire later why Baldwin rejected the Bishop’s words. ‘What are they?’
‘Those are the royal palaces. On the right is the Queen’s chapel and her cloister, then the King’s chambers and his own cloister is between there and the Great Hall itself.’
Simon nodded, but could not keep his head from shaking in surprise. He had not expected a small city, but in effect that was what he was looking at. The Abbey and palace complex was a small enclosed community, and outside it were roads heading north, west and southwards, and on each of them was a thin straggle of houses and hovels, with their own little patch of garden. The northern road was the most impressive, though. Near the Abbey there were smaller properties, two- or three-roomed dwellings that would be sufficient for merchants passing by. Beyond them were much larger houses — places that would suit a Bishop or very senior courtier. As they marched up towards the north, where the river suddenly bent to the right, the sight there caught his attention, and he whistled.
‘That is London?’
‘That is London,’ the Bishop agreed. ‘The greatest city in the country.’
Simon nodded, and his eyes were fixed upon it as they rode on to the seat of government in England.
Thorney Island
In the Great Hall, Hugh le Despenser grabbed the servant by the collar and pulled him towards him.
‘What do you mean, you can’t find him! I want my man Ellis here now!’ He flung the petrified man from him and kicked his arse for good measure as he scuttled away. Turning, he saw a guard. ‘Well — do you have any brilliant ideas about any of this?’
‘None, my Lord. I was not on duty last night.’
‘Have all the guards who were on duty been assembled?’
‘Yes.’
‘I want them all questioned for this … this …’ Before he could find the right words, he saw the woman at the doorway and motioned impatiently to the guard to leave him. ‘Your Highness, you have my deepest condolences for the loss of your maid.’
Sweet Mother of God, he thought. This is all I need.
When Queen Isabella walked in, her face might have been forged from steel, for all the emotion she displayed. Behind her was Eleanor, Despenser’s wife, and he threw her a look, but she merely raised her brows and shrugged in expression of her bewilderment.
‘Sir Hugh, I would discuss matters with you in private,’ the Queen said.
‘My Lady, I would be delighted,’ he lied. Motioning to the chairs, he graciously invited her to sit.
All he wanted just now was time to consider what had happened. Jesus! Jack had never failed before, but this time he’d killed Mabilla instead of the Queen, and Sir Hugh had no idea why. True, the woman was the one whom the Queen wanted removed, and her death was opportune from that point of view, but no one had told bloody Jack to kill her. Although it was a damn good job he had got the wrong victim. Sir Hugh was confused, and confusion made him angry. He wanted to talk to Ellis and see what the fool had done. More than that, he wanted to find Jack, grab him warmly by the throat and both congratulate him and shake the truth from him. How could he have missed the bloody Queen?
‘Sir Hugh, you and I both know that even in a magnificent hall like this there are places where a man might secrete himself and hear all he wished. No. I should prefer that you walk with me in my cloister for a while.’
‘Let me just fetch …’
‘There is no need for a guard in my cloister,’ she interrupted coldly. ‘Besides, I am sure that you would be an adequate defence against any assassin, would you not?’
He had no answer to that. Mutely he followed her as she led the way from the hall and out into the Lesser Hall, thence into her cloister. Eleanor started to follow them, but the Queen stopped and stared at her. ‘You are not required, my Lady. You will remain here.’
Despenser nodded to Eleanor. There was no need for her to join them.
It was a quiet little corner of the palace, this cloister of the Queen’s. He had always imagined that Isabella would have had it decorated in some gaudy colours, for with her French ancestry, she had a love for all fashions. It was not Sir Hugh’s way. He had been raised in the court of King Edward I, and there all things martial tended to be exalted, rather than the vanities of the modern court. But much of that was the responsibility of the King, not his wife.