‘Sir Hugh, you are investigating the murder last night?’
‘Yes. I have men all over the palace to find the culprit, and I am sure that the maid will be avenged.’
‘Are you? I am not so sure. It would be useful, I think, if there was no great effort to locate the guilty man, hein?’
He did not know how to respond to this. Having grown up as the son of a courtier, he understood the dangers of politics better than any other. His man Jack atte Hedge had failed in his original task, but still, he had succeeded in one way. Sir Hugh would like to know why, but the result was beneficial. There was a small line of defence and attack here which he could use to his own advantage.
‘That may not be quite correct, my Lady. Actually, I have already heard that Mabilla had teased a man and flaunted herself at him, but when he tried to respond, she deliberately snubbed him.’
If there was one thing this Queen always adored, it was a salacious rumour. ‘Oh? Who?’
‘I fear I have been told it was Earl Edmund of Kent,’ Sir Hugh said smoothly, lowering his voice. ‘You know how downcast he has been since the ridiculous way he was ejected from Guyenne. Well, I think he grew enamoured of her, and pressed his suit too keenly. She was horrified to see how he had misunderstood her flirting, I think, and refused him. There was a guard who witnessed it all.’
‘Ah. So perhaps I misunderstood, you mean?’ She almost looked as though she was about to laugh. ‘Mabilla’s removal was not your act? In truth, I applaud you, Sir Hugh. You have such skill and wit in the way in which you play with people!’
They parted shortly after that, and it was a curiously contemplative Despenser who entered the small chamber near the Lesser Hall, where he had a parlour. In there he took a seat. Perhaps the Queen was coming round to liking him, after all. There was something renewed in her eyes when she spoke to him — a certain regard, or perhaps respect. She had wanted a sign, and Mabilla’s death was the proof of their pact.
Her manner had definitely changed for the better. Perhaps it was his straightforward approach with her. She could see that here was a strong man with whom she could deal, not some feeble-minded dollypoll who relied solely on bribery and violence, as she might once have believed. It was an odd thought, but perhaps he could collaborate with her, after all. She would be a marvellous ally.
His wife entered just as he was reaching this conclusion, and she stood before him, her breast rising and falling with emotion. Although she was silent, he found her presence enough of a distraction to make him look up.
She was furious. It was in her eyes.
‘Husband!’
‘Eleanor, my love. She didn’t want much — I’ll let you know later.’
‘Husband — was it you?’ she burst out.
‘Eh?’ Despenser was so surprised at her question that he felt unable to answer immediately. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Did you try to have the Queen murdered? Because if you did, you killed my maid Mabilla!’
‘Woman, be quiet,’ he hissed. ‘That is not the kind of accusation I want to hear in here.’
‘And I don’t want to have any more of my maids slaughtered before my eyes!’
‘Madam, you overstretch the mark.’
‘Sir, I will not have any more of my women servants killed.’
His jaw clenched, and then he reached out to her. All his frustration at recent events boiled in his blood. On his feet in a flash, he grabbed her by the throat and spun her around, throwing her against the nearest wall, his fingers tightening.
‘Bitch, you don’t speak to me like that. Ever. And if I hear you talking about me being involved in the death of anyone at all, I shall be seriously unhappy with you. You do not want me to be so angry with you … so be still. You have duties. Go to them!’
She dropped, choking, from his grasp, and almost fell on all fours, but he was heedless of her as he strode back towards the Great Hall. He had other things to consider.
‘Ellis? Ellis!’ he roared. ‘Where in the name of Satan is he?’
Chapter Eleven
Friday, Vigil of Candlemas1
Thorney Island
Richard Blaket was bleary-eyed, weariness battling his fear as he listened to the men talking about the sort of punishment that could be meted out to anyone who held back.
All the guards from last night were down here. The men from the walkways, those from the New Palace Yard, those from the Green Yard, and those from indoors too. First to be grabbed and drawn away was old Archer from the southern wall. The stupid son of a Sheppey goatherd didn’t have the brains he was born with. Every night he was wont to put a pack under his head, wrap himself in a blanket, and snooze his duty away. No one minded too much. All the lads on the walkway said that he was a hopeless old sod, and they might as well let him sleep. He’d only get in their way if he was awake.
But last night, even the alarms and screams hadn’t stirred him. When the castle’s keeper hurried to check all the walkways, he found Arch snoring loudly. Kicking him achieved little. The old git was dead to the world.
Well, he was often pissed. The ale barrels down near the kitchens where the guards had their meals were too tempting for an old soak like him. Richard didn’t know how he made it up the ladder sometimes. Last Sunday, on the Feast of St Julian, he was so hammered he barely reached the walkway, giggling and lurching from side to side. Richard himself had helped him to his post, and as he walked away he heard Arch singing, then the little clatter as he took off his steel cap and placed it between the battlements before lying down to sleep it off.
He wasn’t alone in doing this, but at least the others woke when there was a genuine alarm. Only Arch failed.
The sound of the old fool getting a beating came through the walls perfectly clearly. Arch was being punished for sleeping when a lady was killed and the Queen herself threatened. It was useful for men like Sir Hugh le Despenser to have a focus for their anger, and tonight it was Arch.
Richard himself was one of the few who were in the clear, since he hadn’t been on the walkways last night. He had been indoors, and was one of the first at the scene when Lady Eleanor screamed for aid. It was Richard who arrived and stood over the ladies until another party arrived and helped take them back to their chambers.
Because he was safe from accusations of irresponsibility, Richard was treated as a mere servant, and told to fetch Arch out, take him to the gaol.
‘Oh, Christ’s pains, Arch! What’ve they done to you?’
It was hard to lift the old man. The blood had made his wrists too slick to grip. He lay sobbing on the ground, his chest bared to the freezing stones, scraped and bruised where their fists had thumped at him, trying to beat a confession from him. The frail old man heard his voice, but both eyes were closed, the lids swollen and purpling already.
‘Come on, old friend. Let’s get you up, eh?’
Eventually, by putting his hands under Arch’s armpits, he managed to drag the fellow to a bucket. There he got Arch to sit while he fetched water to clean the worst of the mess away.
‘Why did they do this to me?’ the old man wept.
‘Eh?’
‘I told them all I could,’ Arch choked.
He coughed, spat out a gobbet of bloody phlegm and put a hand on his belly. His breath rasped in his throat, and Richard was sure that Arch’s ribs were broken. They moved too easily with his breathing. ‘Be easy, now,’ he counselled.
‘But why did they do this to me? Why?’ he wheezed.