‘Because you always got drunk before you went on duty — and they knew that. No one was going to protect you when they found you still snoring it off. If you’d been awake you could have raised the alarm, but no — you were asleep, so the killer was able to climb inside the palace. If you had been sober …’
‘But I was sober! Last night, I didn’t drink a drop! You ask at the kitchens! I didn’t have anything last night. I was stone cold sober!’
The Queen walked about her small enclosure with her hands in a little furred stole, a heavy cloak over her shoulders, feeling the gentle tickle of the squirrel fur at her throat and wrists. As she walked, she hummed a melody from her childhood, ‘Orientis Partibus’, a pleasant tune that always lifted her spirits.
Despenser wanted her dead. She’d known that for months. Her husband’s sudden rejection of her had been a terrible shock, a fearful thing. She had seen how others had earned his enmity and been destroyed, utterly, but she had always thought that she was safe from such treatment. She had loved Edward. And he her. Or so she had thought.
But in the last years his behaviour had grown ever more erratic. One favourite was taken from him and slain, and afterwards her loyalty had brought him back to her. She had never failed him. Those years after Gaveston’s death had been lovely. She had possessed him entirely then, and he had even demonstrated his love for her and for their children. But then he had thrown her over for his latest lover.
This second sodomite had taken all his affection. She had tried, she had been as warm and loving to her husband as any woman could be, but his mind was so fixed on the body and person of Despenser that there was nothing left for her or their children. Edward had broken up her household, sent all her friends, companions and servants from her, reduced her to the status of a beggar at his door. It was humiliating!
Milord Despenser was clever, but he had overreached himself.
She had been sure that he was going too far when she had first heard of the threat to her life from Peter, her Chaplain. Bishop Drokensford had many spies, and the news that Despenser might seek her death was shocking. She had not dreamed that he might try such a bold move. Fortunately she had challenged him and his response was clear — he had removed the bitch who had threatened her. But he didn’t realise what he had done.
This action was bound to be bruited abroad, and that would only gain her allies. And meanwhile, her letter begging for aid would soon reach her brother the King of France. News of this attack to her lady-in-waiting would add lustre to her tale.
Eleanor was clever. Witty, good company, and kindly. As a gaoler, one who had ultimate power and authority over Isabella, she was quite amiable. But she was also so easy to read. And to confound. When Isabella wanted to write a letter, she did so. Twice. The first she submitted to Eleanor, while the second she secreted about her person. And then she would demonstrate her need for communication with her Chaplain. Perhaps to confess a little sin, or to demand a Mass. And not the first visit to him, not the second, nor even the third would she do anything, but on the fourth or fifth occasion, she would deem it right, when Eleanor was already tired and fractious, just like her darling little Joan.
Joan. Only three years old and these devils had taken her. She was staying with the Monthermers, Eleanor said, but Isabella did not know how much she could trust her. Mother of God, but she missed her children! Her two youngest, Joan and Eleanor, were together, Lady Eleanor said. Of course Isabella had no way of telling whether that was true or not. She missed her boys, too: John and Edward. The girls had been taken from her by Eleanor and Despenser, while Edward had his own household now he was thirteen and an adult. Not old enough to be able to ignore his father, though. The King would not allow him near his own mother.
Only John remained nearby, under the control of Lady Eleanor Despenser, and she refused to allow Isabella to see him. It was a means of keeping the Queen under control. ‘Behave and I may allow you to see your little son — misbehave and you will not.’ No. She could not trust my Lady Despenser.
Lady Eleanor could be so like her little daughter Joan in some ways. And in others she could be as unpleasant, scheming and mendacious as the wife of Sir Hugh le Despenser would have to be. Well, Isabella could be even more scheming, even more mendacious. Despenser had taken away her life. She had lost children, authority, friends — all that made up her life but breath itself. Soon he would seek to stop that too. But she would prevent him if she may, which was why she had made him aware that she communicated with her brother. Despenser might doubt it, but he would wonder. And meanwhile she would send her messages by means of her Chaplain. When she received the Body of Christ, she could slip a letter into his hand, and Eleanor was none the wiser.
Like last night. The thought that if the assassin had been successful, she would now be dead, that her letter would have been her last, made her shudder. She would make Despenser pay for his actions, she thought, baring her teeth in a feral humour. For every insult, every indignity, every theft. And especially for the proposition. Oh yes. For that, he would suffer the most exquisite agonies she could devise.
The Chaplain looked up as soon as she appeared, and stared behind her to make sure that she was for once alone, before slowly closing an eye in a wink.
Another letter was on its way to her brother.
Baldwin glanced about him with interest, but for him there was far less novelty value. Simon was new to this world, whereas Baldwin had been in London and here to Thorney Island before.
In those days, of course, he had been a man of power and authority, a Knight Templar. On occasion he had been sent here to England to discuss issues with the knights of the London Temple or, more rarely, the English King, Edward I, because it was understood that a knight who spoke the common language of those with whom he was to negotiate would have a greater understanding of the finer points.
That was all a long time ago. Yet he could not but help glancing up along the line of King Street, northwards, to where it met Straunde. Up there, he knew, was the outer wall of the City of London, with the great wall and defences. And just west of it lay the Temple. His heart and soul ached to see it again.
Not today, though. The Bishop was in a hurry to get inside the wall of the Great Hall and begin his discussions. It was no surprise.
Baldwin had been given plenty to think about after his talk with the Bishop of Salisbury.
‘I fear I heard you last night,’ he had said in the morning at Salisbury, while Simon was still asleep.
Martival looked at him, smiling wryly. ‘I dare say most of the servants here heard us arguing the other night.’
‘The Queen suffers greatly, so I have heard.’
‘It is said by some that she could be a traitor.’
‘Only by those who would see her destroyed. Perhaps their actions have made her an enemy to them. But to the King? She has had his children. I refuse to believe that she could be so dishonourable as to be the enemy of their father.’
‘There are examples of other women who have been still more … unnatural.’
‘Bishop, you do not believe that our Queen is capable of such acts any more than I. I heard you, remember.’
Martival had studied him carefully over the rim of his goblet at that. At last he set the drink down. ‘You overheard much that you should not have. But very well — no, I do not. This smacks of politicking, and taking advantage of those who are weak or incapable of defending themselves in order to protect others.’
‘Is it true, that there are moves to annul the marriage?’
Martival pulled a grimace. ‘That is what is said. That the King would seek to have his marriage declared null so that he might seek another wife. Perhaps.’