‘I am called Sir Baldwin de Furnshill. This is my Lord Bishop, Walter of Exeter.’
‘My Lord Bishop, I apologise, I didn’t see you there,’ Hugh said immediately. The Lord High Treasurer was not a man to insult — not just now.
Stapledon gave him a cool enough greeting, and held out his ring to be kissed, before commanding the others to see to their mounts while he spoke with Sir Hugh. He then set off side-by-side with Despenser to the Great Hall.
‘I am concerned that our policy is not being adequately communicated to others,’ the Bishop murmured.
Sir Hugh shot him a look. ‘That is hardly my province, my Lord Bishop. Our arrangement was, you would convince the Bishops and I would convince the Lords. I have upheld my side of the bargain.’
‘I have difficulties with some of them. Martival has rejected our ideas out of hand. We know that Orleton will do anything to thwart you, and now we have others against us too. I am dubious about Bath and Wells.’
‘You will have to find a means of convincing them, then. I have enough to do without ordering the obedience of the Church.’
Stapledon nodded. They had reached the Great Hall now and entered, staring up the length of the chamber at the throne with the rock beneath it, the Stone of Scone which the King’s father, Edward I, had captured from the Scots. There were two guards in the hall although the place was empty but for them. ‘There are more guards than usual.’
‘Yes. Someone entered the grounds last night and slew a lady-in-waiting.’
Stapledon frowned. ‘What! A man from outside, you mean?’
It was sometimes hard to realise that this fellow had one of the sharpest financial minds in all Christendom. Despenser nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘An assassin?’ Stapledon’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. ‘Was it you?’
‘Why would I murder a lady-in-waiting? It would serve me no benefit, would it?’
The logic of that was inescapable, and the Bishop knew it. ‘But why should a man kill a lady-in-waiting? Who was it? Are you sure that the assassin was aiming his knife at her, and didn’t simply strike down the wrong woman?’
‘Anyone would recognise the Queen, and if he killed the wrong lady, it would have been easy to shove the other women aside and kill the Queen herself.’
Stapledon eyed him doubtfully, but then nodded his head in agreement. ‘You’re right. There could be no reason to kill a maid. Which one was it?’
‘Mabilla Aubyn. You remember her? She was the daughter of Sir Richard.’
Stapledon nodded pensively, but he gazed at Sir Hugh with a frown. It was clear enough what he was thinking.
‘Look, my Lord Bishop, she was worth nothing. She has no lands or wealth. I had no reason to seek to harm her.’
‘Very well. I take your word for it,’ the Bishop said. ‘What actions have been taken to seek the assassin?’
‘We’ve searched the whole place, but it seems whoever it was managed to break in, and then escaped as well.’
‘How did he get in?’
‘We’re still trying to find out. The wall has not been breached so far as we can tell. It’s possible that they may have got in from the river, but unlikely, I’d have thought. There were no boats seen.’
‘Let me know if you come to any conclusions.’
‘I will. And in the meantime — those two men with you. One called himself Sir Baldwin de Furnshill. Is he from Devon?’
‘Yes. Why?’
‘I believe I have heard his name before.’
The news of the attack on the Queen’s little party was swiftly spread all over the palace, and nowhere was the news bruited about so speedily as in the New Hall Yard, where all the guests mingled in the taverns and alehouses.
Piers de Wrotham, Earl Edmund’s spy, was sitting on an old barrel in a tavern when he himself heard the rumour of an attempt to kill the Queen. Finishing his horn of ale, he set it down with a coin, and made his way towards the Exchequer, slowly absorbing the full horror of his position.
He knew that Sir Hugh le Despenser was behind the murder. It never occurred to him that another could have been responsible. No — Sir Hugh detested the Queen, always had, and he must have been looking for a means of removing her for some little while.
It had seemed odd at the time, when Sir Hugh told Piers to persuade Earl Edmund to extol the virtues of the Queen as negotiator over the stolen territories. At the time, Piers was convinced that the man was playing a different game of his own, because it made no sense for the Queen to visit her brother, King Charles IV of France. Once there, she must be safe from Despenser. But at least she would be out of his hair — and perhaps that was all he was thinking of. If so, then he had gambled badly on this throw: a successful attack upon the Queen was one thing, but a botched effort like this, which only served to kill a maid — that was a disaster. The French King would go mad — immediately demand satisfaction. Only the head of Despenser would suffice.
The woman who had died — Mabilla — was the lady who had given the come-on to Earl Edmund, then rejected him when he got too keen. Yes, and all knew that he had been furious, threatening to rape her when she had done that to him. Perhaps many would see this as a foul act on his part, killing the woman who had spurned him? And all his advice in the last few months would be assessed against this new revelation about him.
His reputation would be destroyed. Aha, Piers thought, and a slow smile spread over his face. Perhaps that was what it was all about.
Simon and Baldwin were directed to a small stable set against the northern wall of the court, and there with the three men-at-arms, they unloaded their belongings so that the horses could be properly rested. Rob was left with the horses to groom them — much against his will — and Simon and Baldwin parted from the others there.
‘So that — that’s the Great Hall?’ Simon asked, awed.
‘Well, it’s not the smaller one,’ Baldwin said drily.
‘Is there one?’
‘Down the far side of this one. The King uses that more often, I imagine. This one is just too immense for comfort.’
‘Especially at this time of year,’ Simon agreed. Both had spent enough time in large halls in Exeter and beyond during the winter to know how long it could take for a fire to heat a chamber of any size.
‘Come — let us seek some warmed ale,’ Baldwin muttered. It was cold, and talking about it only served to remind them just how icy the air was.
They made their way to the inn beside the gatehouse and entered. There was a bar set over two barrels at the far end, and they repaired to this, ordering ales, and then taking their seats on low stools near a little fire that threw out a lot of smoke and not much warmth.
‘I wonder when the Bishop will be finished,’ Simon said.
‘Soon, I dare say. He doesn’t enjoy long journeys, and he’ll be keen to eat and find a bed.’
‘There are a lot of guards here. Do you think that the King always has this number of men about him?’
Baldwin was tempted to say that any tyrant must rely on a large contingent of guards to see to his defence, but forbore. ‘This is a large palace, and I suppose he has all the Crown’s jewels with him. It’s only natural that he should feel the need for protection.’
A grizzled old veteran of many winters in the King’s service had overheard their conversation, and now he leaned forward. To Baldwin’s mind his round, flushed features spoke of a better than nodding acquaintance with the ales served here.
‘Hadn’t you heard?’ he asked. ‘There was a murder here yesternight. A poor maid was struck down.’
‘A lover?’ Baldwin asked. It was the usual first question. He always found that in murders, especially the murders of younger folk, the killer almost invariably proved to be someone closely related. A man killed his wife, a lad his girl — sometimes it was the woman killing her spouse. More rarely it was a brother killing a sister because she had brought shame on the family.