‘Perhaps. Not yet.’
‘You should be more careful of your tone, Earl Edmund,’ Despenser said with a hint of steel, but then he added, ‘you don’t understand. I have already had a talk with Bishop Drokensford and discussed the idea of the Queen being sent as ambassador on behalf of the King. I don’t know where people get the idea that I’m against her. I have promoted the idea as vigorously as I dare. I only hope that he and I and others of a similar view can persuade the King that it would be in the best interests of the realm for her to be sent.’
Kent gaped. ‘But how could you suggest her, when you …’ His eyes narrowed. ‘You have a scheme, don’t you? You think we’re all churls with nothing but shite between our ears, but some of us are bright enough to see through your little plots, Sir Hugh.’
He ignored Despenser’s easy smile and pressed past him — not so close as to offend, for Despenser was an undoubted expert of sword and lance and it was best not to push your luck — and stalked off towards the Old Palace Yard.
Sir Hugh le Despenser watched him go with his lip curled. The man was contemptible. Even his threats were wasteful of breath. If he wanted, Despenser could have him bent about his little finger in an instant. But he did not wish it yet. No. Better to keep him as a source of confusion for a while longer. That way there would be a point of concentration for any malcontents, and by keeping a watch on him, Despenser and his men would have an accurate register of all those who were his enemies.
It was at that moment that he heard the scream from the Great Hall. Immediately, he looked up at the shingled roof, thinking that there must be a fire within, for the most common fear in a great building like this was that the roof might catch fire. But there was no sign of smoke, no flames, nothing.
And then he saw a man lurch from the Exchequer’s door — a clerk, who gripped at the door-frame, staring wildly about him like one who has lost his mind.
‘Sweet Christ’s cods! Now what?’ Sir Hugh swore foully, and marched off to see what was wrong, just as the little cleric bent and spewed all over the cobblestones.
Baldwin and Simon were marching over the gravel to find Rob and their horses just as the cry came, and as soon as they heard it, there was a general rush towards the source, men with polearms running full-pelt, one hand gripping their long weapons, the other grasping their scabbards or horns to stop them clattering against their thighs, while others: merchants, servants and visitors alike, hurried along in their wake.
‘Murder! Murder! Murder! Out! Out! Out!’
‘It’s none of our concern,’ Simon said pointedly, grabbing Baldwin’s arm. ‘The King has Coroners and Keepers for just this sort of eventuality. He doesn’t need us.’
‘True,’ Baldwin said, ‘but there is an issue of professional pride involved. I wonder what could have caused such a commotion?’
‘Oh — did you miss his shout?’ Simon said with heavy sarcasm. ‘I believe he may have said that there has been a murder.’
‘Oh? Well, it can do no harm to see who has died, can it?’
‘I didn’t come all this way just to …’ Simon muttered rebelliously, but followed in his friend’s wake.
As they approached the rear of the crowd that encircled the entrance, they heard the beginnings of the rumours.
First was a tranter, shaking his grizzled head. ‘Dead, sitting on the King’s throne!’
‘He was the King’s food-taster, and they say he was poisoned,’ a tavern slut was gabbling earnestly.
A palace servant sneered, ‘Poisoned with steel, most likely. Blood everywhere, I heard.’
Baldwin looked at Simon with wry exasperation. ‘Very well, I agree. There is nothing sensible to be gleaned here. Probably they are all wrong and it was merely a serving-maid who tripped and stubbed her toe! Let us return to our mounts and wait there for the Bishop to come to us. We should repair to his house and make ready for the first of these consultations we have heard so much about.’
Simon was happy to agree, and the two walked over the yard to Rob, who stood peering at the crowds with bitter disappointment to be missing whatever was happening.
Seeing his mood, Simon tutted and sighed. Then: ‘Rob, if you’re so curious, work your way up there and see what all the excitement’s about, eh?’
The boy was off like a greyhound after a hare.
‘He is keen enough on some trails, then,’ Baldwin observed, grinning.
‘At least he’s only interested in simple matters at present,’ Simon said. ‘Soon it’ll be maids, and then I’ll be worried.’
‘So you should be,’ Baldwin sighed. ‘That young fellow will be breaking a few hearts before he settles himself.’
‘If he ever does,’ Simon grunted. ‘There’s little enough sign of it yet.’ He pointed with his chin. ‘That was quick.’
Rob was soon back with them, smiling and enthusiastic. ‘The Bishop wants you to join him in the Great Hall,’ he panted.
‘The Bishop does?’ Baldwin repeated.
‘I suppose they do still have Coroners here in the King’s household?’ Simon asked rhetorically.
The first thing that struck Simon was just how enormous the Great Hall truly was. It towered over them as they marched in, more like a cathedral than a hall.
Rob had taken them by the side way, leading them through a gate into the Green Yard, and thence to the Old Palace Yard. There was a door into the Lesser Hall, and from there they could enter the screens passage. In the middle was the door that led into the hall itself. It was blocked by two guards who stood with polearms crossed, their faces anxious, and the younger man oddly pale and waxen. At a snapped command from inside, the two allowed Simon, Baldwin and Rob to pass.
Simon gaped as he stared up at the gaily painted pictures on the great oak baulks. They were curved in a series of ribs that passed along the length of this massive hall, and Simon found himself studying the rows of columns, hoping that they were strong enough to support the weight of all that timber. It seemed to defy logic. There was an arcade all around, and he was sure that there would be a broad walkway set inside the wall.
The whole was richly coloured, with flowers and faces decorating every surface. Lower, when Simon could bring his gaze down, the walls were designed to prove how magnificent the English King was, and how wealthy. Flags and pennons dangled, moving gently in the draught; where there were no hangings or tapestries, the plaster was painted with brilliant scenes. Each column had shields set about it, their decorations glinting in the meagre light.
When he brought his attention down to the ground again, he was taken with the sight of an immense marble table. ‘What’s that for?’
Baldwin threw a disinterested glance at it. ‘The great courts meet here in King William Rufus’s hall,’ he said. ‘The marble table is for the Chancery, where the king’s clerks work. Over there,’ he pointed, ‘is where the Court of Common Pleas meets, and over there is the King’s Bench. This room is usually in uproar when all the judges are here.’
Not today, though. Only small groups of men stood huddled about, a larger congregation at the farther end of the hall, where another group stood huddled over something behind a chair. And then Simon felt a thrill as he realised. Before him was no ordinary chair: this was the throne of England!
It stood upon a dais reached by a small series of steps, and Simon eyed it with surprise as well as interest. It was a great deal smaller than he had expected, somehow. He had thought to see a towering seat, more along the lines of the Bishop of Exeter’s throne in the Cathedral — an immense, towering construction with rich ornament — but this was nothing more than a well-made, wooden chair with panels in the sides and the back, while beneath it a large rock was set onto a platform. It made him want to go nearer and study it, but already his attention was being drawn to the rear of the chair.