It was no surprise that Edward was more keen to run to the comforting arms of his lover than stay with his wife.
Clearly it would be no surprise if poor Hugh grew so disenchanted with the treatment she gave him that he turned to drastic methods to remove her. She was the key obstacle to the two men’s happiness. Always there, always a morose reminder of a past life, bringing a sour taste to everything. If only she had kept quiet.
Quiet? It was not the way of her family. Her father, King Philip IV, was powerful, autocratic and demanding. All his people were terrified of him, and he was ruthless in pursuit of his own interests. It rather looked as though her brother, Charles IV, was built in the same mould. He saw only opportunities for cheating Edward out of his inheritance. Sweet Christ! They were trying to take Guyenne now. He was damned if he would let them do that!
‘Sire? Are you all right?’
He remembered poor Sir Hugh, kneeling on that uncomfortable floor. ‘Stand, my friend. Don’t tell me about Isabella. I do not want to know what you have done. Non!’ And he placed a finger on Hugh’s mouth before he could enunciate his protests. ‘I know you, and I know of what you are capable. Do not deny these things to me. Just love me …’
Baldwin felt a shiver run down his spine, and then he puffed out his cheeks and shook his head. He was too old for this kind of behaviour.
‘Wait till I tell Meg,’ Simon breathed. ‘I’ve seen the King!’
Baldwin gave a pained smile. ‘Let us wait until we get safely home before thinking about things like that, eh? Bishop — can you tell me how I can get a message to the Queen? And I want to view the body of the lady who died last night. I must know where she is being kept. Also, the body in the hall — we should leave him there until the Coroner has returned and can view him.’
‘The hall is needed for the council,’ Stapledon pointed out.
‘The law says … ah, but I suppose the King is the embodiment of the law. Well, we shall leave the man there until the Coroner returns, if at all possible. When is the council to begin?’
‘Tomorrow is Candlemas. If possible the hall should be free for that, and then the council will begin on the Monday after.’
Baldwin caught sight of Rob. Suddenly concerned that the boy could open his mouth and get himself into trouble, Baldwin asked him to go and make sure that their horses were being well looked after, and then fetch himself some food, and waited until he had gone before speaking. ‘Very well. Then we must make sure that the Coroner has a chance to view the body today so that it can be tidied away for the festivities tomorrow. Anything else?’
Kent was frowning. ‘If someone has attempted to kill the Queen once, surely he will make another attempt, since he has failed this first time.’
‘He is dead,’ Stapledon pointed out.
‘The alleged assassin is,’ Baldwin said. ‘The man who paid him is not. It is possible he may try again.’
‘There are some who have plenty of men at their disposal,’ Kent said, with a meaningful look at the door through which the King and Despenser had just left.
Soon afterwards he stood and left the room, and as Baldwin watched him stride off through the doorway, he was struck with a very dangerous thought: at the time he had assumed that the Earl was thinking of Sir Hugh le Despenser when he said that some fellows had plenty of men at their disposal. But now he wondered whether he had understood him aright — was it possible that he thought the King himself could have tried to have his wife murdered?
Queen Isabella sat on a small turf bench in her cloister. At her feet were two ladies-in-waiting, Alicia and Cecily, both seated on small cushions against the chill ground. Queen Isabella had demanded a lighted brazier to keep them all warm, and the red-hot coals gleamed and spat in the basket.
Behind her, she knew Eleanor was resting on a comfortable, low couch.
Poor, pale, downtrodden Eleanor. This afternoon when she had appeared, the Queen had been tempted to ask her to return to her bedchamber. If she had felt even a particle of sympathy for this woman, she would have done so. But Eleanor was her gaoler, Sir Hugh’s spy. She was the abductor of Isabella’s children. She could no more feel compassion for Eleanor than fly up into the sky.
At least Eleanor was no threat. If anything, the Queen thought that Eleanor would try to protect her from actual physical assault. She wondered if Eleanor knew just what her husband was capable of. Perhaps she did. There was a set of bruises about her neck that looked like a man’s hand-mark. One on the right of her throat, just under her jaw, four more on the other side. Isabella had seen men’s violence towards women before. She had even experienced it at the hand of her husband. The marks were easily recognisable.
Perhaps that was why, a short distance behind Eleanor, as though she needed any reminder of the terrible attack last night, there was a man with an enormous polearm standing ready to defend her. Such a shame he hadn’t been there last night for Mabilla.
There were few places in this palace where Isabella felt she could relax. In the other palaces, her delightful Eltham, or the great castle at Windsor, there were lovely gardens where she could sit and dream. Here she had tried to recreate a little of the splendour of a French garden, with roses climbing and spreading their scent all about, while camomile was sown in among the grasses so that in the summer when she sat, there would be refreshing odours at all times. At this time of year there was little enough to be smelled, but there was still the pleasure of the open air. And yet her pleasure was constricted by the presence of the man behind her and the knowledge that someone had dared to try to execute her.
So they had found the assassin’s body. The effrontery! The bare-arsed nerve of the man! To clamber in here and try to slay her! But no less shocking was the mind of the man who had put him up to it. Only one could have dared. Only a man who was convinced that he had all power already and that any misdemeanour on his part would be overlooked by his King. Even the risk of ruining his King’s estates in France would not stop a man with the intolerable rapacity of Sir Hugh le Despenser.
She looked down at her hands. They were palm-uppermost in her lap, and if she lifted them but an inch from her thighs, she knew that they would begin to shake uncontrollably again.
It was curious, that. As the attack took place, she was utterly calm, as though she knew that no one could possibly harm her — Isabella, a member of the reigning French Royal Family, wife to the English King, mother of princes and princesses. It was intolerable that someone could even think of harming her.
And yet as soon as the man had turned and fled from Alicia’s bold defence, she had felt her calmness begin to fail her. It started with her right hand, she noticed. A faint trembling at first, which grew. And initially, she had viewed it with simple enquiring interest. It was a peculiar reaction. There was no apparent reason for her hand to behave in this manner. There were no other indications of alarm or concern, she thought. Except then her left hand began to twitch all on its own, and suddenly she thought that it would be very easy to start sobbing. Only she knew full well that were she to do that, it would be enormously difficult to stop. And that sort of behaviour might suit a lowly washerwoman, but it was out of the question for a woman of French royal birth.
The tears had ceased to threaten; that itself was a blessing. But the trembling had not gone away. She must leave her hands resting at all times just now, in case others saw how fearful she had become. And she would never offer that kind of balm to Despenser’s soul!
At least his damned assassin was dead.
Palace of the Bishop of Bath and Wells
A single horse approaching was never a problem, and Bishop Drokensford only frowned a little as he listened. It was but a short time before the knock came at his door and the messenger was ushered inside.