‘My Lord Bishop,’ he said, bowing low.
‘You have a message for me?’ The Bishop rose from his chair and set his goblet of wine down upon the table.
‘Yes, my Lord,’ the man said, reaching into his little pouch and pulling out a slim cylinder of parchment.
Taking it, the Bishop saw that the seal was Peter of Oxford’s, and he ripped it off, reading the note inside with haste.
‘That is well. You may go and seek refreshment. Tell my steward to give you anything you want until I call for you.’
‘My Lord.’
Drokensford scarcely noticed the man bow his way from the room, he was so engrossed. Peter had the gift of brevity, and his succinct message took only a few words. Assassin dead; Queen’s maid dead left the Bishop without a full understanding. However, there were inferences to be drawn. An assassin had been found and slain, but sadly he had killed a Queen’s maid first. Despenser must be feeling enormously fragile, then. Someone might put two and two together and come up with Sir Hugh’s name. Almost everyone would think him alone capable of such hubris.
He tapped his reed against his front teeth, considering. The Bishop was not committed to support Sir Hugh any more than he was committed to supporting any other man or woman, but this precipitate attack on the Queen implied to him that Sir Hugh was grown even more arrogant than Drokensford had believed. And it was clear that a man who overstepped the bounds of normal behaviour in so marked a manner could not control his passions. Equally, a man who was not in control of himself would soon fall prey to one of the other men in the court who was seeking power.
Yes. Perhaps now was the time to consider who could take over the management of the realm once Sir Hugh was gone. There might soon be need of a fresh face.
Chapter Sixteen
Tramping boots brought the Queen back to the present. She listened, with her heart fluttering at the thought that it could be men come to destroy her, but then she heard a calm voice speaking, and the confirmation of the guard, and knew that this must be safe.
Nonetheless, Alicia was on her feet before anyone had entered the garden, and Richard Blaket crossed to stand beside her, glowering ferociously, his polearm at the ready, while even Cecily rose to kneel immediately before Isabella. It was in Blaket that she put her faith, though: no one would pass him to harm his Queen.
It was Alicia who offered the challenge. ‘You are trespassing on the Queen’s private cloister, lordings — what are you doing here?’
‘My name is Sir Baldwin de Furnshill, Lady. I am the Keeper of the King’s Peace in Devon, and I have been asked to learn all I may about the terrible incidents of last night. This is my friend and companion, Simon Puttock. He is a Bailiff to the Abbot of Tavistock, and experienced in seeking felons. We would like to speak with your Lady to learn all we may about last night’s attack.’
Isabella considered a moment. This man’s voice was reassuring, certainly. She had a good ear for a man’s voice. Many times she felt certain that her assessment of a man was better than almost everybody else’s, because she could hear when there was deceit. ‘Let them come forward so that I may see them,’ she said, and studied the two for a moment as they bowed. ‘Stand up, gentles. I can hardly see your faces when you turn them to the ground, can I? Yes. I like your faces. You may stay.’
‘May we speak about the attack, please?’ Baldwin said. He spoke in French, and she looked at him appreciatively.
‘You have an excellent accent, m’sieur. What would you like to know? A man sprang out at us, he struck at the lady-in-waiting nearest to him, and then fled. Clearly he was appalled himself by his actions.’
‘Did you recognise him?’
‘Am I in the habit of consorting with assassins? He was masked, in any case.’
‘What kind of mask did he wear?’ Baldwin asked.
‘It was leather,’ Cecily interrupted breathlessly. ‘Cuir bouilli, I should think. Shaped in the image of a face with holes for the eyes.’
Baldwin looked at her, a short, plump young woman with a round face and pleasing green eyes. ‘How was he clad?’
‘He had all dark clothing. Nothing black, but all grey or brown, with a dark green gipon.’
The Queen smiled coolly. ‘Are you here to question my maids as well as me?’
‘I apologise, my Lady. Did you see his weapon?’
‘A long-bladed knife. You know, like those which the Welsh wear? He had it in his hand before we came along the corridor.’
‘I see,’ Baldwin frowned thoughtfully.
She was a beautiful woman, this princess of France. Her skin was pale and perfect, her eyes clear blue. She was clad in a pelicon, a fur-trimmed mantle that was quite voluminous, making Baldwin wonder how many tunics he would be able to cut from the one item of clothing. At a rough guess he reckoned six.
Her arm was clearly giving her some pain, for when she moved as she spoke, it made her wince. Baldwin remembered hearing that some years before, maybe ten or so, she had been trapped in a fire when her tent had caught alight, and she had been badly burned. Apparently this was one of those injuries that healed only poorly. However, the aspect of her clothing that struck him more than any other was the almost shameful nature of her bodice — it was cut lower than any he had seen in England before. He was forced to keep his eyes from her décolletage as he spoke to her.
‘Could you please take us to the corridor? I should like to see it.’
‘Of course. Alicia, you come with us.’
‘I shall come too,’ Eleanor said quickly, making an effort to rise from her couch.
‘There is no need,’ the Queen said with disarming civility. ‘You were so shocked after last night, you remain here and rest. Cecily, you keep her company. I shall hardly be in danger when Alicia is with me.’
‘My Lady, I must insist,’ Eleanor began.
Baldwin intervened. ‘Madam, I swear I shall bring her straight back here to you as soon as we have made our investigations. I apologise, but I shall wish to speak to you later as well.’
Isabella smiled sweetly at her gaoler, and strode past the guard to the door that led through to her chambers. She walked along the corridor to the chapel. ‘I was in here, and walked back through this corridor to my bedchamber, and it was here where he attacked. Look, you can yet see the poor woman’s blood on the flags there.’
Baldwin did not need to touch the washed stones to smell the blood. It had permeated the atmosphere here. Where the Queen indicated, there was a niche in the wall. Just there, a man might hide very efficiently at night when the light in a corridor was invariably dim. The sight affected the Queen, and in the darker light of the corridor she appeared pale.
‘My Lady, are you quite well?’ Baldwin asked solicitously, and seeing her unease, he sent Alicia to fetch some wine.
‘I will be fine in a moment,’ she muttered as her maid ran along the passageway.
‘I am sorry to have brought you back here, my Lady, but it is important that I see where the attack took place. Now, do you have any idea who could have wished to see you murdered? Is there anybody who has been so angry with you that he might have chosen to order a man to kill you?’
‘Tell me, my friend. Do you know anything of your country’s politics?’ she enquired with mock-seriousness. Then, seeing his agreement, she gave a slow, weary nod in return. ‘Then you know who is most likely to wish to harm me. Do not expect me to commit petit treason by naming them. You know who they are.’
Baldwin felt as though a knife was in his own belly and being twisted. Petit treason was the legal term for any form of treason against a Lord — including that of treachery against a husband. It was enough of a clue.