Baldwin smiled, but said nothing. Before the altar a bier had been placed, and upon that was the body of Mabilla.
She had been laid out by the women of the Queen’s household, her wounds cleaned and her clothing changed. Baldwin pulled a face at the sight. ‘We cannot undress her in here to see the wounds, can we?’
‘Most certainly not!’ came an indignant voice.
Chapter Seventeen
The voice came from behind them. Baldwin turned to see a young chaplain, eyeing the two of them with black suspicion.
To Baldwin, he looked much like the Celtic men of Cornwall, with his almost coal-black hair and small, brown eyes. There was a hardness about him, a whip-cord strength, for all that he was short and moderately plump. Baldwin nodded to him, and absently took up Mabilla’s right hand, studying it closely with a frown.
‘Put her hand down. Stop pawing at her!’ The Chaplain entered now and passed Baldwin and Simon, looking down at the woman’s body as he did so. ‘Rest in peace, daughter.’
There was a kind of naturalness about him in the face of this death that was oddly endearing to Baldwin. The fellow clearly did not look upon Mabilla as a mere corpse ready to be thrown into the ground; he was treating her as a woman still, a person with feelings and a soul, and doing so naturally, without affectation.
‘Chaplain, I am sorry if it feels as though we are intruding here,’ Sir Baldwin said. ‘It was not our intention to be annoying to you, but we have been commanded to come here by the King himself, to learn what we may about this poor child’s death.’
‘The King himself, hey?’ It was plain that this man was not impressed. ‘Well — what more do you need to know? The poor chit was slaughtered only yards away from my chapel here, and then her killer — God be praised! — was found by another man, who killed him. It is as simple as that. There is little more to be learned.’
‘Could you tell me anything about this lady?’
‘Mabilla? Her surname was Aubyn, but I suppose you know that already. Well, as to other things, she was born and bred in a little manor just outside London, a place called Iseldone, I think.’
‘Her family?’
The priest looked at him with some exasperation. ‘If you need that sort of information, ask Lady Eleanor. Mabilla was one of her ladies.’
‘Aren’t they all?’ Simon murmured. He was standing over Mabilla and peering down at her sadly. She had a pretty enough face and slim body. He could imagine her smiling and laughing, flirting. She had that sort of cheeky look about her.
‘Most, yes. The poor Queen has no rights, it would seem,’ the Chaplain agreed.
‘So all the women are regulated by the Lady Eleanor?’
‘Not all. One or two perhaps may be bolder than others.’
‘In what way?’
‘A household is run almost entirely by men. Yet the Queen has women about her. It is not unnatural for them to form relationships with some of the men about the place.’
‘Are you thinking of any in particular?’
‘Ach! It is not concealed. Lady Alicia, the same who stood between the killer and the Queen, she has an affection for one of the guards.’
‘Which?’
‘A man called Richard Blaket. But he is a good, loyal man to the Queen, and I think Alicia has proved her own devotion from her behaviour in the corridor.’
‘You have been Queen Isabella’s Chaplain for long?’ Baldwin asked after a moment.
The man looked at him, and then shook his head. ‘What of it? No. I have only come into her service since her previous chaplains were removed. It’s a disgrace, the way that they were treated, too. Both of them arrested, and when the Queen offered sureties so that they could be released into her custody, she wasn’t even allowed to do that!’
‘It is always hard in time of war, Brother um …?’ Baldwin let the question hang in the air.
‘I am Brother Peter. I was asked to come here by my Bishop, Drokensford of Bath and Wells. Naturally I was delighted to help him — and my Lady the Queen herself.’
‘Naturally,’ Baldwin agreed smoothly. ‘Now, should I assume that you yourself have any enemies who may take it into their heads to come here in the dead of night and slay you?’
‘I do hope this is merely your sense of humour,’ Peter said without amusement.
‘I take that as a negative. In that case, is there anyone you can think of who would dare to attempt such a foul attack on Her Majesty?’
Peter rolled his eyes. ‘You want me to give you my neck?’
‘I am not allied to any Lords. I do not have to tell anyone where I have heard my information. All I ask is that information. If I am to protect her, I need to know who may be thinking to harm her.’
Brother Peter left them and walked to the altar. He stood there with his head bowed, silently considering, and then turned slowly to face them again. ‘I will tell you all I may, but if you dare to vouchsafe any of this to enemies of the Queen, I pray that you will have a slow death and that you may spend a thousand thousand years suffering the torments of the devil! Do you agree?’
Baldwin blinked. It was tempting to recoil, for as the priest spoke, he slowly raised his arms as though calling upon God to hear his oath and enforce his punishment. ‘I do.’
‘Oh. All right then,’ Peter said amiably, and beckoned them to join him. He took them through the rear of the chapel, and into a small vestry. There he indicated a stool and chest for them to take their rest, and poured them each a cup of very strong wine.
‘One of the perks of the business here is that the King’s undercroft is very well stocked with the finest Rhenish and Guyennois wines,’ he said, smacking his lips appreciatively — but not as appreciatively as the Bailiff, whose frowning countenance had lightened considerably at the sight of the wine.
‘Who could want her harmed?’ Baldwin reminded Brother Peter.
‘Well, the two most obvious ones are the King and Despenser. But you’ll know that, won’t you? That supposes that the killer was trying to get to the Queen but was scared off by a single chit of a woman: Alicia. Brave of her, of course, but I’d have thought a hired assassin would not baulk at her. If he was looking to a suitable reward, he’d have got on with the job, even though all five women stood before the Queen.’
Simon had considered this. ‘Could the man not have mistakenly thought that he had killed the Queen? It is a dark passageway, and in the excitement, perhaps he thought he had struck her down. After all, I should have expected the Queen would walk at the front of any party. Maybe he did too.’
Baldwin glanced at Brother Peter, who smiled back as though taunting him to display his intellect. ‘I think there are two problems with that, Simon,’ Baldwin explained. ‘The assassin had broken into the Palace, knew where the Queen’s chamber was, and even knew that she would pass by that passage at some time that night. So he was very well informed before launching himself on this adventure. If he knew so much, I find it hard to imagine that he would not have learned that she normally walked in the midst of her ladies. Then again, the killer struck Mabilla although she was carrying a candle, so we are told, and could clearly be seen. When you accused me, Peter, of “pawing” at her, I was looking at her hand to see whether there was any evidence of that. There was. On her hand there is a little spattering of wax, such as you receive when you walk along with a guttering candle. So that means that the killer would have seen her. It is inconceivable, I should think, that the man would not know the Queen by sight.’
Brother Peter nodded slowly, a smile on his face now. ‘I applaud your logic. It is much the same as my own conclusion. Which was why I was intrigued when I heard that the poor child had been killed.’