‘Not now, man!’ Ellis snarled at him.
‘But, master, I-’
‘Are you deaf or just thick?’ Ellis said, and suddenly pirouetted. He took the messenger’s gipon in one hand and hauled the man, squeaking, towards him; Ellis then booted him in the backside and he fell to the ground. ‘Now shut up!’ And he was already making his way back to his master.
‘Shit! He’s the stupid one, the bastard!’
The man’s evident distress forced Pilk from his self-absorption. He reached down to help him up.
‘That man obviously wants to see his master dead,’ the messenger said viciously, dusting his uniform down.
‘Why’s that then?’
‘Because I know something that would be to his benefit.’
‘What?’
‘Why should I tell you?’
William had not had a good day so far. He was still feeling a little shaky after his sprint and then witnessing the death of the assassin. ‘How about because if you don’t, I’ll break your legs. Or I’ll tell Ellis you held something back from us. He wouldn’t break your legs, though. He’d …’
‘Christ’s bones, all right. You’ve made your point, mate! Tell your master this, then: the knight who’s looking into the death of Lady Mabilla and that other man, he’s found out where the assassin came from. He’s found the man’s name and his horse, and the horse has the Despenser’s brand on it. Understand? The knight knows the assassin was one of your master’s men.’
William nodded. He looked back at the body. The foot had stopped its little dance now, and there was only a tiny movement of a finger, which was unnervingly like a beckoning gesture. It made William feel sick, but then even that stopped. There was another shudder that ran through the man’s frame, and then it seemed to almost sink in upon itself. It was odd, like a pig’s bladder when someone had taken all the air out of it and it slowly collapsed. The man seemed to just — well, end.
Sir Hugh was calling. Still in a slight daze, William Pilk realised he was being summoned, and he tried to go to his master, but his feet wouldn’t obey. He looked down at them, and it was only with a physical command to his legs that he was able to stumble forward.
‘Pilk, you did well. You saved my life.’
‘I only did what I …’ He didn’t know how to continue.
‘You did it well. I am proud of you. There will be a reward for you when you return to the Temple this evening.’
Even Pilk could see that Sir Hugh was shocked. Usually so urbane and suave, just now he was frigid, like a man holding his breath to stop the shakes taking him over. His attention was not even vaguely directed towards the walls or the possibility of another threat, though. His eyes were fixed on Ellis, Pilk and his other men.
‘Does anyone know who he was?’
‘No, my Lord,’ said Ellis. ‘I don’t recognise him. Some discontent, I’d guess. Some bastard prickle from the household of Lancaster, or maybe another paid man from Mortimer. Christ knows how many there are would like to see you hurt.’
‘Find out where he bloody came from,’ Despenser spat. ‘I don’t pay you for “guesses”, Ellis! I pay you for results. Just now Pilk saved my life and you did nothing. I am unimpressed with that.’
‘Master, I — ’
‘Go and see if anyone else here knows the man. Get that lazy prick the Coroner out here and see what he can achieve. What is he paid for? Where is he? Sweet Jesus!’
His rage was understandable. Pilk knew that his master, the Despenser, was suffering from the shock. Had it not been for Pilk’s warning, the bolt would have passed through his throat and he would be dead. It was only Pilk’s shout and his quick appreciation of the danger he was in that had saved Sir Hugh’s life. That and Ellis. Ellis had thrown himself in front of his master even as the bolt flew towards them.
That nasty missile had found its mark in the gate-post to the Green Yard, and Sir Hugh went to it now, touching the hardwood shaft and goose-quill fletchings. ‘Have that taken out and saved for me,’ he ordered the guard standing and gawping at it. ‘I will keep it as a reminder.’
It was only now that Pilk suddenly recalled what the messenger had said. ‘My Lord Despenser! May I speak?’
As he repeated what the messenger had told him, relief flooded his entire body. There was now no need for Sir Hugh to learn that Pilk had told Sir Baldwin about Jack. The innkeeper had done so. Yes — Pilk was safe!
But others were not, not if the expression in Sir Hugh le Despenser’s eyes was anything to go by. William Pilk was inordinately glad to have been the sole bearer of good news today.
‘That fucking tavernkeeper?’ Sir Hugh cursed. ‘Right! I’ll have to show my appreciation for all his help, damn his bowels!’
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Bishop of Exeter’s Hall, Straunde
Simon and Baldwin were late into the Bishop’s hall for the main meal of the day. This was usually eaten late in the afternoon, but today being Sunday and the day after the celebration of Candlemas, there was less food and no meats available for the Bishop’s guests. Neither Simon nor Baldwin felt remotely hungry in any case.
Baldwin was looking so pale and fretful, most unlike his normal self. Simon had only ever seen him like this once before, when he had been about to ride into a tournament to the death. It had been a similar situation to this: knowing that the likelihood of his surviving was remote, and also knowing that his death would have repercussions for others. On this occasion, those at threat were his own family, and Baldwin had been like a man half-asleep since the full danger of his position was brought home to him.
The Bishop was already seated. ‘My friends, please join me and try this delicious dish. It is a little pie which my cook has created to tempt my appetite … Sir Baldwin, are you quite well? You look as though you are feeling indisposed.’
‘I thank you, I have had a shock today,’ Baldwin said.
‘Please — tell me, that I may try to help you.’
‘It is not a pleasant tale, my Lord Bishop,’ the knight said sadly, and related all that they had learned.
The Bishop listened, his eyes almost staring. ‘But this is ridiculous! My friend Sir Hugh would never plot to have the Queen killed!’ he whispered.
‘My Lord Bishop, I really would be happier to think that this was conjecture or simple error, but it is not. We saw the horse, we heard from the innkeeper that the guest was this man Jack atte Hedge, and when we left, I asked him to come tomorrow and view the body. He agreed, after some persuasion. I am sure that he will be able to confirm that the body is that of Jack atte Hedge, and then all follows logically: we have the contract, we have the horse, and we have the dates when the man was there. It is plain that Sir Hugh paid this assassin to come and kill Queen Isabella, and that the attempt failed only because someone killed the assassin first.’
‘When the King ordered you to seek the killer, did he ask you to learn exactly who had sent him?’
‘He asked me to find out who was responsible for the deaths of Mabilla and Jack.’
‘Perhaps … I do not mean to make the waters muddier for you, but I do have some experience in political matters, Sir Baldwin. Sometimes the art is to avoid the unwholesome repetition of details which can serve no useful purpose. In your case, I think you are worldly enough to be aware of the risks you take in letting the King know that his favoured companion has planned a peculiarly evil act. Better, perhaps, if that aspect could be avoided, simply not mentioned. Would it really serve any useful purpose? All it could do would be to expose you and your family to danger. Let us not be foolish — Sir Hugh has a dreadful temper, and he has many men at his command. If you embarrass him, it can do you no good, but it will probably not even greatly affect him, because he can deny it all, and the King will probably believe him.’