‘And hired her own man?’
‘Someone did,’ Baldwin said with a shortness that was unlike him, as though he knew that the story sounded implausible, but it was the best he could concoct at the time. ‘Let us at least see whether we can meet the Lady or not.’
Earl Edmund left the hall with a warm conviction that he had done himself some good in the eyes of most of the Lords and Bishops in the room. Perhaps it was not what his brother, the King, had wanted to hear, but it was the sensible option. What else would simultaneously take the sting from the French demand that the King should go and pay homage while ensuring the King’s safety from the murderous bastards over there who wanted to destroy him? While men like Roger Mortimer were living freely at the expense of the French King in the latter’s court, it was impossible for King Edward to set foot on French soil.
Piers de Wrotham, Edmund’s adviser and spy, had done a wonderful job. Edmund grinned. His proposal today had clearly irked Despenser. The poor fellow! He was only a knight, when all was said and done, and if he ran the risk of crossing verbal swords with men of significantly better position, he shouldn’t be surprised when he came off worst.
Standing in the Green Yard, Edmund felt the February sun on his face and sighed happily. He’d already drunk a good measure of wine in the Great Hall, but he was still thirsty. A small ale might help clear his head.
The gate to the New Palace Yard was crowded, and it took him a few moments to make his way through. He began to march towards the alehouse at the northern wall, and it was then that in the shadow of one of the buildings, he caught sight of Despenser talking to a man with the unmistakable dark looks he knew so well. Piers.
His thirst quite gone, Edmund turned and began to make his way to the gate back out of this yard, his mind racing.
Piers was his man. He’d given Edmund so much good advice in the last few weeks, all genuine and clear, and all aimed at ruining Despenser — so what was he doing, having a cosy little meeting with Sir Hugh now? Piers had told him that Despenser was his own most hated enemy, so to be with him now was surely proof of a terrible deceit! If Piers was so friendly with Despenser that he could stand in a dark shadow and make conversation … what topics would they be discussing?
Edmund had a nasty suspicion what one of them would be: how to make a certain Earl look even more foolish than he already did.
‘You shit!’ he snarled, and slammed his fist into his gloved left hand. He’d have his revenge on the bastards, both of them.
Simon and Baldwin found themselves confronted by an apologetic-looking Blaket once more.
‘Sir Baldwin, you know I can’t let you in.’
‘But we don’t want to talk to the Queen, man, we only wish to speak with Lady Eleanor for a little while.’
‘I still cannot let you in. I have my orders.’
They were forced to turn away again, Baldwin muttering imprecations against idiot guards who couldn’t recognise the difference between a cut-throat and a friendly knight.
‘This is farcical,’ he said with disgust. ‘All we need is a few moments with Lady Eleanor, to see whether she can aid us at all, whether she knew of Mabilla’s position or not — and yet even in that we are to be blocked.’
‘Perhaps not,’ Simon said with a nod behind Baldwin.
There in the main yard was Peter of Oxford, Chaplain to the Queen, strolling along happily, taking great bites from a loaf of bread which he had broken in two, one half in each hand.
‘Aha, Sir Baldwin! It is a delight to see you again. And your good friend, Bailiff Puttock. To what do I owe this pleasure, I wonder. Perhaps you want to come and investigate another poor corpse in my chapel, eh?’
‘Is the poor woman buried?’
‘Well, she’s not in my chapel any more. I think that her mortal remains are to be taken to her parents’ home in the wilds of Middlesex, somewhere called Iseldone, far to the north of our fair city and this thorny little isle.’
‘We were not here to see her again,’ Baldwin admitted. ‘Rather, we are keen to speak to Lady Eleanor — but the guard on the gate to the cloister there is particularly scrupulous in his duties. He has been ordered not to let us pass, and will not suffer us to even pass a message to her.’
‘Why do you want to speak with her?’
‘Why do you think? We are seeking the murderer of Mabilla, and to do so, we must question all those who might know something about her death.’
‘You think that the Lady may be able to tell you something?’ the Chaplain asked with a smile. ‘I have to warn you that generally, she is less than communicative when it may be something that reflects badly on her husband.’
‘This has little to do with him, I think,’ Baldwin said. ‘It is more likely to have a bearing on her.’
‘I don’t think I understand you.’
‘Did you know that the dead woman was herself spying on the Queen and on Eleanor?’
The Chaplain’s smile faded. ‘What! Who could have asked her to do that?’
‘You tell me,’ Baldwin said sourly. ‘Not only that, Mabilla was used by someone to spy upon others as well. In particular, she was used to tease the Earl of Kent and try to learn what was going on in his mind.’
‘Ah — which would be why I had heard that he and she were not happy together in each other’s company,’ the Chaplain nodded. ‘I begin to understand.’
‘So you see why I would wish to speak with the lady herself? I want to learn what she can tell me about the woman Mabilla.’
‘I can understand that, yes. But if you are sure, why not simply tell the King about the matter? He would soon be able to extract any information he needed.’
Baldwin winced. That was one suggestion he could never agree to. He had heard too many stories of the tortures to which his comrades in the Templars were subjected, to ever permit something remotely similar to be inflicted upon another man or woman. The sight of Arch rolling in his own blood and vomit had shown the futility of torture to extract a confession. ‘I would prefer not to see that.’
‘Well, if you want to do everything the hard way, I’ll see what I can do for you,’ the Chaplain said. ‘But it will take a little time. Wait in the Green Yard. I’ll speak to my Lady Eleanor, and either I’ll be there to see you, or I’ll have someone else come to speak with you.’
Piers de Wrotham watched the Despenser walk away in the direction of the stables, and smiled slyly to himself. There were times when he wondered whether he was being a fool, and many, many others when all he could think was that the world was filled with idiots, apart from himself.
Here he was, a simple fellow, who was being paid, fed and clothed by my Lord the Earl of Kent, while at the same time Sir Hugh was paying him handsomely to pass on certain snippets of information, or to persuade his master to behave in such and such a way. In the past, it was a matter of manipulating the Earl to act in such a manner as would ruin his military reputation. Now it was a matter of feeding him certain convictions about his future behaviour. If he spoke out in favour of having the Queen sent to France, Earl Edmund would be thwarting Sir Hugh, in theory — except that Piers knew as well as Sir Hugh that to have Isabella removed from the court, potentially allowing her to defect to her brother, the King of France, would leave the King depending still more upon the advice of Sir Hugh. At least, that was what Piers reckoned the Despenser wanted. It made sense.
He crossed the yard towards a large wooden hall where there was a little bar set up. An enterprising woman from King Street had brewed too much ale, and she was there now, selling quarts of a good brew. Piers took one and settled to drinking.
Life today looked good.
Except when he looked up after a short while, he saw his other master, the Earl of Kent, at the gateway to the Green Yard, and caught sight of the expression on his face.