Dispensation of Death: (Knights Templar 23) (4 page)

The guard at the door snapped to attention as soon as he recognised the coat-of-arms. Only a fool would not show respect to this man.

Edmund of Woodstock, Earl of Kent, half-brother to the King, barely noticed him. The discipline of a prickle-witted guard was nothing to him.

Inside the large chamber he saw the man he was expecting. ‘Well?’

‘My Lord.’

The man rose and now bowed low for him. Edmund set his teeth, but he could not in all conscience insult him for displaying the correct deference. ‘Yes, yes. Please, sit. Now, what can you tell me?’

Piers de Wrotham had been loyal to him even before
he had joined the Earl at the attack on Leeds Castle. Short, with a slim build and thick black hair that was greasy and stayed plastered to his brow when he swept off his cap, he was narrow-featured, and had the look of a clerk rather than an astute spy and information-gatherer. However, the Earl knew that he could collect news more efficiently than ten of the King’s men. ‘My Lord, there are many dangerous stories. However, I fear that nothing is good for you.’

Kent growled. He had expected such news, but it didn’t make it any the more palatable. ‘Since those bastards pulled the rug from beneath my feet, they’ve done all in their power to destroy me – I’ll not accept it, damn their souls!’

Piers watched him with unblinking eyes. He had a gift of silence and stillness that was oddly owl-like. When his master had kicked a chair and slumped into it, he began again. ‘You were foully betrayed in Guyenne, and many believe that to be the case now. Yet still Despenser pours out more lies to justify his own position.’

‘He never supported us. Didn’t give a ha’penny for all the King’s lands over the water. All he wants is money. He’ll take it, too, you mark my words. He’ll bloody take it. There’s no picking so rich that he won’t get his hands on it, the bastard!’

‘My Lord, you are still young. He is a middle-aged man, while you are in your prime at five-and-twenty. You are an Earl, while he remains a knight. You have years on your side.’

Edmund gave a short laugh. ‘You think he will remain a knight? He has already been granted the Temple, and as
soon as Despenser the elder dies, my brother the King will endow him with the Earldom of Winchester, whereas I’ll be left to moulder. I’m only the King’s half-brother – and the youngest of us. Sweet Christ, I’m nothing to them. No, the crafty shite will take all in the end.’

‘Not if people can be made to appreciate how badly he let the nation down in the matter of Guyenne,’ Piers murmured. ‘My Lord, you have been accused of surrender and accepting a less than adequate truce. We know that was because you received no aid from Despenser. But now there is a need for a lasting peace – and without the King losing all his territories in France. Perhaps if you could be shown to have been instrumental in preparing a magnificent arrangement with the French that protected the good King’s lands, it would enhance your reputation at the same time as damaging the Despenser’s?’

‘If you could so arrange matters, I would be even more in your debt,’ Kent said. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. ‘
Could
you do this?’

Piers was still again. In his eyes Kent thought he saw a little flare of contempt. Surely not. Maybe it was hurt that he could doubt his own spy-master’s ability. ‘I don’t question your skills, man,’ he said briskly. ‘Only the numbers of enemies about us. Look at the allies of Despenser …’

‘There are as many who now profess loyalty to him as used to be loyal to others. A rich man can attract allies, but once let there be a suggestion that he may lose all his money, that his power and influence are on the wane, and see how his friends will flee.’

‘Like who?’ Kent wondered aloud, for to him it was all
but inconceivable that a man of integrity could desert his master or friend.

‘My Lord, you need only look at some of the men of the Church. If you were to be instrumental in winning a victory for peace with France, you would have many of them on your side. Adam Orleton, Bishop of Hereford, is already Sir Hugh’s enemy. Then there is Henry Burghersh, Bishop of Lincoln, John of Drokensford, Bishop of Bath and Wells – all these could soon become Despenser’s enemies. Even Roger Martival of Salisbury could grow disillusioned with him and turn to your side.’

‘None of them have ever been close to him.’

‘No, but many have not declared for him. If Lincoln, Bath and Wells and Salisbury were to grow even more opposed to the Despensers, their weight would tilt the balance and others would grow bolder. So many are already disillusioned with the rule of these tyrants, it may take little to persuade them to turn against Despenser. But this time, no exile. The two Despensers must be removed utterly.’

‘That would be to the good of the country. But how can we do this?’

‘By the judicious use of near-truths, untruths and wholesome lies. Men are always prepared to believe lies, so long as they reinforce their own prejudices,’ Piers said with a smile. ‘All you need do is lie in the way they wish to hear.’

Alicia hurried along the corridor, her skirts held up to keep them away from the mess that had accumulated
here. She was on her way from the Queen’s rooms to the chapel.

The
Queen’s
Chapel. How ironic. The one woman who was not permitted to wander freely, who couldn’t write a letter without it being checked, who had seen her children stolen from her, who was incarcerated here without even the solace of her own household – it was named for her. While the woman who had all the real power here, who held in her dainty little fingers the keys to the Queen’s chambers … she was merely termed a ‘lady-in-waiting’.

It was hateful to Alicia, this place. There was nothing here for a young woman like her. Sweet Mother Mary, how could any woman survive amongst such poison? My Lady Eleanor, wife to Sir Hugh le Despenser, was amiable enough, but she had married
him
, and any woman married to such an evil soul was bound to become infected.

Not that their charge was any better. The Queen was a devious and vengeful woman. Alicia was convinced that Isabella would be cruelty personified if she should ever come to power. Which was part of the reason why she was happy to take messages from the Queen occasionally. Perhaps in years to come, her kindness would be remembered.

Alicia allowed a sneer to mar her pretty features. No. She’d be stuck here with the Queen for many long years until they were both old and raddled hags. There would be no peace for them here. Not ever.

At the door to the chapel was a guard. She recognised him at once, of course. Richard Blaket was a good man. He’d been respectful to her as well as to the Queen when
she’d been here before. Perhaps if he had been of even moderately good birth, she would have considered him as a mate.

He had the looks. Fairly tall, but not too tall. Bright, dark eyes, almost black, set in a long and humorous face that always seemed to light up when he saw Alicia. It was the sort of look that a girl desperate for a little male attention could hardly miss.

It was the same today. As soon as he saw her, his face softened and his stance altered imperceptibly. ‘Maid Alicia.’

‘Lady
Alicia to you,’ she responded tartly.

‘Oho, yes. My Lady.’

And although she should have been angry at his taunting tone, it lightened her mood a little as she brushed past him and marched into the chapel.

Here, at the edge of Lydford, the town was set atop a little ridge that ran roughly east-west from Dartmoor. Behind the stable was a track, invisible from the house, which led down to a hillside paddock under a line of trees. Simon took this track now, hurrying down until he reached the paddock, where he paused and watched his horses.

For all his amusement in the presence of his wife, he knew that this election had put his job at risk.

For many years he had been a contented Bailiff on the moors, working to maintain the peace between tinminers and landowners, upholding the law among two irascible and sometimes irrational groupings. Yet for all the headaches and strife, that had been easier than his last
position. In order to reward him for his devotion and loyalty, the good Abbot Robert had given him a post in Dartmouth, as the Abbot’s own representative as Keeper of the Port.

It should have been a marvellous opportunity. Anyone in Simon’s position would have managed to enrich themselves quickly, because all mariners were prepared to pay a small subsidy to him to ensure that their cargoes were dealt with expeditiously. And yet Simon could not grow keen on the job. He had been forced to leave his wife and children behind, which was a sore trial, and he found himself growing depressed with the daily grind of checking figures in long lists. He had no
interest
in lists.

And all the while he knew that his patron, the kindly Abbot Robert, was growing weaker. He was wasting away, and Simon was reluctant to add to his troubles by complaining about the job. No, he hoped that soon the Abbot would recover, and then Simon could ask for his old job back. Except Abbot Robert had not improved. One morning Simon had been called to his office to be told that the Abbot was dead, and that his own job was to be passed over to another.

Since then, apart from a short journey to Exeter, he had managed to remain here in Lydford, and he had adapted to the slower, calmer pace of life again. He had learned to accept that his daughter was gone for ever. Where once he had been proud of his little Edith, now it was a source of pride and pain that his occasionally gauche and gawky daughter was grown into a seventeen-year-old woman with all the fire and beauty of his wife. She was a child no longer.

His son had filled the gap. A more boisterous and careless boy could hardly be imagined. When Simon had left to take up the posting in Dartmouth, the child had been some twelve or eighteen months. Now the little monster was almost three, but he had a perpetual smile fixed to his face, and no matter what he got up to, people always looked on him with affection. Even when he got into the neighbour’s shed and opened the tap on her cider barrel, leaving it wide as he went out and emptying an entire nine gallons over their floor, the mistress was cold only towards Simon. For Perkin she reserved a special smile and a piece of sweetened bread.

The last months had been very happy. The Puttocks had enjoyed a pleasant Christmas and Simon had been hoping to be left alone with his wife and family, preparing their land for the scattering of crops. It was unreasonable for the Abbey to demand his aid again. Especially since it would be one monk bickering with another.

‘Mistress asks you to come up to the house.’

Simon started. He had been so deep in his gloomy ruminations that he hadn’t heard his servant Hugh arrive. ‘She said so?’

‘That’s what I said, isn’t it?’

Hugh had recently been bereaved, and since then his nature, never better than truculent, had grown more aggressive. Simon understood him well, though, and merely nodded, sighing as he followed Hugh up the path back towards the house.

So which was it? The Abbot who’d been elected, calling on Simon to offer some form of support? Or the one whom Simon despised and felt sure would ruin the
Abbey, John de Courtenay, whose plans would inevitably involve Simon befriending the new Abbot again and then betraying him.

Simon wanted nothing to do with either.

Sir Hugh le Despenser bit at his inner lip as the King stood and stamped his foot. The man’s tantrums were as extreme and irrational as any child’s. The difference was, that he was the anointed King of the Realm, and anyone who dared to make fun of him could have his head removed. Even Sir Hugh was cautious when Edward was having one of his fits of petulant rage.

‘The bastards
demand
, you say?’ Edward roared. ‘The bastards
demand
that I submit? I suppose they won’t be happy until I’ve passed them the keys to this island and the keys to my treasury as well!’

Today his anger was not abnormal; indeed, since the shameful truce imposed on him by the French, it had grown ever more evident. Despenser remained seated. ‘Sire, since the King of France wishes only to reacquire all the lands of Guyenne at as little cost to his pocket as possible, it is scarcely to be wondered at.’

‘Do
not
think to lecture me!’ Edward bawled. Tall, fair, with the flowing hair of an angel and a manly beard, he was the epitome of a noble English knight. No one was better-looking than King Edward II, and he spent a lot of money ensuring that this remained the case, but his temper was that of a tyrant.

Sir Hugh le Despenser shrugged. ‘What do you say, Stratford?’

‘As you know, these proposals were thrashed out with the aid of the Pope’s envoys, my Lord. If I have failed you, I apologise, but it was the best I felt I could achieve.’

‘Summarise them again for me,’ the King snapped, sulkily turning his back to them.

‘Guyenne is entirely in the French King’s hands, my Lord. He says that the province could be returned to you if you do homage to him, and also grant him the Agenais and Ponthieu.’

‘So he would snatch all my territories, would he? I suppose he wants Thorney Island too, or is he prepared to leave that for me?’

Stratford rolled his eyes. He had read out the proposals and summarised them three times already. Still, one didn’t argue with the King. Taking a deep breath, he began again. ‘He has made three proposals. In effect all are connected, and you will have to agree to each being satisfactorily completed before the next takes place. First, he demands that you make over the Agenais and Ponthieu; second, he would return Guyenne – to be held from him, and for that you would have to do him homage; third, do so and he will consider giving you other lands, and will remove his direct control of Guyenne.’

The King threw out his arms theatrically. ‘Is this fair? Is it reasonable? He sends an army into my lands –
mine
– and then imposes rules on how I might win them back!’