Dispensation of Death: (Knights Templar 23) by Michael Jecks Page A

peered up at him with a bemused expression on his face, the sword on his lap, the hone in his hand. ‘Well?’
    ‘Chaplain, I heard a sword being sharpened, and thought it could be someone here to hurt the Queen.’
    ‘Do I look like a God-damned assassin?’ Peter said testily. ‘Get out – and close the door after you!’
    Richard obeyed him, but for a long moment he stood outside, his hand still on the latch. After some while the sweeping rasp of the hone began once more, and he left the door to return to his post.
    He would keep an eye on that Chaplain, he told himself.
    Despenser eyed the Queen dispassionately. It was strange. The woman was so beautiful. Elegant, fair-skinned, and with a body that any man would adore to pull to him, and yet she was so cold. The frigid bitch had frozen his advances, all right. Christ, he had wanted her so much, long ago … once he’d even contemplated taking her by force. He’d even suggested … but that was all in the past now. Since then, her enmity had deepened and strengthened. It was a pity, he thought. Destroying Isabella would be like smashing a perfect ivory carving. So wasteful. But necessary.
    ‘Speak then, my lady.’
    ‘In private, if you please.’
    He lifted his eyes to the ceiling, then shrugged at Eleanor. She gave him a close-lipped nod of agreement and went out, quietly closing the door behind her. ‘Yes?’ he said abruptly.
    The Queen walked to a chair and stood behind it as though needing the support. She still had problems with her arms, he knew. They had never properly healed after the fire at Poissy, when she had been badly burned. Sweet God, that was twelve years ago now, he realised with a shock. It was fearful how time hurtled by.
    ‘Milord, I have heard dreadful rumours. Some say that there are men who wish to see me dead.’
    ‘Your Royal Highness, please …’
    ‘I believe it. That is why I bend my mind to see who could wish this thing. And I wonder, as I look about me, who could be willing.’
    ‘My Lady, I fear there are many who would be glad to see you … It is not a palatable thought, I know, but whileyour brother rattles his sword and lances across the Channel, many see any French men or women as possible traitors.’
    ‘Their Queen? People dare to suggest I could be faithless to my husband?’
    ‘Some people are terribly gullible.’
    ‘And you? Do you think this?’
    ‘No, of course not,’ he lied smoothly.
    It was easy, this verbal fencing. Sir Hugh le Despenser had been brought up in the court of the old King, when Edward I’s powers were on the wane. To survive in his household in that period, a man had to have acute political instincts. And, under the new King, Despenser had risen to become the richest and most powerful man in the kingdom. Perhaps second to the King – but since he controlled the other man’s heart and mind, that was little qualification. A woman was no trouble after such a studenthood.
    ‘Of course,’ she continued, ‘the idea that an assassin could enter the King’s palace with the intention of murdering me is ridiculous, when there are so many guards, eh? Who is responsible for the guards posted about my chambers?’
    ‘Well, I suppose I have nominal responsibility,’ he admitted. ‘One of my men posts them.’
    ‘Ah yes. The one called Ellis,
non
? He is a very loyal man, I consider.’
    ‘I have none better.’
    ‘Good, because naturally, if any man were to harm me, the King of France, my brother, would never rest until the man who had ordered my death were brought to justice.He would use all his powers and wealth to hunt the man down.’
    ‘I would expect nothing else, my Lady,’ Sir Hugh said. And it was natural enough. Isabella’s death would be a grievous insult to the French Royal Family. That was the marvellous second incentive for having her removed. Not only was she a magnet for all the disaffected barons in the country, her death would make it difficult, if not impossible, for