The King’s Assassin (14 page)

‘Very well,’ said Fitzwalter soothingly. ‘Bid our guest a warm welcome.’

De Vesci seemed to realise the absurdity of welcoming me for a second time and so he said nothing, merely sat there on his stool and stared sulkily into his wine cup.

Fitzwalter sighed at his companion’s gracelessness and he leaned forward and asked how my journey from Westbury had been and whether all was well with my household. He asked after young Robert by name – which made me sit up, for I had never discussed my family with him before, and I realised what I should have grasped long before when he began playing ‘My Joy Summons Me’ – that Fitzwalter had made thorough investigations into my background and circumstances.

And he did not wish to conceal the fact.

I was not unduly perturbed that these two rebels had made enquiries about me. It was a sensible thing to do if we were to embark on such a dangerous enterprise. Indeed, I would not have believed that they were truly in earnest if they had not.

De Vesci stayed silent, fidgeting on his stool, but Fitzwalter made a few more sallies about the crops in Nottinghamshire, and we were discussing the blissfully fine weather like a pair of old gossips when de Vesci blurted out: ‘So – will you do it?’

I caught Fitzwalter’s eye and we both winced at de Vesci’s crassness.

And so, partly out of playful cruelty, I said: ‘That remains to be seen.’

‘You gave us your word at Kirkton,’ said de Vesci. ‘Do you not intend to honour it? Have you lost your nerve?’

‘Hold up, Eustace,’ said Fitzwalter, putting a hand on de Vesci’s arm, ‘let us not put the cart before the horse.’

He looked at me: ‘Since the subject has been broached, why don’t we let Sir Alan tell us what he thinks of this perilous affair and then we can all say what is on our minds. Then we can proceed in an orderly manner. What say you, Sir Alan?’

I smiled at Fitzwalter: ‘Thank you, my lord.’ I took a deep breath. ‘I have given this matter some thought and it is clearer than ever to me that King John must die. And I am prepared, for reasons of personal honour, for vengeance and for the good of the whole country, to do the deed myself.’

I tried to banish from my thoughts Marie-Anne’s concerned face and continued: ‘There are, however, to my mind two obstacles to achieving this. Firstly, since we must assume that the King is well guarded, we must consider how I might approach him with a drawn weapon in my hand and strike him down. The second obstacle to achieving this task is … well, that I do not wish to throw away my life in this or any other cause. I am prepared to take a risk, but I do not wish to be a martyr. You asked before, my lord, about my son Robert. I will not die and leave him at the mercy of a country torn by civil war. And the death of the King will, I believe, have that result.’

I paused and looked at my co-conspirators.

Lord Fitzwalter said: ‘Let me say this – I will personally guarantee your son’s safety if you die in this cause. I will ensure that he is educated and trained to the highest level and that he inherits your lands and has the strength and support to hold them. I swear that I would guard him and guide him as if he were my own son.’

‘Thank you, my lord,’ I said. ‘That is most generous.’ And I was indeed touched by the man’s words. ‘But I fully intend to survive this affair and look after Robert myself, if it is all the same to you.’

‘We could poison him,’ said de Vesci. And for a fraction of an instant I thought he meant my son. Then reason returned.

The dark man continued: ‘I know an apothecary who would make us a fine tasteless powder. You add it to wine or food and the King would die some days later. The signs of the poison working are similar to the bloody flux – the constant flow from the bowels, the feverishness, the wasting away. If you were to administer the poison, no one would know it was you who had laid him low.’

Both Fitzwalter and I were silent at this. I did not like the idea of poison – but I could not exactly say why. Perhaps it was the lingering death, the secrecy of it, the underhanded devilry of the method. I would not be able to make my speech about Duke Arthur, I could not look into John’s eyes and tell him why he was dying. And why he deserved to die. But poison, in truth, would achieve our ends admirably.

‘I can see that Sir Alan does not favour this method of killing,’ said Fitzwalter. ‘And I am with him on this matter. Poison is a woman’s weapon and not something that a man of honour would ever contemplate using.’

‘A woman’s weapon, pshaw!’ said de Vesci. He looked quite offended by his friend’s words. ‘If Sir Alan is so concerned about risking his precious neck, then poison is the obvious answer. He can slip into the kitchens, sprinkle a little of the power on some of the serving platters…’

‘And how many others would die?’ I asked. ‘The King does not eat from one platter alone. All share. He offers the choicest cuts to his favoured men. Would you see them dead, too?’ De Vesci shrugged. That made up my mind. ‘I will not use poison,’ I said. ‘I will kill him with cold steel, face to face, and I will put my trust in God to guard me afterwards.’

‘I have had a couple of thoughts that may be valuable,’ said Fitzwalter.

He got up from the stool and went over to a chest on the far side of the pavilion; he bent, lifted the lid and extracted something.

‘Give me your left arm, Sir Alan,’ said Fitzwalter. I saw that he was holding something that resembled an archer’s bracer, the sleeve of leather laced to the left forearm of a bowman to reduce the lash of the bow-cord against the soft skin in the inside of the arm. But this was no ordinary bracer. It was bigger for a start and I could see that something long, thin and black was attached to the surface of the leather cuff.

I stood up and extended my left arm, and Fitzwalter pushed back the wide, bell-shaped drooping sleeves of my tunic and slipped the object on to my forearm, pulling the laces tight to secure it in place. Now, strapped firmly to my left forearm was a narrow leather sheath containing a slim steel killing dagger: a misericorde.

It was the weapon of an assassin.

The misericorde was a long, black, cross-shaped weapon made entirely out of steel with a slim blade about ten inches in length. It was a beautiful thing to behold despite its sinister purpose. It was used in battle to give a merciful death to a badly wounded knight by punching the blade through the hollow between collarbone and neck, and down into the heart. It was a weapon designed to slide in between the joins in a man’s mail or, if used with sufficient force, to punch straight through the iron links and into the flesh beyond. It was a deadly tool designed with one purpose – to kill quickly, quietly and with minimum effort. I had once owned one and used it for many years, but mine had been made of iron with a wooden handle fitted on the tang and the metal had become old and weakened over the years. It had broken in a duel ten years ago, causing me to be slightly wounded. I had not replaced it.

Rather unnervingly, Lord Fitzwalter seemed to know all about this: ‘This weapon will never break in combat, Sir Alan; it is the finest blackened steel made by the Moors of Toledo with all their heathen magic, skill and cunning. I do not believe there is a blade of equal strength in Christendom – and there are few in the Muslim lands either. It is my gift to you – take it with my blessings, whether you decide to join us or not. Here, draw the blade and try the fit of it in your hand.’

The grip of the misericorde was made of linked cubes of black steel with rounded edges, like a row of Thomas’s dice, and finished with a large spherical steel pommel. The handle extended beyond the sheath on the inside of my wrist and the pommel seemed to nestle in the palm of my left hand; the fingers curled naturally around it. When I dropped my arm, my sleeve completely covered the bracer, blade and pommel, and when I pulled the handle with my right hand the wicked black steel slipped effortlessly out of the sheath. It was the perfect implement for the task at hand. I knew that I could approach King John, seemingly unarmed, and then pull the blade at the last moment and plunge it into his cruel heart in an instant. I could not imagine a better way to bring a blade to within killing distance of my foe.

The drawn misericorde fitted comfortably in my right hand. The handle felt warm and silky to the touch and light as a feather. It was so beautiful that I could hardly take my eyes off it – the black oiled steel, the holy cruciform shape, the elegant lines of the long blade. I tested the edge with my thumb. It was as keen as a razor.

Lord Fitzwalter had been watching my face intently. I saw that he was pleased with my reaction to his gift. He said: ‘I have also had an idea about where and when you might do this deed – that is, if you choose to – and also how you might reasonably expect to escape with your life.’

I slid the misericorde back into its snug sheath, dropped my arm back down to my side and tried to pay attention to what Fitzwalter was saying.

‘You know the King wishes to give his realm, our England, to the Pope?’

I nodded. I had an almost overwhelming urge to draw the misericorde again, just to see if it was still as beautiful as before, but I controlled myself and looked into Fitzwalter’s honest ruddy face. He was still speaking of his regicidal plans.

‘The King means to ratify his homage for England to the papal legate, one Master Pandulf, and he means to do this in three months’ time on the ides of October in London at St Paul’s Cathedral. All the barons of England have been summoned to attend the ceremony. It will be a great event, a charter sealed with a golden bull. Even those barons who do not love John will attend with their knights and servants to witness the affair. Eustace and I will be there, of course. At a great feast, the King will try to placate his enemies with fair words and promises, and perhaps to cow us with his pomp and majesty, and also to make a public demonstration of the Pope’s support for him at the same time. Are you following me, Sir Alan?’

‘St Paul’s, London, ides of October … yes, I follow you,’ I said. But, in truth, I was distracted by the gentle weight on my left forearm.

‘The charter is to be sealed and witnessed in the courtyard outside the cathedral. Imagine the scene: there will be great men and their entourages everywhere, the King will graciously pass among us, a word of praise here, a smile of acknowledgement there. He will be confident, secure of his victory. The Pope, and therefore God, is on his side. And all must see this. In the crowd of milling barons and knights, it should be relatively simple for you to come close to the royal person. Then, without warning, a commotion breaks out on the far side of the courtyard – some of Eustace’s men will cause a loud disturbance, a fight, men cursing and struggling. All eyes will be drawn to them. And you, you strike, swift as a snake … A body of my men will be right behind you, seven or eight big knights in mail bearing shields, we think that is sufficient, for the task. You approach the King – attention is drawn away by the diversion, you strike, he falls, and you immediately turn around and pass though the crowd of our mailed knights, and away. If any man sees you kill the King, and seeks to follow you, our men will block their path with their bodies, their shields, they will trip them, stumble and knock them to the ground, cause even more confusion. We think seven men, eight or nine to be sure, will be sufficient unto the task. More would seem like a threat and might draw the eyes of the King’s loyal men on to us. A waiting horse and groom will be just round the corner, there is a stables owned by a former servant of mine within fifty yards. He is a good man and he will see you saddled and on the road north as quick as thought. What do you say?’

He had my full attention by now. I could see his stratagem playing out in my mind. I would whisper to the King my message about Arthur just before the blade slid home. I could imagine John’s astonished and then terrified face as my steel dug into his flesh and found his heart. Then I would turn, push through the gang of Fitzwalter’s armed men, and they would obstruct any pursuit while I slipped away.

‘Well, my lords, I think that—’

De Vesci interrupted me: ‘Remember: the first act of any new King would be, of course, to ennoble you, Sir Alan,’ he said. ‘And, grant you great wealth. And, should you wish it, he would give you the hand of a suitable heiress, a royal ward, very young and beautiful, rich as a queen…’ He was smirking at me in a most unpleasant way. ‘I hear that you are without a wife at the present time. How would you like a wrigglesome bed-warmer, just fourteen and in the prime of her looks? How would you like to be Lord Westbury, perhaps even the Earl of Westbury?’

I did not like his tone. And clearly neither did Fitzwalter. He glared at de Vesci and said: ‘Sir Alan does not do this grave thing for gain, Eustace. He does it purely in the name of his personal honour and for the good of his country. Although, naturally, there would be advancement for all good men under the new rule.’

I had in fact been almost ready to agree to their plans, until de Vesci’s crude attempt at bribery. Instead, to irritate him, I said: ‘I will have to think on this.’

De Vesci’s face was black as a crow’s wing. ‘While you think on it, Sir Alan, remember this – if we are successful in removing the King and replacing him with a more suitable monarch, and you have not helped us, or you have hindered us, or even, God forbid, you have betrayed us, there will be dire consequences. Think on this, Sir Alan: you are either with us or you are against us!’

‘Consequences?’ I said. ‘Oh, no! Please, spare me from any consequences.’ And I began to laugh. Great gales of mirth erupted and I laughed right in his thin ugly face. This fellow with his vague bribes and his silly attempt at bullying had sailed straight past offending me and beyond into the calm seas of the ridiculous.

‘Get out, get out this instant!’ Fitzwalter had de Vesci by the shoulders and he was hustling him towards the tent flap. ‘Get out, you cloth-brained imbecile.’

‘But, Robert, this is my pavilion. This is my land, by God’s bones!’

I was almost doubled over with merriment by now. Mainly because de Vesci was resisting Fitzwalter’s force, digging his heels into the turf beneath his feet and pushing at the other man’s chest with his palms. But Fitzwalter was stronger. He knocked de Vesci’s arms aside and wrapped his own around his friend’s chest.