The Assassin King

There was nowhere to park directly outside the coroner’s office, so Oliver dropped Anna off then went looking for a spot. She gave her name at reception. A tall stooped black man in a loose white coat and half-moon glasses came out to meet her. His hands were rough and badly chapped, though a little greasy with cleansing gel. He introduced himself as Simon Parker and led her to a pair of faux-leather crimson armchairs in the corner so that they could talk in private.

An inquest into her uncle’s death had been opened, he told her, as was compulsory in such cases. Unfortunately, there was a backlog at the moment, as there always seemed to be these days, and it would be many weeks before it was heard. He leaned forward as he spoke, resting his elbows on his knees so that he could keep his voice discreetly low. She kept catching whiffs of disinfectant, and something uglier underneath. In the meantime, he went on, he’d completed her uncle’s postmortem and submitted his report, though it would need clearance by the investigating officer before his body could be released for burial or cremation. He wasn’t able to issue a full death certificate yet either, though he’d already submitted an interim one to the registrar. He’d give her a copy before she left, which she’d need to close his bank accounts and start probate.

He talked slowly and kept glancing up at the wall clock over her left shoulder, clearly stalling while her uncle was made ready. It gave Oliver enough time to arrive. He stayed near the door, offering her the choice. She beckoned him over and introduced him to Parker, who checked the clock a final time then invited them to follow. They made their way down a flight of stairs to a basement that smelled pungently of bleach, then along a passage into a brightly lit, white-tiled room with a brushed steel table at its heart, upon which Uncle Dun was lying with a white sheet up to his throat and a black rubber skullcap over his crown. His face was badly lopsided, even so, as if he’d suffered a stroke. Yet otherwise he was much as Anna remembered, if paler and less well shaven.

Her eyes moistened as she gazed down at him. She remembered his kindness. The inescapable physical truth of his death felt crushing upon her shoulders, yet at the same time she had the most perverse urge to laugh, as though life itself were all some incomprehensible practical joke. Oliver put a comforting hand upon her back. It released something stuck inside her, and the tears finally arrived. She buried her face against his chest until she’d managed to compose herself again. Now the anger came, pulsing hot waves of it that burned away any last reservations about her visit to Serious and Organised Crime. She wanted people caught. She wanted them punished.

Silence in the car as they drove north through Lincoln. Oliver, to his great credit, left her alone with her thoughts. The twin spires of the cathedral came briefly into view. She even caught a glimpse of the town’s storied castle, the one that had played such an outsize role in the events around King John’s death. For while the surrounding town had fallen to the rebels, the castle itself had stayed steadfastly loyal, thanks to the valiant leadership of the remarkable Lady Nicola de la Haye. Not only had she seen off the two sieges of 1216, she’d held on well into the next year too, until William Marshal – now serving as regent to John’s young son Henry III – had managed to muster…

Anna frowned and shifted a little in her seat, then looked back over her shoulder. But the castle was long gone. She couldn’t even see the cathedral spires any more.

‘Nothing,’ she said. But she couldn’t shake the thought. ‘You know how Royston said Uncle Dun suddenly got up to leave, as if he’d had some kind of idea about how Young King Henry died?’

Anna hesitated again. It felt doubly disloyal, to her uncle and William Marshal both. Yet she could hardly stop now. ‘Remember how Old King Henry had his son crowned when he was still just a teenager? Well, he was young enough that his father thought he needed a mentor, but he wanted one who was close enough to him in age that he could be his friend too. William Marshal got the nod. They became virtually inseparable for years, until a rumour started circulating about Marshal and the Young King’s wife.’

‘He was boinking the queen?’ laughed Oliver. ‘Good lad.’

‘He may have been boinking the queen. No one knows for sure. He certainly denied it furiously. But the Young King kicked him out anyway. This was before he launched his second uprising, which went badly, as you know. So badly that he sent his chamberlain off to find Marshal and beg him to come back, because Marshal was far and away his best soldier. And Marshal agreed, but only after going to see the Old King first, to ask his permission.’

Oliver threw her a look. ‘He asked permission to go to war against him?’

‘I know it sounds bizarre, but it was a matter of honour, which Marshal took seriously. The Old King had originally appointed him, after all, so he owed him a duty. And maybe even more than that. We know for a fact that the Old King had at least one spy in his son’s camp, because he was caught sending him a message. What if Marshal was another? What if that’s why the Old King agreed to his return? Not to support his son’s uprising, but to end it? Because the Young King fell sick and died almost immediately after Marshal’s return.’

‘You’re saying he poisoned him? On the Old King’s orders?’

‘No. I’m saying I’ll bet it’s what Uncle Dun thought. He was always far more cynical about Marshal than me. It’s certainly true that his shows of chivalry and loyalty tended to coincide with his self-interest. Then there’s what happened next, of course.’

‘Of course,’ said Oliver. ‘Because my PhD is on the Plantagenets too.’

‘Sorry,’ said Anna. ‘Marshal left almost immediately on crusade. Apparently the Young King begged him to do so on his deathbed, to fulfil a vow that he himself wasn’t going to be able to honour. Maybe so. But crusade was also how men like Marshal absolved themselves of terrible sins. And, when he came back home again, the Old King not only forgave him for his part in his son’s uprising, he awarded him estates and titles too.’