The Prophecy of Death: (Knights Templar 25)

by Michael Jecks

  Simon turned to face him. His face showed his bitterness and concern. Margaret would almost have called it fear. ‘You want me to just accept it, then? Should I give up my home here? Make a gift of it to Despenser? What is it to him, after all? The man has so much, so many houses, castles, entire provinces! What does he want with this little place?’

  Margaret shook her head. ‘He doesn’t care about the size. From all you’ve said, he’s like a hound who feeds until he cannot eat more. He won’t stop eating because he’s full, because he doesn’t know when he can gorge again; in the same way Despenser won’t stop stealing all he can because he doesn’t know how to. While he is in a position to, he will seek to continue taking all he can.’

  She stopped and looked about her. This little house had been her delight. She still loved it. That screen she had had built a while ago, a neat, wooden construction that kept their private chambers beyond warmer and less draughty. She had had paintings on the wall, one of St Rumon, the patron saint of the Abbey at Tavistock, and one of St Boniface of Crediton, to remind them always where they had come from, where they had been so happy. This had been her home for almost ten years. It was a long time. Hard to give it all up. But better that than find a man like Wattere appearing again.

  ‘No man just keeps stealing for the fun of making mischief, though,’ her husband was saying.

  ‘But, Husband, he isn’t. He is doing this to upset you, as he has succeeded, and to upset Baldwin through you,’ she said. ‘Why else would he do this?’

  Simon stopped and stared at her. It was Baldwin who responded, though.

  ‘I think you are quite right, Margaret.’

  ‘What can we do, then, Baldwin?’ Simon said. ‘If you two are correct, and the evil bastard son of a whore is trying to anger you and me, what should I do?’

  ‘Well, there is little point arguing with his henchman,’ Baldwin said. ‘It is he alone who can prevent any further problems.’

  ‘But would he? He hates us both, so he’ll hardly want to help us, will he? He could deny all knowledge of Wattere’s actions, and support Wattere in the background, and we’d not be able to do anything. We could take Wattere to court, and with his money, Despenser would be able to bribe any justice, any jury … I would be ruined in no time.’

  ‘There is no point, Simon,’ Margaret said sadly. She looked about her again. The picture of St Boniface had a lovely smile to the face, and she smiled with a weariness she hadn’t known since her boy had been weaned. ‘He has won the battle. There is no point in struggling against him. We should rent this house, and move back to Sandford. That way, we gain more time. And it won’t matter, because you aren’t Bailiff any more.’

  ‘You want to give up all we have done here?’

  She looked at Baldwin. ‘How many men and women has he killed?’

  ‘I don’t know. Many, though.’

  ‘Simon, I cannot lose you, and I cannot risk losing Peterkin. The house is just a house. We have another. Perhaps if we move back to Sandford, he will leave us alone.’

  ‘Perhaps he will, at that,’ Baldwin said, to her surprise. And then he continued, ‘But I should feel happier if I had brought the whole matter to the attention of the King himself. And I think that he owes you and I a favour, Simon.’

  Beaulieu

  Thomas of Bakewell never felt entirely right here among all the King’s men. At heart, he was still the Queen’s, heart and soul. He would never forget her lovely face, only a little older than his own, and the frown of compassion on it as she smoothed the hair from his brow that dreadful day of the King’s coronation.

  Not the only thing that went wrong, either. There were other problems. The barons all deprecated the fabulous riches worn by the King’s past lover, Piers Gaveston, the smarmy son of an impoverished Breton knight, whom the old King had exiled. Gaveston was cocky and rude, and he seemed to set out to upset all the most powerful in the land, giving them insulting nicknames and then using them in front of others. And it wasn’t helped that he was enormously competent in the lists. He beat all the older barons in a tournament.

  But on that coronation day, he inspired more than jealousy or contempt. He may have set the scene for the difficulties between the King and Queen – and France.

  The Queen had arrived with a fabulous dowry, not only lands, but many jewels as well. And on the evening of the coronation, she saw that Gaveston was wearing them. This was a mortal insult to her, and to those members of her family who were also there. It was a miracle, so she said later, that no one had demanded to know how the primping fool had acquired them all. But then, no one needed to. They all saw perfectly clearly how the King fawned on his ‘brother’. Sickening.

  Yes, the Queen had the patience and kindness of a saint to have coped with her husband for so long. His infidelities, his deceits, his conceits, and his string of friends and advisers, on whom he lavished ever more inappropriate gifts – he could not help himself.

  Thomas shook his head, hefted his little pack and blankets, and continued on his way out to his horse. He was to ride off with the King and his men, and had best hurry, for the King and his companions had almost finished their meal.

  He walked from his room, down a narrow staircase, and along the passage at the side of the hall, until he came to the open air again – and was suddenly shouldered back inside.

  ‘What in God’s name—’ he spluttered, reaching for his sword.

  Immediately a knife was at his throat, just behind his chin, pointing upwards, making him lift his head and stop struggling. There was a man at his back, who said slyly, ‘Didn’t you hear me, Herald?’

  A Welshman, Thomas noted, but that didn’t mean anything for a moment. Then he heard footsteps, and he rolled his eyes to see who it might be. As he did so, he saw Sir Hugh le Despenser appear. He was ready for the journey, cloaked and gloved, but as he approached Thomas, he tugged at the fingers of his left glove, gently easing it off. At last in front of Thomas, he gripped it in his right hand and slapped Thomas twice on each side of his face. The heavy leather made his cheeks smart, and there was a loose rivet, which slashed his cheek open near his jaw.

  ‘That, Herald, is merely a beginning,’ Despenser said. ‘I want to know where the oil is. Where did you hide it?’

  ‘What oil? I don’t know what you mean, Sir Hugh.’

  ‘I’m glad to see you know who I am. Now listen to me carefully, Herald.’ Despenser approached closely and leaned near to Thomas, so that Thomas could see little other than his eyes, peering into his own with a look of mild enquiry. ‘You were coming back that way, weren’t you? You met with Richard de Yatton, and you killed him. Why do that? Just because he saw you there?’

  Thomas frowned up at him. ‘I don’t know what you are talking about, Sir Hugh. I went up to—’

  ‘Canterbury. I know. And while there, you stole oil from the monks and killed one. I don’t know why, but I am not bothered about him. What is one monk, more or less? Nothing. But the oil you took, that is valuable, my friend. And murdering a king’s herald, that is still more terrible. The King has a habit of not forgiving those who shame him, and he does, I fear, consider men who steal from him to be profoundly embarrassing to him personally. He will not be pleased with you, I fear.’

  ‘Then take me to him now. I have done nothing.’

  ‘I don’t know if I believe you.’

  Thomas shook his head. ‘I don’t know what you are talking about.’

  ‘Open his bags,’ Despenser commanded.

  Thomas watched silently, keeping absolutely still as the knife under his jaw pressed upwards. He was sure he could feel the dribble of blood at the tip as the second man with Despenser took his dagger to the roll of blankets. He cut through the hempen string binding them, and unrolled them. There was nothing inside, but the man was nothing if not thorough. He ran his blade along the blankets until there was nothing but a shredded mess. Nothing useable.

  The pack was a simple canvas one with a single
strap. He took his knife to this too, opening the material and laying the lining bare. All the items inside were taken out and studied, before being crushed or ruined. There was nothing inside of real value, for Thomas had never owned anything of genuine worth, but the sight of the man merely ravaging his property for no reason was enough to set Thomas’s blood racing.

  ‘Not here, then, eh? We’ll find it,’ Despenser said coolly. ‘And when we do, I’ll take you to the King myself for judgement. You’d best be ready for that.’

  ‘I do not have it.’

  ‘What made you kill Richard? Eh? What had he done to you to deserve such ill-use? Or the monk, come to that? And after the poor devil had brought you the oil in the first place. It doesn’t seem very kindly to accept his aid, and then cut his throat.’

  Suddenly there was a shout, and Thomas felt the man behind him slowly release his hold, the knife blade running slowly to the line of his jaw-bone, then backwards to beneath his ear, where it remained a short while. Then it was gone. Meanwhile Despenser and his other man had retreated, and now were out of sight.

  He was alone again. Gradually he sank to his knees, then fell forwards to all fours, choking and retching with shame and rage, as another man hurried to him.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Jack demanded.

  Thomas was so relieved, he could not speak, but instead closed his eyes and allowed his head to droop.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Lydford

  ‘Baldwin! Baldwin, stop, please,’ Margaret called, running from the house to him. He was already astride his horse, his wife nearby; Edgar tightening the saddle a short distance away, while Wolf capered with one of Simon’s hounds on the grass beside the road.

  ‘Baldwin, don’t, please. There’s no need for you to do anything which might lead to more danger for you!’

  ‘Margaret, do not worry about me, my dear. I am perfectly content that I am doing the correct thing.’

  ‘You cannot go alone,’ Margaret said.

  Jeanne had heard their words, but was unsure of their import. ‘What is this? Baldwin, tell me what is happening? Why do you want to leave so soon?’

  ‘He has decided that he will go to the Despenser and fight him!’ Margaret said.

  ‘No, I have not,’ Baldwin said reasonably. ‘I have decided I need to return to speak with him, though, to try to ensure that there is no further risk to Simon and Margaret from his men. There is no point in his attacking people who have nothing whatever to do with his affairs. If that itself will not work, I shall petition the King himself.’

  ‘When you say there’s no point in his attacking someone, you mean yourself?’

  ‘Jeanne, I have not picked a fight with the man. Not intentionally, at least. Yet he now appears to blame me for something which he is solely responsible for. If he proposed to hound us to death, I may as well ask why. And if I can deflect a little of his ire from Simon and Margaret, that is worth attempting.’

  ‘You are going again, then? How long will you be gone this time?’

  ‘In honesty, I do not know. All I can say is, I shall be home again as soon as I may be,’ Baldwin said.

  ‘Husband, I ask you not to go,’ Jeanne said. Her face was pale, and she leaned towards him beseechingly. ‘Please, Baldwin, don’t do this. I have already missed you so much this year, and I do not want to have to live as your widow yet.’

  ‘I will not be gone for too long. Hopefully only a week or so,’ Baldwin said. ‘Now, Margaret, do not fret, and don’t think of moving from here yet. Leave it to me, and I shall let you know the best thing to do.’

  ‘But I have already decided to leave Lydford and return to Sandford. It is more sensible. It is safer there, and nearer to you.’

  ‘That itself does make sense,’ Baldwin muttered.

  Another horse clattered over the cobbles, and Simon crossed to Baldwin’s side. ‘I can’t leave you to go alone, Baldwin.’

  ‘In heaven’s name,’ Baldwin cried. ‘Is there anybody else? Do you want to bring your chickens, too?’

  ‘You are both determined?’ Jeanne said, looking from one to the other. ‘Is there nothing that your wives can say to you both that would cause you to reconsider? Not our sorrow, nor our fears? How safe will Margaret be here if you go away, Simon? How safe will I be, if Baldwin’s gone from his home?’

  That was also in Baldwin’s mind. He sat on his horse a moment, considering. ‘Simon, could you have Hugh travel? Good. Then let him accompany Margaret and Jeanne along with Edgar. Your Peterkin will go with them, as well as any valuables, and Edgar will deposit them at my house. They will be safe enough at Furnshill, won’t they, Edgar?’

  ‘Aye. Especially if I can recruit a couple of men from the vill.’

  ‘Then it is settled. Margaret, you are to bring your boy to Furnshill, where you will have a peaceful time. Meanwhile, I should install someone else here in your house, someone who can defend it,’ Baldwin continued.

  Simon grinned. ‘There is another bailiff from the moors who’d like the chance to live here: Ham Upcott. I’ll ask him to come. He’d enjoy beating up a king’s officer or a man from Despenser.’

  ‘Make sure he realises the sort of men we’re talking of, Simon,’ Baldwin warned. ‘These are harder men than many about here.’

  ‘Christ’s cods – do you really think so?’ Simon asked. ‘You’ve forgotten what sort of men they are who mine for tin on the moors. I’d have more sympathy for the next poor fool Despenser sends down here, than for a moorland bailiff.’

  Vigil of Ascension Day30

  Guildford

  Jack’s worst fears were not realised.

  To his amazement, the men who were with the King were so efficient and organised that every day, the majority of the men set off before dawn, and the next lodgings were always ready before they stopped travelling. This meant that they were outpacing Jack and the Bishop’s journey from Canterbury to Beaulieu, which was only helped by the fact that the roads were much better here. The King was often about this part of his realm, Jack assumed, and the Keepers of the King’s Peace maintained the roads and verges with more care than elsewhere in the country.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  Thomas was at his side, riding along with a fixed expression of distaste on his face every time he caught sight of the Despenser or his men. ‘I am fine.’

  It was fortunate that Jack had possessed two blankets, for having seen what Despenser had done to Thomas’s own, he was able to share one of his. It did mean he grew a little chilly on some of the evenings, but for the most part he was fine, and it was good to feel that he had performed an act of kindness. A strange feeling, but curiously warming to the soul. ‘You should try not to keep staring at him.’

  ‘Despenser? Why not? He ravaged my belongings, accused me of murder, suggested I stole the King’s possessions, and you think I should forgive and forget?’

  ‘Neither. But I do recommend that you leave him alone. He’s too powerful, too rich, for you to think of hurting him.’

  ‘Perhaps so – but I can dream!’

  ‘Save your dreams for the night. You don’t want to fall from your horse.’

  ‘No. And thank you.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘For helping to keep me sane. Without you helping me, I daresay I would have tried to jump on him and kill him. And that wouldn’t help me a great deal.’

  ‘It would be one way of ending all your wordly problems,’ Jack said with ponderous humour.

  ‘I’d rather find another means of resolving them.’

  ‘Good. Now, since he says you stole a possession from the King – can you tell me what this was supposed to be?’

  ‘There is a phial of oil at Canterbury – or was. It was given by St Thomas, they say, to help our King.’

  ‘So it was that? I heard about the robbery – it was the week before I got to Canterbury with the Bishop. Who would want to steal it?’ Jack asked.

  ‘Only someone who intends the King
harm. Or someone who wants to do someone else good, I suppose.’

  ‘If this is holy oil from St Thomas, then it must be marvellous indeed, and very potent.’

  ‘I believe so. But since it’s been stolen, we may never know.’

  ‘Why does he say you stole it?’

  ‘I happened to be there at the priory a few days before the theft.’

  ‘So were many, I daresay. That’s no reason to accuse you.’

  ‘Yes. I don’t know why he thinks I may have taken it. I can’t see any reason to.’

  ‘You don’t hate the King, then?’ Jack said lightly, but regretted his words as soon as he spoke them. ‘Ignore my words. I sound like a cheap spy trying to have you confess to treason just so I can have you arrested.’

  ‘It is all right. No, I don’t hate the King. And I love our Queen. Those two I would do much for.’

  ‘But not Despenser, eh?’

  ‘Him, I would not piss on him if he was on fire,’ Thomas said, and in his mind’s eye he saw that cruel, arrogant face once more, spitting at the ground after he had cuffed Thomas for reaching to his dying brother during the coronation.

  If he could, he would happily kill any number of Despenser’s men – and Despenser himself, if he had the chance.

  It was late that night, when Thomas had rolled himself up in his blanket and cloak to keep the night chill off, sharing some straw for his bedding with a number of other men and some rats, that he suddenly woke.

  He was not usually good at waking up. To him early mornings were a form of unpleasant torture that must perforce be endured, rather than enjoyed. But this time he woke with a start as though suddenly hearing the last trumpet.

  It was no trumpet, though. Perhaps a rat had scrabbled past, too close to ignore, too fast to see? Or was it a random thought, something which had sparked like flint and steel in his brain and made him wake?

  He was aware of the talk he had had with Jack earlier in the day, and suddenly he felt a wariness. Jack had said that he sounded like a spy, and in truth, yes, he did. It was precisely the kind of conversation which a spy would have had with a man, letting his words ramble on until enough had been said and the spy could denounce him.