The Prophecy of Death: (Knights Templar 25)

by Michael Jecks

  ‘Well?’ Simon asked when he had eaten his fill.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The gatekeeper. What will you do now?’

  ‘I seriously do not think that there is anything I can do to help the prior. I have a realistic explanation of how the man got into the priory. He had a corrupt monk, I think, who was prepared to sell the priory’s valuables for money. The monk was killed, and his murderer made his escape over a section of easily scaleable wall, before making his way to a postern in the city wall, from where he escaped. There is no mystery. Which means that the prior and coroner are correct in their assumptions. There is nothing for me to do or say.’

  ‘What will you do?’

  ‘Tell the prior. There’s nothing for me here. It’s for the coroner and local officers to seek out the man.’

  Once he had spoken to the prior, telling him what he had told Simon, Baldwin rejoined Simon near the stables. The friends stood watching while their mounts were prepared by the prior’s stablemen.

  ‘Did you learn anything to advantage last night?’ the Bishop asked, although not with any real apparent interest.

  ‘The prior has his own concerns,’ Baldwin said evasively. He did not wish to blurt out his conclusions of the previous evening. A man of authority like this bishop was not to be trusted as a confidant.

  ‘The good prior is a very harassed man,’ the Bishop said, cocking his head as the Queen’s hounds began to bay.

  It was a sound which disconcerted his own, and apart from the calm dog which Baldwin coveted, his animals began to bark, one pair even beginning to fight. As Baldwin watched, the dog seemed to hunch his shoulders and try to walk from the fighting pair.

  ‘Bishop, that beast of yours over there. He is a wonderfully handsome fellow. Where did you find him?’

  For the first time Baldwin saw the Bishop animated. He curled his lips with disdain. ‘That thing? It is useless. A man from the wild mountains gave him to me. I think he was just glad to be rid of a useless mouth, for the animal is singularly pointless. It barks when anyone walks nearby, but it won’t fight, it won’t fetch, it won’t do anything. It just meanders along behind a man. And then it will come so near as to stub his nose on your foot as you walk. Useless.’

  ‘But very handsome.’

  ‘He has looks, I grant you, but there is no point to him. As I say, will he hunt? No. Will he chase? No. All he does is eat and drink my food. Look at him – he avoids a fight. He has no soul, no pride.’

  Baldwin was about to respond when there was a slight commotion from the gates, and when he looked across, he saw a tall man in uniform marching towards him.

  The fellow had the look of a man-at-arms. His hair was cut short, in a military fashion that left a cap of hair that sat over his ears and passed high over the nape of his neck, as though a large cup had been placed over his skull, and all hair below it had been removed. He was tall, with the bearing of a warrior, but with laughing blue eyes and smiling mouth. ‘Sir Baldwin? I have heard of you from my friend, Coroner Robert.’

  ‘Good day,’ Baldwin said, unsure of the man and his effusive manner.

  ‘I am here to help you, Sir Baldwin. You have need of haste to travel to the King? Well, it is not an arduous journey, but it is still more than twenty leagues, I believe, to Beaulieu. You will want men who are quick.’

  ‘I thank you, of course,’ Baldwin said, ‘but we already have enough men, I think. With five men-at-arms, myself and my companion here, we shall be fine.’

  ‘With five, I am sure you will,’ the man said emphatically. ‘That is why I am to boost your guard to five once more. I have some younger men in the castle who will be keen to go with you, but I—’

  ‘But why? What do you mean by “boost my guard”? We have the men already.’

  ‘Didn’t you know, Sir Baldwin? The two who were accused of attacking and killing those peasants yesterday have fled.’

  ‘What?’

  Too late, Baldwin looked all about him in the court. He had spent too much time looking at the great dog, and not enough concentrating on the men about him. Now he saw that the castellan was telling the truth. His entourage was reduced. A flare of suspicion kindled in his breast. ‘How did you know that they were missing? They were at the inquest, and all seemed well.’

  ‘Oh, the coroner spoke to them afterwards about some details, and the two of them ran.’

  ‘I see,’ Baldwin said. His eyes were ranging over the people milling in the court, seeking out the coroner.

  ‘But I have two men who’ll be ideal for you, I’m sure.’

  Baldwin eyed him ungraciously, then gestured towards the Bishop. ‘It is up to the Bishop, my friend. I have no authority here. I am a mere guard myself.’

  The Bishop heard his words, but they were nothing to him. He had more important business to consider: the message he had for the King, how he should phrase it, and how he must respond to the King’s reaction.

  While the message itself was simple and direct, the underlying message was not. Trying to make sure that the King understood it would be a problem. And if the King understood, perhaps there would be more aid for him, although it was not so desirable. The Pope and the Bishop both desired the end of this King’s reign. He was that dreadful.

  There had been many kings over the centuries who had believed that they were more powerful than they really were. Some had died heretics, of course, while others fought to maintain the feeble fiction of their authority. It had taken one English King, the fool, to demonstrate once and for all the folly of that attitude. Henry II had poor St Thomas murdered here in Canterbury, and as a result the Pope had been able to impose a dreadful public penance on the King. It was a shameful period and, in reality, had little effect beyond showing that the Bishop could be as pious as any, and that the King must bend to the will of the Church. That, really, was the important factor.

  Kings were responsible for the law of the secular folk on earth. The Church, though, had the duty of care to all souls, and in addition there was a duty to look after the King. The Church was there to help direct the whole of Christendom towards Heaven, after all. And she must make any arrangements necessary to help the world on that path. Thus bishops could and would guide kings. It was why the Church anointed kings – to demonstrate their authority.

  It was why the Bishop must undertake this irritating journey, to go and see the King and try to help him see that he must do anything in his power to prevent an escalation of the disputes between England and France. It was the King’s duty to support the Pope’s fight to unite Christendom.

  The King was expendable. Soon he might well disappear. His reign was collapsing about him, his treatment of his wife was an international scandal; rumours of his homosexuality and affair with Sir Hugh le Despenser were rife; his bellicose behaviour towards his brother-in-law, Charles IV of France was creating a rift between the two leading Christian states in Europe. It was unacceptable. Now was the time for him to finally do some good.

  And if he wouldn’t, the Pope would make the remaining years of his reign still more difficult.

  Jack of Oxford was interested to see how quickly the two had taken the hint from the coroner and fled the city.

  He hadn’t realised what they were doing at first, of course. All he saw was the coroner leaving his inquest and speaking with them. As he turned to march away, the two stood a moment before exchanging a glance, then sidled away. A little while later, he saw them both near the stables, although at the time he didn’t make the connection. It was only when the others were told to fetch their mounts that he saw their two beasts were already gone. They had ridden off.

  Well, they were hardly going to be missed. They were not the most reliable of servants to the Bishop, not in Jack’s opinion. Personally, Jack wouldn’t have trusted them as far as he could throw them. They were only heavies, brutes who’d attack anyone. He’d seen enough men like them to recognise their type. Even so, the Bishop had seemed to like them. He often gave th
em easier tasks, as though trying to reward them.

  The Bishop would have need of protection in the dangerous roads between Canterbury and Beaulieu. Jack had some knowledge of the lands between, and they were invariably fraught with dangers of many types. There were forests, rivers, and the ever-present risk from outlaws.

  No man could wander about the countryside with impunity in the King’s England. All who wished to could attack and steal what they wanted. The rule of law often broke down irretrievably only a few miles from a town. There were all too many knights and barons who deprecated the rights of others to use the King’s highways, and who would stop merchants and other travellers to demand payment of ‘tolls’. Others would simply knock a man on the head and take his purse.

  The two men who were to join them in replacement of the two men-at-arms who had fled were interesting characters. Both were tallish for men of Kent, and they were quite fair-haired, too. There the similarities ended, though.

  Peter, the first, was a rugged-faced man of some forty or more summers, with the lines and sunburn to show that he was used to living out in the open much of the year. His eyes were a surprisingly bright blue colour, which gleamed with intelligence as he took in the sights all around, but from the wrinkles at either side and the furrows in his brow, he was more used to peering at his surroundings from narrowed eyes. He had a square face with a strong jaw, and a nose that had been badly set some while ago. There was also a series of scars along his forearms, which were bared. He obviously reckoned that the weather would remain clement.

  His companion was a younger man, with narrower features, but a heavier build. Where Peter was quite wiry, like a labourer, John had the appearance of a knight, in the padding of muscle at his shoulders and arms. His eyes were darker, a deep grey-blue, and there were fewer laughter lines at the corners. Instead of his friend’s alertness, this man’s eyes moved with a noticeable deliberation, and he appeared to concentrate on one object or person at a time with great intensity.

  Jack watched him, the still, serious man, and then turned and eyed the older man with the smiling face. He had been a felon for too long. He knew how to recognise men, to see which would be most dangerous, which he could pick on easily.

  He wouldn’t try anything with either of these, he decided – but of the two, he would leave the older, cheerful man well alone by choice. He looked much the more dangerous of the pair.

  Chapter Ten

  After the excitement of the previous day and the morning, Baldwin was glad to be in the saddle once more, ready to leave Canterbury. As he and Simon sat on their mounts, waiting for all the other men to collect about the Bishop, Baldwin saw the coroner at the gate to the priory close. On a whim, he spurred his rounsey and crossed the court to Sir Robert’s side.

  ‘I thank you for your help today,’ he said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Scaring off our two guards. What did you say to them? That you’d be seeking their heads as soon as they left the good bishop’s service?’

  The coroner looked him up and down. He was leaning with his back at the gate itself, while his thumbs remained tucked into his sword belt. Jerking his chin at the Bishop, he said, ‘What do you think of him? He worth protecting?’

  ‘Of course he is. He may be able to save some lives, if he persuades the King to prevent war with France,’ Baldwin said.

  ‘Hmm. How would you like him to have only outlaws for his guards?’

  Baldwin cast a look over his shoulder at the men, before sighing, ‘Coroner, I and my friend may be the only two in his entourage who have not been outlawed at one time or another!’

  ‘Ha! Yes, you could be speaking the truth there. And yet one of the two last night was recognised by men here in the city. The short, smelly one? At the inquest, he said his name was “Pons”, didn’t he? He has gone under the name of Stephen the Frank. I knew of him in Ashford as Stephen the Sailor, and others knew him under other names. He is rumoured to have killed his own master. The other I didn’t know, but from his appearance I would think him formed from the same mould.’

  ‘So you think you have helped to save the Bishop by persuading the two least reliable men from his party to go? Perhaps he was well aware of their unreliability,’ Baldwin said. It was true enough. Often a baron or knight would gladly hire a man who was dangerous and known as a killer, because such a man would appreciate his safety in a larger household, as well as feeling a debt to his new master.

  ‘Perhaps he was. But with the two replacements, you’ll have a better party to travel all the way to Beaulieu. These two are known to me … They are safe.’

  ‘Well, for that I thank you, at least,’ Baldwin said. ‘Do you know where the worst parts of the journey are likely to be?’

  ‘The forests of Kent are moderately safe, I think. It’s when you cross into Sussex and Hampshire that you’ll find your progress endangered. That is what I have heard, in any case. Keep to the road past Ashford, through Cranbrook and Crowborough, and you should be all right. Watch your bishop, and watch your own back, Sir Knight. I wouldn’t want you to learn that your companions are dangerous by their attacking you.’

  ‘I am grateful for your words, Coroner,’ Baldwin said. And then he bowed and saluted the man. ‘Sincerely.’

  Coroner Robert grunted. ‘Get off with you, Sir Knight. I hope next time we meet it may be under a more auspicious light. Go with God and be cautious on the road. Farewell and Godspeed!’

  Second Wednesday after Easter12

  St Mary in the Marsh

  They were cold and tired by the time they saw the little cross in the distance. There had been plenty of other little settlements on their way here, but they had been keeping quiet, hiding up in woods last night. They were happy to be away from Canterbury, but now they had run out of food, and this prosperous little vill looked good to them.

  Pons took a careful look about. It was the countryside he really liked. The marshes here were all flat pastureland, the grasses sliced apart by a number of little streams and rivulets, each dully grey, like rivers of lead in the verdant green. As they rode, the sheep on either side rose, startled, and occasionally they saw a shepherd in the distance, leaning on a crook and watching them – although whether suspiciously or merely from a spirit of mild enquiry, they couldn’t tell.

  So far as André was concerned, it was hard to imagine quite such a desolate landscape. It looked as though God had decided to eradicate everything from the place. There were no trees nearby, no hills, nothing. Just this lengthening grassy plain that had been slashed by water. It made him enormously nostalgic for his homelands, with the view of mountains in the distance.

  ‘Where are we?’ Pons said, looking about him with a frown of disdain.

  ‘If God wanted to give the world a kick up the arse, he’d do it here,’ André summarised. ‘This is the shit-hole of the world. I’ve never seen a place its equal.’

  ‘Oui. So what do we do?’

  ‘We ride to that vill there, and see whether the road rides us out to the west. And if it does, we wait a while, and then visit the church.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Take what we may, and ride on. I will not try to kill myself by riding onwards with no money in my pocket. There must be something in there we can use.’

  And as a plan, it was good. There was nobody about in the vill when they rode in. Everybody was out in the fields.

  ‘Come!’ André said, and trotted to the church door.

  It was only a small churchyard, here, and the animals had kept the grass down, sheep and horses grazing it to a one-inch-long stubble. The little hummocks and stones showed where the older members of the vill had been buried, while one or two smaller lumps demonstrated that demise was not the prerogative of the ancient.

  The door was new, but creaked like an abbey’s. André walked, conscious of the noise his spurs made as he went, the cheap chain under the sole of his riding boots clattering on the flagstone floor.

  �
�Where is everyone?’ Pons demanded behind him.

  ‘Do we care?’ André said. His eyes were fixed upon the prize in front of him. There was a cheap cross made of wood sitting on the altar, and a box lay behind it. He smiled to himself and hurried to it, testing the lid, but it was securely fastened. Eyeing it, he reckoned he couldn’t lift it, let alone rest it on his horse for him to carry it. No, the blasted thing was far too heavy. The metal straps ran about it, and it had two great locks at the front of it.

  ‘Well?’ Pons said. ‘Can you open the thing?’

  ‘Of course I can …’ He felt the locks, and knew he had no chance. They were made by a good blacksmith. ‘Where is the priest?’

  All vills like this had a small lodging near the church, if not a lean-to beside it, for the priest to live in. Both men knew that – but they also knew that the priest was usually a man like any other in the vill. If they wanted to find him, he would almost certainly be out in the fields with the men and women, working the land or catching birds.

  They tried the house next to the church, and inside they found the paraphernalia of a vicar, but no sign of the man himself.

  ‘Do we wait?’ Pons said.

  ‘No. If we try that, people will see our horses as they come back to the vill. No, there’s nowhere to hide or conceal the beasts here. We’ll have to ride on,’ André said regretfully.

  It was the only sensible conclusion. The sight of their horses would set all the tongues wagging, and when news of the attack came to be known, the villagers would know exactly who to blame. They would be able to describe the two men on horses who had come to their vill and stole from the church.

  With a leaden sensation in his belly, André turned from the little house and was about to walk back to his horse, when he heard the voice.

  ‘My son, can I help you?’

  ‘Holy Christ!’ Pons muttered.

  ‘Thank you, Father,’ André said, ignoring his companion. ‘May we have a word?’

  Château du Bois