The Prophecy of Death: (Knights Templar 25)

by Michael Jecks

  ‘The King is still here, then,’ Simon breathed, looking at the flags hanging limp at the poles.

  ‘Yes. He hasn’t denuded the area of food yet,’ Baldwin said, but not sadly. He couldn’t be unhappy today. Perhaps later this afternoon he would be able to leave Beaulieu and make his way homewards. He set to calculating. It must be some thirty leagues to Devon and his home, so at ten leagues a day, roughly thirty miles, he must ride for about three and a bit days to get home. Well, it wasn’t as fast as he would have liked, but it was a great deal better than riding back from Scotland. And since much of the land hereabouts, from memory, was quite good riding land, he might make better time, so long as he didn’t wear out his rounsey.

  The Bishop gave a peremptory command, and Baldwin and Simon pulled aside so that he might lead the way, glancing about him with that absent expression on his face again, seeing much, but apparently noticing little.

  ‘How did a man like him ever manage to achieve the position of bishop?’ Simon wondered aloud.

  ‘Don’t underestimate the fellow,’ Baldwin warned. ‘We have seen him at his worst, when he has been uncomfortable, with a difficult mission to achieve, and many miles of journey ahead of him. Yet he is highly respected by the Pope, by the Queen, and, for him to be here, presumably by the King as well. He is no fool.’

  ‘You may think so,’ Simon said, ‘but all I know is, he appears to look down on anyone who is lower than a knight. It’s all right for you, old friend, but he has ignored me all the way here as though I was a churl – or a felon.’

  ‘And the good part about it is, he won’t want you to continue with him anywhere. He looks down upon you, you think? In that case, Beaulieu is the end of our official travelling, Simon. We can return home!’

  ‘Aha. Yes. He is not so bad, when you look upon him in that sort of light,’ Simon agreed amiably.

  A guard at the inner gatehouse stood in front of the Bishop. He was clad in the King’s colours. ‘Who are you and what do you want?’

  ‘I am the Bishop of Orange, and I have urgent messages for the King from the Pope, and his wife in France.’

  And suddenly Simon saw the Bishop change. He lost his absent appearance, and now he bent, glowering at the guard, fully alert and boldly seated in his saddle.

  ‘Open the gates and allow me to pass.’

  In the corner of a room high overhead, he watched them closely. The Bishop he had seen before, although the man’s name wouldn’t come to mind just yet. He’d have to remind himself who it was later.

  Thomas of Bakewell pushed himself away from the wall where he had been whittling at a stick, and used it to pick at a scrap of pork in his teeth. His wisdom teeth had been giving him hell for some time, but the pain had reduced now and, instead, he found that they were a storehouse for every shred of meat and vegetable after a meal. Not ideal. And irritating when a man was sitting on a horse. Sucking never seemed to work. It just hurt his tongue.

  He swept a little dust from his tabard. Wherever you went in this place, the walls were freshly limewashed, which was nice to look at, but played merry hell with a man’s clothing. Especially when it was this dark. A king’s herald was always on show, and woe betide the man who allowed himself to look scruffy in the King’s presence.

  Not that Tom wanted to. He was proud of his position. After his brother died, it was the Queen herself who spoke to him so kindly, so understandingly. She was a mere child, almost, then, only just old enough to have married, so some twelve years old, and yet she displayed more generosity of spirit than the monks in the abbey or any of the knights. They all looked on Tom as a nuisance to be removed urgently so as not to disrupt their great day.

  It was because of the Queen that Tom had a job now. Taken in by her, into her household, he was given the job of learning the job of a kitchen boy at first, then page, and finally she permitted him to enter her service as a messenger. Which was fine until the King saw fit to destroy her household and exile all her French staff. At least the English were taken into his own household so that they could work for him direct.

  The royal family had been good to him. Yes, very good. But he would have traded every suit of clothing, every free drink, every wonderful meal, just to have had another week with his dear brother John.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The King watched narrowly as the Bishop entered. There were a few men about the room, and he looked at Despenser as he ordered the others to leave.

  The King and the Bishop made some polite comments at first, both edging closer to the moment when they would have to come to business. It was the King who broke the peaceful nature of their conversation, irritable at the long-winded introduction and keen to get on with the important matter in hand.

  ‘My Lord Bishop. You have a message for me, I believe?’

  ‘It is from your good lady, Queen Isabella, my Lord.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘She instructs me to say, you will already have heard from the good Bishop Stratford and William Ayrminne.’

  ‘Yes. They would have me accept the loss of my lands,’ the King growled.

  ‘This is a matter you have doubtless considered already,’ the Bishop said, and then summarised: ‘If you do not go to France, you will lose all. You cannot hope to return at the head of a host. There are not sufficient men-at-arms in England, Scotland, Wales and Ireland to permit that. The territories are too vast. Even if you could afford mercenaries, even the pikemen of Morgarten could not avail you. The French King has the mightiest host in Christendom.’

  ‘I know all this.’

  ‘So the conclusion is, you must go to France unless you wish to surrender all. If you go, you should recover most of your lands apart from the Agenais. I would think that you will lose that, because the fate of that area rests upon a French court whose composition has been arranged by the French King. You cannot win that back.’

  ‘So what is my Queen’s suggestion?’

  ‘That you distract the French King. Accept his terms, and agree to go there at the earliest opportunity. You cannot hope to deflect him from his purpose with any action of yours: you go, or you stay. If you go, you will retain your lands – most of them, in any case.’

  ‘This is most interesting. I shall need to consider. Do you have any other message for me?’

  ‘Only this, that the Pope himself has heard of this proposal, and he views it as commendable. He wishes me to make clear to you that it would be a most desirable means of resolving the foolish state of friction that exists between France and England.’

  ‘I thank you,’ the King said more coolly. He had no need of that popinjay’s thoughts. So far as he was concerned, the Pope had let him down too often. He had not helped when King Edward asked to be re-anointed with St Thomas’s oil, and nor had he helped poor Hugh when the Despenser had heard that Mortimer had enlisted the help of a necromancer to bring about his death by use of magic. Instead, he had sent a terse reply suggesting that if Hugh were to embrace God, live more honourably and kindly, and stop seeking to advance his own position at the expense of others, he may find himself with fewer enemies. As if that was likely to help him, just when a necromancer had been paid to kill him!

  It was a vicious response to a man who was fearful of his life, and the King felt sure that it demonstrated a papal contempt for his own position. The Pope knew how close Hugh Despenser and he were. It was a simple rebuff of the rudest kind. The Pope was arrogant, swollen up with his own importance and pride. He had installed himself as the most powerful man in Christendom, and felt he could even command kings. Yet kings were selected by God, not by popes. If God thought Edward should be King, then no man, neither cardinal nor pope, could have any right to gainsay him.

  Not that such arguments held any sway with the Pope himself.

  ‘You may leave me now.’ He waited while the Bishop respectfully reversed from the chamber, showing the correct deference by not turning his back, before motioning to a servant. ‘Fetch me Ayrminne and Bis
hop Stratford. Tell them I would have the benefit of their advice.’

  Baldwin was happily repacking his satchel of clothing when the servant arrived for him.

  ‘Sir Baldwin, I have been asked to conduct you to Sir Hugh Despenser.’

  ‘What does he want?’ Baldwin asked. There was a slight tension in his back at the name. No one could hear the name of the King’s chief adviser and friend without trepidation.

  There was no answer, though, and Baldwin finished his packing before joining the servant and walking along behind him to the Prior’s lodgings. Here, he was ushered into a small chamber.

  ‘Sir Baldwin. I am glad to see you once more. You enjoyed your little journey to Paris?’

  ‘Yes, Sir Hugh. It was pleasant.’

  ‘I would imagine it must have been. Perhaps you would enjoy a life of more privilege.’

  ‘I fear not. I am keen to leave behind all affairs of such great importance and find some peace in my little manor once more. So much more restful than all this travel and high living. As soon as my latest task is done, I shall be happy to return to my home.’

  ‘What is that latest task?’

  ‘I have personal messages for the King.’

  ‘You may give them to me.’

  ‘I was asked to give them to the King.’

  ‘I am the King’s adviser.’

  ‘I know who you are, Sir Hugh,’ Baldwin said firmly.

  ‘I am not a good man to make your enemy, Sir Baldwin.’ Sir Hugh eyed him without any obvious emotion for a moment.

  ‘So I have heard – and seen.’

  ‘You have been an irritant to me.’

  ‘I have not intended to be.’

  ‘You say that? Do you take me for a fool?’ Despenser’s voice grew colder. ‘I say this: do not thwart me, Sir Knight, else I shall crush you.’

  ‘You have tried already,’ Baldwin said. ‘But I shall oppose injustice while I may.’

  Sir Hugh le Despenser nodded, although whether agreeing with this sentiment or merely accepting that this was Baldwin’s view, the knight couldn’t tell. Despenser said, ‘I have heard that you conducted yourself well while out there.’

  ‘Some perhaps did not expect me to return,’ Baldwin said.

  ‘I cannot think who.’

  It was Baldwin’s turn to be silent. A short while before leaving England for France, Sir Hugh had become aware that he had once been a Poor Fellow Soldier of Christ and the Temple of Solomon, a Knight Templar. He had then intentionally told the French King of Baldwin’s past affiliation, expecting the French King to capture and possibly execute him. But the French King had shown himself more honourable and generous than Despenser, and had warned Baldwin that he knew of Baldwin’s past.

  ‘So you have come back with Queen Isabella’s ambassador to her husband?’

  There was a wealth of cynicism in those few words. The man was certain of himself, that much was obvious. He knew that Baldwin had been involved in some of the discussions. Perhaps he wanted Baldwin to give him some insights into the way that the Queen had conducted herself, or was looking for some juicy snippet of another sort?

  Whatever his wish, Baldwin was not prepared to aid him. ‘I am merely a guard to the Pope’s emissary, who has been asked to bring some messages.’

  ‘Oh, a humble guard, Sir Baldwin? And you had no idea of anything curious whilst on your travels?’

  ‘I do not know what you mean, nor what you wish me to say.’

  ‘I would have thought I was clear enough. Did anything unusual strike you during your travels, Sir Baldwin?’

  Baldwin was about to respond sharply that there was nothing, when he suddenly wondered what the man was asking about. At first, Baldwin thought Despenser was enquiring about the Queen or the Bishop of Orange – but now, he wondered.

  The theft of the oil from Canterbury was certainly curious enough, and the discovery of the man in the woods, a filthy royal tabard thrown hurriedly over him, that was curious in the extreme – but Despenser could not have known of either of them. Could he? If Despenser was responsible for the theft of the oil, he might certainly know. His man could have returned here already and given Despenser the oil. But what on earth could Despenser have wanted with a phial of oil for anointing the King?

  Nothing, unless the King desperately desired it, and Despenser sought to enhance his position by providing it. Especially if he could keep concealed the fact that he had stolen it originally.

  ‘Sir Hugh, what do you mean by “unusual”?’

  He contemplated for a moment or two. ‘I mean, you were in France. Among our enemies. Was Mortimer there? Was there anyone who could be a threat to the Queen or the King?’

  ‘I do not involve myself in matters of—’

  ‘In God’s name, Knight! Do you not realise we are on the precipice of war again?’

  ‘The strangest thing I encountered was here in England. I found a dead man on my way,’ Baldwin said, watching him closely. ‘It was a man who was clad in a king’s tabard, but it would not be easy to identify him.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You have seen dead bodies after being left in the open for a week or more.’

  Sir Hugh nodded. All had. ‘We shall have to enquire as to whether any of the King’s men have disappeared, then.’

  ‘I should be grateful if you would. He was dressed as a herald.’

  ‘A herald? A king’s man?’ Despenser said with a frown.

  ‘Yes. I think it likely he was waylaid by outlaws. There are many in those woods, apparently. He had no money or belongings on him, except one. And that makes me think he was most religious.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  In answer, Baldwin brought out the necklace of pilgrim badges. ‘He went to Canterbury, to St Thomas, to Santiago de Compostela, to Our Lady of … he has been all over. So it would be good to learn if any religious heralds are missing, wouldn’t it?’

  The friar walked from the hall where he had been waiting as soon as he heard the tumult of the new entourage appear.

  Nicholas of Wisbech watched as the men dropped from their saddles and dogs milled at their feet. This was clearly a senior man’s party, from the look of them. He could see the Bishop’s horse, but there was no sign of the man himself. Only some guards. Struck with a vague inquisitiveness, he left the building and wandered down to see who had arrived, but by the time he reached the yard, there were only a couple of men remaining.

  ‘Good day, Friar.’

  ‘God bless you. Whose party is this?’

  ‘The Bishop of Orange, Friar. He’s come with messages for the King.’

  ‘And you are with him?’

  ‘I am, Friar. I am called Jack.’

  ‘A good name, my friend.’

  ‘Aye, well,’ Jack said, embarrassed. If only the friar knew his background.

  ‘Where have you come from?’

  ‘Paris. We stopped at many places, though. And I was glad to see Canterbury,’ Jack said, trying to curry a little favour from this accommodating man of God. ‘I had wanted to visit the place for many years on pilgrimage.’ Which was true, although he saw no need to explain that he felt that there was a desperate need for him to beg forgiveness for some of the murders, rapes and robberies he had been involved in.

  ‘It is many months since I was last there. I adored it. It is a shining example of the goodness of God, and the power of St Thomas.’

  ‘Yes,’ Jack said. And then, because the friar was so interested in the place, he told of the theft of the oil of St Thomas.

  He had never seen a man’s face fall so swiftly.

  Baldwin left the Despenser in a pensive mood. He had not given much thought to the dead herald during the journey here, because he had spent his time looking forward to leaving Beaulieu and hurrying on with all speed to Devon and his family – but now, having seen the expression on the Despenser’s face, he wondered whether the Despenser could himself have had anything to do with the man’s sudden death
.

  The Despenser was no stranger to plots and murders. It was all too common for him to seek to destroy those whom he felt stood between him and a prize. Man or woman, it mattered not a whit. Sex was no barrier to his rapacious greed. There were rumours that he had even captured the widow of one of the King’s knights and tortured her until her mind was broken. All for a relatively minor profit.

  But it was surely too much to think that the Despenser could have been responsible for a herald’s murder. From the first moment, Baldwin had been suspicious of the death, it was true, but he still remained confident that the killer was almost certainly the gang of felons who inhabited the woods. It had not occurred to him before that the murder could have been part of a larger conspiracy.

  It was plain enough that the Despenser was himself anxious about something, too. The man was exceedingly on edge. Not at all like the man whom Baldwin remembered from before his trip to France. The pressure of the realm’s uncertainty was getting to him as well. Probably because of the number of his enemies who had been exiled and now lived safely in France, he reflected. A man could not continue to make enemies without one day reaping what he had sowed.

  ‘Baldwin? Are you all right?’

  ‘Simon, I need to think,’ Baldwin said with frowning concentration. ‘I need to think very carefully.’

  It was just then that the servant came to ask Baldwin to join the King in his hall.

  Nicholas was tempted to run straight to the King and demand to know what in Christ’s name had happened to the oil, but a moment’s reflection told him that this was not necessarily a good idea.

  The King was no longer his friend. If Nicholas were to go to the King and demand to know what had happened to his oil, he may find himself in an unpleasant position. However, he need not be so blunt. And maybe he need not go to the King himself? There must be another man to whom he could speak in this great abbey. Someone who could assist him. A man who could speak for him, present his case and beg on his behalf.