The Prophecy of Death: (Knights Templar 25)

by Michael Jecks

  ‘Yes. You should say that. But do not pretend that you believe it, Bury. We both know the truth.’

  ‘May I ask how you came to such a conclusion, then?’

  ‘It is very easy, Master Bury. When I look at an issue, I try to think how one of your heroes would have viewed the same problem. And I try to emulate the greatest of them all, Arthur. How would Arthur have looked at an affair like the breakdown between England and France? How would he have resolved it? After that it becomes very simple. He was a man of honour, chivalry and enormous power. All I need do to succeed is copy him.’

  ‘And you can be so rational about the present position?’

  ‘You mean my father, don’t you?’ the boy said with a little sigh. ‘Well, of course I know I ought to be more plainly loyal and devoted to him, but the truth is, it is difficult. I hardly ever see him now. He is always roving about the country, and I know he is very fearful of losing the Agenais and Guyenne for ever. He would be devastated by that, but it is really no worse than his loss of Scotland. And he appears to have accepted that.’

  ‘You think so?’

  The Earl turned to him with such an adult look on his face that Bury shrugged and apologised.

  ‘I am sorry, my Lord. Yes, of course he has. He has negotiated, and a man with whom you negotiate, you assume has the power to do so. If the King will negotiate with the Bruce, he has demonstrated that he believes the Bruce to be the actual authority in Scotland.’

  ‘Precisely. And the reason why he feels now more than ever he must resort to negotiating is nothing to do with the Bruce himself. It’s not him my father fears.’

  ‘Who, then? The French?’

  ‘Master Richard, I seriously believe I may have to instruct you, my tutor! No, of course not. He fears his own mightiest and greatest general, Sir Roger Mortimer. The traitor who now lives in France or somewhere. That man is the real danger to our realm. Not the Bruce. The Bruce and Scotland are merely a distraction.’

  ‘So what do you think King Arthur would do?’ Bury asked with a smile.

  ‘You mean if he were King? He would not have come to this pass.’

  ‘So, if you were to become King, what would you do, bearing in mind how matters stand?’

  ‘I would have to curry favour with my uncle, and betray my father.’

  Now, back in his chamber, Bury could see the expression on the lad’s face once more. There was no sign of irony there. Only a fixed, serious concentration. Bury was sure that the lad meant what he said. If he had been King at the time, the realm would not have come to this pass. And if he were to take over in the near future, he would be forced to become a traitor to his own father.

  He also wondered … the boy looked as though he could easily plot to do just that … but no. No, that was stretching things too far. He was a lad of not yet thirteen years. There was no possibility of his planning anything at his age.

  Still, he was plainly the right heir to Arthur, just as the prophecy foretold.

  A series of shouts from outside made him look up, momentarily forgetting his disturbed thoughts. He went to the window and peered down into the courtyard, and saw a messenger dismounting and stretching.

  ‘Message for the Earl of Chester.’

  As Earl Edward’s tutor, he was soon to hear that the message was a summons to Westminster. Usually that would be a cause of excitement for Richard of Bury, because any excuse to go to the centre of power was reason for rejoicing, as it also involved excellent food and drink. But not today. Today Bury had a cold sensation in his belly. He remembered that look on the boy’s face the other day, a week ago, when he had seen Earl Edward. That day, the Earl had seemed on the verge of saying something. In God’s name, he hoped the Earl hadn’t done anything that could be regretted.

  Perhaps his tutoring of the boy had been too rational, too worldly. Maybe he should stop the teaching of political and military achievement from ancient Greece to Rome, and instead, concentrate on less martial subjects.

  But how could he deny the training Arthur’s heir demanded?

  Lydford

  Baldwin was already outside in the little garden when Simon rose that Monday morning. It was a lovely, fresh, late spring day. The clouds were few, and high in the sky, the sun casting long shadows this early, and there was a fine dew on the grass as Baldwin went through his exercises.

  Simon sat on an upturned stump. Soon afterwards Wolf came and sat beside him, leaning against his thigh and resting his head on Simon’s leg, staring up at him beseechingly, demanding his attention. Simon patted his chest, enjoying the peace of the morning. Both their wives were still in their beds, as was Simon’s son. Baldwin’s children were still at his house. Jeanne had left them with their nurses rather than make the journey too slow. She would not be here for long, after all.

  As he watched, the knight span and whirled, sword in his right hand, now in his left, making the movements that had been taught to him as a Templar. His order had placed a great deal of emphasis on daily weapons practice, and now Baldwin’s muscles were inured to the routine. He stood with his sword up, point angled downwards, right hand over his forehead, left hand flat like a blade, over his belly, where he could slap away an attack. Then he whirled, sword sweeping about, until he stopped with his right fist at his belt buckle, sword pointing upwards to block, left hand over his breast. Each manoeuvre carefully distinct, every time the blade glimmering with speed, only to halt firmly, unwavering. And as uncompromising as the movements of the steel was the expression on his face.

  ‘You should train as well,’ Baldwin said.

  ‘At this time of day? I don’t think so.’

  ‘At any time, Simon,’ Baldwin said.

  Simon gave a twisted smile and nodded towards his shoulder and hand. ‘With the wounds still this fresh? Meg would kill me if I opened them.’

  ‘Aye, you may have a point there.’ Baldwin grinned. He sheathed his sword before wiping a forearm over his sweaty brow. ‘Let us not be fools. We both know that Despenser sent his man to you to make a threat. But the fact that we bested his man may lead Despenser to decide to try again, just to soothe his feelings of injured pride. He does not need your land or house, but the fact you stood up to him and prevented him from taking it makes it unbearably tempting for him.’

  ‘What will William Wattere do about it?’ Simon scoffed. ‘He’s in gaol.’

  ‘For now. Do not forget that Bishop Walter is a close associate of Sir Hugh Despenser. Despenser is perfectly capable of demanding that his man be freed. He will twist the King’s arm until he has a pardon, or perhaps he will simply deny that there is a case to answer and have his man released by threatening the Bishop.’

  ‘How could he threaten the Bishop?’

  ‘Simon, to my knowledge, he has stolen lands from ladies up and down the country. He has threatened and captured men, and taken all he wanted from them. He has deprived men and women of their treasure. He will stop at nothing to maintain his power and authority, and if he finds a man is in his way, he will do all he can to force him to move. Now if news of your success against his man was to become known, he would be in an intolerable position: he would be in a situation where others could see that he could be prevented. If men see that an outlaw can be stopped, they do not fear that outlaw again. It is only the ruthless exercise of might that keeps Despenser in power. Take away that might, and he becomes a nothing. That is what he fears.’

  ‘So what do you propose that I do?’

  ‘Keep a wary ear on any sounds of escape from the Bishop’s gaol. So shall I. If Wattere is freed, we know that Despenser is tensing his muscles ready for some kind of demonstration. And beyond that, plan to defend your home.’

  ‘You do not fill me with confidence.’

  ‘I fear I have little enough of it,’ Baldwin said heavily.

  It was later that same day that they heard Wattere had been released.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Beaulieu

  Jack set ab
out his own packing early in the morning. There was little for him to worry about. A small parcel of clothes which was bound inside a linen sack, a goatskin for some wine, a leather wallet with some bread, smoked sausage and cheese, and a pair of thick fustian blankets, rolled tightly and bound with thongs, for the colder nights. He pulled his cloak about him, and he was ready.

  Everyone else here appeared to be preparing to leave as well. The Bishop of Orange was watching carefully as men stored his papers in a cart, the King’s steward and Despenser’s bottler were stalking about among the wagons and sumpter horses ensuring that all was packed, while clerks of the various departments of state were hurrying about, squeaking at men who looked as though they might drop a chest or misstore a box in the wrong wagon, and generally getting in the way of everyone else while making themselves thoroughly miserable at the same time.

  It was not the kind of sight a man like Jack would see often in a lifetime. Once, he would have stood here on the steps near a hall watching for very different reasons. Then he would have been here to assess the best method of stealing as much as possible. He would have kept an eye on the wagons so that he could see which was holding all the gold or coins. Treasure was best, of course, because a handful of rubies was lighter than its value in coin. Yes, there had been a time when he would have been eyeing all this with carefully concealed desire. But not today.

  Strange to think that a man like him could change so much. Yet he had. What had he been? A farmer, a sailor, a fisherman, an outlaw, and now a guard. Honourable again, he knew he was a rarity. Most men, if they once turned out bad, were bad for life. That was what all said. A man who became a felon was as dangerous as a wolf. That’s why they were called ‘wolfshead’, and the law entitled any man to strike off their head without fear of punishment.

  It was just. A man who was determined to be evil, who wanted to make his living by stealing and taking the property of others deserved his end, he told himself – and then gave a wry grin. Strange how quickly a man’s attitude would change to reflect his new reality.

  The carts and wagons were for the most part filled by the middle of the morning. Clerks and men-at-arms stood about looking weary already before the last sumpter horse had been fully packed, and Jack took stock.

  Over on the left the marshal of the horses stood frowning at a horse which was holding a hoof in the air, injured, while the yeoman of the horses berated two grooms for some infraction in the beast’s treatment. Nearby were the wagons set aside for the King’s favourite treasures. They were filled with the leather chests bound with iron, which, earlier, Jack had seen packed with cotton before having the more easily damaged goods installed, the expensive silver plates and bowls, the salt and mazers of gold. The buttery had been more or less squeezed into four different wagons, the barrels all chocked and held in place with ropes, while the other foodstuffs were kept in a pair of wagons behind. All in all, with the men milling about the place and the noise of the hounds, it was impossible to concentrate on anything.

  This was an enormous household. Jack hadn’t appreciated just how large before, because many of the men and most of the horses, the palfreys, sumpters and many dexters, had all been lodged elsewhere in the neighbourhood – there were too many to expect the good Abbot of Beaulieu to support on his own at one location. Of course, not everyone would travel together. The harbingers had already gone. One from the King’s chamber, a clerk from his kitchen, a servant from his hall, and a pair of servants from his kitchen staff. They left very early, so as to make sure that the next stop would have food and drink waiting. Meanwhile, the second team to go was the party who had the clothsack. They had the King’s personal items with them, all his clothing and basic articles, and would leave shortly. After them would come the King, once he had eaten his meal. With him would be the steward, his marshals of the hall and chamber, the sewer and other servants who would serve him, and all his men-at-arms and knights. Finally, all the other servants and main baggage would follow on behind.

  Jack shook his head. He would be travelling with the Bishop in the main party with the King, so he had heard. It would be a slow business, though. On the way here, they had managed between thirty and forty miles each day, striving hard to make the journey as swiftly as possible, and now all was being delayed for the King’s pleasure. The Bishop had hoped to be back at Avignon with the Pope by now, but instead here they were, waiting on the King’s letter. He wanted to write to the Pope, he said, so the Bishop must hold up here, and hope to receive the letter before winter arrived. And in the meanwhile, their journeying would be far lengthier than necessary. The King would probably only make fifteen miles a day or so. Jack had heard a servant talking about the speed of the King’s father, Edward I, who had managed twenty, but Jack seriously doubted that anyone could do that with so many wagons. The damned things were so slow and unmanoeuvrable, and every time they came to a hill, the dexters hauling would fail, and the grooms of the marshalsea would have to go and hire some oxen to pull them up. No, it would slow things down immeasurably.

  All of which was frustrating. But there was nothing he could do about it, and besides, he was in no hurry personally. Jack idled the early morning away, watching the preparations with some amusement.

  Until, that is, he saw the man in a herald’s uniform.

  Lydford

  ‘How could he have let the bastard loose?’ Simon demanded. He clenched a fist and slammed it into his cupped hand. ‘Sweet Jesus! Didn’t he know the bastard would be a threat to us?’

  The messenger from the Bishop stood, somewhat disconcerted by the reaction to his news, and immediately Wolf grumbled deep in his throat. The man looked at him, alarmed. ‘I was only asked to come and tell—’

  Baldwin shook his head at the man, and held out both hands soothingly. ‘Simon, be calm! Wolf! Silent!’

  ‘My love,’ Margaret said, pale but calm, ‘he is an old friend. I feel sure he would never knowingly put us in danger. He knows us all so well, and he is so kindly towards us. Can you imagine him willingly hurting us or our children? Of course not!’

  ‘Whether he intended it or not is irrelevant, Meg,’ Simon said harshly. ‘That goat-swyving churl is a danger to us while he lives, if he remains with his master and in Despenser’s service.’

  She was silent as he stalked away and stared from the window.

  ‘I begin to wonder whether the Bishop is truly our friend,’ he said, and there was a cold tone to his voice she hadn’t heard before.

  She turned to the messenger. ‘Was there anything else the good bishop wished us to know?’

  ‘Like I say, he has released the man Wattere, but only because Sir Hugh le Despenser has asked for his man to be sent back to him so that his transgressions may be investigated.’

  ‘I suppose Bishop Walter couldn’t do that himself in Exeter?’

  ‘Simon!’ Margaret snapped. ‘Let the man finish!’

  ‘He has been taken by the Bishop with his entourage. The Bishop has been summoned to advise the King in Westminster. He told me to tell you that it is a matter of grave importance about the affairs in France. And he said to tell you that the man will not be likely to come here to trouble you. He will remain with the Bishop all the way to London.’

  ‘How reassuring!’

  She hated seeing her husband like this. It was unnecessary; pointless. She had been nervous, of course, when the horrible man had turned up and threatened her. It wasn’t something she was used to, having been a bailiff’s wife for so long. People usually tended to show her and her family respect. But perhaps this was just a sign of the troubles to come.

  Simon and she had known that when the Abbot of Tavistock died, it was possible that their lives could become more difficult, for Simon had already been sent to Dartmouth to work, ironically, as a kind gesture by Abbot Champeaux, who thought he was rewarding Simon for all his work in the past years. Sadly, though, it was the worst thing he could have done. It split their family, and made it extremely diffic
ult for Simon to maintain contact with their children. Let alone the debilitating effect it had on his relationship with Meg herself. When she heard that poor Abbot Robert had died, she was slightly relieved to hear it. She knew that with Abbot Robert gone, there would be a change in power at the abbey which must inevitably lead to Simon being asked to give up his post on the coast.

  As had happened. However, she had not been prepared for the fact that both of the protagonists seeking the abbacy might try to put someone in Simon’s place on the moors as well. If he were not to have his old post as bailiff, when he had already lost his position at Dartmouth, then what would they do for money? It was hard to tell. Perhaps he would be forced to leave this area completely?

  At least Simon was not a serf of the abbey. He was one of Sir Hugh de Courtenay’s men, so he could leave here whenever he wanted, and they could return to their farm, if need be. The little farm near Sandford. It would be a shame to leave this house. She had been very happy here – but the farm was a good property, too. It had been a wrench when she had first been told that Simon had won the post at Lydford. With a sad little smile, she could now remind herself that she had not wanted to come here. It was odd how attitudes could change.

  It was Jeanne who tried to placate him now. ‘He tries to be your friend.’

  ‘You don’t understand,’ Simon said.

  ‘I think she understands better than you, Simon,’ Baldwin said.

  ‘What does that mean?’ Simon demanded.

  Margaret said, ‘Surely if Despenser’s demanded the release of his man, the Bishop can hardly refuse? The Despenser is the most powerful man in the country after the King, you keep telling me.’

  ‘He is, yes, but the Bishop must be almost as powerful. The King listens to him, and—’

  ‘There is no “and”, Simon,’ Baldwin said. ‘You were in London with me. You saw how the King deferred to Despenser. The two are close. Very close. And the good bishop has little power compared with Sir Hugh.’