The Prophecy of Death: (Knights Templar 25)

by Michael Jecks

  ‘I did do well at first, but I didn’t expect the knight to arrive with the bailiff, and both with other men too. I had expected the man to back down quickly. Men usually do when they know that they are against you, my Lord.’

  ‘Yes. They do. But it’s dangerous to make assumptions about men like them. They can be fairly ruthless. What have you done to your hand?’

  ‘It was the bailiff. He caught me. A lucky strike.’

  ‘Heavens, he has been fortunate, hasn’t he? What a lucky fellow,’ Despenser said. Then he took a swift pace forward and leaned in close. ‘And you are not, are you? Once you were lucky, but now, clearly, you are not. I think I have no need for fools who can’t obey a simple order and then get themselves caught. Jesus, you even gave them your ballocks, didn’t you? You let them bring in my Lord Bishop Walter to hear your confession!’

  ‘That means nothing now, though.’

  ‘Doesn’t it? Oh, so you think that you can fight them here, and outwit them? When the good bishop is here too, and can vouch for them and denounce you? Do you think that would be a good idea?’

  ‘I think—’

  ‘I don’t care what you think!’ Despenser spat. ‘Get out of my sight. I may find a use for you, but for now, you had best avoid me, fool. I’ll call you when the privy needs to be emptied.’

  William Wattere nodded and left the room quietly. He felt entirely crushed. In the past he had always been highly regarded as efficient and now he was close to losing his post in his master’s household.

  And his forearm was still stinging.

  Despenser was often accused by the King of being a marvellous actor, of being able to feign almost any emotion at will, but he was not acting today. He was consumed with anger at the way the fool Wattere had let himself be captured, especially since his gaoler was the Bishop upon whom he most depended just now. The state required that he and Stapledon work together effectively.

  ‘Get out!’ he snapped at the two clerks, and aimed a kick at the slower of the two as they hurriedly scurried from the room.

  He walked to the table again and leaned on both hands, his elbows locked, staring down at the boards.

  ‘Too many problems, too many problems,’ he told himself quietly, still simmering gently after his meeting with Wattere.

  It was not only that bailiff Puttock and the knight. He had too much to consider, what with the issue of the Queen and what she might be doing abroad, the rebel Mortimer and what he was up to, the Scots, and now this matter about the oil. He still had no idea what had happened to it, but he needed it for the King and the bolstering of the King’s reign.

  Sweet Jesus! He had to clear his brain and resolve one issue at a time! There was no time for this prevarication. Complaining about the perils of his position was pointless. And pathetic. It was not the action of a man. Resolve the problems one by one, he told himself.

  Arriving here, he had been passed a message from one of his men. The outlaws had been tracked down in the woods near where the body of the herald had been found. On the local keeper’s command, they had been cut down, almost to a man, and even though the survivors were questioned carefully before they were hanged, none knew anything at all about a man in king’s tunic who had been killed. Two had been able to walk, and had been taken to the spot where the body still lay, in the hope that they might recognise the location if not the corpse, but both denied all knowledge. There were some who would do that in the hope of life, but these two had no such false expectations. They knew that they would soon die.

  No, if he had to guess, he would say that neither was involved in the death of Richard de Yatton. In which case, who was? And where was the King’s oil?

  Despenser clenched his fists and slammed both down on the table. ‘Damn the bastard!’

  He would find this thief, and when he did, he’d have the man paunched like a rabbit for putting him to all this trouble. Soon the King would be demanding to know what he had discovered, and being forced to admit that he had learned little was not good for his reputation nor his temper.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Jack was content with his own actions. There were some men whom he could not like, no matter what happened. It was irrational, certainly, but there were just some fellows who made him angry. And just as ridiculously, there were some who appeared not to deserve any interest at all, with whom he suddenly found himself fascinated.

  This fellow Thomas was a perfect example. All he knew of Tom when he left Beaulieu was that the man was the brother of John of Bakewell, who had died in the abbey over there during the King’s coronation. Jack had heard that from the man himself. He was not concealing the fact, nor anything else, as far as Jack could tell. And yet Despenser had decided that Tom was interesting in some way. That could only mean that Despenser had some notion that the man had something of value. All knew Despenser’s reputation, and he wouldn’t put himself out unless there was something in it.

  Not that Jack had any more idea what it might be than Tom. Both had discussed Despenser and his attack on Tom over evenings beside the fire, and yet they could not reach a conclusion. Jack wondered whether it could be something to do with the murder of the monk and the theft of the King’s oil. According to the herald, Despenser had asked about the oil and Canterbury. It made Jack interested.

  What business such affairs were of Despenser’s, Jack didn’t know. Such things weren’t really any concern of his, and he preferred to keep out of the way of the rich and powerful like the Despenser. Still, he didn’t want to see a man like Tom die just because the fellow had been unlucky enough to be distrusted by Despenser. That was just plain unfair.

  But life was unfair, of course.

  Baldwin and Simon walked the short distance to the Exchequer, where they could see Bishop Stapledon chatting with a clerk.

  ‘Ah, Sir Baldwin, and Simon,’ he said. ‘I am glad you arrived safely.’

  ‘It is a journey we are growing accustomed to,’ Simon said, adding, ‘Sadly.’

  ‘Simon means, we’re not happy to be parted from our wives again,’ Baldwin said.

  ‘But you weren’t called to be a part of the council, were you? It’s not a parliament,’ the Bishop said.

  ‘No. We’re here because we were keen to avoid any more unpleasantness with Despenser,’ Simon said.

  Stapledon gave a quick frown and shot a look at Baldwin, before walking from the hall and motioning to them both to follow him. ‘Simon, you must realise that language like that is exceedingly dangerous. Especially here, where you are effectively in his power base. You must not challenge a man like Despenser. And language like that is bound to be viewed by him as a challenge.’

  ‘He has tried to force me from my own house, Walter,’ Simon pointed out. ‘He petrified my wife, and then sent his henchman to my hall to threaten me!’

  ‘That is so, and I have already spoken to him and made it clear that I do not expect to hear of any more attempts on your property or life. I think he appreciates that it would be counter to his wishes to do it again.’

  ‘You think he’d back off that easily?’ Baldwin said.

  ‘I think that he did what he did to upset you, Baldwin. He doesn’t care about one property in Lydford. If he thought he could take over the whole town, that would be different. He would devote hours and many men to an adventure like that. He stole swathes of land from other lords to consolidate his Welsh lands, didn’t he? He rules the whole of the south of Wales now as a private fiefdom. But one house? No. He did that to annoy you, Baldwin, more than anything else.’

  ‘But why?’ Baldwin said, genuinely puzzled. ‘I have done little to him, in truth. If he wanted to harm me, I could perhaps understand that, but why try to distract me with Simon?’

  ‘As punishment for something you have done to him? I don’t know. In any case, while you both live within my see, I think he will leave you alone. If for no other reason than that he has other matters to concern him. As have we all,’ he added almost as an afte
rthought.

  ‘We just saw the King’s son,’ Simon said.

  ‘Oh, the Earl of Chester is here? That is good. Then we may begin to plan matters from here.’

  ‘What is in the offing?’ Baldwin asked.

  ‘The King is waiting to hear back from France on the state of negotiations. After the meetings here, he intends to send another embassy to the French with some suggestions. I think the French will insist, since they have the upper hand, but you never know. We won’t, anyway, until we receive a response. And then the King also wants to send a message to the Pope by the Bishop of Orange, pointing out the unfairness of this situation. He is justified, certainly.’

  ‘Will it work?’ Simon asked. ‘Would the Pope actually take his side in an argument against the French?’

  ‘No,’ the Bishop said bluntly. ‘But that won’t stop him trying. Meanwhile, we are forced to rely on the King’s wife.’

  There was an eloquent pause after that. Baldwin himself wanted to wince to hear the Queen referred to in such a manner. From all he had seen of her, she was a perfectly responsible, dutiful wife. Certainly she had earned the love of her son, and Baldwin knew that many of her staff idolised her, and would hear no bad word against her. A woman who could inspire such adoration was not deserving of the Bishop’s ire.

  ‘She should be back before long, I suppose?’ he said after a moment.

  ‘Yes. Depending upon the negotiations over there, she could be home again within the month,’ Stapledon said.

  ‘Her son will be pleased to know that,’ Simon said.

  ‘Perhaps so. For the rest of us, her return will make matters more complicated, though. What is the King to do with her?’

  ‘Live with his wife as a man should,’ Baldwin said quietly. ‘And throw Despenser to the dogs.’

  ‘You think the King could govern on his own, while maintaining the peace of his realm?’ Stapledon hissed. ‘Baldwin, if Despenser goes, either the Queen will be controlling the government of the realm, assuming she and the King can make some kind of compact, or another baron like Despenser. Which would you trust to be in charge?’

  ‘Bishop, you may be right. But if it is another baron, at least there is a chance that he will be better than Despenser, and the Queen would undoubtedly be a great improvement. Do not forget, this is the man who just last week sent a man to petrify Simon’s wife. Do you honestly think that he could be better than anyone else?’

  Joseph arrived in Westminster late in the day, and the only thing on his mind, when he had at last delivered his messages to the King’s clerks, was to find a goodly jug of wine and sink it quickly.

  The court of the palace yard here was as full and loud as ever. There was something about Westminster and the King’s palace which gave the place the air of a bear garden when the betting had been particularly high. It was always frenetic, there was the sound of women laughing, men shouting, calls offering food, quieter voices murmuring suggestively, and all over it, the noise of people making deals. Some making little bargains for drinks or sex, while others, the quieter ones, were trying to decide issues of law. There were many of them.

  Joseph walked around to the inn at the gates and bought himself a pint of wine, which he didn’t take long to drink. The second pint was a little slower going down, and he took himself off to a rough stool to watch the passers-by as he drank it.

  The last time he had been to the palace, all the heralds and messengers had been here with the King. He had been holding a parliament, and the men were all being prepared to take the reports and commissions to every sheriff in the country. There had been some fun then! All the cursores and nuncii had held competitions to see who could sing the loudest, who could run fastest – all the way to the Temple Bar and back – while others merely gambled and played and drank.

  That, he realised, was when he had last seen Richard de Yatton. Yatton and a few heralds had joined them for the fun, and afterwards there had been repercussions. He didn’t know who it was now, but two of the lads had got into a dispute of some sort, and the upshot of it was that some damage had been done to the King’s own property. Some hangings in a wagon or something. Anyway, Joseph and all the others had been called into a little chamber, where they were discussing what they would all say to each other.

  ‘If you say that we were at the tavern but left early, I’ll back you up,’ one had whispered to Joseph.

  ‘Yes. What we have to do is back each other up. We will all stick together,’ another had told him.

  ‘We can’t be shaken. If we all stay together, we’ll be all right.’

  ‘We can all speak for each other,’ the first had nodded.

  ‘But we won’t, will we?’ Richard had said, smiling. ‘As soon as we go in there, we’re going to do anything we can to cover our own arses.’

  It was the truth, of course. But after so much effort trying to convince each other that they would stand by their friends and even their enemies, it was Richard’s honest simplicity that Joseph remembered. It was a shame he was gone. Joseph hadn’t known him very well, but he thought Richard had a strangely appealing straightforwardness.

  He was still enjoying the warmth which the harsh Guyennois wine spread from his fingers to his toes, when he saw the Bishop of Orange.

  The Bishop was walking about with his usual expression of mild absent-minded enquiry, but Joseph was not fooled. The man had one of the brightest brains in the Church, he reckoned. The Bishop was one of those in whom the Pope himself placed a great deal of trust. He was intelligent, shrewd, and was effective as a collector of information. All of which made him a most useful tool for the Pope.

  But not a friend for other men. And Joseph had no desire to see him. Not now. The last time he had seen the Bishop was at the body of poor Richard.

  He would never forget that day, he reckoned. Seeing poor Richard lying there, and then the lovely woman who looked so nervous at the fringe of the wood, and her man with her …

  Suddenly he felt his belly lurch with something akin to horror. The woman! Of course! She’d been so nervous. And her man had disappeared when he arrived!

  Her man must have been the killer of Richard de Yatton.

  Simon was about to sip again at his wine, when a man walked past him, and he idly looked the fellow over.

  It was a routine thing for him. Every time he saw a new face, he would try to commit the face and any recognisable features to memory. Not because the man was a felon, but because he was keen to know all those who worked on his moors. And now he had no moors to patrol, the habit was so deeply entrenched that he could not help himself from doing it.

  His eyes passed over the man’s long hair, down to his parti-coloured blue and blue-striped hosen, over the tabard with the King’s insignia, and on – and then back. He looked at the King’s sign more closely, peering with a fixed frown on his face, before sitting back and considering.

  ‘What is it, Simon?’ Baldwin asked, noticing his pensiveness.

  ‘I was wondering. When the King’s herald was killed, he died on the road between Christ Church and Beaulieu.’

  ‘Yes. And also in-between many other towns.’

  ‘Aye, but it was still between those two. When we spoke to Prior Eastry at Canterbury, he said that the man who killed the monk and stole the oil was seen going west, too. Going in that same direction. So we assumed he was a genuine king’s herald.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But there are others who wear the tabard, aren’t there? Not all are heralds.’

  ‘True. So what?’

  ‘Well,’ Simon said, waving a hand expansively about the yard before them. ‘Whoever he is, and whatever he is, if he’s a King’s man of any sort, the chances are, he’s here somewhere.’

  Baldwin gave a slow nod. It was a thought which should have already occurred to him, but he had so effectively erased that murder and robbery from his mind that he had not considered it for days. He looked about him now, and it struck him how out of place he and Si
mon were. They were country folk, unused to so much display and boastfulness. All about them men were talking about their prowess in one field or another, usually with little regard for the truth. To Baldwin, the scene was familiar, but somehow skewed. He was accustomed to the ways of great courts from his time in the Knights Templar. More recently, his experiences at the courts at Exeter had helped form his opinion that more good justice was handed down locally than at the King’s courts, no matter what they were labelled. There was less posturing, less jockeying for position in the local courts.

  Here, though, the place reeked of ambition. Men would trade their souls for a little of the power that resided here in the King’s hands. It made Baldwin suddenly realise why it was that men would go to war. Oh, some no doubt actually believed in the causes espoused by their leaders, but more, he felt sure, were driven either by an immediate desire for money, or by an urge to show themselves to the King. So many would do foolish things in order to be noticed, in the hope of winning that coveted trophy of knighthood, or perhaps in the hope of a reward of lands or money later. All would risk much in order to achieve something that was in essence trivial. But they thought it worth dying for.

  And men came here to serve the King from all over the country in the hope that he might see them and be impressed. Impressed enough to reward them.

  A man might, just might, come here and present the King with a gift, he thought. That would be a knightly way to be noticed, arriving here with a small phial that contained holy oil from St Thomas.

  ‘You’re wanted,’ the man said.

  Baldwin eyed him with an expression of blank disapproval. The fellow was dressed like a Welsh shepherd, with long hosen under a rough tunic of some cheap material that looked almost like fustian. He wore a thick, quilted linen jack, with a leather cotte over the top, and a green cloak about his shoulders. Although quite tall for a Welshman, he was not so tall as Baldwin, not that it mattered. The fact that there were three of his companions behind him, two with staffs in their hands, was more than enough reason for Baldwin to avoid an altercation.