The Prophecy of Death: (Knights Templar 25)

by Michael Jecks

  In answer, Ayrminne opened his travelling chest, he took out the little soft leather purse and hefted it in his hand. Not quite a king’s ransom.

  ‘Be careful. The King is keen on the story of St Thomas. He would dearly like to bring punishment down on the head of the man who killed a monk down there in the priory where Henry II had seen to the slaughter of the saint.’

  ‘Oh, I’ll be careful,’ Jack said. It would be the last sentence he spoke to Ayrminne.

  Baldwin and Simon were wary as they approached the King’s son.

  All Simon could think of was how young the Earl looked. His own first-born son would have been how old now? About ten? This lad was two years older than that, if he was right, and yet he hardly looked it. He held himself well, though. His manner was haughty, and he had a cold eye for Baldwin and any others he glanced at. He wasn’t impressed by rank, clearly. No reason why he ought to be. He had as many servants looking after him as any king, and he had knights and bannerets in his household, too.

  ‘Your Highness, you asked to see us?’ Baldwin said.

  ‘I noticed that you had taken some interest in my behaviour at the King’s hall just now.’

  ‘No, I was merely looking about the hall to see who else was there,’ he said.

  ‘You were both watching me and my friends,’ the Earl corrected him. ‘And I wish to know why.’

  Simon kept his head down, but his mind was whirling. The Earl must be perfectly used to being observed by others at all times, surely.

  Baldwin was more conciliatory. ‘My Lord, I was not aware I had caused you any offence.’

  Bury was bristling with righteous indignation. ‘You stare at the Earl and think you do him no insult?’

  ‘Does my glance occasion such an insult?’ Baldwin said, staring fixedly at Bury.

  Bury was quiet for a moment, and then opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, the Earl held up a hand. Instantly Bury was stilled.

  The Earl eyed Baldwin closely. ‘If I were King, I could consider your attitude to be insolent.’

  ‘When you are King, I shall be more cautious, I swear,’ Baldwin said, but he was smiling, and he lowered his eyes to avoid the Earl. ‘I promise you, upon my honour, that I meant you no harm and didn’t mean to insult or offend you. I was only looking about the hall.’

  ‘Why?’ the Earl snapped.

  ‘Because it occurred to me that among the men of the hall may be the man who had murdered the monk at Canterbury, and stolen your father’s oil. And I caught your eye because I was reflecting to myself that the oil itself, were it to be recovered, may be extremely valuable to you.’

  ‘You suggest that I stole it for myself?’

  Baldwin shot a look upward, and stared a moment. ‘My Lord, the oil would be valuable to you, I said. I meant that, were someone to try to blackmail you by demanding money in exchange for the oil, you might feel forced to agree to pay.’

  ‘I might be more inclined to take the bastard’s head off for stealing what would be mine anyway. As well as declaring him to the King for treason, in stealing what is the King’s.’

  ‘And perhaps also for bringing about another instance of embarrassment at Christ Church.’

  ‘Yes. The man who killed the monk there was obviously not a friend to the King,’ the Earl said. He was eyeing Baldwin with a speculative expression now. ‘You are saying all this for a reason, are you not? What is your interest in this?’

  ‘I am a humble knight,’ Baldwin said. ‘But I do have my own interest.’

  ‘I thought as much. What is that?’

  ‘Your father’s friend has instructed me to investigate the matter for him. He has his own reasons for wanting to know where the oil is.’

  ‘Despenser, you mean?’ the Earl said with a raised eyebrow. ‘You may tell him from me that you do not need to investigate further on his behalf. I will not have the oil in his hands.’

  ‘I …’ Baldwin was for the first time in a long while confused. It would have given Simon some pleasure, were it not for the fact that his own life and security depended upon his not upsetting Despenser.

  ‘I would prefer you to seek the oil, find it, and bring it to me,’ the Earl said.

  ‘But, my Lord Earl, that is very difficult. I cannot simply—’

  ‘You can decide whether to obey him, or me. He is the ally of my father the King – but that position could change at any time. The other alternative would be for you to support me. And those who do so will become my firm friends for the future. You understand me?’

  ‘Earl, I am afraid that the Despenser has already demanded my help in locating the oil, and if we do not help him, he has sworn to make my friend here suffer the direst consequences.’

  The Earl gazed at Simon with a pursing of his lips. ‘Let me guess – that he’d take your house?’

  ‘And rape my wife and see to my death,’ Simon said quietly.

  ‘You love your wife?’

  Simon was about to respond with a wild demand to know what Chester meant to suggest, when he reflected that the Earl had seen his own parents’ marriage dissolve under the pressures of politics and the King’s infidelities. He swallowed back his angry response, and merely nodded. ‘Yes. I love her dearly. I would not do anything that could endanger her.’

  The Earl looked at him, then back at Bury. ‘Then I shall have to consult to see how best to ensure that you are safe, Master Bailiff. I am sure that there must be a way.’

  ‘What do you think?’ the Earl said to Richard of Bury as Baldwin and Simon backed away from him.

  ‘I would find it difficult to like that knight. He does not seem a sympathetic soul,’ Bury said scathingly, adding, ‘I doubt he owns a single book.’

  ‘Do you think so? I should have said he was quite an educated fellow. Still, no matter. The main point is that I felt sure he was honest. I would trust him.’

  ‘He has already confessed that he is working for Despenser,’ Bury said warningly.

  ‘And gave good reasons why he and his friend were forced into it.’

  ‘It is hard to trust a man who is the ally of your enemy.’

  ‘Sir Hugh is not my enemy – yet!’ the Earl said with a faint grin. ‘And aren’t you always saying that I should have faith in my own judgement of a man? I judge this one to be honourable and decent. And as you know, my mother was herself complimentary about him. She had some experience of him, and then was happy with him as her guard on the way to Paris.’

  ‘True. And yet—’

  ‘And yet nothing! I trust him well enough. That is enough.’

  André and Pons were both seated at a bench in the gatehouse tavern, when the messenger arrived. Jack looked about him at the people inside for some little while before he recognised the two. He smiled to himself, and then crossed the floor to them.

  ‘Friends, I think you are fortunate today,’ he began.

  Pons looked at him, then across at André, before looking back up at Jack. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I think you can guess that, can’t you? I am like you two: a man-at-arms for the Bishop. I shared your journey all the way to Canterbury, where you two decided to flee. I have had a hard life, you know. A little money would go a long way for me. But I have the problem that I am not now a free man to take whatever I want. So I have to seek an accommodation if I want ready cash.’

  André sniffed and reached out with an elegant hand to pick up his drinking horn, a green pottery thing shaped roughly like a horn, but with two legs to convert it into a cup that could stand on its own. ‘I don’t think I understand you, my friend.’

  ‘I got to thinking that if a man was to steal something from a priory, he’d have to run soon after. Especially if he killed someone to get it. You took the King’s oil and fled. Only to bring it to your master, of course. The question is, have you still got it, or is it given to the Bishop already?’

  Pons looked at his companion again, then shrugged. ‘We have no oil.’

  ‘
That is a shame. Because I’ve been offered ten English shillings to get it back from you. With my three-shilling share, that would still leave you with three and a half each.’ Jack smiled and sat opposite them.

  André smiled with an easy calmness. ‘And that would indeed be a wonderful present, if we had the oil. But, my friend, we do not. So, you rise, please, and leave us.’

  ‘Are you trying to tell me you never had it?’ Jack grinned. ‘That’s a shame. I reckon I can get the King to think you did have it. And the Despenser, too. You want him to come looking for the oil? Perfectly possible. I can see to it.’

  André eyed him with a cold, calculating expression. ‘You threaten us with this? I think you do not know what you are doing, friend. Pons, do you think the Bishop would miss one man-at-arms on the way homewards?’

  The shorter man responded in swift colloquial French, and Jack suddenly felt wary. He had his knife ready under the table, in case these two decided to try to silence him, and now he wished he had kept to a seat nearer the door. He sat more upright, moving his legs underneath him, his left hand on the bench. ‘Well?’ he said.

  Pons spat something that sounded like a deeply insulting reference to his mother, and suddenly the two had lifted the table and it was moving towards his face. Jack leaped up and back, hurling the bench away, as the table rose and hit his cheek, but his knife hand was already on it, and he jerked it down and away, slamming the heavy wood down, the edge striking André on the foot and making him howl. Pons was right beside the table, his dagger out. He pushed the table, which now hit Jack’s hip, the weight driving him backwards, while Pons jumped forward, the sharp tip of his dagger snagging in Jack’s linen shirt. Jack felt the prick of the blade in his belly even as his heels both struck the bench he had shoved back, and he began to fall backwards, his eyes on that damned blade.

  He hit his rump, then his back, and tried to roll away, but the knife was very close. And then he snapped his legs away, and was on his flank, drawing his legs underneath him, pushing with a hand to lift himself up again, and … felt the knife at the back of his neck, the point tickling just under his skull, where he knew a sharp thrust would cut his spinal cord and end his life in an instant.

  ‘Now, friend, perhaps we should go and talk somewhere quieter?’ André said. And this time there was no humour in his tone. Only fury – and hatred.

  Baldwin and Simon were crossing the New Palace Yard when they saw the three bundling out from the tavern, and Simon was sure he saw a blade glinting wickedly in the grey light. ‘Baldwin!’

  The knight swore under his breath and nodded. They both began to run to the group. ‘Halt! You three! Stop!’

  There was a flurry of fists, and a sharp cry, and Baldwin saw one man drop to the ground, and then he had his own sword drawn, the blue steel shining clean and pure. ‘Hold there, I say, in the name of the King!’

  The two men standing threw a look at him over their shoulders, and he recognised the two from Canterbury. ‘Christ Jesus, Simon, they’ve killed again!’ he shouted as he pelted towards them.

  They looked a little indecisive, then started to run. But to Baldwin’s surprise, they didn’t try to bolt for it, out through the main gate, which stood only a few yards from them; instead, they ran the other way, across Baldwin’s and Simon’s front, heading to their right, back towards the main palace.

  Baldwin and Simon looked at each other, baffled by this new turn of events, and they were about to set off in pursuit, when a black body hurtled past them. It was Wolf, and he bolted along, looking like a lumbering brute, but covering the ground with speed. He was past Simon and Baldwin, and overhauling the two with ease, when one of them turned and saw the beast. It was Pons, and he gabbled something in a hurry, staring over his shoulder. Then Baldwin saw André stop and pull a dagger from his belt. He tossed it up, caught it by the point, and was about to hurl it at Wolf, when a stone hit his temple. It stunned him, and he dropped his dagger, falling to his knees.

  ‘Who the hell?’ Simon cried, but even as he said it, he saw the man over to his right, a king’s man, as was apparent from his tabard, who had stooped to pick up another stone. Then he recognised Thomas.

  There was no need. Wolf gave a leap, and both forepaws thudded into Pons’s back. He crashed to the ground with a loud gasp that Simon and Baldwin could hear even as they ran, and then they heard the low rumble of Wolf’s growl.

  ‘Wolf, Wolf,’ Baldwin shouted, anxious that his dog should not kill the man, but he need not have worried. Wolf remained still, standing over Pons, his muzzle touching the back of Pons’s neck, but apart from growling in a blood-curdling manner, he didn’t harm the man.

  Simon had already reached the languid figure of André, who was trying to climb to his feet, and then toppling back, as regular as the sweep of Wolf’s tail, up and down.

  ‘Keep still,’ Simon snarled and thrust hard with his boot. André fell back and stared up bemusedly. His dagger was forgotten a foot or two from his hand, and Simon pushed it further away with the point of his sword.

  Baldwin allowed Pons to stand, while Wolf looked on disapprovingly, a growl rumbling deep in his throat every few moments. Pons eyed him with apparent terror, but made no move to escape again. He stood quietly, hands at his sides.

  ‘So, tell me, master. What made you want to kill the man over there?’

  ‘He came into the tavern and threatened us. What would you have us do?’

  ‘Well, friend, firstly I’d have you tell the truth. You see, what I saw, as Keeper of the King’s Peace,’ Baldwin said conversationally, ‘was you pulling a man from the tavern and stabbing him several times, without hesitation, and without provocation. It was witnessed by a king’s bailiff, too, my friend over there.’

  ‘I am the servant of the Bishop of Orange.’

  ‘I know – if you recall, I was with you at Canterbury before you fled. So, that does not help you. Another dead man, and clearly a man whom you murdered intentionally. And while you were missing, another king’s man was killed. This begins to look rather as though you are desperate to have yourself arrested. In God’s name, man, why kill someone here, in the open, in the King’s new palace? You must be a fool or mad.’

  ‘You have no authority over me. I am here with the Bish—’

  ‘So you said, yes. But I am here with the King, on urgent business from the Queen. I think my word will carry more weight than yours, my fine fellow.’

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  It was obvious that Jack was not going to survive. Even as Simon and Baldwin reached him, Thomas behind André and Pons to prevent their escape, he was rolling on his back, his hands grasping, bloody talons in the air over his belly and chest. Baldwin could not see how many wounds there were on his body, but from the blood that lay spilled over the ground, it was clear that he had been mortally wounded. He could not speak above a whisper, and as Baldwin knelt beside him, he managed to mutter, ‘Ayrminne. His money. Tell him who did this. He’ll av … enge me.’

  ‘Why would these men attack you?’ Baldwin asked, and repeated his question three times, but even when he bent and put his ear to the dying man’s mouth, there was not enough energy in him to do anything more than hiss.

  It was no good. Baldwin bellowed for a priest, and was startled when one materialised from behind him. The fellow knelt immediately to give the King’s man his last questions and offer him salvation.

  ‘What now?’ Simon asked. He had his sword to André’s neck, while Thomas had his own at Pons’s.

  ‘Now,’ Baldwin said, looking from one to the other of his captives, ‘I think we tell the King that these two have slain one of his guest’s guards in broad daylight, such as it is, and in front of our eyes. I don’t think he will be enormously impressed. Do you?’

  ‘We are here with the Bishop of Orange. We demand to see him,’ Pons said. André was still looking a little bemused, shaking his head and blinking. His face had gone a pasty, yellow colour, and Baldwin was more than a little co
ncerned that the blow to his head might have concussed him, but for now he was not being sick, and had not lost consciousness, so he reasoned that the man should be all right.

  ‘Shut up!’ Thomas grated, giving Pons a swift punch to the side of his head.

  ‘You may be assured that I will tell him all,’ Baldwin said, taking Thomas’s fist in his hand and preventing any more blows. ‘Meanwhile, unless you tell us what was happening in that tavern, I will be forced to go straight to the King to tell him you have killed a man in his own palace yard. He will not be sympathetic to you.’

  ‘We have nothing to say to you. Only to the Bishop,’ Pons said, giving Thomas a baleful look.

  Baldwin was not loath to deliver the two to the King’s guards down at the steps to the undercroft near the chapel. He watched the two being led down, still demanding vociferously that they should be allowed to speak with their bishop, but to no avail.

  ‘What will happen to them?’ Thomas asked harshly. He thrust his sword away regretfully.

  ‘For now, little enough, I expect. Sadly, I think that even if the King tries to question them, the Pope’s man will have them escape risk of life and limb. They can sit in there for a while, though. Do you know them?’

  ‘No, but I know this other fellow. The one they killed. He was a friend of mine.’

  ‘He was with the Bishop too, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, but he befriended me in Beaulieu.’

  ‘Yes?’ Baldwin prompted.

  Thomas looked at him from the corner of his eye. This keeper was known to him by face, but he had no idea of Baldwin’s allegiance, and in this land it was dangerous to mention Despenser. If you were insulting about him to a stranger, you might later learn that the ‘stranger’ was a close friend of Despenser who’d told him everything. The first you’d usually know was when someone arrived at your house in the middle of the night with a flaming torch.

  ‘Friend,’ Baldwin said, ‘all I am trying to do is discover why your friend was murdered. If you don’t want me to learn that, tell me nothing. However, if you were his friend, please tell me all so that I can make sure his killers actually pay for their crime. If you don’t help me, they will probably escape. If you help me, I swear I’ll take the matter up, even if I have to go to the Devil himself.’