Michael Jecks - The Prophecy of Death

‘I didn’t expect you to be able to help,’ the coroner admitted as they walked back towards the prior’s chambers over the grass.

‘What do you believe happened?’ Baldwin asked.

‘Same as you. This Gilbert entered into some sort of agreement with another man, someone probably wearing a tabard similar to that of a king’s herald, and then when he passed over the oil, he was slain to silence him.’

‘Like a king’s herald, as you say,’ Baldwin agreed. ‘And yet, what purpose could a man like that have for stealing what was already the King’s?’

‘You tell me.’

Baldwin eyed him. The coroner was one of those who kept his own judgement, a man who was silent much of the time, watching and assessing rather than opening his mouth. He reminded Baldwin of a Devon farmer. They were often happier to keep their peace, judging quietly rather than speaking. One had said to him once that: ‘’Tiz better to keep gurt zilence an’ be thought a fule, raither’n open yure mouth and prove ’un.’

The coroner was a man in a similar mould. He would observe, note, and measure. And the reason was not hard to appreciate: all too many coroners had been shown to be corrupt, but so had keepers like Baldwin. He could understand the reluctance of a king’s coroner to speak in front of a keeper when the matter under consideration related to a king’s herald potentially being shown to be a murderer.

‘Coroner, a quiet word?’ he said.

‘Yes?’

‘We are both on the side of justice, friend. Let me hypothesise for a moment. Let us suppose that your peasant was no fool and knew the King’s badge when he saw it. That could mean that a king’s herald was here, and perhaps slew Brother Gilbert. That would mean that we would have to wonder what that herald was doing. He must have had a reason to want the oil, after all.’

‘Yes.’

‘So, either he committed this act on the King’s orders or he acted for himself, or another. It is unlikely that he would do this on the King’s behalf. Do you agree?’

‘Yes, on the basis of why would the King steal his own oil from the priory.’

‘Precisely. All he would need to do would be to speak to the prior and ask for it to be sent to him. There would be no need for a clandestine theft. So unless new evidence comes to light, that possibility can be set to one side. Which leaves either a herald acting on his own behalf or on the commands of another, or a man clad in herald’s tabard coming here and taking the oil.’

The coroner peered at him narrowly. They had no torches, and there was no light here in the court, other than the thin light from the stars overhead. ‘Well?’

‘We have little more to say, I think. Why should a herald wish to steal the oil? What possible use could he put it to? To have himself anointed with it and set himself up as King? Some fools could think that, once they were anointed with such a marvellous fluid, they automatically became God’s chosen, I suppose, but not many living in the King’s household would consider it likely.’

‘So someone else put him up to it?’

‘That is more likely.’

Simon was frowning. ‘Who would have a motive to do that?’

‘It is the King’s oil. Someone who wanted to withhold it from the King, perhaps to ransom it to the King later? Or someone who wished to withhold it from the King to cause him distress? I do not know.’

‘But you guess?’ the coroner asked shrewdly.

‘There are some who would not stop from any action. Those who are so proud and convinced of their own power that they would dare anything. However, my friend, they are genuinely dangerous. Unless you have a firm resolution, I should not personally seek to delve too deeply into this matter.’

‘I thank you for your warning,’ the coroner said, but there was a trace of sarcasm in his tone.

Baldwin shrugged. ‘You will act as you see fit, of course. But one thing: did anyone note the names of the King’s heralds who were here with the party before our own?’

‘There were two, I think, but I don’t know their names. You see a man like that, in uniform, and they are little more than the furniture in a room. Like a servant.’

‘True enough. Someone must, though. Could you enquire for me? The other thing is, in which direction did the man say this herald was riding?’

‘Away south and west. On the main Ashford road, so he could have been heading almost anywhere.’

‘But that would be the road that we would take, I think?’ Baldwin said. ‘It is the road that heads towards the King at Beaulieu?’

‘I haven’t been there, but yes, I think so. It’s the road the rest of his party took.’

‘So, hypothetically, it is possible that the man was indeed a king’s herald. And the King himself commands the heralds of his household.’

‘So you think the King ordered a man to come here, and to murder a monk in the priory where St Thomas was killed by King Henry II?’

‘The King has a friend who is capable of ordering a herald to do his bidding,’ Baldwin said dangerously. Before the coroner could comment, he continued, ‘Another thing, though, why should a young monk steal the key and take the oil to this herald?’

‘Money? Some other reward?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘More likely that, than the King or the King’s friend ordering the robbery of his own property,’ the coroner stated flatly.

‘Yes. Perhaps so,’ Baldwin said, but Simon could tell that his mind was running along a different lane just now. He was looking about him in that distracted manner which Simon knew so well.

The coroner gave them a Godspeed, and stalked across the court.

Baldwin sighed. ‘Simon, I think that man is destined for high office — or an early grave.’

Beaulieu Abbey

The messengers were always with the King. Many of them had worn their uniforms with the parti-coloured blue patterns with stripes for more years than the King had been on the throne. Some had been used so widely that their shoes had been replaced more times than they could remember. Those who set off on foot would cover the same distance as those who went on horseback, for a man was more resilient than a horse, when all was said and done, but such cursores were still rather beneath a man like Joseph of Faversham.

Pulling his coat about him again, he felt his shoulders fill the tunic. It was a magnificent uniform, if he said so himself. Buttons drew the cloth tight over his breast all the way to this throat, while more ran from the wrist to the elbow of his sleeves. It was as blue as all the other messengers’ tunics, but his was newer than any of theirs, and much smarter. He knew that because he’d deliberately bribed the man who had supplied it, paying over the odds to have the best.

There were good reasons for it, too. A man needed to stand out when he was one of a large company. And a king’s nuncius should look good. It was all a part of his duty to the King. And since he had been honoured when the King sent him to the Pope earlier this year, there were good reasons for him to look as good as he felt.

Not that he’d been feeling exactly perfect when he first got back. It had been a very long journey, and one fraught with dangers along the way. It was fortunate that the route was fairly well-defined, and other nuncii had told him the best places to rest and those which he should avoid. With good fortune, and a certain amount of his own natural cunning and skill, of course, he had made the journey in only a little over the time it would have taken a man vastly more experienced.

But that was the advantage of being so much younger than the others. Most of them were close to being retired.

‘Faversham, where are you?’