Michael Jecks - The Prophecy of Death

Jack watched him, the still, serious man, and then turned and eyed the older man with the smiling face. He had been a felon for too long. He knew how to recognise men, to see which would be most dangerous, which he could pick on easily.

He wouldn’t try anything with either of these, he decided — but of the two, he would leave the older, cheerful man well alone by choice. He looked much the more dangerous of the pair.

After the excitement of the previous day and the morning, Baldwin was glad to be in the saddle once more, ready to leave Canterbury. As he and Simon sat on their mounts, waiting for all the other men to collect about the Bishop, Baldwin saw the coroner at the gate to the priory close. On a whim, he spurred his rounsey and crossed the court to Sir Robert’s side.

‘I thank you for your help today,’ he said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Scaring off our two guards. What did you say to them? That you’d be seeking their heads as soon as they left the good bishop’s service?’

The coroner looked him up and down. He was leaning with his back at the gate itself, while his thumbs remained tucked into his sword belt. Jerking his chin at the Bishop, he said, ‘What do you think of him? He worth protecting?’

‘Of course he is. He may be able to save some lives, if he persuades the King to prevent war with France,’ Baldwin said.

‘Hmm. How would you like him to have only outlaws for his guards?’

Baldwin cast a look over his shoulder at the men, before sighing, ‘Coroner, I and my friend may be the only two in his entourage who have not been outlawed at one time or another!’

‘Ha! Yes, you could be speaking the truth there. And yet one of the two last night was recognised by men here in the city. The short, smelly one? At the inquest, he said his name was “Pons”, didn’t he? He has gone under the name of Stephen the Frank. I knew of him in Ashford as Stephen the Sailor, and others knew him under other names. He is rumoured to have killed his own master. The other I didn’t know, but from his appearance I would think him formed from the same mould.’

‘So you think you have helped to save the Bishop by persuading the two least reliable men from his party to go? Perhaps he was well aware of their unreliability,’ Baldwin said. It was true enough. Often a baron or knight would gladly hire a man who was dangerous and known as a killer, because such a man would appreciate his safety in a larger household, as well as feeling a debt to his new master.

‘Perhaps he was. But with the two replacements, you’ll have a better party to travel all the way to Beaulieu. These two are known to me … They are safe.’

‘Well, for that I thank you, at least,’ Baldwin said. ‘Do you know where the worst parts of the journey are likely to be?’

‘The forests of Kent are moderately safe, I think. It’s when you cross into Sussex and Hampshire that you’ll find your progress endangered. That is what I have heard, in any case. Keep to the road past Ashford, through Cranbrook and Crowborough, and you should be all right. Watch your bishop, and watch your own back, Sir Knight. I wouldn’t want you to learn that your companions are dangerous by their attacking you.’

‘I am grateful for your words, Coroner,’ Baldwin said. And then he bowed and saluted the man. ‘Sincerely.’

Coroner Robert grunted. ‘Get off with you, Sir Knight. I hope next time we meet it may be under a more auspicious light. Go with God and be cautious on the road. Farewell and Godspeed!’

Second Wednesday after Easter 12

St Mary in the Marsh

They were cold and tired by the time they saw the little cross in the distance. There had been plenty of other little settlements on their way here, but they had been keeping quiet, hiding up in woods last night. They were happy to be away from Canterbury, but now they had run out of food, and this prosperous little vill looked good to them.

Pons took a careful look about. It was the countryside he really liked. The marshes here were all flat pastureland, the grasses sliced apart by a number of little streams and rivulets, each dully grey, like rivers of lead in the verdant green. As they rode, the sheep on either side rose, startled, and occasionally they saw a shepherd in the distance, leaning on a crook and watching them — although whether suspiciously or merely from a spirit of mild enquiry, they couldn’t tell.

So far as André was concerned, it was hard to imagine quite such a desolate landscape. It looked as though God had decided to eradicate everything from the place. There were no trees nearby, no hills, nothing. Just this lengthening grassy plain that had been slashed by water. It made him enormously nostalgic for his homelands, with the view of mountains in the distance.

‘Where are we?’ Pons said, looking about him with a frown of disdain.

‘If God wanted to give the world a kick up the arse, he’d do it here,’ André summarised. ‘This is the shit-hole of the world. I’ve never seen a place its equal.’

‘ Oui . So what do we do?’

‘We ride to that vill there, and see whether the road rides us out to the west. And if it does, we wait a while, and then visit the church.’

‘And then?’

‘Take what we may, and ride on. I will not try to kill myself by riding onwards with no money in my pocket. There must be something in there we can use.’

And as a plan, it was good. There was nobody about in the vill when they rode in. Everybody was out in the fields.

‘Come!’ André said, and trotted to the church door.

It was only a small churchyard, here, and the animals had kept the grass down, sheep and horses grazing it to a one-inch-long stubble. The little hummocks and stones showed where the older members of the vill had been buried, while one or two smaller lumps demonstrated that demise was not the prerogative of the ancient.

The door was new, but creaked like an abbey’s. André walked, conscious of the noise his spurs made as he went, the cheap chain under the sole of his riding boots clattering on the flagstone floor.

‘Where is everyone?’ Pons demanded behind him.

‘Do we care?’ André said. His eyes were fixed upon the prize in front of him. There was a cheap cross made of wood sitting on the altar, and a box lay behind it. He smiled to himself and hurried to it, testing the lid, but it was securely fastened. Eyeing it, he reckoned he couldn’t lift it, let alone rest it on his horse for him to carry it. No, the blasted thing was far too heavy. The metal straps ran about it, and it had two great locks at the front of it.

‘Well?’ Pons said. ‘Can you open the thing?’

‘Of course I can …’ He felt the locks, and knew he had no chance. They were made by a good blacksmith. ‘Where is the priest?’

All vills like this had a small lodging near the church, if not a lean-to beside it, for the priest to live in. Both men knew that — but they also knew that the priest was usually a man like any other in the vill. If they wanted to find him, he would almost certainly be out in the fields with the men and women, working the land or catching birds.

They tried the house next to the church, and inside they found the paraphernalia of a vicar, but no sign of the man himself.

‘Do we wait?’ Pons said.

‘No. If we try that, people will see our horses as they come back to the vill. No, there’s nowhere to hide or conceal the beasts here. We’ll have to ride on,’ André said regretfully.

It was the only sensible conclusion. The sight of their horses would set all the tongues wagging, and when news of the attack came to be known, the villagers would know exactly who to blame. They would be able to describe the two men on horses who had come to their vill and stole from the church.