Michael Jecks - The Prophecy of Death

With a leaden sensation in his belly, André turned from the little house and was about to walk back to his horse, when he heard the voice.

‘My son, can I help you?’

‘Holy Christ!’ Pons muttered.

‘Thank you, Father,’ André said, ignoring his companion. ‘May we have a word?’

Château du Bois

The Queen lifted her arms as her maids stood about and slipped them into the sleeves of her dress.

‘ Dieu! ’

The weight of it was astonishing! All the jewels which she had demanded, sewn into the fabric, made it extraordinarily heavy, and she looked down with some perplexity. ‘Alicia?’

Alicia was her most trusted companion. It was not a position she had sought, but it was inevitable amongst the present ladies-in-waiting that she should win it. The others had all been selected by the King and Despenser to join her, and the Queen and Alicia knew perfectly well why that was: they were here to spy upon her.

There were two main agents of the King: Lady Alice de Toeni, the Dowager Countess of Warwick, and Joan of Bar, King Edward’s niece. But the Queen was not so foolish as to believe that these were the only two who were watching her. Her husband was mistrustful of everyone recently, and the fact that his Isabella had been loyal to him through all the trials of the last ten years, that she had supported him when he most needed her aid, counted now for nothing. All the King would see when he looked at her was the woman who was sister to the French King. Nothing else.

Of course it was not spies of the King of whom she must be most on her guard. No, it was any man or woman who could be considered a friend or ally of that evil demon, Despenser. Evil demon. She rather liked that. The fact that the son of a peasant was now the most powerful man in the realm was entirely monstrous, but her husband had allowed him to take that position. It was his foolhardiness which had seeded the fruitful fields of Despenser’s ambition. And his spies would be all about her. She knew that.

Interestingly, she was beginning to feel that Lady Joan of Bar was growing more and more sympathetic towards her. Perhaps it was not surprising, for Lady Joan had suffered from a brute of a husband.

‘It pinches about my waist. I want it to be let out a little. I wish to be glorious, not suffocated!’ she stated, and the dress was taken away to be reworked.

The wedding was not until July, but she must look her best. She had a duty to England, to her husband — whether he expected or cared about it or not — and to her cousin, Jeanne d’Evreux, the King’s fiancée.

She was a lovely little thing, Jeanne. Already Isabella felt a certain understanding between them, which she hoped would only continue once Jeanne had married her brother.

He, of course, was more circumspect. As the King of France, he could not demonstrate too much compassion for her, but he had succeeded in making his feelings plain about some aspects. The fact that Despenser was gaining in wealth and treasure while Isabella’s estates were confiscated was deeply insulting to the French crown; worse, the fact that her children had been taken from her was shameful. That seemed to imply that the King viewed her as a traitor ! To suggest such a thing was an affront to the French monarchy.

It was one thing to say that something was an insult, but another to live with the effects, though. Isabella missed her children so much … her little John, only eight years old, and her little darling; Eleanor, two years younger, and Joan, little more than a baby at three years. Her first-born, Edward, was almost thirteen, of course, and he would not be so dreadfully worried. He had seen his father’s irrationality before, and had seen it dissipate. She hoped he would be strong enough. But the others … to have been dragged from their mother, and still not to know their own father’s love, they must be in misery.

She refused to think of such things. To do so in front of the ladies-in-waiting would only lead to rumours of her misery becoming widely disseminated. She would not give such solace to Despenser, nor to her husband. Instead, she would keep cheerful during the day, and only relieve herself in tears in the depths of the night.

At least some people were kind enough to support her. Henry Eastry at Canterbury had been very good to her; William Ayrminne was a solid friend; even the Bishop of Orange relayed messages of encouragement from the Pope which were generous to a fault. With fortune, all those with good wishes for her would be able to make their mark.

The Bishop was an interesting man, of course. Tall, urbane, shrewd as a farmer eyeing the cattle at market, he rarely allowed anyone a glimpse of what was going on inside his head, but he was the Pope’s own ambassador just now, and that meant he was one of the most powerful men in the world.

Well, she deserved to have a man like him visit her and take up her cause. She was the daughter of Philippe the Fair, King of France, and wife to the King of England, whether he liked it or not. Isabella was a woman of standing. A noblewoman of the highest rank.

And she was deprived even of the companionship of her children .

St Mary in the Marsh

The priest was a youngish man, with mousy hair and a slightly peering stance, head leaning forward, his eyes squinting slightly.

‘Father, we’re very glad to meet you,’ André said.

‘Ah, you are foreign?’

‘From Hainault, Father. We are lost, trying to find our way to London.’

‘You are a long way from there, my son,’ the priest said, and André heard the sudden reticence, the suspicion in his voice.

Ach, it was an obvious error. He mentioned the first town that came to his mind in this strange land, and should have realised that the main city was some distance. But how could he know? It was many years since he was last in this country, and then he hadn’t made it to London.

He smiled. ‘Oh? And we thought it was so near,’ he said as he put his hand about the man’s neck and shoved his dagger into the priest’s belly.

The man just gave a quiet gasp, nothing more. He stared in horror as André carefully ripped the blade upwards, using the sawing motion he was so experienced in, the priest goggle-eyed, mouth open, as though he hated to interrupt the fellow about his business, and then André smiled at him, nodding calmly as he saw the life fade from the priest’s eyes, in a way hoping that his gentleness would ease the man’s passing. In any case, it was fast, and there was not a great deal more any man could do than that for someone.

As the priest slumped, André allowed him to slide from the blade, and watched as the fellow began to jerk and twist in his death throes. One foot beat so hard against the floor, it ended up leaving a smear of blood, but that was nothing compared with the mess about his belly and the ground about him.

He had keys at his belt, though. While Pons took the ring from his forefinger, André went to the box in the church. The second key was clearly the only one that was the right size to fit the hole in the lid, and he thrust it in and turned it. The noise of the levers being shifted was music to his ears, and he opened the lid with a tingling anticipation in his belly.

Inside, he saw with a gasp of joy, was a gold cross with jewels set into it. The church here had a marvellous patron. Ach, he would have been glad to meet the man himself, and take advantage of the fellow’s hospitality! Whoever he was, he had a goodly purse.

Back in the priest’s house, he looked for spare clothing in the man’s boxes. In his little bedchamber there was a chest, and inside it was a shirt and a thick robe. It was good enough. André ripped off his bloody and messed tunic, and replaced it. It was made of good, soft wool, and he was glad to have made the exchange.