Michael Jecks - The Prophecy of Death

‘You’ve been travelling too long with strangers,’ he rebuked himself, and kicked his horse onwards.

There was nothing said, but all the men were wary and eyeing the trees with some trepidation. Nothing rustled or moved, there was no indication that there could be danger in there, but all knew the risks of walking under the trees. Woods gave too many opportunities for concealment, and a man hidden from view could do much damage with a bow. Two could halt a large force like this. They would only need to drop three or four men, and the Bishop’s party would be halved.

Baldwin edged his mount nearer to the Bishop as they walked down the slight incline to the path through the trees, and drew his sword, lifting the cross to his mouth and kissing it as he offered up a short prayer for their safety.

At first they were moving through pools of sunlight that dappled the grass. But soon they were into truly old woods, with trees standing in some places so close together that there was scarce space for the brambles to take hold. It grew dark, a darkness that was filled with the odour of dampness and mulch. The air seemed thick with the scent of decay, a sweet, pleasant smell, while it grew cooler under the shadows.

‘What do you think, Baldwin?’ Simon asked, drawing level with his friend.

‘I think that this would be an ideal place for a felon to launch an attack on a party such as this … but I can see no sign of such men,’ Baldwin admitted.

Yet even as he spoke, he felt sure that he heard a shout. A bellow of fear, a shrill scream, and then the rumble of hooves.

‘Simon — the Bishop!’ he called, drawing his sword and spurring his mount.

The two men cantered forwards, past the Bishop himself, and then paused, blocking the path. And now, as his mount jerked his head up and down, pulling at the bridle, Simon heard it too. The far-off thunder of a horse at full gallop. He glanced at Baldwin, and the knight slowly nodded. They could only see a matter of twenty yards from here. After that the roadway curved gently to their left. Baldwin motioned, and the pair trotted onwards to the bend. And now Simon caught sight of the man on the horse. He was already a mere eighty yards from them.

‘Stop!’ Baldwin shouted.

‘Sweet Christ, Baldwin — he’s a King’s messenger!’ Simon breathed, seeing the uniform as the man galloped towards them.

‘Let me pass in the King’s name!’

‘Wait!’ Baldwin said, and the fellow was forced to rein in his horse, drawing to a halt only a few yards from them. ‘We are riding to the King. What is your name, messenger?’

‘Let me past! Let me through, I need to get out!’

‘You will wait, man! Are you all right?’

‘I am Joseph of Faversham, Cursor to the King, and I am carrying messages for him. Let me through!’

‘What is the reason for your haste? You were riding like a man with the devil behind him.’

‘I have urgent messages!’ Joseph looked about him at the men. He could see that one of the men was clad in the dress of a bishop, and the sight was some reassurance, but even a bishop looked suspicious to him today. ‘Who are you?’

‘I am Sir Baldwin de Furnshill, Keeper of the King’s Peace, and this is Bailiff to the Abbot of Tavistock, Master Simon Puttock. We are here watching over the Bishop of Orange on his way to the King. So speak! What has so frightened you?’

Joseph glanced again at the Bishop, and then made his decision. ‘A king’s herald — he’s been murdered.’

It took little time for him to guide them to the body. It lay a scant two hundred yards from them, further on into the woods.

Baldwin felt no thrill of excitement as he approached the body. In the past he had been aware of that frisson as he found a corpse, knowing that the dead could always tell how he had died, and sometimes point to the murderer. Not today, though. This body was certainly over a week old, from the look of it. Decomposition had set in, and there were the marks of wild creatures all about it. The eyes were gone, pecked out, and fingers and belly had been gnawed, while ants had set up a trail to the wound in the stomach.

‘There is little we may learn from this,’ he said heavily, gazing down at the body.

The man had been left at the side of the road, bundled into a small ditch. There was a thin covering afforded by some branches from nearby saplings, whose pale leaves washed with sunlight were so bright against the dead man’s dark tabard, stained filthy with blood, that they concealed him all the more effectively. The tabard was disturbed where animals had foraged, and Baldwin doubted anyone would ever be able to tell how the man had died, there were so many signs of animal attack.

‘I doubt his own mother would recognise him now,’ Simon said from some yards away. He had a reluctance to view older bodies that had always rankled with Baldwin. To the knight, any corpse was a challenge intellectually, to tell how the man had died, to evaluate clues; for Simon, a corpse was merely repugnant, a foul reminder of a man’s mortality. The scents and sights could always turn his stomach.

Simon continued, his voice muffled by his sleeve, which he held over his nose to avert the odours, ‘Anyway, we know he must be about ten days dead. He was found by the outlaws who live here in the woods, perhaps, and they killed him for his purse.’

‘Perhaps, yes,’ Baldwin agreed. ‘Poor fellow — to be set upon and killed all this way from any help.’

‘Baldwin. His tabard is very filthy. Was that from a wound of his?’ Simon said. ‘Because if not, it could be the man who killed Gilbert.’

‘We know Gilbert was murdered on the night of the Monday after Easter … this is Thursday, so Gilbert died a week ago last Tuesday. It took us two days to arrive here, and one man on his own might have made the same distance a little more swiftly,’ Baldwin mused. ‘It’s possible, yes.’

‘That would be justice of a sort.’

Baldwin nodded. ‘Away, dog!’

His favourite dog from the Bishop’s stable had intruded its nose and was sniffing with some interest at the corpse at Baldwin’s feet. He gently pushed the animal away with his foot. ‘Perhaps we should seek for the oil here, then.’

The Bishop called out, ‘Are you done? We may report this man’s body to the nearest vill so that they might call the coroner, but for now we must hasten.’

Joseph nodded on hearing that. ‘I should be gone, too. I have urgent messages from the King to the prior at Canterbury. I have tarried long enough already.’

‘You may go, then. And when you see the good prior, please inform him that we have found this body, thanks to your help. It is possible that the thief and murderer is himself dead,’ Baldwin said.

Joseph nodded, but with a confused expression. ‘This man’s a murderer?’

‘Yes. How did you see him, though, Joseph?’

‘I saw a glint of some sort as I rode past. And, well, I have seen money discarded in the woods before. I suppose sometimes a man is beset by outlaws and seeks to prevent them winning his money, so throws it away. Well, I hoped it was that. And then found him, instead.’

‘Do you recognise him?’ Baldwin asked.

‘Your companion’s just said, Sir, that his own mother wouldn’t know him now. I certainly wouldn’t.’

Baldwin nodded, but insisted that the messenger lean closer. ‘You are in the King’s service too. This is probably a man you have met.’

Joseph obediently wrapped a cloth about his nose and leaned down closer, wincing, and then shook his head. ‘No, I cannot say. His hair is unfamiliar, and so is his face. But that is a genuine King’s tabard for a herald. I do know that much.’

Baldwin thanked him, and Joseph climbed into the saddle, whirled about, and then cantered off eastwards.