Michael Jecks - The Prophecy of Death

It had been too long since he had seen them. He was longing to hold his children, but still more keen to grasp his wife. The last time he had been apart from her, he had been sorely tested. Shipwrecked, lost, thinking himself the prisoner of pirates, he had taken the comfort and compassion of an island woman, and his treachery to his own wife, the betrayal of her trust, had marred their relationship for some time thereafter. It had taken a little while for them to recover that delicate balance which marks a successful and generally happy marriage, but at last they had achieved it, and now here he was, still a hundred miles away. He wanted to be with her again, lying with her in their great bed in his manor.

And soon, soon he would be!

The great estate of Beaulieu was entirely enclosed. Some five and fifty acres or more, Baldwin guessed as he entered through the huge gatehouse. From here, he could see the church clearly, a magnificent construction, all built of a plain white, clean-looking stone. The other buildings were set about to the south of the abbey church, as was normal for a Cistercian monastery. From the road leading up to the abbey, Baldwin could see the frater in the south wall, the lay-brothers’ living quarters to the west of it. The abbot’s house lay east, of course, but today the little gardens beyond, which would usually be so neatly set out, were a mess of tents and wagons.

‘The King is still here, then,’ Simon breathed, looking at the flags hanging limp at the poles.

‘Yes. He hasn’t denuded the area of food yet,’ Baldwin said, but not sadly. He couldn’t be unhappy today. Perhaps later this afternoon he would be able to leave Beaulieu and make his way homewards. He set to calculating. It must be some thirty leagues to Devon and his home, so at ten leagues a day, roughly thirty miles, he must ride for about three and a bit days to get home. Well, it wasn’t as fast as he would have liked, but it was a great deal better than riding back from Scotland. And since much of the land hereabouts, from memory, was quite good riding land, he might make better time, so long as he didn’t wear out his rounsey.

The Bishop gave a peremptory command, and Baldwin and Simon pulled aside so that he might lead the way, glancing about him with that absent expression on his face again, seeing much, but apparently noticing little.

‘How did a man like him ever manage to achieve the position of bishop?’ Simon wondered aloud.

‘Don’t underestimate the fellow,’ Baldwin warned. ‘We have seen him at his worst, when he has been uncomfortable, with a difficult mission to achieve, and many miles of journey ahead of him. Yet he is highly respected by the Pope, by the Queen, and, for him to be here, presumably by the King as well. He is no fool.’

‘You may think so,’ Simon said, ‘but all I know is, he appears to look down on anyone who is lower than a knight. It’s all right for you, old friend, but he has ignored me all the way here as though I was a churl — or a felon.’

‘And the good part about it is, he won’t want you to continue with him anywhere. He looks down upon you, you think? In that case, Beaulieu is the end of our official travelling, Simon. We can return home!’

‘Aha. Yes. He is not so bad, when you look upon him in that sort of light,’ Simon agreed amiably.

A guard at the inner gatehouse stood in front of the Bishop. He was clad in the King’s colours. ‘Who are you and what do you want?’

‘I am the Bishop of Orange, and I have urgent messages for the King from the Pope, and his wife in France.’

And suddenly Simon saw the Bishop change. He lost his absent appearance, and now he bent, glowering at the guard, fully alert and boldly seated in his saddle.

‘Open the gates and allow me to pass.’

In the corner of a room high overhead, he watched them closely. The Bishop he had seen before, although the man’s name wouldn’t come to mind just yet. He’d have to remind himself who it was later.

Thomas of Bakewell pushed himself away from the wall where he had been whittling at a stick, and used it to pick at a scrap of pork in his teeth. His wisdom teeth had been giving him hell for some time, but the pain had reduced now and, instead, he found that they were a storehouse for every shred of meat and vegetable after a meal. Not ideal. And irritating when a man was sitting on a horse. Sucking never seemed to work. It just hurt his tongue.

He swept a little dust from his tabard. Wherever you went in this place, the walls were freshly limewashed, which was nice to look at, but played merry hell with a man’s clothing. Especially when it was this dark. A king’s herald was always on show, and woe betide the man who allowed himself to look scruffy in the King’s presence.

Not that Tom wanted to. He was proud of his position. After his brother died, it was the Queen herself who spoke to him so kindly, so understandingly. She was a mere child, almost, then, only just old enough to have married, so some twelve years old, and yet she displayed more generosity of spirit than the monks in the abbey or any of the knights. They all looked on Tom as a nuisance to be removed urgently so as not to disrupt their great day.

It was because of the Queen that Tom had a job now. Taken in by her, into her household, he was given the job of learning the job of a kitchen boy at first, then page, and finally she permitted him to enter her service as a messenger. Which was fine until the King saw fit to destroy her household and exile all her French staff. At least the English were taken into his own household so that they could work for him direct.

The royal family had been good to him. Yes, very good. But he would have traded every suit of clothing, every free drink, every wonderful meal, just to have had another week with his dear brother John.

The King watched narrowly as the Bishop entered. There were a few men about the room, and he looked at Despenser as he ordered the others to leave.

The King and the Bishop made some polite comments at first, both edging closer to the moment when they would have to come to business. It was the King who broke the peaceful nature of their conversation, irritable at the long-winded introduction and keen to get on with the important matter in hand.

‘My Lord Bishop. You have a message for me, I believe?’

‘It is from your good lady, Queen Isabella, my Lord.’

‘And?’

‘She instructs me to say, you will already have heard from the good Bishop Stratford and William Ayrminne.’

‘Yes. They would have me accept the loss of my lands,’ the King growled.

‘This is a matter you have doubtless considered already,’ the Bishop said, and then summarised: ‘If you do not go to France, you will lose all. You cannot hope to return at the head of a host. There are not sufficient men-at-arms in England, Scotland, Wales and Ireland to permit that. The territories are too vast. Even if you could afford mercenaries, even the pikemen of Morgarten could not avail you. The French King has the mightiest host in Christendom.’

‘I know all this.’

‘So the conclusion is, you must go to France unless you wish to surrender all. If you go, you should recover most of your lands apart from the Agenais. I would think that you will lose that, because the fate of that area rests upon a French court whose composition has been arranged by the French King. You cannot win that back.’

‘So what is my Queen’s suggestion?’

‘That you distract the French King. Accept his terms, and agree to go there at the earliest opportunity. You cannot hope to deflect him from his purpose with any action of yours: you go, or you stay. If you go, you will retain your lands — most of them, in any case.’