Michael Jecks - The Prophecy of Death

The friar walked from the hall where he had been waiting as soon as he heard the tumult of the new entourage appear.

Nicholas of Wisbech watched as the men dropped from their saddles and dogs milled at their feet. This was clearly a senior man’s party, from the look of them. He could see the Bishop’s horse, but there was no sign of the man himself. Only some guards. Struck with a vague inquisitiveness, he left the building and wandered down to see who had arrived, but by the time he reached the yard, there were only a couple of men remaining.

‘Good day, Friar.’

‘God bless you. Whose party is this?’

‘The Bishop of Orange, Friar. He’s come with messages for the King.’

‘And you are with him?’

‘I am, Friar. I am called Jack.’

‘A good name, my friend.’

‘Aye, well,’ Jack said, embarrassed. If only the friar knew his background.

‘Where have you come from?’

‘Paris. We stopped at many places, though. And I was glad to see Canterbury,’ Jack said, trying to curry a little favour from this accommodating man of God. ‘I had wanted to visit the place for many years on pilgrimage.’ Which was true, although he saw no need to explain that he felt that there was a desperate need for him to beg forgiveness for some of the murders, rapes and robberies he had been involved in.

‘It is many months since I was last there. I adored it. It is a shining example of the goodness of God, and the power of St Thomas.’

‘Yes,’ Jack said. And then, because the friar was so interested in the place, he told of the theft of the oil of St Thomas.

He had never seen a man’s face fall so swiftly.

Baldwin left the Despenser in a pensive mood. He had not given much thought to the dead herald during the journey here, because he had spent his time looking forward to leaving Beaulieu and hurrying on with all speed to Devon and his family — but now, having seen the expression on the Despenser’s face, he wondered whether the Despenser could himself have had anything to do with the man’s sudden death.

The Despenser was no stranger to plots and murders. It was all too common for him to seek to destroy those whom he felt stood between him and a prize. Man or woman, it mattered not a whit. Sex was no barrier to his rapacious greed. There were rumours that he had even captured the widow of one of the King’s knights and tortured her until her mind was broken. All for a relatively minor profit.

But it was surely too much to think that the Despenser could have been responsible for a herald’s murder. From the first moment, Baldwin had been suspicious of the death, it was true, but he still remained confident that the killer was almost certainly the gang of felons who inhabited the woods. It had not occurred to him before that the murder could have been part of a larger conspiracy.

It was plain enough that the Despenser was himself anxious about something, too. The man was exceedingly on edge. Not at all like the man whom Baldwin remembered from before his trip to France. The pressure of the realm’s uncertainty was getting to him as well. Probably because of the number of his enemies who had been exiled and now lived safely in France, he reflected. A man could not continue to make enemies without one day reaping what he had sowed.

‘Baldwin? Are you all right?’

‘Simon, I need to think,’ Baldwin said with frowning concentration. ‘I need to think very carefully.’

It was just then that the servant came to ask Baldwin to join the King in his hall.

Nicholas was tempted to run straight to the King and demand to know what in Christ’s name had happened to the oil, but a moment’s reflection told him that this was not necessarily a good idea.

The King was no longer his friend. If Nicholas were to go to the King and demand to know what had happened to his oil, he may find himself in an unpleasant position. However, he need not be so blunt. And maybe he need not go to the King himself? There must be another man to whom he could speak in this great abbey. Someone who could assist him. A man who could speak for him, present his case and beg on his behalf.

All he needed to do was to find the man.

Simon and Baldwin had met the King before when they had been to Thorney Island, where the palace of Westminster stood. There the King had been a forceful character, strong-willed and cunning. But then, too, he had had his wife nearby, and he was the undisputed commander of all England. Now his wife was away in France, he was distracted, and petulant at the thought of the price the King of France would levy for the return of any of his estates in France. That was a thorn in his side, a thorn that twisted and stabbed no matter what he plotted.

He was still remarkably handsome, though. His longish face was strong and deceptively masculine, his eyes clear blue, his hair clean and blond, his beard smartly trimmed. About his powerful frame was a tight-fitting blue cotte, and there was a fur-trimmed cloak over his shoulders.

All this Baldwin took in as he entered and made an elaborate bow. It was the rule that common men and those of lower classes should bow and remain bent, eyes downcast, in the King’s presence. Only those who merited some regard were permitted to stand.

Clearly, Baldwin did not deserve such respect, then, for the King made no suggestion that he and Simon should stand straight.

His tone was peremptory. ‘Sir Baldwin. I am told by the good bishop that you have a personal message for me from my good lady wife. I would be most grateful to hear it.’

Baldwin closed his eyes, wondering for an instant whether he should be blunt or persuasive, but then the little speech which she had given him came back to him, and he began to speak.

‘Your royal highness, I was called to the Queen and asked to bring you this message. She said that her brother King Charles would not be content to allow you to keep your French possessions without formally paying homage to him as your liege-lord for those territories. She has attempted to propose alternatives to him, but her sole victory so far has been to extend the length of the truce. She finds this deeply shaming, and would return at once to your side, were it not possible that there could be another solution.

‘Your lady, her Majesty Queen Isabella, is fully seized of your feelings of disgust for the suggestion that you should travel abroad to show subservience to your equal. For this reason she would like to propose that another take your place in paying homage.’

‘Yes? And who would she suggest? My falconer? My fewterer? My chief steward?’ the King demanded sarcastically.

‘Your lady the Queen suggests that because you are reluctant, rightly, to travel to France, perhaps you could create another who would be more fitting.’

The King frowned. ‘“Create” another? What is that supposed to mean?’

‘Queen Isabella begs that you consider a different route. If you elect to rest all your French assets upon your son Edward, you can then send him to France in order to pay homage for his lands held under the French King. If you settle your French territories on your son, he could then go in your place, my Lord,’ Baldwin persevered. ‘Earl Edward could have the Agenais, Montreuil and the other lands given to him, and then he could go to France to pay homage for them to the French King.’

‘Let my son go there?’ the King wondered with a frown of incomprehension. ‘How will that help me, or the Crown?’

‘You will have divested yourself of responsibility in that regard, so the French King, your brother-in-law, will have no recourse against you. If he withholds the lands from their new master, the Earl of Chester, your son, he will be reviled throughout Christendom for such unwarranted cruelty. The French King naturally looks upon you as his equal and rival. That is surely one reason why he wishes you to go to him. It would humiliate you to do so, and it would only serve to enhance his position in the world to have you bend your knee to him. Both must be attractive to him,’ Baldwin said. ‘But if he were unkind to his own nephew, your son, he would squander any advantage. Treating an English earl in such a manner would not win him any friends.’