Michael Jecks - The Prophecy of Death

Third Thursday After Easter 17

The summons came a little after his midday meal. Sir Hugh le Despenser had elected for a quiet lunch with his steward and two clerks to discuss the income of his Welsh estates, and the messenger received a cold stare when he demanded Despenser join the King.

Matters of state came before his own estates, though. At least it was nothing more that the slimy turd Furnshill had slipped into conversation. He had been glad to see that prickle riding off a couple of days ago with his friend the bailiff. At least they were two problems fewer for him to deal with here in Beaulieu.

‘If His Highness desires it,’ he said, rising.

The King was in an even more explosive frame of mind than usual. ‘Did you know? Did you?’

‘Know what, my Liege?’ Despenser responded mildly. He observed the King’s mannerisms with interest. The man appeared to be losing control of his mind.

‘Look! This messenger has just brought news from Prior Eastry. You remember him? The wretch who was so persuasive on behalf of my wife, and insisted that she should have large funds to draw on while she was over there in France. Him! You remember? I told you that one of his brothers had died, didn’t I? That young fool Gilbert.’

‘Yes. What has happened now? Sir Baldwin told me most of this.’

‘Did he also mention that my coronation oil has been stolen!’

‘Your … what?’

‘St Thomas’s oil is gone!’ the King snapped. In an instant his face had blackened with anger. ‘How would someone dare try such a thing?’ His fist slammed down on the table, making the jug and goblets jump. ‘My oil! Taken! I want you to instigate a full inquiry into how this was done, Sir Hugh. Seek for it, and find it, and when you do, I want the men responsible to be punished for this. Punished so that no one will even think of stealing such a thing again!’

‘My Liege, surely-’

‘Find it, find the oil, and find me the man who took it, Sir Hugh! The last man who stole from my father was skinned, and his pelt still adorns the door to the crypt at Westminster Abbey as a sign to all the monks never to try their King’s patience again. Well, someone has dared to try my patience, and I want his skin for it !’

‘The oil is gone,’ Despenser repeated quietly to himself.

It was a bad piece of news, certainly, although not a catastrophe — yet — and he would have to ensure that it never grew to be one. True, the King should not have been told so quickly; Despenser should have been told first, so he himself could have told him, but Despenser could rectify that. It was better to seek the oil and find it first. And hang the man who stole it, by the cods from the highest beam in the ceiling at Westminster Palace! Any man who dared to steal from the King was dangerous, but someone who was bold enough to take something that was useless to any but the King, he was a dangerous opponent. Or mad. Either way, he was a threat to Despenser. And Sir Hugh did not like to leave threats go unheeded.

The King shouldn’t have been told yet. There was no need for him to know. He had that damned knight from Furnshill to blame for this.

This was not the first time he had come across Sir Baldwin de Furnshill. Sir Baldwin, the meddler who had stood in his path in Devon, in that outlandish vill called Iddesleigh, and who then had gone to France with the Queen. Somehow, whenever Sir Baldwin was about, Sir Hugh le Despenser’s plans went awry. Not only him, either. Sir Hugh was reminded of the little embarrassment at Dartmouth, when he had lost one of his better allies. At the time the name of the Keeper of the Port had meant nothing to him, but now the name ‘Puttock’ took on a certain significance.

Well, no more! Furnshill had deliberately kept both these pieces of information from him. First that his own friend’s son had died, and then that the King’s oil was stolen.

Sir Hugh le Despenser had many more important fishes to fry, but these two were treating him with contempt. The knight was withholding information from him. From him ! The King’s most favoured adviser, in Christ’s name! Shit, the bastard deserved to be grabbed and hauled off to the Tower!

But he had some powerful friends, from Bishop Stapledon downwards. Even the King appeared immoderately fond of him. That was one of the strange things about King Edward. He would sometimes pick a man and decide that he was an honourable, decent fellow. It didn’t matter what the man had done before, the King could forgive almost anything, unless it was disloyalty or treachery to him. Now he appeared to have chosen Sir Baldwin. That was why the knight was sent to France in the first place. King Edward actually trusted him about his wife.

Well, swyve him. Swyve them both! They’d learn that it was not a good idea to twitch the tail of Sir Hugh le Despenser.

Sir Baldwin and Bailiff Puttock. Stannary Bailiff, he was. Or had been until the Abbot of Tavistock died … he could be intimidated. He could be taught an object lesson in civility. Sir Hugh had not formed a very strong opinion of Simon Puttock. He was a churl, a serf in the pay of the Abbot of Tavistock, and nothing more. Being made Keeper of the Port of Dartmouth may have inflated his self-importance, and he had a few brains, no doubt, but little capacity to defend himself intelligently against an astute man. Or a powerful one.

Sir Hugh had just such a man. A man who would teach the pathetic little Bailiff to be more careful with his betters, and who would thus show Sir Baldwin that when he picked an enemy, he should be more wary. Sir Hugh was not a man to make bitter.

With his jaw set, he walked through to the door at the rear of his chamber. From there he passed through his solar block and out into the sunlight, where he cast about for a little while, before seeing his man at the far side.

He beckoned, waiting with composure.

‘Sir Hugh?’

‘William, I wish you to travel to Devon as fast as you can. There is a man there, a fellow called Simon Puttock. He is a bailiff, I believe, with a house in Lydford near the stannary gaol, as I understand it. Go there, and take his house.’

‘It’s yours.’

‘He may be there. If he becomes angry, provoke him. He’s not well trained in fighting. You know what to do.’

‘Sir.’

‘It is possible, if you ride hard, that you may reach his home before him, though. That would be amusing. You could enjoy yourself with the man’s wife. You would like that?’

William Wattere smiled. He had an easygoing manner, and an ever-ready grin for the women, which concealed a lust for brutality that was unequalled in Despenser’s experience.

Watching him swagger away bellowing for a horse and shouting at four or five others, Sir Hugh gave a thin smile himself. But then he shook himself. There was much else to do.

There was another of his men near the horse trough. He crossed to the fellow, then held up the necklace of pilgrim badges. ‘You recognise this?’

‘No.’

‘They were found on the neck of a dead man in some woods. Apparently he was clad in a tabard of a King’s herald. And now we have been set the task of learning who could have been responsible for the King’s loss. And I want to know, too. Do you have any idea who was the most devout herald among the King’s men?’

‘There was that Richard de Yatton. He was very keen. I remember someone saying he travelled half as far as all the others in a day because he stopped at every chapel to pray. He would be the most religious.’

‘Good. Now, I have something I need you to do for me.’

Monday before Feast of the Apostles 18