Michael Jecks - The Prophecy of Death

Furnshill

Jeanne de Furnshill, a tall, slender lady in her middle thirties, with a pale complexion and straying reddish hair, stood upright, hands resting in the small of her back as her daughter ran across the grassed pasture before her house.

‘My Lady, you want some wine?’

‘No, thank you, Edgar. I am fine just now.’

She had much to thank Edgar for. When her husband had left her to travel with Bishop Stapledon, it had appeared that there was no alternative. She had at the time only recently given birth to her son, and Edgar, her husband’s sergeant from those far off days when he had been a Knight Templar, had been a sturdy support for her. He was reliable, constant, and although often all but invisible, she had only to raise her voice and he would materialise at her side like some faithful hound, or so she always thought.

His wife, too, had been a great companion to her. Petronilla had more experience in childbirth than Jeanne, and just as her own Baldwin was born, Petronilla was weaning her own little boy. It was all too easy for her to become nursemaid to Jeanne’s child, to the comfort of both women. Jeanne found breastfeeding her boy a trial, and Petronilla was very glad to be able to help. She adored Jeanne’s boy almost as much as she did her own.

There came a pattering of feet, and Jeanne had to brace herself to absorb the impact as her daughter pelted into her, arms clinging to her thighs beneath her skirts. ‘Richalda!’

‘Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!’

Jeanne looked down at her for a moment, and then across at Edgar, who gazed back blankly, and then grinned broadly. A large dog had appeared about the corner of the house: a black dog, with brown eyebrows and cheeks, with a white muzzle and paws, a white tip to his tail, and a white cross on his breast. ‘I think she is probably right, my Lady.’

‘What? I-’ and then Jeanne heard the steady trotting gait, and glanced up at the trail that wound past their door, and saw him. And without realising that Edgar had taken her daughter, she was already running up the track to her husband, skirts billowing, her coif flying from her head.

Fourth Tuesday after Easter 19

Baldwin woke with a panic, dreaming he was in a field, in a tent, Simon at his side, and the screaming was from a man murdered outside in the fine snow … cold … it was so cold, especially at his armpit …

And then he opened his eyes with a jolt, drawing away from the dog’s wet nose, and found himself in familiar surroundings. He knew that ceiling, those rafters, the feel of this bed … Home!

Pushing his newest dog away, he muttered, ‘You’ll be sleeping outside if you keep shoving your nose there, dog. Go on, piss off!’

Still, waking him every morning was the least of bad behaviour he would have expected. ‘Wolf’ was in almost every way a perfect companion. Handsome, obedient (when he understood what Baldwin was saying) and ever-present. Baldwin was sure he would become an excellent guard.

Yawning voluptuously, he scratched his beard. It was strange to be here again, he thought contentedly. There was a loud whining from the door, and he rose on both elbows to look. The beast needed to go out. At least the thing was house-trained. He stood, let Wolf outside, and then slapped barefooted across the planks to his bed, flopping down. He grunted, stretched, and threw his arms over his head, causing his wife to mumble and complain in her sleep. She rolled over to enfold herself into his body again, her cheek against his breast, hands clasped as though in prayer under her chin, one soft thigh placed gently over his own. He ignored the cries from his daughter, in the room beneath, and let his arm fall over his wife, cradling her closer.

‘What now?’ she murmured as his hand slid along her flank.

‘I was enjoying the peace before dawn,’ he said. ‘I do not suppose you …?’

‘It will not last,’ she said with confidence. Already there was the sound of small feet downstairs, and Baldwin was sure that in a moment the door would be thrown wide open and Richalda would be upon him.

‘I missed you,’ she said quietly.

‘And I you.’

‘It was hard, not knowing when you would be returning.’

‘It was as hard for me, Jeanne. I had no idea when I might be permitted to return from the Queen. Still, I am back now.’

‘And hopefully you will not have to leave us again?’

‘Jeanne, if there was any such need, I would take you with me.’

‘What, even to France? You know that they have clothes and material in Paris that a woman would sell her children to buy?’

He chuckled. ‘Then it is fortunate that we won’t be going, maid. We can stay here and live the gentle life of rural knighthood. I shall be Keeper of the King’s Peace again, you shall be my wife, and the King and the Queen may sort out their own problems.’

‘You think so? There are terrible rumours, Baldwin.’

‘Of what nature?’

‘People talk of traitors gathering hosts abroad, Baldwin. They say that we could be invaded by the French, that they will come and pillage and kill all who stand before them-’

‘No. I saw no desire to try to overcome our lands while I was there. The French are angry that our King will not go to pay homage to their King for the lands he holds from King Charles, but there is not desire for war. They will absorb the King’s possessions, that is all.’

‘They say that the traitors will come, though.’

‘There is one traitor, Roger Mortimer, who would be able to collect some mercenaries about him, but even the French King knows what sort of man he is, I think. He sent Mortimer from his court. The man’s without friends even there.’ He did not say that Mortimer had warned Baldwin of the threat posed to him by Despenser.

‘That relieves me, husband.’

‘Good,’ Baldwin said. There was no need to worry her. She need not hear that he had met Mortimer. It was the kind of information that could serve no useful purpose.

‘Will you remain here now?’

There was a small tone of doubt in her voice, a note that tore at his heart. Only a short while before, Baldwin had been unfaithful to her. Oh, there were plenty of excuses to justify his behaviour, but he had found when he came home again afterwards, that his relationship with Jeanne had been affected. He felt his guilt, and it put a pall over their love. It was only recently that he had felt the shame and remorse lift, and their lives had returned to — if not the same tenor as before — a new balance.

‘I will remain here, woman. Unless the King calls me away. And if he does, you may journey with me, as I said, even if it means I must take you to Paris and buy every item in every haberdashery shop!’

She mumbled at that, and by the regularity of her breathing, he knew she had fallen asleep again.

He wished to sleep like his wife, but try as he might, he was left with a sour flavour in his mouth whenever he thought once more of the man left dead at the side of the road in those woods. He felt a certain guilt at not seeking the killer more relentlessly. It was the first time he had not. There was no comfort in the reflection that it was not his responsibility while on the road — that was only a sop to his own conscience. If he could return, he would spend more time on seeking the man’s murderer.

And learning who it was who had taken the King’s oil.

Beaulieu

Sir Hugh le Despenser was already in his chamber, his clerks at their table, running through the expenses for his stay here at Beaulieu so far, and keeping an eye on his ready money, when the knock came at his door.

His man was a hard-faced fellow with the thick hair and grey eyes of a southern Welshman. He was slight, with a gentle gait that concealed his strength. Although his limbs looked thin, they were immensely wiry and powerful.