Michael Jecks - The Prophecy of Death

Of course, Sir Roger had an incentive to unsettle the King, and he knew the King well enough, too. He would know just how much the theft of the oil would affect the King. The King would be bound to think it unbearable that a man would dare to take something quite so valuable from him; still more so now, while his reign was being looked upon with contempt by so many in the land. Perhaps it was all an affair of Sir Roger Mortimer’s making. He had sent a man to find the oil and take it to France for him. It wouldn’t matter whether it would serve any useful purpose, the mere fact that he had deprived the King of it would be enough.

Yes, he nodded, it was sure to be him. Sir Roger had taken the oil. So the question now was how to retrieve it for the King?

Lydford

At his house, Simon looked through all his business and especially the state of the farm itself. His other affairs were in good repair, fortunately. All his finances were strong, and that was fortunate because he had the expense of the impending nuptials for his daughter to cover.

‘How is she?’ Simon asked his wife.

Meg looked at him seriously. ‘How would you have felt when we decided to marry, if you had heard that my father had left the country and no one knew when he would return so that the marriage could go ahead?’

‘I’d have grabbed you and given you my oath and hoped you’d have done the same.’

‘Just because the Church accepts that you don’t have to wed in a church, doesn’t mean that it’s right,’ Meg said pointedly. ‘Your daughter is a good child, who wouldn’t marry until her father was here to join in.’

‘I suppose her boy doesn’t have enough money to be able to support her without the dowry, then?’ Simon demanded grumpily.

‘Nonsense!’

‘And you haven’t answered me yet. Wouldn’t you have made your oath to me if I swore mine to you?’

‘If you think, you great lummox, that you can evade the issue by asking silly questions like that,’ Meg said, tossing her blond hair severely, ‘you don’t know me very well. Now, what will we do about this wedding?’

‘Arrange it urgently and save her any more damned torture, I suppose,’ he said heavily. He had no desire to see her married. She was his little girl still. Allowing her to marry would be like admitting to himself that he was an old man now.

‘Very well. Where is she?’

‘In the field, I think.’

‘Get her here. I will need to discuss this with her. If I’m to give away my daughter, I’ll need to see the man who’s getting her, too.’

‘Simon, you’ve already met him.’

‘I know. And I’ll meet him again, and make sure he’s going to be a good husband to her.’

Little Edith marrying. Leaving him and Meg. It hurt him just to think it.

It hurt more than the idea of losing his farm.

Beaulieu

The Bishop of Orange was sitting in the chamber given to him when the gentle knock came on the door. He felt quickly for the dagger which he always carried strapped to his calf before calling, ‘ Entrez! ’ A man who knocked so quietly was often a man who was set upon violence. A quiet knock meant no one else would hear.

‘What do you want?’ he asked as Peter walked in.

Peter smiled. ‘Don’t worry, Bishop. My son is in the corridor out there. He’ll let me know if anyone comes.’

‘What do you want, I said?’

‘Well, now. Only this: we were asked to come here to help guard you on the way, but now it looks like our work is more or less done, so we’d like to get back home again.’

‘You are to remain with me all the while I am in England.’

‘Yes, but there is little point. You’ve already got your old two back.’

‘Pons and André? Those two? I do not think that they are reliable men. No, I need you two, still.’

‘I don’t think so. We should return to our master.’

‘Your master? And what do you think he would say about you deserting me here before my long return journey? If any harm comes to me, he will be most displeased.’

Peter grinned. ‘Ah, well, I think I can take that risk.’

‘He is perhaps little more than a boy, but make no mistake, my friend. The Earl of Chester is yet the heir to a realm. He will be your king one day, if you live long enough to witness it.’

‘My master would want us back with him.’

‘Then go. But I will tell him you deserted me.’

‘Hardly deserted.’ Peter’s grin and expansive wave of his hand took in the whole abbey, indicating that there were many others nearby to protect the Bishop.

‘In any case, it would seem likely that we shall meet him shortly.’

‘How so?’

‘We shall move to London, nearer him, before long. The King wishes to discuss the treaty provisions with his barons. He is calling all his barons to Westminster. I am myself to go there to take any further instructions from your king.’

Peter nodded, still grinning, but there was little humour in his voice. ‘Very well. We’ll remain with you a little longer. But only a little. We owe our service to him, and no one else.’

Feast of the Apostles 21

Lydford

Waiting for his daughter and her husband-to-be, Simon was fretful and on edge. He had already sent his wife off out, and his manservant, Hugh, away to speak to Sir Baldwin, so that he could speak with his prospective son-in-law in private, but he was not looking forward to the interview. The idea of losing his daughter was as painful as the idea of losing a limb. She was a part of him. But, as Meg would keep pointing out, Edith was over seventeen now. She was old enough to know her mind.

When he heard the horses arriving, he went slowly across the floor of his hall, and stood by the fire, now smoking gently, and waited there, his back to the flames, arms folded, legs firmly planted. The boy would have to enter and confront him like that, a challenging father. Perhaps a fearsome one.

The man who entered was not Edith’s Peter, though.

‘Who are you?’ Simon demanded.

‘You are whom?’ the man asked.

‘I am the owner of this farm, friend. Who are you?’ Simon grated.

‘My name is known to you already, I think. I am called William atte Wattere. And you are, I suppose, Simon Puttock, one time Bailiff of Lydford for Abbot Robert?’

‘That is correct.’

‘Ah, good. Then I have the right place.’

‘I do not think so.’

‘You are wrong.’ Wattere smiled.

‘By what right do you claim to be able to take my land?’

‘It is not your land, friend. It belongs to my Lord Hugh Despenser. He owns it now, and wants it for his own, so I have been sent to remove any obstructions.’

He did not look like the brutal enforcer of an illegal act of theft. Rather, he was a mild-looking man with a slight squint. He had the narrow features of an ascetic, but without any appearance of a rat. He had gleaming eyes, which seemed to be bright with pleasure and fun, and Simon had the distinct impression that he would be enormously enjoyable as a drinking companion, if the circumstance of their meeting was different.

‘Such as the true owner?’

‘Such as any squatter, yes.’

Simon looked about him. His hall was as familiar to him as his own hand, and yet as he stood here, it looked to him slightly different, as though it was already taken from him, and he was, in fact, a trespasser here.

And then a flood of pure anger washed through his veins.

He was no petitioner! He was no humble churl who could be forced to submit to the rape of his property and treasure. No man, none, could take from him what was his own. The bastard who tried it would have his head broken!