Michael Jecks - The Prophecy of Death

‘You must have your things out of here within the week,’ Wattere said. ‘I gave your wife a week, but in your absence, so I suppose a little compassion is in order. Unless you make it difficult, of course.’ His mild grin grew wider. ‘I’d like that.’

‘Make it difficult?’ Simon snarled. ‘I’ll be damned to hell before I agree to being robbed by a felon like you!’

‘If you take that attitude, I will ensure that you are out of here in days, and your eviction will be as unpleasant as I can contrive.’ And now the eyes changed. The humour and pleasantness left them, and in their place was an icy calmness. A calculating expression that was almost desire.

Simon felt a red curtain of rage fall over his eyes. He grasped his sword-hilt and moved towards the man, sweeping out the blade.

Wattere had seen Simon’s sudden movement, and he stepped back and to the side in the same instant. His sword was out, and the two swords clashed, ringing. ‘It will make things worse for you if you try to thwart Sir Hugh’s official,’ he grated, all amiability gone from his voice.

‘You dare threaten me for defending my own?’ Simon roared, and sprang forward, sword up.

There was a scream, and he shot a look over his shoulder. There, in the doorway, was his daughter Edith and her fiancé. Simon felt a swift burning over his left shoulder, and knew he had been struck. Then he lifted his own sword and felt Wattere’s slide down its edge. The two were watching each other, their eyes firmly locked. Simon could remember once being taught that it was a mistake to watch the man’s sword. Better by far to keep an eye on the man’s face. ‘Watch his eyes, boy. Watch his eyes. You’ll see his intention there, and when he wants to attack, he’ll betray it.’

And he saw it now. A momentary narrowing of the eyes, and suddenly the blade was lancing forward to his breast. A slash of his own, and the blade was swept aside, an upward flick, and Simon’s point raked along the man’s inner forearm. He felt it strike the elbow with a soft sucking, and yanked it free. Wattere’s arm was oozing blood, a thick mess, and his sword was already on the ground when Simon took a pace forward and rested his sword-point on Wattere’s throat. ‘Yield.’

‘Why? What will you do?’

‘You attack me in my own house, my own hall, and you ask what I shall do? This is my home, churl . You desecrate it with your presence. Yield, or I’ll destroy you.’

Wattere looked up at him and curled his lip. ‘You? Kill me?’ he sneered. He knew enough about Simon Puttock. He had checked on him before threatening him, for a man was a fool who tried to bully another without being aware of his strengths, and he had been told that this man was a mere clerk at best. He’d been a bailiff on the moor, but that was an easy job, and then he’d got an even softer position as Keeper of Dartmouth. That, Wattere had been told, was more or less a clerical post, and the man was a lightweight. He hadn’t drawn sword in many years. Anyway, these Devon boys were mere children when they were set against a man like Wattere, with years of fighting and enforcement for Despenser. There was nothing to fear here.

Now, though, he saw something different in Simon’s eye, and was prey to a sudden doubt. Wattere recognised pure, blind rage when he saw it, and the expression in Simon Puttock’s eyes just now was not that of a gentle, bovine creature. If this was a soft-hearted animal, it was one which had contracted rabies. His eyes were more like those of a terrier when put in a sty with a sackload of rats. The red mist had fallen over him, and he was perfectly capable of killing, especially now, in hot blood.

‘ Shit! I yield! I yield!’ he snapped quickly as he saw Simon’s sword move.

‘Get up, and go. If I see you here again, I will have you arrested and held at Lydford.’

‘Lydford, Puttock? You forget yourself. You have no authority to hold me there or anywhere. You are no bailiff any more. And you’ve lost your job at Dartmouth, I hear? You are nothing . Me, I represent Sir Hugh Despenser. You have made him your own personal enemy. I should leave quickly now, before you earn more of his just ire.’

He bent to pick up his sword, but Simon put his boot on it. ‘You will leave that. You draw steel on me in my hall, you prickle, and you lose it.’

William Wattere nodded, his eyes lidded, and then he cast a long, slow look about the hall. ‘I shall tell my Lord what you have done. I’ll show him this injury. I hope you enjoyed your time here, Bailiff, because it’s coming to a swift conclusion. My respects to your wife.’

Beaulieu

Peter found his son outside and said nothing as he came level with him; he just nodded to John and continued on his way.

‘So we leave here and go back?’

‘Our master will have to cope without us for a little longer. We are to stay here with the Bishop. He tells me that the King’s going to have a meeting of his advisers in Westminster before long, so we can travel there with the Bishop. All the members of the King’s council will be there. That means all the Bishops and earls will be present for it.’

‘So if we stay with the Bishop, we’ll get up there anyway? Good.’

‘Yes. The sooner we can return the happier I’ll be.’

Lydford

Simon had a hurried conversation with his daughter and her man before sending Edith from the room.

‘Right, Master Peter,’ Simon said grimly, walking back to the fire with the two swords in his hands. He sheathed his own, and peered at the one he had retrieved from William Wattere. ‘Hmm. Not bad.’

Peter was a young apprentice who lived not far from Lydford. He had been the cause of Simon’s unhappiness ever since he had been given the post of Keeper at Dartmouth, and he held the lad in little regard as a result.

It wasn’t his fault, though. He had fallen in love with Edith, and she with him. That was why Edith had complained so bitterly at the thought of going with Simon and Meg to Dartmouth: she had no wish to be further away from her Peter than necessary. That was why she’d wailed and moaned and complained about the idea of being sent into ‘exile’ so far from her home. Peter couldn’t go with them — he was apprenticed to a successful merchant, Master Harold — so that was that. Edith did not wish to go, and they could not leave her behind. So Margaret, his Meg, remained here in Lydford with Edith and their son Perkin, and Simon travelled on alone.

Peter was staring at him with unabashed astonishment. Perhaps mingled with fear. It was that realisation that made Simon grunt an apology. If he had attempted to beg the hand of his own wife in marriage at a tender age from a man whom he had just witnessed fighting with another, Simon might have been reticent, too.

‘What, boy?’ Simon demanded.

‘Do you want a cloth? A towel?’

Simon frowned, and looked down at his hand. His sword hand had blood all over the palm where Wattere’s blood had run along the blade and down to the hilt. With a gesture of irritation, Simon wiped it on his breast. ‘It’s nothing. Not mine,’ he added. ‘Now, you are still determined to take my daughter?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Peter was staring at his other shoulder.

Simon eyed him a moment in silence, then realised that the boy was gazing at the wound Wattere had inflicted on him. With a quick glance at it, he convinced himself that it was a very minor scratch, and marched across the room to his little sideboard. There was a small pewter jug on it, and a couple of goblets which he had asked Meg to set out earlier. Now he poured from the jug a little of that wonderful, potent, burned wine 22. Passing one to Peter, he contemplated the lad once more.