Michael Jecks - The Prophecy of Death

‘Christ Jesus! You say this seriously? The man went there and stole my oil? But why? Who would dare such a thing?’

‘Maybe the man sought to blackmail you? Some people are aware how much the oil means to you.’

‘He would understand that I would never know peace until I had seen him skinned and gibbeted if I knew he had done so!’ the King growled.

‘Yes, but perhaps he hoped to keep his identity secret from you.’

‘How would he do that after robbing and then blackmailing me?’

‘I cannot tell, Your Highness. But either way, it would seem that he has paid already for his crime.’

‘A good thing — and bad that you do not say where the oil went. And is there something you have missed?’

‘I do not think so.’

‘You point out that many know how high a value I place on that oil, Sir Hugh. Who would be most alert to that value?’

‘I … I don’t think I …’ he stammered, trying hard not to allow his face to register the fact that he, of all those in the realm, knew better than any other the value the King put on this damned oil.

‘The French , Sir Hugh. The French know how important that oil is to me. Who better? Is it not likely that this whole matter was thought up by my brother-in-law?’

‘Ah!’ Despenser said, trying not to sag with relief. ‘I had thought it might be Sir Roger, Your Highness.’

‘Mortimer?’

‘He has much to gain by harming you and me, and he is a vindictive, cruel man, isn’t he? It is entirely in keeping with his devious cunning that he might try this terrible theft.’

‘Yes. The evil devil! So, in that case, does he have it already?’

‘I should think that when the felons in the wood killed your herald, they would have taken everything of value. That is why I am seeking them. Perhaps they recognised the value of the ampulla in which the oil was stored, and have kept it by in case they can sell it.’

‘It is weeks now, since my oil was stolen. I want it back!’

‘And I hope you shall have it back as soon as the Sheriff tracks down and executes all the outlaws from those woods, my Liege.’

The chamber which Despenser had appropriated for his own use was a fair-sized one only a short way along a narrow corridor near the King’s own, and Despenser went there now. He had plenty of work to occupy him, but today he wished to concentrate on his own affairs. His estates were so extensive that running them was a full-time job for several stewards, and there were some matters that called for his personal involvement.

‘Ah,’ he said as he found the message from Devon. He took it up and read it carefully, then set it down and frowned to himself a little while.

It validated his reasoning before. The affair of the friar in Iddesleigh had been at the back of his mind for a while now, ever since he had first met Sir Baldwin, and now his feeling had been confirmed. The two who had made his acquisition down there in Devon so difficult were this knight and his friend the bailiff.

The bailiff, of course, was nothing. The man was little more than a peasant. Nothing except a focus for Sir Hugh’s anger and bile. The knight, though, Sir Baldwin, he was different. Especially since Despenser had learned that he had once been a Templar.

Sir Baldwin had some credibility, it was true. Many appeared to like him, to trust him, and to court his advice and judgement. The King was one, although of course it would only take a determined assault by Despenser to force him to change his mind. Still, there were others who were less easily swayed, such as Bishop Stapledon and others. The Bishops were growing hot under the collar again, because of Despenser taking over lands. True, he was taking territory which was not necessarily his own, but that did not matter. It was the way of English rulers to take what they wished. It was the rule of the strongest. England was a powerful land, with peasants and barons who were never slow to assert their rights, and in return England found herself ruled by still more powerful lords and kings. Naturally. And their advisers, too. Like Sir Hugh le Despenser.

If a man wished to make a mark, then he had to take a firm grip on the various controls which maintained government. And Sir Hugh le Despenser was clutching hold of all he could.

If Sir Baldwin de Furnshill was a fly in his food, he would scoop out that little fly, and crush it. That was what he would do now. He would control the knight by the use of an attack upon his best friend. Simon Puttock could be ruined, entirely destroyed, if Sir Baldwin did not come to see reason. Perhaps he would, in which case Sir Hugh could make up his mind whether to appear magnanimous in victory, or perhaps just prove to all that setting one’s face against him was a recipe for disaster. Either way, the bailiff would find life more difficult shortly, he told himself with satisfaction.

No one had ever managed to mark Wattere and live before, and Sir Hugh le Despenser seriously doubted that a peasant bailiff from the bogs of Devon would achieve what so many had died in attempting.

Lydford

Simon felt the wariness again as he peered through his window.

‘There is no one there, Simon,’ Baldwin said. He was standing at the side of Simon’s large table, spearing a slab of meat and putting it upon his plate. At his side the ever-expectant Wolf watched hopefully. ‘He won’t come this early.’

‘Why?’ Simon demanded, rolling his injured shoulder. It stung badly. Margaret had treated it with some foul-smelling concoction of her own devising, which hurt more than the original wound. Well, he told himself, often the cure was a lot worse than the injury. He only hoped that was correct.

‘Because he’ll have formed a regard for your hardiness, since you scratched him. He’ll either come at some unearthly hour of the morning to intimidate you, or perhaps late at night, in the dark, when you’ll be unsettled.’

‘Not during the day?’

‘An all-out assault during the day? I doubt it greatly. That would be most foolhardy.’

‘What can we do, Sir Baldwin?’ Margaret asked quietly. She was pale with anxiety.

Baldwin smiled at her. He had never seen her look more concerned, and the sight of her paleness was enough to stir his own anger. ‘My dear, we shall wait for Edgar to arrive here with help from the good Bishop Stapledon, and then we shall take our fight to the man who has caused all this upset. This William atte Wattere. You know where he can be found?’ he asked, turning back to Simon.

‘Hugh has tracked him down to an inn at Mary Tavy.’

‘Good. Then we can take a ride there later, when Edgar arrives.’

Eltham Palace

Richard of Bury left his table and walked the short distance from his room to the great hall, where he walked through to the buttery and drew off a jug of ale.

Walking back to his chamber, he saw the Earl. ‘Your Highness, are you to come to study soon?’

‘I have other matters to occupy me just now,’ Earl Edward said.

Bury nodded, standing aside for the Earl. He was clearly very busy just now. From the look of his hosen, he had been riding through some very muddy fields, and knowing the Earl as he did, Bury guessed that he had been hunting or hawking for most of the morning. Now, however, there was something else in his eyes, too. ‘Is there anything with which I can help you?’

The Earl stopped a moment and peered at him. Bury almost had the feeling that he was going to speak, but then the moment passed, and the Earl shook his head briefly, before walking off.

It left Bury with the odd feeling that, not only was the Earl keeping something back from him, but he was also keeping something back in order to protect Bury himself.