Michael Jecks - The Prophecy of Death

That, Bury told himself, was not comforting. Because if the Earl knew of something that was so dangerous to Bury that Bury himself must have it hidden from him, it was a deeply alarming secret indeed.

The Golden Cock, Mary Tavy

Late in the afternoon, they reached the inn and stopped, their horses resting and cropping the scrubby grass, while they studied the land about here.

In happier times Simon had been here fairly often. It was a useful stopping point when he was on his way to or from Tavistock. Not absolutely direct, it was true, and to come here he had to divert a little from his usual path, but the landlord had always been accommodating, and the ale refreshing after a ride in the sun. Many were the evenings he had rested here after a long day’s ride.

The old inn was a long, narrow building, with the low thatch that was so common of the older long-houses. The windows were small, unglazed, and all but concealed by the thatch itself. A small hole in the thatch let out a thin mist of smoke from the fire, but more seemed to be oozing from the window and door.

Baldwin and Simon rode to the front of the place, and sat there a while, peering at it before swinging from their saddles. Wolf stood with head lowered, eyeing the place with a frown on his great head. While they waited, Baldwin’s man Edgar slipped down from the trees beside the inn and ran noiselessly to the inn’s wall. Hugh was already at the other corner of the building.

When Baldwin had been a Templar, Edgar had been his man-at-arms. The two had trained together as a unit, fighting on horseback, riding with lances, then practising with swords and axes on foot, but although Simon had seen Baldwin become enraged and fight with ruthless efficiency, it was Edgar whom he viewed with the greater respect. Edgar was that little bit younger, he was slightly faster, and he had the mind of a born killer: he could kill without compunction. Not because he enjoyed inflicting pain, but because he was perfectly honed as a weapon. Simon was a good fighter, in an untrained way. He was quick and competent, his skills built up over the years, but Edgar had been taught by the Knights Templar. A man who was originally competent, he had become thoroughly professional. Simon knew that Baldwin regretted having killed men; he was not sure that Edgar ever suffered from the same feelings.

However, he was not to kill today. Baldwin had made that perfectly clear. Today was to be bloodless. They were here to speak with the man who was attempting to persecute Simon.

Gripping a long staff, Edgar moved along the wall of the inn with all the noise of a shadow, while Simon and Baldwin made a meal of tying their reins to a pair of saplings. The two of them looked at each other, and then marched side-by-side to the doorway.

Then, just as they reached the threshold, before they could enter, the door slammed wide open, and William and three men hurtled out, coming to a halt a few paces before them. William had his sword out already, and it was pointing at Simon.

‘You thought you could jump me, Master Bailiff? I am surprised at you. Attacking a man in a tavern could be thought of as an attempt at murder. You know what that means, don’t you? A premeditated homicide carries the same penalty as a successful one: death. Looks like I’ll have to arrest you and take you in. And then your nice little wife can entertain me when I go to take over the house.’

‘What is your reason for trying to steal this man’s house?’ Baldwin asked harshly.

‘He is a squatter. My master owns the land outright. And your friend there will be happy enough to agree to that when we ask him.’

‘What does that mean?’

William Wattere smiled thinly. ‘We can put things to you in a way you understand. Perhaps we’ll string you up and rape your women in front of you until you sign it all over to us, eh? Or we could take a hammer to your fingers, one by one. You have made me angry, you see. I was happy to be reasonable, but when you found out you were dealing with Sir Hugh le Despenser’s man, you should have expected someone a bit more competent than you. You aren’t bright enough to take me, Bailiff. And it’s stupid, anyway. You try to hurt a man who is Despenser’s own, and he will always seek you out. You’ll always pay.’

‘So what do you intend now?’ Simon demanded.

‘Oh, you’re arrested, Bailiff, so keep your hands away from your sword, there, Master. And you too, Knight. You try to fight, and we’ll be happy to kill you. It’ll save all that trouble later. We’ll just bring round the documents to your wife and have her agree them right now, while you stay here. Women are always so much more … helpful.’

Simon was about to respond when two more men appeared in the doorway, both with swords in their hands. One had eyes only for the men before the door, but one happened to glance to his side. He saw Edgar there.

Edgar smiled at him, raised a finger to his lips in the universal gesture of silence, and then looked thoroughly disappointed when the man shouted, ‘Will!’

Wattere was about to turn and look when there was a sudden crack from the doorway. A cry, a shout, and Edgar swung his iron-shod staff at the man to Wattere’s left. He fell like a stunned hog, landing partly over Wattere’s feet.

Realising he had been fooled, Wattere’s eyes widened with horror and anger, and even as the third of his men crashed to the ground, Wattere made a quick choice and sprang over the body of his man, flying towards Simon. Simon had no time to grab his sword. With the flat of his hand, he tried to bat the blade away, down to his left, and he grunted as he felt the scrape of the blade on his palm, cutting deeper towards his wrist. It hurt more than his shoulder, and he bared his teeth in a snarl as the blade slid away. He was close enough to grip the man’s wrist with his right hand, and as he did so he turned, swivelling on both feet, hauling at the same time, using Wattere’s momentum to pull him off balance, and then he gripped Wattere’s sword wrist in his left and slammed back savagely with his right elbow.

He had meant to hit the man’s nose, but his elbow missed slightly, and he raked over the nose and into his eye and temple. There was a satisfying sensation of pain in his arm as he did so, and a still more pleasing feeling of heaviness in Wattere’s body as he collapsed unconscious at Simon’s feet.

Pulling his sword free of the scabbard, Simon watched while Baldwin and Edgar pushed the last man standing back until he was at the inn’s wall. Then he looked about him wildly, before throwing his sword down and holding his hands away from his dagger. Edgar looked at Baldwin, who was returning his own sword to its sheath, and then hit the man very deliberately in the middle of his belly with the iron tip of his staff. The man doubled over, retching, trying to gulp in some air. Edgar imperturbably grasped his hands and yanked them round behind his back, and then bound them with a rawhide thong.

‘Simon,’ Baldwin said, peering about them affably, ‘would you care for an ale?’

Beaulieu

Nicholas of Wisbech had endured a thoroughly depressing few days. He had done all he could to try to advance his case, but no matter what he did, he could not find anyone who could help him. All the knights and lords about the King here seemed to be those who had no knowledge of Nicholas and his difficult mission. There was no one who could speak out for him.

There was a grim expression on his face as he walked about the cloister. He had been here ages, and yet had found no means of defending himself. Perhaps he should simply leave the place and see if he might find a berth in a little monastery somewhere.