Michael Jecks - The Prophecy of Death

For whatever the reason, Bishop Walter had seen to the sequestration of her estates, and then he supported Despenser in the eviction and exile of much of her household and in the removal even of her small children, having them taken into protective custody, as though the poor woman would have tried to poison their minds against their father, her husband. All this had left a very sour taste in Baldwin’s mouth. He was still convinced of the Bishop’s good will towards him and towards Simon, but he was not so certain that the Bishop was an ally in the greater political battles that raged in Westminster — and less sure that he could remain friendly with a man who could actively seek to have a woman’s children taken from her. That, to him as a father and husband, was cruelty beyond his comprehension.

However, although Stapledon was an unenthusiastic supporter of Despenser, perhaps because Despenser gave him a means of acquiring much in the way of financial rewards, he was still not allied entirely. If there was a matter that affected the Church, Stapledon would immediately oppose Despenser, and to his credit, if there was an issue of state, he would more than likely be independent. But money was a strong lure to him. Some of the wealth he won went straight to the cathedral — a great deal, in fact — but much also went into the Bishop’s pockets, Baldwin guessed.

It was his long-standing friendship with Simon that had counted in Baldwin’s mind when he sent Hugh on to the Bishop at Exeter and asked him for his aid. At that time, though, he had not expected the Bishop himself to come all the way to Lydford. That was a surprise and great relief, for with Stapledon having heard Wattere’s words, it made the defence of Simon against the Despenser much easier.

‘Tell me, Simon. What is your status?’ the Bishop asked, leaning forward to peer intently at the bailiff.

‘Me? I’m not free, I’m a serf in the service of Sir Hugh de Courtenay.’

‘Not free?’

‘No. But I own this farm and my house on a lease. I have been successful. And I still own my old house outside Sandford.’

‘That is good,’ the Bishop said, but Baldwin saw his gaze slide over to him with a considering look in his eyes. He was not happy about something.

‘Have you told the Bishop about your daughter?’ Baldwin asked, by way of filling the sudden silence.

It was successful. Suddenly Simon grew animated, and the Bishop and he discussed the wedding in detail, emptying their jugs of wine, so that when Meg walked in again, Baldwin was pleased to see that she soon wore a soft smile that eased the lines of worry and smoothed her forehead of fear.

He only wished he could feel confident that Simon’s problems were truly over. The trouble was, he feared that they weren’t.

Beaulieu

Sir Hugh le Despenser was sitting at his table when the friar entered. ‘Friar. How can I help you?’

Nicholas swallowed anxiously. ‘It is this matter of the oil that was stolen from Christ Church, Sir Hugh.’

‘What of it?’

‘I think I know who has taken it.’

Despenser was silent for a moment. He leaned back in his chair and studied the friar doubtfully. ‘And who was it, then?’

Nicholas grinned without humour. ‘You think I’m a fool? First, I want to be able to speak to the King. You arrange for that, and then I shall tell you who it is, and how I know it.’

‘What do you want to speak to the King about?’

‘We must find his oil! The holy oil given by St Thomas for him to be saved, because …’

Sir Hugh was peering at him like a judge who heard a beggar deny taking alms. ‘You think the King will trust anything you have to say about his oil? You know what the King thinks about that oil? He thinks it is all a part of a conspiracy to upset him. Nobody believes that the oil is genuine. That is nothing. Now, who was it?’

‘You say he doesn’t believe in the oil, and then you ask to know who took it! You think I am stupid but I am not!’

‘Oh, I think you are,’ Despenser said. He had risen from his seat and now he walked around his table. In a moment he had grasped Nicholas’s throat, and now he pulled the friar towards him and snarled malevolently. ‘You are very stupid, Friar. You think that because of your ragged robes you can come into my chamber here, and still be protected. You are not protected, and nor will you be if you speak to the King. I don’t care about some oil that has a fictional story appended to it. I do care about the murder of a monk at Christ Church, though, and about a king’s herald slaughtered by the roadside and left to rot. I care about them very much, and if you don’t tell me all you know in the next moments, I shall have you carried down to where the King’s executioner plies his trade, and we’ll see how castration can loosen your tongue!’

Wednesday before the Feast of Gordianus et Epimachus 26

Beaulieu

It had sounded too bizarre to Sir Hugh le Despenser when the friar blurted out his story, but there was a crazy ring of truth to it. There are some tales which are too peculiar for any man to have thought of inventing them, and this had all the hallmarks of one.

He had spoken with one of his Welshmen as soon as Nicholas of Wisbech had concluded, and then had him repeat his story. The Welshman understood what was needed of him, and went about the abbey to confirm the story.

In truth, there wasn’t much to validate. Sir Hugh remembered vaguely the knight who had died on the coronation day, not that it was that much of a problem at the time. No, much more important was the obscene behaviour of Gaveston, the arrogant prickle, prancing about like some earl from a bad dream, all purple and bejewelled, as though the day was his and not the King’s.

It was appalling, his conduct so repugnant that there were many there that day at the feast who were convinced from that moment that Gaveston would have to be killed. Despenser was one of them. Not that he actually had any part in the murder. A shame. He would have liked to have participated.

But his man had been able to come back and fill in the gaps. Yes, the herald called Thomas was the brother of John of Bakewell, the knight who had been crushed to death in Westminster Abbey when the wall behind him collapsed. Thomas of Bakewell had been looked upon sympathetically by the Queen, and she had taken him into her household, and from there he had migrated to the King’s.

He had been a reliable member of the household, by all accounts, and had been sent to Christ Church to tell the Prior that the King had been travelling to Beaulieu, so that when the ambassadors arrived there, they would know where to go to speak with the King. As soon as they arrived, Thomas was supposed to have hurried back to tell the King that they were on their way.

Oddly, he had arrived only a day before the others. While they should have been travelling more slowly than he, for some reason Thomas was much more late than the journey could explain. And meanwhile, Richard de Yatton had been killed and left at the side of the road.

‘I want you to find out where this man Thomas sleeps. Go through all his belongings, in case there’s a phial of oil there. If there is, bring it to me.’

‘What about him, Sir Hugh? Do you want us to do anything to him?’

‘Not yet. If you find the oil, you can kill him.’

Feast Day of Gordianus et Epimachus 27

Eltham Palace

Earl Edward was back early from hunting, and he marched heavily across the court from his stables while the grooms cleaned and brushed his horse.

There had been a good morning’s ride, with the hounds taking the scent of a fine stag early on. They had nearly lost the beast, but it was Earl Edward himself who saw him crashing off through some bracken and young trees over on the hillside east, and he’d himself drawn the hounds back to it, leading them initially with a whoop of encouragement, until they all saw his direction and the lead bitch caught the scent.