Michael Jecks - The Prophecy of Death

‘My little girl, you’re beautiful!’ Simon breathed, and in a moment he felt curiously giddy. The sadness of losing his lovely daughter was mixed with an immense pride to see that she had turned out so wonderfully. He gazed at her for such a long time that she coloured prettily and bent her head in embarrassment, but he gently lifted her head for her, a finger under her chin, and smiled at her. And then he felt the flood of tears threatening.

‘Don’t cry, Father,’ she whispered, a trace of real panic in her voice.

‘I won’t cry over this, maid. You’ve a good man here, and you’ll make him proud of you.’

She smiled, and walked beside him along the grassed pathway to the church door where everyone waited for them.

And that, in truth, was much of his memory of the day. The priest stood and portentously intoned the words, while the two children — he hoped he would grow to remember that they were adults now — smiled shyly at each other and the crowds waiting, putting on the ring on her fourth finger, swearing their vows to each other … Simon knew all this happened, but it was all he could do to keep a grip on his wife’s hand as it all progressed. He remembered to announce the dowry, which stunned the audience when they saw the King’s purse and his money, but after that, when Baldwin clapped him on the back, and Jeanne came to him and congratulated him on acquiring a stolid, stable son-in-law who would be a credit to his family, all he could do was mumble. It was only later, when he sampled the brides-ale, that he began to feel a little more normal.

‘She looks lovely, doesn’t she?’ Margaret said as the shadows lengthened and the crowds grew rowdier, the priest bellowing at a small group of men gambling on a cockfight, while others drank themselves to a stupor on a grave nearby.

Simon took a deep breath and let his eyes range over all the people in the yard. ‘She looks almost as lovely as you did, Meg, on the day I married you,’ he said, and encircled her waist with his arm. He could see his son Peterkin running about with three friends from the town, all playing tag, and as he looked over at Edith, he saw that she was wearing two little crowns, one of primroses, one of cowslips, and a necklace of violets. And suddenly he felt an enormity of sadness welling up in his breast, as though his life was all but ended.

‘Simon? Are you well?’ Margaret asked.

‘Of course I am. Are you?’

She turned a little away. ‘I feel so happy, I almost feel sad.’

‘He has a good wife, there. He’d best look after her.’

‘With that dowry, he’ll be able to afford to,’ Margaret said.

‘I hope so,’ Simon responded. ‘I wish them both all the happiness in the world.’

Baldwin had approached with Jeanne, who had arrived the day before, fetched by Edgar, and heard his last words. ‘So do we all, Simon. So do we all.’

Beaulieu

Despenser sat back in his seat as the two men entered. ‘Well?’

‘We’ve not been able to look until today, Sir Hugh,’ the first, Ivor, said. ‘We looked through all his belongings, but there was no sign of anything there.’

‘You are quite sure? The phial could be very small, perhaps only the size of a sword’s pommel?’

‘There was nothing there that could hold oil. We’ve been through everything.’

Despenser ground his teeth with frustration. It wasn’t as if he had all the time in the world. There were reports coming to him of possible invasion plans for the conquering of England. Joseph had just returned from the prior of Christ Church with another story of shipping off the coast of Holland, and here he was, trying to find the oil that could provide salvation. Oh, he’d told that fool of a friar that he didn’t believe in the oil, but that was less than honest. He didn’t know whether the oil was St Thomas’s or not, but that didn’t matter. Not now.

Before he had wanted it for himself, just to prove to the King that Despenser had his best interests at heart. However, now he was beginning to change his mind.

If he could find it and let it be known that the Abbot of Westminster, perhaps, had used it to renew the King’s vows and have him anointed again, then men throughout the realm would listen and perhaps have faith in him once more.

That was the main issue now. Despenser had picked up rumours from spies that Roger Mortimer was in Hainault. And the men there were notoriously keen on taking up arms for any man who could afford them. They were skilled, and numerous. If Mortimer succeeded in persuading Guillaume, the Count of Hainault, he would have a large army at his disposal. Only last year Despenser had learned of a plot to invade, and ships had gathered off Zeeland. He’d ordered the admiral of the eastern fleet to keep his eyes open, but fortunately nothing had come of it then. That didn’t mean Mortimer wasn’t attempting something equally audacious now.

If he was successful, the King would need as many men as possible for when the invasion force arrived. There were few enough who had shown any interest in fighting for him so far. The oil could be the last little grain of sand that tilted men back into his camp and prepared them to fight for the King again, rather than leave all to fate. Fate would be a painful experience for Despenser, he felt sure.

He had to find that oil. It may be just enough to put a little fire in the bellies of the men who needed it, and Despenser must find it to prove once again that he was the one man in the kingdom upon whom the King could rely.

‘You want us to catch the man, Sir Hugh?’ Ivor said hesitantly. ‘I could tickle him up a little with my knife, see if that loosens his tongue?’

It was tempting. But … ‘No. Not yet. We will be leaving in a couple of days. The King must return to Westminster, ready for a meeting of his barons to discuss France. He is to persuade the Bishop of Orange to join him. The king’s heralds will all be on the journey with us. It will be easier to find the oil then, on the road. He will have to bring it with him, unless he’s planning to leave it down here. It’s too valuable for that. No, leave him for now. We’ll take him and have our sport later.’

The Bishop of Orange was content to be leaving this place, but it was a source of great annoyance that he was to travel up to London. The city was no doubt diverting enough for most men, but for him it was merely an additional journey which entailed going still further out of his way. His path should take him back to the Pope, not up to London. It was almost the opposite direction, in God’s name!

When he heard the knock at his door, it made him glance quickly at his table to ensure that any indiscreet documents were hidden before he called out, ‘ Entrez! ’

Nicholas walked in slowly, downcast. This was no time for pride. He had to show how humble he was. At other times he could show a little pride in his habit, but not today. Today he was a mere supplicant, begging some assistance from another man of God.

‘What do you want, Friar?’

The tone was not welcoming. ‘My Lord Bishop, I am a deeply miserable friar. I have been here at Beaulieu for some weeks, trying to see the King to plead my case, but he will not see me.’

‘What is your case?’

‘The oil of St Thomas,’ Nicholas said, and felt sure that the Bishop understood. Immediately, the Bishop seemed to give him his full attention, and even as Nicholas told his story, he gained the impression that the Bishop already knew, or guessed much. Perhaps it was not so surprising, though. The Pope knew about the oil, and surely some of his closer advisers would also have been told of it.

‘This is most interesting,’ the Bishop said. ‘But what do you want me to do? Raise the matter with the King? I do not think he would be grateful for a foreigner to bring it up.’