Michael Jecks - The Prophecy of Death

‘No. I was hoping to be able to travel with you, my Lord. If you would allow me to join your party on the way to the Pope, I would be very grateful.’

‘Your gratitude is no doubt a fine thing,’ the Bishop said without enthusiasm. ‘However, I have a large entourage already. If you wish us to carry food and drink for you too, it will add a great deal to my baggage.’

‘I can walk, and I have little need of food, my Lord. We friars are used to the ascetic life and little nourishment.’

‘True enough.’ The Bishop studied him thoughtfully for a while, and at last nodded. ‘Very well. I will allow you to join my men on the journey to the Pope. However, I cannot guarantee the reception you will receive.’

‘I am very glad to hear it! I will make my peace with him as best I may.’

‘Yes. I am sure that he will be most interested to hear more about this marvellous oil,’ the Bishop said.

Lydford

It was a very exhausted Bailiff Puttock who was assisted by his wife to his bedchamber that night. Peterkin had already fallen into his truckle bed, and Simon and Margaret stood undressing, both watching their remaining child.

‘For all the arguing and troubles over the years, the house will seem quiet without her,’ Margaret said ruminatively.

‘That little devil will make up for any lack of noise on her part,’ Simon said with a mild belch. ‘He’s already taken it upon himself to talk more than all the rest of us put together.’

Margaret smiled, then lifted her tunic over and off. She only wore a linen shirt beneath, and this she now removed as well, before climbing into bed. Sitting up, she watched her man undress.

He was still firm in the body. Every so often he would put on weight, but then the rigours of his work on the moors would wear it away again. That was the case in the past, anyway. The last months, living away from her, while he was working in Dartmouth, had made him lose more weight than before, and as she looked at him, she saw how the lines had become more deeply graven into his forehead. He was a good man, she knew. All through the dreadful times when she had been trying to give him another son, he had been sympathetic, calm, generous … and all the while he was desperate for a little boy to replace the one they lost.

It was some years since that appalling disease had struck. Poor little boy, he had died slowly, and Simon had never forgiven himself. Whereas usually he was the calmest, kindest father and husband, the one thing he could never abide was witnessing one whom he loved suffering pain. And their little boy had died so miserably, vomiting, screaming, with diarrhoea, and unable to eat or drink anything at all. It had torn at both of them to see him fade away, but Simon found it harder. He had once admitted to her that he blamed himself because he had wished the child to die at the end. He was so exhausted by the three days of sitting up and trying to comfort the boy, that the end was almost a blessing. And Simon never forgave himself for that.

It was sad, too, that Edith had always been ‘his’ child. They had an unholy alliance, Margaret sometimes felt, against any form of order in the house. And now he had lost her. She was in love with another man. It must be terrible, she felt, to be a parent and see the love which once had been specifically reserved for you to be passed over to another. It was something she feared herself, because she knew that Peterkin, her little Peterkin, would always be closer to her than to Simon, and she knew that when Peterkin was old enough, she would be desolate to see him leave the home and start his own family.

Ah, well. All mothers have to accept that. Once they have given life, they have to keep on giving, until they’ve given so much that their son can leave. And the mother must hope there’s enough life left within her to keep herself alive for a little longer.

‘Feeling lecherous, wench?’ her husband leered.

She looked up and smiled. In truth, she had hardly ever felt less lecherous in her life. Yet Simon had been a good husband to her, and if she were being truthful, the loss of her daughter made her ache with sadness. She was an old woman now. Soon she might hear that she would be a grandam. She was unsure how she could cope with that.

Margaret was filled with a warm sense of love for him. This was no duty, it was a proof of her affection for him. Moving aside, she made space for him, opening her legs to ease his entry. She had the marriage debt still to pay, after all. As did her daughter now, she thought with a twinge. She hoped Edith would take as much pleasure from the debt as she always did.

Simon grunted with pleasure, smiled down at her, belched, and then, resting his head on her bosom, began to snore.

Monday before Ascension Day 29

Eltham

Up as dawn was breaking, Richard of Bury found that his charge was already out of his bed and on a horse.

It was one more proof of his mental and physical fitness. The lad seemed determined always to show himself as capable as any other, no matter what the task. He was exactly the sort of fellow who would, when King, lead his hosts from the front rank. ‘Never ask others to do what you would not dare yourself’ appeared to be his motto. And since he believed that a strong man needed to make the most of every day, and a fit man would be first to rise in the morning so he could take advantage of every moment of sunshine, he was usually one of the earliest to be out of his bed. It made his guards deeply unhappy.

The Earl had always been a strong-willed lad, Richard of Bury considered. Not only did he have a mental rigour when considering abstruse philosophical arguments, but he could also be quite ruthless in his reasoning when he thought about more practical matters of kingship. When a fellow took into account the fact that he was born of such a disastrous marriage, it was perhaps no great surprise, but the mental powers which he possessed were still impressive. They would have been in a much older man.

Some might have said that he was callous, that he was cold and unemotional when viewing other people and their needs, but to Richard of Bury that was essential. A king was first and foremost the supreme arbiter of justice, and any man who would be King must be entirely impartial — unless it was an issue that affected his own authority or the realm, of course. Then the two must override all other considerations, naturally.

That the lad had the ability, Richard did not doubt. He was a thoroughly effective student, and appeared to appreciate all that Richard told him of past kings, and his analysis of what had made them great.

They had held an interesting discussion this morning, for example, while walking outside in the court.

‘So, my Earl, what do you think of the present disputes between your father and your uncle?’

The Earl had smiled slightly. ‘The King my father has a fully legitimate claim to the lands which are the remnants of the lands which he inherited. My mother brought a great deal of France with her as her dower, and it would be shameful to deprive her of that. But my uncle also has his own realm to consider. He is the King of a great land, and it has to be his desire that he might one day bring all under his authority. While my father holds on to his lands and refuses to pay homage to my uncle, his loyalty is suspect. And if my father does go there, he is accepting the fact that he is subservient to my uncle. That would be a galling draught to swallow for any man.’

‘Can there be a resolution?’

‘Only if the two crowns are united, or if they are entirely separated. If my father had no lands in France, there would be no issue. Or if my father was King of both England and France, there would also be no difficulty. It is merely this intermediate stage, when both are King, and yet one should pay homage to the other, that creates all the trouble.’