Michael Jecks - The Prophecy of Death

‘I see. So how would you resolve it?’

The boy looked up at the towering beech trees and for that moment looked just like any other young boy: innocent, guileless, but looking for the next mischief he could cause.

‘Me? I would stake all on a great gamble. I would raise a host and go to France to conquer her. I would take her in a series of mighty battles, relying on my ability to move about the land at speed with a number of knights and men-at-arms all mounted on horses. Forget the idea of a series of long-drawn-out sieges of cities. We would ride out on chevauchée and devastate the countryside, eating all the foodstocks, burning what we could not eat. It would be a case of ravaging the country to prevent the people from ever living comfortably again. And I would force the French King to meet me in battle, and I would destroy his forces. And once I had him captured, I would treat him with great humility and generosity, as an equal. Because the war could only be won through the magnificence of chivalry. Like Arthur, I would be magnanimous in victory, but relentless in pursuit of it. All would hear my approach and tremble.’

‘Interesting. And do you think you would be able to command enough men to make such a prospect even remotely possible?’ Richard said, half jesting. ‘You do realise that for every English knight the French King has five or six? His is a greater land than all England.’

‘I would do it.’ There was an unsettling certainty in his tone. ‘I would create more knights from the wealthy, and those who refused to accept knighthood would needs must pay a fine to permit me to fund two men-at-arms. A king must have the men he needs to fight his wars. Of course, my father cannot do this.’

‘Why?’

‘He has lost the respect of his men. When he succeeded at Boroughbridge, many were prepared to give him their respect, but that all ended when he treated his victims so shamefully. That caused others to fear him. And when the Despenser family took so many spoils, people grew to despise him. There is no respect for him. And since Boroughbridge, he has lost more battles, hasn’t he? That is no way to inspire his men. So he cannot go to France. His barons would not trust his generalship, and his men would not have faith in his largesse.’

‘You can reason very clearly. Although I should say that your father the King has the love and adoration of all his loyal subjects, of course.’

‘Yes. You should say that. But do not pretend that you believe it, Bury. We both know the truth.’

‘May I ask how you came to such a conclusion, then?’

‘It is very easy, Master Bury. When I look at an issue, I try to think how one of your heroes would have viewed the same problem. And I try to emulate the greatest of them all, Arthur. How would Arthur have looked at an affair like the breakdown between England and France? How would he have resolved it? After that it becomes very simple. He was a man of honour, chivalry and enormous power. All I need do to succeed is copy him.’

‘And you can be so rational about the present position?’

‘You mean my father, don’t you?’ the boy said with a little sigh. ‘Well, of course I know I ought to be more plainly loyal and devoted to him, but the truth is, it is difficult. I hardly ever see him now. He is always roving about the country, and I know he is very fearful of losing the Agenais and Guyenne for ever. He would be devastated by that, but it is really no worse than his loss of Scotland. And he appears to have accepted that.’

‘You think so?’

The Earl turned to him with such an adult look on his face that Bury shrugged and apologised.

‘I am sorry, my Lord. Yes, of course he has. He has negotiated, and a man with whom you negotiate, you assume has the power to do so. If the King will negotiate with the Bruce, he has demonstrated that he believes the Bruce to be the actual authority in Scotland.’

‘Precisely. And the reason why he feels now more than ever he must resort to negotiating is nothing to do with the Bruce himself. It’s not him my father fears.’

‘Who, then? The French?’

‘Master Richard, I seriously believe I may have to instruct you, my tutor! No, of course not. He fears his own mightiest and greatest general, Sir Roger Mortimer. The traitor who now lives in France or somewhere. That man is the real danger to our realm. Not the Bruce. The Bruce and Scotland are merely a distraction.’

‘So what do you think King Arthur would do?’ Bury asked with a smile.

‘You mean if he were King? He would not have come to this pass.’

‘So, if you were to become King, what would you do, bearing in mind how matters stand?’

‘I would have to curry favour with my uncle, and betray my father.’

Now, back in his chamber, Bury could see the expression on the lad’s face once more. There was no sign of irony there. Only a fixed, serious concentration. Bury was sure that the lad meant what he said. If he had been King at the time, the realm would not have come to this pass. And if he were to take over in the near future, he would be forced to become a traitor to his own father.

He also wondered … the boy looked as though he could easily plot to do just that … but no. No, that was stretching things too far. He was a lad of not yet thirteen years. There was no possibility of his planning anything at his age.

Still, he was plainly the right heir to Arthur, just as the prophecy foretold.

A series of shouts from outside made him look up, momentarily forgetting his disturbed thoughts. He went to the window and peered down into the courtyard, and saw a messenger dismounting and stretching.

‘Message for the Earl of Chester.’

As Earl Edward’s tutor, he was soon to hear that the message was a summons to Westminster. Usually that would be a cause of excitement for Richard of Bury, because any excuse to go to the centre of power was reason for rejoicing, as it also involved excellent food and drink. But not today. Today Bury had a cold sensation in his belly. He remembered that look on the boy’s face the other day, a week ago, when he had seen Earl Edward. That day, the Earl had seemed on the verge of saying something. In God’s name, he hoped the Earl hadn’t done anything that could be regretted.

Perhaps his tutoring of the boy had been too rational, too worldly. Maybe he should stop the teaching of political and military achievement from ancient Greece to Rome, and instead, concentrate on less martial subjects.

But how could he deny the training Arthur’s heir demanded?

Lydford

Baldwin was already outside in the little garden when Simon rose that Monday morning. It was a lovely, fresh, late spring day. The clouds were few, and high in the sky, the sun casting long shadows this early, and there was a fine dew on the grass as Baldwin went through his exercises.

Simon sat on an upturned stump. Soon afterwards Wolf came and sat beside him, leaning against his thigh and resting his head on Simon’s leg, staring up at him beseechingly, demanding his attention. Simon patted his chest, enjoying the peace of the morning. Both their wives were still in their beds, as was Simon’s son. Baldwin’s children were still at his house. Jeanne had left them with their nurses rather than make the journey too slow. She would not be here for long, after all.

As he watched, the knight span and whirled, sword in his right hand, now in his left, making the movements that had been taught to him as a Templar. His order had placed a great deal of emphasis on daily weapons practice, and now Baldwin’s muscles were inured to the routine. He stood with his sword up, point angled downwards, right hand over his forehead, left hand flat like a blade, over his belly, where he could slap away an attack. Then he whirled, sword sweeping about, until he stopped with his right fist at his belt buckle, sword pointing upwards to block, left hand over his breast. Each manoeuvre carefully distinct, every time the blade glimmering with speed, only to halt firmly, unwavering. And as uncompromising as the movements of the steel was the expression on his face.