Michael Jecks - The Prophecy of Death

‘You want to give up all we have done here?’

She looked at Baldwin. ‘How many men and women has he killed?’

‘I don’t know. Many, though.’

‘Simon, I cannot lose you, and I cannot risk losing Peterkin. The house is just a house. We have another. Perhaps if we move back to Sandford, he will leave us alone.’

‘Perhaps he will, at that,’ Baldwin said, to her surprise. And then he continued, ‘But I should feel happier if I had brought the whole matter to the attention of the King himself. And I think that he owes you and I a favour, Simon.’

Beaulieu

Thomas of Bakewell never felt entirely right here among all the King’s men. At heart, he was still the Queen’s, heart and soul. He would never forget her lovely face, only a little older than his own, and the frown of compassion on it as she smoothed the hair from his brow that dreadful day of the King’s coronation.

Not the only thing that went wrong, either. There were other problems. The barons all deprecated the fabulous riches worn by the King’s past lover, Piers Gaveston, the smarmy son of an impoverished Breton knight, whom the old King had exiled. Gaveston was cocky and rude, and he seemed to set out to upset all the most powerful in the land, giving them insulting nicknames and then using them in front of others. And it wasn’t helped that he was enormously competent in the lists. He beat all the older barons in a tournament.

But on that coronation day, he inspired more than jealousy or contempt. He may have set the scene for the difficulties between the King and Queen — and France.

The Queen had arrived with a fabulous dowry, not only lands, but many jewels as well. And on the evening of the coronation, she saw that Gaveston was wearing them. This was a mortal insult to her, and to those members of her family who were also there. It was a miracle, so she said later, that no one had demanded to know how the primping fool had acquired them all. But then, no one needed to. They all saw perfectly clearly how the King fawned on his ‘brother’. Sickening.

Yes, the Queen had the patience and kindness of a saint to have coped with her husband for so long. His infidelities, his deceits, his conceits, and his string of friends and advisers, on whom he lavished ever more inappropriate gifts — he could not help himself.

Thomas shook his head, hefted his little pack and blankets, and continued on his way out to his horse. He was to ride off with the King and his men, and had best hurry, for the King and his companions had almost finished their meal.

He walked from his room, down a narrow staircase, and along the passage at the side of the hall, until he came to the open air again — and was suddenly shouldered back inside.

‘What in God’s name-’ he spluttered, reaching for his sword.

Immediately a knife was at his throat, just behind his chin, pointing upwards, making him lift his head and stop struggling. There was a man at his back, who said slyly, ‘Didn’t you hear me, Herald?’

A Welshman, Thomas noted, but that didn’t mean anything for a moment. Then he heard footsteps, and he rolled his eyes to see who it might be. As he did so, he saw Sir Hugh le Despenser appear. He was ready for the journey, cloaked and gloved, but as he approached Thomas, he tugged at the fingers of his left glove, gently easing it off. At last in front of Thomas, he gripped it in his right hand and slapped Thomas twice on each side of his face. The heavy leather made his cheeks smart, and there was a loose rivet, which slashed his cheek open near his jaw.

‘That, Herald, is merely a beginning,’ Despenser said. ‘I want to know where the oil is. Where did you hide it?’

‘What oil? I don’t know what you mean, Sir Hugh.’

‘I’m glad to see you know who I am. Now listen to me carefully, Herald.’ Despenser approached closely and leaned near to Thomas, so that Thomas could see little other than his eyes, peering into his own with a look of mild enquiry. ‘You were coming back that way, weren’t you? You met with Richard de Yatton, and you killed him. Why do that? Just because he saw you there?’

Thomas frowned up at him. ‘I don’t know what you are talking about, Sir Hugh. I went up to-’

‘Canterbury. I know. And while there, you stole oil from the monks and killed one. I don’t know why, but I am not bothered about him. What is one monk, more or less? Nothing. But the oil you took, that is valuable, my friend. And murdering a king’s herald, that is still more terrible. The King has a habit of not forgiving those who shame him, and he does, I fear, consider men who steal from him to be profoundly embarrassing to him personally. He will not be pleased with you, I fear.’

‘Then take me to him now. I have done nothing.’

‘I don’t know if I believe you.’

Thomas shook his head. ‘I don’t know what you are talking about.’

‘Open his bags,’ Despenser commanded.

Thomas watched silently, keeping absolutely still as the knife under his jaw pressed upwards. He was sure he could feel the dribble of blood at the tip as the second man with Despenser took his dagger to the roll of blankets. He cut through the hempen string binding them, and unrolled them. There was nothing inside, but the man was nothing if not thorough. He ran his blade along the blankets until there was nothing but a shredded mess. Nothing useable.

The pack was a simple canvas one with a single strap. He took his knife to this too, opening the material and laying the lining bare. All the items inside were taken out and studied, before being crushed or ruined. There was nothing inside of real value, for Thomas had never owned anything of genuine worth, but the sight of the man merely ravaging his property for no reason was enough to set Thomas’s blood racing.

‘Not here, then, eh? We’ll find it,’ Despenser said coolly. ‘And when we do, I’ll take you to the King myself for judgement. You’d best be ready for that.’

‘I do not have it.’

‘What made you kill Richard? Eh? What had he done to you to deserve such ill-use? Or the monk, come to that? And after the poor devil had brought you the oil in the first place. It doesn’t seem very kindly to accept his aid, and then cut his throat.’

Suddenly there was a shout, and Thomas felt the man behind him slowly release his hold, the knife blade running slowly to the line of his jaw-bone, then backwards to beneath his ear, where it remained a short while. Then it was gone. Meanwhile Despenser and his other man had retreated, and now were out of sight.

He was alone again. Gradually he sank to his knees, then fell forwards to all fours, choking and retching with shame and rage, as another man hurried to him.

‘Are you all right?’ Jack demanded.

Thomas was so relieved, he could not speak, but instead closed his eyes and allowed his head to droop.

Lydford

‘Baldwin! Baldwin, stop, please,’ Margaret called, running from the house to him. He was already astride his horse, his wife nearby; Edgar tightening the saddle a short distance away, while Wolf capered with one of Simon’s hounds on the grass beside the road.

‘Baldwin, don’t, please. There’s no need for you to do anything which might lead to more danger for you!’

‘Margaret, do not worry about me, my dear. I am perfectly content that I am doing the correct thing.’

‘You cannot go alone,’ Margaret said.

Jeanne had heard their words, but was unsure of their import. ‘What is this? Baldwin, tell me what is happening? Why do you want to leave so soon?’

‘He has decided that he will go to the Despenser and fight him!’ Margaret said.