Michael Jecks - The Prophecy of Death

‘Would he dare?’

‘There is little Despenser would not dare, given his appalling arrogance and greed,’ Baldwin said flatly. ‘But there is another possibility, of course. Perhaps he wanted it solely so that he could ask the King to have it used urgently now, to give him the sort of aid his reign requires.’

‘And to do so, he was prepared to see a monk murdered. Hardly the way to ingratiate the King with God,’ Simon said with contempt.

‘Despenser’s mind works in very strange ways,’ Baldwin agreed.

First Monday after Ascension Day 31

Thorney Island, Westminster

William Wattere was not happy to be here in the Bishop’s entourage. He had not actually been bound during the journey, but at all times the Bishop had two powerful men at his side, and it was clear enough that a severe bump on the head was the minimum he could expect, were he to try to escape.

The journey had been slow, too. That would not endear him to his master. Christ’s cods, the last thing he needed just now was to upset Despenser, when he had failed in his main task at the bastard bailiff’s house in Devon. Not much he could do about it, though. The bailiff had snatched him up with skill, and then having him confess while in front of the Bishop had been something he could almost admire, were it not for the fact that he could have happily cut out the bailiff’s liver and eaten it raw for making him seem a fool. He’d have that bastard. His arm still smarted badly from the cut the man had given him. It had been washed extensively by the Bishop’s men, but it still stung, and although it hadn’t gone sour and sweet-smelling, it was painful while riding. The skin seemed to have tightened, and gripping the reins made it stretch, which hurt like hell.

The pain was not helped by the reflection that he was daily coming closer to his master, to whom he would have to explain his failure. Approaching Westminster made him feel deeply uncomfortable.

At the entrance to the palace itself, he felt the weight of the gatehouse over his head like a threat, and just inside, when the Bishop ordered that he dismount, he was tempted to disobey and bolt for it, but he knew that it would not save him even if he tried it.

No, he would have to accept what fate had in store.

Simon and Baldwin had been here for over a day already. They had managed to make excellent time from Stockbridge, and were here in Westminster late on the Saturday. However, both were very tired, and now they sat outside the tavern by the gate, watching Wattere and the Bishop.

‘Come, Simon. Let us go and reintroduce ourselves to our friend,’ Baldwin said.

Simon flexed the muscles of his hand, feeling the stinging where Wattere’s blade had cut into his palm. ‘I’d like to do that.’

They stood and began to make their way over the great court, but before they could reach the Bishop’s party, another group arrived. A man rode out in front, a knight, from the look of him. Then came several others, all well-mounted on dexters, and a man on a palfrey who looked considerably less martial.

As Baldwin and Simon stood back hurriedly, the party swept past them in a rush of dust and hot air. The horses puffed and blew, one neighing, while carts and a wagon clattered in through the gates, and it was only when all was still, the horses stamping, that Simon saw the flag.

‘The King’s son,’ he said.

Richard of Bury eased himself from the saddle with some care, feeling the hideous soreness, and settled himself on the ground with that caution that only men who have experienced piles while needing to ride a horse could possibly understand.

‘Thanks to Christ!’ he murmured as he sighed with relief. The pain of that journey had been hideous, although, if he had to be honest, it could have been worse. Fortunately, his young charge was kind to him, and had not forced the pace at all. And there was plenty of time before they had to be here, so it wasn’t as though there was a need for urgency. No, but for all that, the saddle did mean that his backside felt as though someone had taken to rubbing sand and salt into his arse, and that was not a happy sensation.

The Earl himself, of course, had the constitution of an ox, while his arse was as solid as a block of oak. As much sense in it as in most men’s heads, too, he added to himself bitterly. But there was no need to be foolish. He was just a young lad who was perfectly used to travel, and to riding his horses. He took the damn things out every day. At least he was comfortable just now. It would mean that Richard would have an easier evening. Which was good, because Bury intended an early night, involving something along the lines of three jugs of good wine …

‘Master?’

‘What? Who are you, and what do you want?’

‘I am called Sir Baldwin de Furnshill, Master. And what are you called?’

‘Don’t be impertinent, Sir Knight. I am the tutor to the Earl of Chester, by the grace of God. I asked you what your business was?’

‘And I, in return, ask politely that you stop being such a rude person and instead treat your betters with the respect which they are due,’ Baldwin said, and his smile held that strange quality which Simon had seen before, of being a smile with the bottom teeth only. It reminded him of a story he had once heard of a beast abroad, a great reptile, with an enormous jaw studded with many teeth, and which appeared to smile all the time — until a man approached too close and realised his error.

‘Um, Baldwin, perhaps you should-’

‘I wish to pass on a message to the Earl of Chester,’ Baldwin said.

‘You can speak to me. You are Sir Baldwin, you say?’

Simon felt his heart plummet. Behind him came the clear voice, as yet unbroken, of a boy of tender years. Boys of that age could be capricious, dangerous, and when as powerful as this Earl of Chester, the first in line to the throne, they were still more lethal. Simon glowered at his friend, but Baldwin appeared oblivious.

‘I am honoured to meet you, my Lord,’ he said, bowing low as he would to the King. ‘I have a message for you from Her Royal Highness, your mother.’

‘You have seen my mother?’ The Earl’s excitement was unfeigned and so eager was he, that Simon forgot his fear of upsetting the boy. He sounded so much like other lads he had heard in his home town when they had news of long-departed fathers.

The Earl of Chester was an extraordinarily good-looking boy, he saw. Fair-haired, with his hair held long, much like his father, he had the ease in the saddle of a man who spent much of his time hunting. He was quite powerfully built, too, with the shoulders and neck of a lad much older. It must be due to all his practising with sword and lance, Simon told himself. It had paid off well. Already, although the lad was very young, Simon could see that he would be a dangerous opponent.

Now, though, his blue eyes were fixed on Baldwin with a strange intensity. He was much like an older man in that, too. Simon would get to realise that this fellow would concentrate on a man like a philosopher on an abstruse concept, reading and rereading the person until he felt he understood him. Perhaps living in a household with two strong, powerful, but sadly out of love and opposed parents would do that to a boy. He would feel a great urge to understand people.

‘Speak, sir!’

Baldwin nodded. ‘Your mother asked us to say that she hopes you are strong and healthy, that you remember your lessons, and that you pray for her with as much affection and love as she uses when praying for you. She said to say that she misses you sorely, and that she is desperate to see you again. She said to send you her love.’