Michael Jecks - The Prophecy of Death

‘We can’t be shaken. If we all stay together, we’ll be all right.’

‘We can all speak for each other,’ the first had nodded.

‘But we won’t, will we?’ Richard had said, smiling. ‘As soon as we go in there, we’re going to do anything we can to cover our own arses.’

It was the truth, of course. But after so much effort trying to convince each other that they would stand by their friends and even their enemies, it was Richard’s honest simplicity that Joseph remembered. It was a shame he was gone. Joseph hadn’t known him very well, but he thought Richard had a strangely appealing straightforwardness.

He was still enjoying the warmth which the harsh Guyennois wine spread from his fingers to his toes, when he saw the Bishop of Orange.

The Bishop was walking about with his usual expression of mild absent-minded enquiry, but Joseph was not fooled. The man had one of the brightest brains in the Church, he reckoned. The Bishop was one of those in whom the Pope himself placed a great deal of trust. He was intelligent, shrewd, and was effective as a collector of information. All of which made him a most useful tool for the Pope.

But not a friend for other men. And Joseph had no desire to see him. Not now. The last time he had seen the Bishop was at the body of poor Richard.

He would never forget that day, he reckoned. Seeing poor Richard lying there, and then the lovely woman who looked so nervous at the fringe of the wood, and her man with her …

Suddenly he felt his belly lurch with something akin to horror. The woman ! Of course! She’d been so nervous. And her man had disappeared when he arrived!

Her man must have been the killer of Richard de Yatton.

Simon was about to sip again at his wine, when a man walked past him, and he idly looked the fellow over.

It was a routine thing for him. Every time he saw a new face, he would try to commit the face and any recognisable features to memory. Not because the man was a felon, but because he was keen to know all those who worked on his moors. And now he had no moors to patrol, the habit was so deeply entrenched that he could not help himself from doing it.

His eyes passed over the man’s long hair, down to his parti-coloured blue and blue-striped hosen, over the tabard with the King’s insignia, and on — and then back. He looked at the King’s sign more closely, peering with a fixed frown on his face, before sitting back and considering.

‘What is it, Simon?’ Baldwin asked, noticing his pensiveness.

‘I was wondering. When the King’s herald was killed, he died on the road between Christ Church and Beaulieu.’

‘Yes. And also in-between many other towns.’

‘Aye, but it was still between those two. When we spoke to Prior Eastry at Canterbury, he said that the man who killed the monk and stole the oil was seen going west, too. Going in that same direction. So we assumed he was a genuine king’s herald.’

‘Yes.’

‘But there are others who wear the tabard, aren’t there? Not all are heralds.’

‘True. So what?’

‘Well,’ Simon said, waving a hand expansively about the yard before them. ‘Whoever he is, and whatever he is, if he’s a King’s man of any sort, the chances are, he’s here somewhere.’

Baldwin gave a slow nod. It was a thought which should have already occurred to him, but he had so effectively erased that murder and robbery from his mind that he had not considered it for days. He looked about him now, and it struck him how out of place he and Simon were. They were country folk, unused to so much display and boastfulness. All about them men were talking about their prowess in one field or another, usually with little regard for the truth. To Baldwin, the scene was familiar, but somehow skewed. He was accustomed to the ways of great courts from his time in the Knights Templar. More recently, his experiences at the courts at Exeter had helped form his opinion that more good justice was handed down locally than at the King’s courts, no matter what they were labelled. There was less posturing, less jockeying for position in the local courts.

Here, though, the place reeked of ambition. Men would trade their souls for a little of the power that resided here in the King’s hands. It made Baldwin suddenly realise why it was that men would go to war. Oh, some no doubt actually believed in the causes espoused by their leaders, but more, he felt sure, were driven either by an immediate desire for money, or by an urge to show themselves to the King. So many would do foolish things in order to be noticed, in the hope of winning that coveted trophy of knighthood, or perhaps in the hope of a reward of lands or money later. All would risk much in order to achieve something that was in essence trivial. But they thought it worth dying for.

And men came here to serve the King from all over the country in the hope that he might see them and be impressed. Impressed enough to reward them.

A man might, just might, come here and present the King with a gift, he thought. That would be a knightly way to be noticed, arriving here with a small phial that contained holy oil from St Thomas.

‘You’re wanted,’ the man said.

Baldwin eyed him with an expression of blank disapproval. The fellow was dressed like a Welsh shepherd, with long hosen under a rough tunic of some cheap material that looked almost like fustian. He wore a thick, quilted linen jack, with a leather cotte over the top, and a green cloak about his shoulders. Although quite tall for a Welshman, he was not so tall as Baldwin, not that it mattered. The fact that there were three of his companions behind him, two with staffs in their hands, was more than enough reason for Baldwin to avoid an altercation.

‘By whom?’

‘My Lord Despenser.’

‘The Earl of Winchester?’

‘His son.’

‘Oh, so you mean Sir Hugh.’

‘I mean my master.’

‘And he told you we would be here?’

‘Yes.’

‘Fascinating, Simon. Sir Hugh takes such a keen interest in our well-being, that he sends his own men to guard us on the way to his side.’

The journey was only short. Earlier in the year, Simon had been mouth agape at the sight of the hall with its fabulously decorated ceilings, the richly coloured walls, the huge desks at which so many courts were sitting — but not now. He was here with very specific business, and he was nervous about the outcome. The idea that the whole of his life’s safety depended upon the next half-hour or so had not escaped him. Even as he marched alongside Baldwin towards the Despenser’s rooms, he felt a grim certainty settle upon his soul that there was nothing he could do against a man who was so recklessly powerful.

‘In here,’ the man said, pointing to a door.

‘You first,’ Baldwin said.

The Welshman sneered, as though the idea that he might try to capture the knight here in the King’s palace was so laughable that only a man scared of his own shadow might succumb to it, but he walked inside nonetheless.

‘Sir Baldwin’s here, Sir Hugh.’

Baldwin walked inside, Simon wary at his back, and the door was closed quietly behind them.

Before them was a small chamber, richly decorated. On the wall were hangings of marvellous colour, depicting hunting scenes of various types. The floor had a thick layer of reeds, which added a rich aroma of hay to the room. At the further end was a long table, on which stood a chessboard, and Despenser stood over it, eyeing the board with an expression of extreme concentration.

‘Welcome, Sir Baldwin. Bailiff. Come in and take a little wine with me.’

As he regarded Baldwin and Simon, Despenser decided that he must be cautious with these two. He turned back to the board.