Michael Jecks: The Prophecy of Death

‘Simon, I am sorry. I have been growing irritable without my own wife and children. I forget others may have the same regrets.’

‘How much longer do we have to stay here?’

Baldwin shook his head. He had no answer to that. They had been sent here on the orders of the King, and their duty was to remain to ensure the Queen’s safety.

It was a most peculiar situation, though, and one fraught with dangers for a rural knight and bailiff.

Prior’s Hall, Christ Church Priory

The Prior rubbed at the bridge of his nose and ran through the events again, from the moment the idiots had woken him.

It was not only him. Mark and Hal had woken the whole priory. All had been deeply asleep, waiting for the bell to toll for Matins, and instead they were jerked awake by the screams of those two. Old Brother Anselm had thought that the end of the world was coming and nearly expired on the spot, poor devil. In truth, it was a miracle the deaf old stoat had heard anything.

All had rushed to the barn as soon as the fools had announced their discovery, and the priory had been all of a twitter ever since. It would have been bad enough if the man was just one of the brethren. Yes, that would have been dreadful. But worse still was the fact of who he was: a friend of Sir Hugh le Despenser. No one disliked poor brother Gilbert. The man was a pleasant fellow, bright, studious, and keen to please.

What was he doing there in the hounds’ barn? The man should have been asleep, like all the other brethren. Yet there he was, in the hay, with his throat cut. Something must have awoken him and made him rise and walk outside. A disturbance? No, surely not — if there had been something of that nature, someone else would have heard it. Another monk would have woken.

Prior Henry swallowed uncomfortably as this thought rattled about in his head. Because perhaps another monk had woken. Perhaps it was a brother monk who had slain the poor fellow?

But that would mean that someone had hated him enough to all but hack his head from his body. Surely that was no monk from Christ Church.

No. It couldn’t be.

Château du Bois, Paris

It was while Baldwin and Simon were settling down in their chamber that the messenger arrived to ask them to return to the Queen’s rooms.

‘What now?’ Simon muttered as they trotted across the courtyard. ‘She wants a brief demonstration of sword-play to help her sleep?’

‘You grow impatient with our Queen?’ Baldwin said with a flash of his teeth.

‘Not impatient with her — just with our position here,’ Simon protested.

‘Yet you think she seeks our company for a diversion?’

‘She appears to enjoy little diversions,’ Simon grumbled.

It was true — and yet she was also possessed of an intellect which was quite the match of any man’s, as Baldwin told himself. The mere fact that she was here, in Paris, at her husband’s expense, was proof of her wiliness. She was no fool. When she wanted something, she tended to win it.

‘Sir Baldwin, Bailiff Puttock, I am glad to see you return,’ Isabella greeted them as they walked in. She was still in her seat, while, instead of the ladies-in-waiting, William de Bouden, her comptroller and personal adviser, now stood at her shoulder.

Bowing, his face to the ground, Baldwin could not see her face. ‘My Lady, naturally we came as soon as you commanded us.’

‘There is no need for formality just now. Please, stand, both of you,’ she said, graciously motioning with her hands for them to rise. ‘I called you here to hear what my good friend William has to say. William, tell them too.’

The comptroller was a slightly chubby man, but square set for a clerk. He had eyes that were grey, steely and determined. He had the appearance of a fighter who had somewhat gone to seed in recent years. Now he looked at Baldwin and Simon with some doubt in his face. He had not come to know either of them during their journey here, and since arriving in Paris there had been too many calls on all their time.

‘As you know, we are all here to negotiate a lasting peace. We have the objective of having all the King’s territories returned. We cannot lose lands such as Guyenne.’

‘It’s a matter of pride,’ Simon said, trying to sound as though he understood perfectly.

William turned his eyes on Simon, and when he spoke, his voice oozed contempt. ‘You could say that. On the other hand, when you appreciate the fact that Guyenne brings more to the King’s purse than England, Scotland and Wales combined, you may understand that it is more than mere pride which makes it an attractive territory.’

‘What!’ Simon blurted, and gaped.

De Bouden pursed his lips, then, seeing he had their full attention, continued in more detail, explaining the history of the disputed territories.

Last year there had been a flare of battle over a bastide at St Sardos. The Abbot of Sarlat tried to build it with the permission of the French King, but English locals had deprecated the construction, and thrown down the works. The French tried to stop them, and the mob rose in anger, killing a French official. It gave the French the pretext they had wanted, and all the English territories had been confiscated by them.

Now the French King, Charles IV, insisted that the English King, Edward II, should come to France to renew his pledges of allegiance over the French territories under his command. But King Edward had no wish to put himself under the authority of this latest French King. King Charles IV was a dangerous opponent, wily and astute, and, the way his mind worked, it was surely hazardous to the English interest, and perhaps to the English King’s personal safety, for King Edward to cross the channel. Which was why the Queen was here. She was French by birth, so she understood them, she could speak the language fluently, and her brother would hopefully not wish to embarrass her. He may even give the lands back as a matter of chivalry.

That had been the hope.

The reality was that King Charles IV was a shrewd negotiator who knew the strength of his position and intended making full use of it. The idea that he would willingly give up the lands he had taken was farcical.

‘What is he asking?’ Baldwin said.

The Queen herself responded. ‘He demands that we surrender Guyenne, Ponthieu and Montreuil, until the King my husband comes here to pay homage to his liege lord. The Agenais will remain in my brother’s hands until the ownership and rights are decided by a French court.’

‘You think our King will accept that?’ Baldwin said, shocked.

The Queen looked at him. ‘Hardly,’ she said.

‘So we will have to make an accommodation,’ William de Bouden said.

‘Of what nature?’ Baldwin asked.

‘It is easy,’ William began. ‘Our King cannot come here himself. He could be in danger. There are many men here in the French court who are no friends to our King, and-’

The Queen cut him off impatiently. ‘The King will not come, and there is only one other who could. If the King were to elevate my son by giving him all the King’s possessions in France, then my son Edward could come here and take the oath. My husband need not come here himself. I want you to go to the King and explain this.’

Eltham Palace, Kent

Unaware of discussions taking place over the seas in France which would lead to the ruin of his family, the end of his father’s reign, and which would have a terrible impact on his own life, Edward of Windsor, the Earl of Chester, was yet assailed by dark thoughts.

He sat silently while food was brought to his table, surveying the men before him as he dipped his hands in the bowl presented, and dried them on the towel. In front of him, ranged in two lines, were the great trestle tables, and two thirds of his household were there, seated at the benches, while the remaining servants scurried to and fro with the dishes of food, one to each mess of four men. At least it was only his own household, he thought. His father was off at Beaulieu in Hampshire now.