The Medieval Murderers - The Lost Prophecies

His initial enthusiasm to decipher the verses had gradually changed into frustration, as no matter what new ideas he applied to the meanings, nothing remotely satisfactory emerged. With no idea of the timescale over which the prophecies ranged and no clue as to whether they were consecutive in relation to the passing of the years, he had nothing concrete to work with.

His only conclusion, which was little more than an intuitive guess, was that the quatrain that contained the phrases ‘three golden beasts’ and ‘bishop’s rule’ must surely refer to the present reign, but, even if true, which year was involved?

In irritation, for anger was not an emotion that came easily to the mild-mannered clerk, he closed his copy of the book and banged his fist upon the cover.

‘This is sheer nonsense!’ he muttered to himself. ‘I am wasting the precious time that the Almighty gave me to praise Him and study His works in fretting over the ravings of an ancient madman! I could write such verses myself that would contain as much or as little sense as these pointless babblings.’

On an impulse he opened the book again to the last page and drew his pen and ink bottle towards him.

After a moment’s thought he dipped his quill into the little well and began writing in his impeccably regular script.

Though portents dire do fill with dread

And great significance implanted here,

Take care to always use your head,

Seek out the lie, for then your way is clear.

When he had completed the last line, he laid down his pen and sat back, feeling slightly guilty but also elated that he had struck a small blow for common sense in warning off any future readers of this farrago of nonsense that presumed to anticipate the predestination that God had ordained for man.

Three weeks later, after Canon Jordan had insisted that his copy be sent with the original to London, Thomas wished that he had not been so precipitate in interfering with the prognostications of that venerable Irish monk.

Henry de Furnellis had been on his twice-yearly pilgrimage to Winchester, taking the county ‘farm’ to the Exchequer, the taxes that his agents had extracted from the reluctant inhabitants of Devonshire. This time, in addition to the thousands of silver pennies in panniers on the packhorses’ backs, he had included the two valuable hoards unearthed in the recent wave of treasure-hunting around Exeter.

However, it was not news about this that the sheriff brought back but of sensational tidings that had reached Winchester from its twin capital, London. On the day that he returned, Henry called his friends and officials together in the hall of Rougemont’s keep. De Wolfe was there with his officer and clerk, together with Ralph the constable, several archdeacons, Rufus the chaplain, the two portreeves who headed the city council, a number of the more prominent burgesses and merchants and several of the sheriff’s senior clerks.

Though travel-weary after his days on the road, the old sheriff was still able to give them a dramatic account of what had been going on in London. The only way in which such news travelled across the country was by word of mouth like this, though sometimes it was conveyed by official heralds sent by the Curia Regis to inform the county sheriffs of important events.

With his audience sitting at benches around the trestle tables or leaning against the walls, de Furnellis stood with folded arms and delivered himself of a speech, his bloodhound face more animated than usual.

‘England – or at least London and the surrounding counties – has just narrowly escaped a massive revolt of the common people against authority. It seems that only drastic and determined action by Hubert Walter, the Justiciar, averted a blood-bath! However, he has not come out of this well, especially amongst the ecclesiastical community, for the memories of old King Henry and Becket are still lingering.’

He stopped to gulp from the ale-pot in front of him, and there were some subdued murmurings of expectation from his listeners.

‘To cut to the quick of it, the merchants and common people of London and nearby towns have been becoming more and more resentful of the increasing taxes imposed on them by the king and his council. They became even more hostile when a new tax, the taillage , was imposed – because the amount each citizen was made to pay was decided by a jury. But it seems this jury was made up only of the richer folk, who conspired to virtually exempt themselves and lay most of the burden on the more lowly citizens!’

There was a revival of the outraged murmuring in the hall, though some noticed that the two portreeves kept their mouths closed. Henry de Furnellis was now into his stride as a storyteller, though de Wolfe was not sure whether the sheriff, as the king’s representative in the county, was more in sympathy with the oppressed Londoners than with his liege lord, King Richard.

‘Well, a couple of months ago they found a champion, a strange fellow known as William Longbeard, though his real name was William Fitz-Osbert. He was a lawyer, but had followed the king to the Holy Land as a soldier. Anyway, this man, with a black beard down to his waist like some latter-day prophet, started rousing the rabble in London, holding meetings in the street and denouncing the authorities who were crushing the populace with their unfair taxes.’

There was a growling amongst some of the audience in the hall, especially from the clerks and servants. ‘Maybe we need a man with a long beard in Exeter!’ called an unknown voice from the back. Undeterred, the sheriff carried on with his tale from the big city.

‘It seems that William began organizing resistance on a large scale, forming groups of rebels and secretly smuggling in large quantities of arms from outside the city. There were alleged to be fifty thousand in his underground army, with district leaders and secret codewords. Longbeard even went across to Rouen to lay their grievances before the king, but it seems that Richard took no heed of his pleas.’

‘What was the Justiciar doing all this time?’ asked Ralph Morin, a staunch royalist.

‘He was well aware of what was going on, for Hubert has spies everywhere. He began secretly drafting in large numbers of troops from outside London and drawing up plans to fight any insurrection. He let Fitz-Osbert go so far, then decided that he was becoming a real danger to law and order. Just before the revolt was due to flare up, he sent a party of men to arrest him, and in a fight in the street Fitz-Osbert fatally stabbed the leader of the guards. Then they ran and sought sanctuary in the church of St Mary le Bow. The Chief Justiciar sent a large force to capture him, but they barricaded themselves in the church.’

The men in the hall were riveted by Henry’s story; good drama was hard to come by in Devon, especially when true, like this one and from the new capital itself.

‘Don’t say that they broke sanctuary, as with Thomas à Becket!’ shouted Brother Rufus, aghast at the thought that a repetition of the great scandal of the previous reign might be repeated. But the sheriff nodded gravely, as he continued.

‘Even worse, he ordered that piles of straw be stacked around the church and set on fire! The rebels retreated to the tower, but eventually the smoke and flames drove them out, when they were attacked and Longbeard suffered a sword-thrust through the belly. Then Hubert Walter, who had taken up quarters in the Tower, ordered an immediate trial of the ringleaders and condemned them to be executed the very next day.’

He swigged another mouthful of ale as the listeners waited in dead silence for the end of his tale. ‘William Fitz-Osbert, wounded as he was, was stripped naked and tied to a horse’s tail, then dragged from the Tower across the miles of cobbles and stony streets to Tyburn, a new execution site to the west of the city, where his mangled and dying body was trussed in chains and hanged from the branches of a great elm tree, along with all his accomplices in the failed revolt.’