The Prophecy of Death: (Knights Templar 25) (15 page)

It had not been an easy transition, but he had ever been fortunate. Nicholas had been sent to college when he was still young,
and had proved a shrewd academic and philosopher
already. It took little persuasion of his prior to win a place at Oxford when he had shown his abilities, and once there his
intellect made him rise above so many of his peers. There was no point concealing the fact that he was remarkably fast to
understand complex concepts, and the fact that the masters and tutors were occasionally behind his own reasoning was enough
to prove that he was possessed of an unnatural brilliance. And so he was elevated, and found himself soon employed in researches
of some arcane material. Such as the oil of St Thomas.

Now he could curse the day he found that reference, for it had led to so much hardship for him, even this present disaster,
in truth, but at the time he had instantly comprehended the potential of the marvellous fluid.

The King, Edward II, had been widely respected and adored when first he came to his throne almost twenty years ago, but that
had instantly changed when the character of his friend, Piers Gaveston, was better understood. Suddenly the barons began to
withhold their favour, and tried to impose restrictions on the King himself that would control his rule. He could not comply
with those who sought to clip his wings – and why should he? He was King, anointed by God. If God chose him, Nicholas was
content with God’s choice.

But his reign went from bad to worse. While the Scots destroyed the Royal Host in some foul backwater called Bannockburn,
while they invaded his Irish colony and imposed the reign of Edward Bruce on an unwilling population, his own barons grew
more fractious. And then it was that Nicholas found the reference to the oil. St Thomas’s oil.

Such a simple solution to all the King’s problems. That was how it appeared to Nicholas that day when he learned the
whole story. A frayed and worn parchment told of the gift, the wondrous gift, passed to St Thomas in exile. The man must have
been almost an angel to have been granted such a vision and so magnificent a treasure from the Holy Virgin herself! No one
else would have been vouchsafed a vision of her, let alone a gift. But St Thomas took it, and straightway obeyed her injunction,
delivering it to a monastery where it could be buried for safekeeping until it was needed.

And here it was in London, brought especially for the King. And when brought, it
remained unused
!

Dear Christ in Heaven, the fools who had withheld it must have rued the day they were born. If only they had delivered it
to the King on the day of his coronation, his reign would have been blessed, and all the catalogue of disasters, from his
choice of advisers, to his inept war-leadership and failures over his French territories, would have been reversed. But no,
some baron or other must have decided that the King had no need of such a great boon, and had rejected the oil. For preference,
they made use of the normal holy oil used for his predecessors. That baron must be kicking himself now, Nicholas thought to
himself as he scurried to the King to tell him all about the wondrous discovery he had made.

The King had appreciated the importance in an instant. And under Nicholas’s prompt urging, had agreed to send Nicholas to
the Pope with a request for his aid.

It had taken an age, that journey. All the way to Avignon to the Pope’s palace, and then returning with the sad response which
had ruined Nicholas’s life.

The unfairness of it was shocking. Truly shocking. All Nicholas had tried to do was help others, and yet here he was, sent
on his way home with the Pope’s message: ‘If you wish to be anointed, pray be so. It can do no harm. But I cannot
spare my cardinals at present to do it for you.’ That was the gist of the courtly Latin which Nicholas had to read out to
a dumbfounded King on his return.

Dear God, it was as close as he had ever been to being murdered, from the look on the monarch’s face. Nicholas had already
heard of the King’s tempers, even though this was before the terrible revenge which he visited upon his enemies after Boroughbridge,
and the fact that the Pope had elevated Nicholas to papal penitentiary, as well as giving him a licence to allow him to take
Cambridge University clerks and install them in vacant benefices, did not affect the King. No, he would have nothing to do
with Nicholas of Wisbech. His career was ended.

It had taken him all his courage to come here to Beaulieu to visit the King and to try to persuade him to look upon him more
favourably. After all, it
was not
his fault that the Pope chose not to comply with the King’s request. The Pope had made it plain that he wouldn’t help by
sending one of his own cardinals, but he did give permission to the King to have any of his bishops in the land conduct the
ceremony and anoint him. So the mission was not a complete disaster. Nicholas had secured that. And all the King need do was
arrange for a bishop to visit him with the oil, and all would be well. Surely, if he was touched by the holy oil of St Thomas,
his reign would be cured of malignancy and treachery, and King Edward could reign contentedly from then on.

But he wouldn’t so much as meet with the friar. To the King, Friar Nicholas was dead. It was so unjust that he could burst
from simple indignation.

Third Monday after Easter
¹⁵

Eltham Palace

Earl Edward strode along the passageway and burst in through the door to his tutor’s chamber without ceremony. ‘Richard?’

Seated behind his desk, the clerk made little impact, the Earl thought. There were many others who had tried to teach him
in the past, but none had managed to affect him in the same way as this man from Bury.

There was a seriousness about him that was reassuring. Most of the others by whom the Earl had been tutored had been more
frivolous. They sought to win his friendship, rather than his respect. Perhaps, he considered, they already respected his
own position too much to be able to treat their own with any great devotion. They were mere servants, and could not see themselves
attain any higher ambition or post.

Richard was different, though. For one thing, he clearly viewed the Earl as malleable. He did not seek to bow to the
Earl’s will at every opportunity: to his mind, the Earl was a bright, intelligent twelve-year-old, and as such was demanding
of instruction. And for that, Bury sought to ensure that the Earl’s mind was filled with material suitable to his station.
And to the prophecy.

There was so much bound to his name, the Earl knew. He respected the prophecies, naturally, but at the same time he was a
calculating realist. It was his calculation that the fact of the prophecies would make people regard him in a subtly different
light than that by which they viewed others, and that, for a man who was to become King, was a very useful point. Certainly,
he had already heard men whisper comments about him which showed that they were alive to the differences between him and his
father. ‘A dragon, then a goat,’ they said. All knew what that meant. There was an inevitable sequence in life: after a strong,
virile King there tended to follow an unfortunate one. Perhaps the successor would be incompetent, or more likely badly served
by his advisers, but that made little difference. The fact was, that there was a recurring fluctuation in the fortunes of
succeeding kings. And Earl Edward’s father was not a fortunate ruler.

Such prophecies affected some men more than others, and Richard of Bury was exceedingly susceptible to their allure. He lived
and breathed the magnificent stories which were already weaving themselves about his earl. Earl Edward would become King,
he would unite the Scottish within his realm, bring all the lost lands back under the Crown, win over the French territories
once more, renewing the fabulous Angevin Empire, take for himself the crown of the Holy Roman Empire, and reconquer the Holy
Land … Truly, Earl Edward would become a king to rival King Arthur.

But that was not to say that Richard of Bury was lax in his teaching of the Earl. That was not his way. He believed that God
gave men an innate ability, a skill, but that the perfection of that skill was the duty of the man who possessed it. Thus,
if Earl Edward was capable of being a new paladin, he must be shown the correct ways in which he must improve himself so as
to bring out his own best qualities.

This determination had already led to some arguments, for on occasion when the Earl awoke with a mild hangover, the last thing
he desired was a serious contemplation of the life of King Arthur, or Alexander of Macedon. And yet that is what he was forced
to study, no matter the tiredness of which he complained. Richard was indefatigable in his resolve: the Earl would become
a great world ruler, and must not waste a moment in striving to learn all he could that would make him a good King.

‘Today, my Lord Chester, I should like to talk about the marvellous leader, Julius Caesar, the man who conquered Rome itself,
and the world. He was the foremost leader in warfare, and in the arts, too. A strong man, who was finally betrayed by those
whom he had trusted.’

‘Is it true that he conquered England too?’

‘He conducted two excursions on to your soil, my Lord. It was Claudius who actually added England to the Roman Empire, though,
not him.’

Earl Edward nodded, but he was considering other matters as he opened the book passed to him by Bury.

‘You seem distracted, My Lord?’

‘I was reflecting, Master Bury, that all the leaders you have shown me have all been both devout
and
literate.’

‘That is
exactly
the case I was going to make to you, my Lord! Hah! It is difficult to teach you some things! You pick them up naturally!’

Richard’s fulsome praise would once have rankled, so similar was it to the subservience of other members of the court. If
there was one fault which annoyed the Earl more than
any other, it was fawning insincerity. But with Richard, it was not obsequiousness – it was a reflection of his immense excitement
and exuberance. He fairly bounced about the room when the Earl showed comprehension of a difficult concept. In the last nine
months or so since Bury had arrived here as his tutor, the Earl had quickly realised that whatever else Bury might be, he
was no slave.

Now Bury was flicking through the pages of another great book until, reaching the passage he sought, he turned it triumphantly
to the Earl. ‘See? Read this.’

As the Earl of Chester began to read, slowly, his finger tracing the lines of the words, Bury continued seriously.

‘You see, no great ruler can achieve anything without learning. And the greatest proofs of learning are an appreciation of
the importance of the written word, first and foremost. Because whether you or I know anything at all is unimportant, so long
as we have the
sense
to own the books which already preserve that which we need to know. So long as we have our books, we have all knowledge at
our fingertips.

‘That passage says that the Greeks had no ruler of stature who was not literate. I would extend that to include all the great
Romans. All were intelligent men who appreciated the written word and the arts. And, more than that, all were entirely convinced
of the help of God. True, the Greeks and Romans did not understand about God for they lived in heathen times before the birth
of Christ, but can you doubt that a man of the strength of purpose of Alexander, would not have offered thanks and praise
to Our Lord for his achievements, had he but known of our God? Of course he would. And Our Lord must also have felt that he
had a purpose in elevating Alexander over all others in the world.’

‘A heathen?’ asked Earl Edward.

‘A great man, though! Look at him! A man who could do so much, and then, as they say, who could weep, seeing that there were
no more great lands for him to conquer. He died young, and yet he achieved so much more than any other man before or since.’

‘No man can emulate him,’ Earl Edward said with some sadness.

‘You think so? You want to give up your crown now, my Lord? You want to surrender your future? Then do not say such a thing!’
Bury said with asperity. ‘In the Lord’s name, I declare, I believe you shall be a king to rival Alexander or Caesar! I swear
that your name shall ring down the ages and lead Englishmen to sing your praise with admiration for as long as England survives!’

Earl Edward looked up at him. ‘Bury, keep a firm grip on yourself. You are growing overly choleric.’

‘How can a mere clerk not be passionate when he has such a great duty, so enormous a charge as I?’

Christ Church Priory, Canterbury

He was exhausted as he clattered under the city’s gate, but Joseph felt only gratitude and relief for the safety that the
city walls promised. He saw the man at the gates, and nodded, but hurried on his way as soon as possible towards the priory,
determined to reach it before the final bell and the closing of the gates.

It was little time before he was led upstairs to the prior’s chamber.

‘My lord Prior. Messages from the King.’

‘And what are these?’

He opened his little wallet and removed the tiny scrolls, passing them to the Prior, then he stood back, waiting.

‘He wants the oil?’ the Prior muttered. ‘This is wonderful! Just what I need now!’ To the messenger, he cast a sombre look.
‘Anything else?’

‘Only a short message from Sir Baldwin de Furnshill, Prior. He told me to say, that “The thief and murderer may be dead.”’

‘Why? What has he found?’

Joseph told of the discovery of the herald’s body, and the prior listened carefully, but then frowned hopefully. ‘And the
oil? Was there any sign of the oil he stole from me?’

‘I know nothing about that, my Lord, but I do not think that there was anything on the body. Perhaps it was something in a
saddle-bag? The man did not have it about his person, so far as I saw.’

‘And he was definitely dead?’

‘Oh, he had been dead for some days,’ Joseph confirmed. He swallowed uncomfortably at the memory. Poor fellow. It was one
of those nightmares which he suffered from occasionally. The idea of being stabbed and left for dead in the middle of nowhere,
perhaps never being discovered.

‘That is good. Good. But the loss of the oil makes my task difficult.’

Joseph knew when he should keep silent. While the prior stood and walked about his chamber, glancing every so often at the
papers in his hand, Joseph held his tongue, waiting to hear what he might have to say.

‘Very well,’ the Prior said at last with a sigh. He looked at the note for a last time, and then admitted defeat. ‘Um. I have
a note for you to take back with you.’

How to explain to this prickly monarch that the one salvation which he had counted upon had, in fact, already been stolen.

Third Tuesday after Easter
¹⁶

Beaulieu

Baldwin felt only a lightening of his spirits as he rode into the grounds of the great abbey at Beaulieu. This, hopefully,
was to be the end of his journeying in the King’s service. From here he and Simon could throw down their commitments to the
King and return homewards to Devon, where Jeanne was waiting for him, as well as his little Richalda and baby Baldwin, his
first-born son.

It had been too long since he had seen them. He was longing to hold his children, but still more keen to grasp his wife. The
last time he had been apart from her, he had been sorely tested. Shipwrecked, lost, thinking himself the prisoner of pirates,
he had taken the comfort and compassion of an island woman, and his treachery to his own wife, the betrayal of her trust,
had marred their relationship for some time thereafter. It had taken a little while for them to recover that delicate balance
which marks a successful and generally happy marriage, but at last they had achieved it, and now here he was, still a hundred
miles away. He wanted to be with her again, lying with her in their great bed in his manor.

And soon, soon he would be!

The great estate of Beaulieu was entirely enclosed. Some five and fifty acres or more, Baldwin guessed as he entered through
the huge gatehouse. From here, he could see the church clearly, a magnificent construction, all built of a plain white, clean-looking
stone. The other buildings were set about to the south of the abbey church, as was normal for a Cistercian monastery. From
the road leading up to the abbey,
Baldwin could see the frater in the south wall, the lay-brothers’ living quarters to the west of it. The abbot’s house lay
east, of course, but today the little gardens beyond, which would usually be so neatly set out, were a mess of tents and wagons.

‘The King is still here, then,’ Simon breathed, looking at the flags hanging limp at the poles.

‘Yes. He hasn’t denuded the area of food yet,’ Baldwin said, but not sadly. He couldn’t be unhappy today. Perhaps later this
afternoon he would be able to leave Beaulieu and make his way homewards. He set to calculating. It must be some thirty leagues
to Devon and his home, so at ten leagues a day, roughly thirty miles, he must ride for about three and a bit days to get home.
Well, it wasn’t as fast as he would have liked, but it was a great deal better than riding back from Scotland. And since much
of the land hereabouts, from memory, was quite good riding land, he might make better time, so long as he didn’t wear out
his rounsey.

The Bishop gave a peremptory command, and Baldwin and Simon pulled aside so that he might lead the way, glancing about him
with that absent expression on his face again, seeing much, but apparently noticing little.

‘How did a man like him ever manage to achieve the position of bishop?’ Simon wondered aloud.

‘Don’t underestimate the fellow,’ Baldwin warned. ‘We have seen him at his worst, when he has been uncomfortable, with a difficult
mission to achieve, and many miles of journey ahead of him. Yet he is highly respected by the Pope, by the Queen, and, for
him to be here, presumably by the King as well. He is no fool.’

‘You may think so,’ Simon said, ‘but all I know is, he appears to look down on anyone who is lower than a knight.
It’s all right for you, old friend, but he has ignored me all the way here as though I was a churl – or a felon.’

‘And the good part about it is, he won’t want you to continue with him anywhere. He looks down upon you, you think? In that
case, Beaulieu is the end of our official travelling, Simon. We can return home!’

‘Aha. Yes. He is not so bad, when you look upon him in that sort of light,’ Simon agreed amiably.

A guard at the inner gatehouse stood in front of the Bishop. He was clad in the King’s colours. ‘Who are you and what do you
want?’

‘I am the Bishop of Orange, and I have urgent messages for the King from the Pope, and his wife in France.’

And suddenly Simon saw the Bishop change. He lost his absent appearance, and now he bent, glowering at the guard, fully alert
and boldly seated in his saddle.

‘Open the gates and allow me to pass.’

In the corner of a room high overhead, he watched them closely. The Bishop he had seen before, although the man’s name wouldn’t
come to mind just yet. He’d have to remind himself who it was later.