The Prophecy of Death: (Knights Templar 25) (37 page)

‘Yes. It was almost as though killing him was bound to be less dangerous than allowing him to talk.’

‘Letting him talk and accuse us of possessing the oil was a great deal more dangerous to us than silencing him forever.’

‘Because the Bishop of Orange could protect you.’ Simon nodded, but with the disgust plain on his face.

‘
Oui
.’

The simple answer was infuriating to Thomas. He had listened to almost all their conversation without flinching, but now,
to hear his friend had died from mere expediency, made his blood boil over. He moved forward, and it was only Simon’s speed
that prevented him from spitting the Frenchman right there.

‘Later, friend. You will have your chance later,’ Baldwin said firmly, grasping his right hand before he could draw his sword.

Gradually the anger left him, and while André cowered, Thomas grew calmer. ‘To think that a slug like this could harm a gentle,
kindly man like Jack is almost more than I can bear. I swear, man, I pray to see you swinging by your neck.’

‘There is still Master Ayrminne to speak to,’ Baldwin said. ‘He was mentioned by Jack as he died. Do you think we should go
straight to him?’

‘I would go anywhere rather than back into the King’s hall,’ Simon said, with a glance over his shoulder at all the men filtering
back towards the chamber where the discussions were to continue.

As he spoke, Ayrminne appeared through the little gate in the Old Palace Yard wall from the Abbey grounds. ‘There he is, let
us speak with him now,’ Baldwin said.

Ayrminne was less than delighted to see them approach him. ‘What is it, Sir Baldwin? I am to attend to the King’s debate.’

‘Yes, of course. And so are we, so perhaps we could walk there together?’

‘Why?’ Ayrminne said as they set off together.

There was a thick crush of men entering the doors, and Baldwin waited a moment, studying the canon as he considered the best
means of getting the responses he needed.

Ayrminne was a political man from his boots to his shirt-collar. He had achieved a great deal in his life, rising to canon.
He could hope to win a bishopric, if he won the right patron. It wouldn’t require much. ‘Master, you are a bright man, and
I could try to deceive you with flattery or simple lies, but there
is little point, I think. You know what the game is here as well as I do.’

‘And it is?’

‘Whoever finds the King’s oil, this fabled oil of St Thomas, will have the King’s regard for ever.’

‘Oh?’

‘And you seek it.’

‘How do you … what makes you think that?’

‘Master Ayrminne, a dying man just told me so. I doubt very much that a dying man would do so without good reason, don’t you?’

‘Who was this?’ Ayrminne said with a frown.

‘Your friend Jack, the man-at-arms to the Bishop of Orange.’

‘Dear God!’ Ayrminne said, and blanched. He took a deep breath. ‘Are you sure of this? I mean—’

‘We all three saw him fall, and caught his murderers. I am sure you know of them – they, too, were with the Bishop’s entourage.’

‘The two who had run?’

‘The same, yes. Now, I don’t know what you planned with Jack.’ Baldwin paused, hoping for the canon’s elucidation, but he
said nothing. ‘Whatever it was, the two have not got the oil.’

‘How can you tell?’

‘I have gone through all their belongings. Not the clothes which they wear now, however,’ he added thoughtfully, ‘but I doubt
that would help. If they had the oil, they wouldn’t risk dropping it or losing it. No. I don’t think that they have it about
their persons. Which means they don’t have it at all, unless they’ve cleverly concealed it somewhere else.’

‘Which means?’

‘That most likely, in my view, they have already disposed of it. And you know how they are likely to have done so, don’t you?’

‘They will have given it to the Bishop, I expect. They are his men, after all.’

‘Yes. So if you are keen to retrieve it, we shall have to try to recover it from him. And that will not be easy.’

‘No,’ Ayrminne said shortly.

‘There is one thing, though,’ Baldwin said, smiling. ‘I have to ask you, to whom were you intending to give it, once you had
retrieved it?’

‘The King, obviously. Whom else would a man give it to?’

Baldwin was watching him closely, and saw the tell-tale twitch in his cheek. He immediately knew that Ayrminne was lying.
It wasn’t the mark of a coward; rather, it was the proof of a man who was a reluctant liar.

‘I see, Master. If you ask me that, though, there are many answers. It is probable, I think, that the man who has the oil
now is the Bishop of Orange, and I believe he intends to pass it on to the Pope. That to me seems most likely. Then again,
there are others, no doubt, who would seek to have the oil to give to Sir Roger Mortimer. He would be grateful, would he not?’

‘Yes, yes, very interesting, no doubt—’

‘While others might wish to help their own patron. Some would probably give the oil to, say, the Queen.’

And there it was again, as the canon opened his mouth to deny that he would ever have any interest in such an action, the
little tic went off by his right eye.

‘Your patron is the Queen, isn’t she, Master?’ Baldwin asked firmly.

Ayrminne looked at him intently for several seconds.
Baldwin knew better than to make any further comment. This was one of those moments when a man could break a witness into
honesty, or, by speaking, could lose the witness for ever.

‘Yes. Yes, she is,’ Ayrminne said at last.

‘You were meaning to take it to her, then?’ Baldwin said.

‘Yes. That man Jack came to me with a cock-and-bull story about it, but it was clear he was convinced he knew exactly where
it was, and he told me how much he wanted. I agreed the price, and he was going to bring it to me.’

They stood huddled together near the tavern at the palace gate: Simon, Baldwin, Ayrminne and Thomas. There were no benches
or stools here, but no one to overhear their conversations, either.

‘You knew Jack,’ Baldwin said, turning to Thomas. ‘He couldn’t have already got the oil, could he? Ah, but then what would
have been the point of his going to the two in this place. No, he must have thought that they still had it. Otherwise he wouldn’t
have been in here at all.’

‘I don’t think he had it,’ Thomas agreed. ‘It’s not in his bags, either. You saw that.’

‘Yes, we all saw his pack,’ Baldwin agreed pensively.

‘So where can it be?’ Ayrminne said plaintively. ‘So much harm done for this blasted oil – and no one thought it worth a second
look a little while ago.’

Simon nodded, but he was keeping his own counsel. It was a trait Baldwin had seen and appreciated before in his friend. He
didn’t press Simon now, but instead looked at Ayrminne. ‘What do you think we should do, then?’

‘You ask me?’ Ayrminne said with a grin. ‘Since you already know that if I find it, I’ll take it to the Queen, why ask me
that?’

‘Oh, I am sure that you are an honest man, canon. And if
you take it when I have discovered where it is, I will do nothing whatever about it.’

‘Nothing?’

‘Nothing. Bar telling Sir Hugh le Despenser what became of it. You see, that is my deal with Sir Hugh. He will stop persecuting
me and my friend here, in return for which I will find this oil for him. It is not a pleasant task, but one I swore to try
to achieve.’

‘If you tell him—’ Ayrminne began.

‘He will do all in his power to find it,’ Baldwin said flatly. ‘Yes. And that is why I would greatly prefer to find it myself
and bring this whole matter to an end.’

‘Well, I cannot help you. Both from lack of personal knowledge, and also from inclination. It is my strong belief that the
oil should be saved and protected. To throw it away on our king would be … he is already anointed. More oil on him would
serve no purpose.’

‘Then who can use it, if not the King?’

Baldwin stopped. Suddenly his eyes widened, and his mouth fell gaping. Recovering swiftly, he nodded curtly, and then made
his apologies and walked out with Simon.

‘What on earth is the matter with them?’ Ayrminne wondered aloud.

‘They are a strange couple, Master,’ Thomas offered.

‘Come, Baldwin, what were you thinking in there?’ Simon demanded as soon as he felt out of earshot of any spies.

‘What occurred to me was that there was one other fellow who would perhaps be keen to acquire the oil,’ Baldwin said. ‘The
Earl of Chester.’

‘That is what I thought too,’ Simon said. ‘I wasn’t going to say anything because I didn’t know if I was being stupid or not.’

‘Why stupid?’

‘Well, the idea that the Earl would steal from his own father, and take that which he was going to have anyway when he became
King in his turn seemed a little far-fetched.’

‘The more I think of that family, the more I appreciate being a rural knight,’ Baldwin answered. ‘The parents hate each other.
Both were much in love, or at least trying to give that impression, when the boy was born twelve or thirteen years ago, but
now there is no affection whatever between them. And look at their son! All he can do is try to walk a tightrope between them,
balancing precariously, trying to satisfy both, trying always to keep his relationships balanced with them both, not showing
too much love to either in case he is used later as barter in their little power-games. What sort of a life can the lad have?’

‘A miserable one,’ Simon offered. ‘With only riches, security, diversions of all kinds, and the promise of a throne as soon
as he comes of age and his father dies.’

Baldwin looked at him. ‘
Security
, you say? In this country? We have ever more barons determined to take any semblance of security from the King and his family.
He will be rich, yes, but he will be seated on his throne, with another man like Despenser at his side, no doubt. No man he
speaks with can he ever trust, because he knows all men will flatter and fawn before him, hoping to be granted some of his
wealth, and when they are, they will flatter and fawn again, hoping against hope that he will honour them with more. It starts
with a small purse of money, Simon, and then a post, and then the holding of a royal castle, or the privileges to a city,
and before long the man is one of the privileged number who owns nothing but what he has been given.’

‘It must be a miserable existence,’ Simon said with a dry smile.

‘Yes. It is. And the only escape is by death. There is no other way out for a king. This lad, the Earl of Chester, is embarked
upon a journey in which there is nothing he can do but bend to the will of others.’

‘Who rules the country, then?’ Simon said, his smile broadening.

‘Do you think the King does now?’ Baldwin said sharply.

No, Simon didn’t. Nobody who had spent any time at Westminster could think that. The man who held all the strings, and pulled
them to his own tune, was Despenser. That was where the real power rested.

‘So what do you want to do?’ Simon said, serious again.

‘There is only one thing we can do. Build our case and see where it takes us,’ Baldwin said. ‘And the first thing we must
do now, is speak to the two men who replaced Pons and André and learn why they were there. There is more, much more to all
this than I comprehend.’

They found the two in a lodging-house not too far from the palace, along the King’s Street towards the Bishop of Exeter’s
house.

It was a good little place, run by a man called Jacob le Brewer, who stood only five feet at most, but whose girth spoke of
his love for his produce. He was able to point out the two men whom Simon and Baldwin wished to see. The smiling Peter and
another who might have been his son, John.

Simon was immediately struck with a sense of the power of the two men. There was something about the smiling face of Peter
that set a warning bell tolling loudly in his head. If he were to enter into a battle with Despenser, this was the sort of
man he would like on his side, but not on Despenser’s. There was a controlled energy about him that was unsettling.

Not as unsettling, however, as the sense of uncontrolled, raw power he got from the other man at his side. Where Peter smiled
at the world with eyes that were like flints, John glared balefully, without humour.

Baldwin had a single thought about him. He thought the man was just like one of the torturers of the Templars in those terrible,
far off days when they had been arrested and incarcerated in their own castles. It set him on edge before he began to speak.

‘Sir Baldwin. We haven’t seen you since your departure for your home county,’ Peter said. His mouth smiled easily, but Baldwin
could see little actual pleasure in his eyes.

‘I have been asked to learn what I can of the theft of the oil from Canterbury.’

‘That is interesting. Who are you speaking with?’

‘Just now, with you.’

‘Us?’ Peter said, and glanced at his companion. ‘Hear that, John? He wants to learn about the oil, but he’s come to us. Now
why would he do that, do you reckon?’

‘Maybe he’s got lost?’ the younger man said, scowling unblinkingly at Baldwin.

‘You were added to the Bishop of Orange’s party in Canterbury. I think it is because you had the oil with you. The other two
were removed because you two needed to get to Beaulieu. I think you were taking the oil with you.’

‘Now why would you think that, Sir Baldwin?’ Peter said.

‘At first I wondered what could have happened to the oil. It might have been taken away from the city that same night, of
course,’ Baldwin reasoned, ‘but the fact that the coroner and your castellan went to so much trouble to have you inserted
into the Bishop’s party seemed to argue against that. There was a reason for Pons and André being taken out of the
Bishop’s group. I think it was simply that you two had to join him. Why?’

‘They thought we would make better guards than those two, I suppose,’ Peter said mildly. ‘We are very good, you know.’

‘I am sure you are. But in the meantime, let’s just continue. So, if it wasn’t to make up numbers, since it was the coroner’s
fault that the numbers dropped in the first place, there was another reason. I think you were taking the oil to your master
and protecting it en route.’

‘Who is our master, then?’

‘I would think that is obvious.’

Peter smiled more broadly. ‘So what now?’

‘Is it safe?’

‘That depends on what you mean by safe.’

‘In God’s name, man, just answer a question without prevarication!’

‘Yes. It is safe, sir. Safe enough.’

Simon was scowling. ‘Safe how, exactly? It would be safe if it was back in the hands of the King, or the Prior of Christ Church,
rather than dumped by you somewhere.’

Peter looked at him, and for the first time his smile faded. In its place a pitying look came over his face. ‘You don’t understand,
master, do you? It’ll be very safe where it is.’

Baldwin was nodding. ‘Whose castle is Canterbury?’

‘It is the King’s own, Sir Baldwin. Definitely the King’s.’