The Prophecy of Death: (Knights Templar 25) (5 page)

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.

It was a relief that his father was gone. The peripatetic life of a King was the same as that of any important lord, and involved
a lot of strenuous travelling from manor to manor, because the size of the King’s household was so vast that it would drain
any location of its stock of food within a few days. So the King was forced to land upon a site, despoil it, and then move
on again.

But it was not the poor peasants of the area near Eltham which caused Earl Edward such relief at the King’s departure: it
was that it was so hard for the Earl to control his anger and frustration in his father’s presence. How he wished, sometimes,
that he had been born just a normal man. Not a peasant, but a knight who would never seek to be more than a knight. A man
who had a set position in the world, maintaining the King’s Peace, controlling the mob, and making sure that the third class,
the working men and peasants, kept to their allotted tasks, producing food for the
bellatores
and the men of God.

The life of the King’s son was different from that of ordinary men. Christ’s pains, but he knew that well enough. An ordinary
man would respect his father and seek no reward. He must only show the correct reverence. But not Earl Edward. The King’s
first-born son was different. From early in his life he was separated from his father. He was of the royal blood, so like
his mother, he had his own establishment, his own household. And it was like his father’s in every way. The three lived more
or less unconnected lives. Each with their
own comptroller, their own guards, their own cooks, their own squires and heralds. When all three together descended on an
area, the locals groaned under the weight of the demands on their stored foodstuffs.

But when they were together, Earl Edward was constantly aware of conflicting emotions: the natural filial love mingling with
gratitude for the magnificent gifts which his overgenerous father lavished upon him, competing with the bitterness and rage
caused by his father’s treatment of the rest of his family. Not to mention the other issues.

Not one of them could be raised in his father’s presence, though. The way in which he had lost the trust and goodwill of his
nobles, the irrational way he dealt with the French, which risked all the foreign possessions, and, most of all, the shameful
way in which he acceded to each and every demand from that snake, Sir Hugh le Despenser. All these were enough to make the
Earl’s soul revolt, and yet he dared not raise them. The capricious, unreasonable way in which the King responded to any comment
that could be viewed as a criticism made the very idea unthinkable. It was too dangerous.

Just as it was to bring up the way that his father was treating his brother and sisters. All of them taken from their mother
and put into the care of others. And his mother, who was a
queen
, in God’s name, had even had her private seal taken and put in the safe-keeping of Despenser’s wife. That was disgraceful
treatment, and humiliating for Queen Isabella.

But the way that the King treated his mother was none of his business, as he had been told. It was hard. Very hard. He had
adored his father all those years. When he was a boy, there was nothing his father wouldn’t do for him. All through to the
day when the despicable Despenser arrived. From that moment, practically, his mother had been set aside. It didn’t
matter that she had remained loyal and loving to him, King Edward just ignored her. Or, worse, tolerated her presence. For
the daughter of a French king and sister of three others, this was worse than contemptible.

And no, Earl Edward was not allowed to raise the matter. Despenser might discuss the queen and her children in that sly, fawning
manner he had, but not the King’s own son. King Edward would brook no criticism of any sort. The subject was closed.

Even for his son.

Earl Edward of Chester was at the same time a minor, just, and one of the most senior peers of the realm. A confusing position
for anyone to cope with, especially a man who had responsibilities like his. For he was not just any earl. He was an earl
who would be a king to rival Arthur himself.

After all, he was to become the ‘Boar from Windsor’.

Château du Bois, Paris

Baldwin and Simon left the Queen’s rooms and strode over the court by mutual unspoken consent, straight to the chamber where
the guards were given their ale and wine rations. There they demanded a jug of wine each, and sat at a table with them, raising
them to each other in silent thankfulness, and drinking steadily.

‘You be careful, old man,’ Simon said to Baldwin, only half jokingly. ‘You aren’t used to too much wine.’

‘Today it will have no effect, Simon. Today I am already flying high on the fumes of the wine. I feel as though my head could
touch the ceiling of the chapel, I am so light-headed with pleasure. We’re going
home
! At last I’ll get to see Jeanne again!’

The beaming smile on his face told Simon all he needed to know about his delight.

Simon took a long pull at his drink and sighed with satisfaction. ‘I feel the same. Perhaps at last I can plan for Edith’s
nuptials with an easy heart. Because I tell you this, Baldwin. Once I get home, I don’t intend to leave it again for any reason.
I don’t care whether the King himself comes and orders me to travel – I won’t do it unless there’s good reason!’

‘Nor I, Simon. Nor I. I will be content to stay at my home
and take up the life of a rural farming knight once more. To hell with the position of Member of the Parliament! To hell with
keeping the King’s Peace and acting as judge of Gaol Delivery! I will sit at home and raise my family. I need nothing more!’

‘So all we need do is take this man back and protect him, and then we can get off home,’ Simon said, grinning broadly.

‘Yes.’

The Queen had asked that the two travel to the King with a personal message for the King from her – and another for her son,
should they meet him. They would be journeying in the company of one of the papal legates who had first helped to persuade
King Edward II that his wife should be sent on this peace mission: the Bishop of Orange. Bishop Stratford of Winchester and
William Ayrminne, who had helped arrange the latest truce between the two countries, were already assumed to be with King
Edward, and briefing him on the latest developments in their discussions.

‘There appears to be a general marshalling of all who may be able to sway the King’s thinking,’ Baldwin said.

‘Even us, you mean?’ Simon grinned.

‘Two English bishops, the Pope’s envoy, us … there were others in the party with the Bishops, too. I saw Isabella speaking
at length with a King’s herald, who was surely being sent back with private messages,’ Baldwin said. ‘When a Queen feels the
need to accumulate such a powerful party to her, you may be sure that the message is important.’

‘How will he react?’ Simon asked. He had no interest in the great and good who had been sent home. He was just keen to set
off himself. ‘It is not all good news for our king.’

‘Hardly. Still, the Bishop of Winchester is a sound fellow, I think; a diligent, thoroughly responsible man. He’ll weather
the storm. After all, he is more or less used to the King’s temper. He’s suffered from the King’s anger before.’

‘In what way?’ Simon asked.

‘When he was given his bishopric, the King had expected another to be given it, and he punished the Bishop by confiscating
all his lands and assets. It cost Bishop John twelve thousand pounds to recover them, so I’m told.’

Simon winced at the sound of such a fortune. ‘At least he is reconciled to the King now, though? After all, he’s been sent
here on this embassy to negotiate for the King, so there must be renewed trust, I suppose?’

‘Not necessarily,’ Baldwin said. ‘But Bishop John has more skill than almost any other in the King’s service when it comes
to careful, practical negotiation. The King needs him, whether or not he likes it, or Bishop John!’

‘And William Ayrminne? Will he weather the stormy blast?’

‘He is a skilled negotiator, who’s spent plenty of time in the King’s service. He’s wily enough to see himself safe, I make
no doubt. Personally, I wouldn’t trust him further than I could hurl him.’

‘Why?’

‘He’s a canon at Westminster Abbey, but he spends a great deal of time with the Queen. I think he’s looking for a new position
with her as his patron. Never trust a man who is seeking advancement! He will trample anyone in his ambition.’

‘And in the meantime, we shall travel with the Bishop of Orange. Do you know him?’

‘I saw him briefly in Westminster. I think he’s a sound enough man.’ Baldwin shrugged. He did not add that any man whom a
pope might choose as his legate was not to be trusted. Simon already knew his trenchant views on the papacy and the corruption
of the curia, so did not press the matter.

‘In any case, all we need is to return to England with them, and we can forget all about France and get on home,’ Simon said
with a broad smile.

Baldwin grinned back, nodding. There was nothing that could spoil their pleasure this day.

On the road near Crowborough, Kent

He was riding past at full tilt, when he reached the place. Someone had once told him that a man could always remember a place
that was fearsome to him. Well, he didn’t need to be told that. Not now. The horse itself could sense what had happened here,
even though the beast was not with him when he had originally come past.

There was not a sound. Even the wind had died. As he sat in the saddle, the beast beneath him pawing at the soft soil here
in the woods, he was struck with a revulsion so distinct, it was almost a physical barrier to his dismounting. But he could
not ride past. It wasn’t possible. He had to do this to ensure his safety. It was a little thing, nothing, in the scheme of
things. And it wouldn’t hurt the man. Not now.

No. No sound. Not of wind, nor of people. No rattle of chains, creak of harness or regular step of man or horse. Nothing.
Just the occasional song of a bird of some sort.

He dropped to the ground and stood a moment, holding the reins. Still nothing.

In a hurry now, he went to the bundled clothing and untied the thong holding it to the saddle; his fingers revolted at the
touch, but there was no time to delay. He was off into the bushes, his nose leading him to the spot.

Argh! The smell was foul! After only a few days there was no disguising the odour. The weather had been too hot, and it was
disgusting; he felt a trickle of ice shudder down
his back at the smell. Enough to make a man puke, this was. He had to block his nose and breathe through his mouth, like he
would when cleaning a gutted pig. The smell was so bad, he could hardly brace himself to continue, especially when he saw
those already-empty eye sockets, but he had to do it.

It was a relief to be back on his horse. He set off at a steady trot as soon as he could, but then he had to stop.

To throw up.

Wednesday following Easter
⁷

Christ Church Priory

Prior Henry Eastry left the refectory and walked the short distance to the cloisters, which he began to stride up and down,
considering.

The King’s Coroner had arrived already, and was studying the body. Not that there was overmuch to learn from it. A corpse
with the head almost removed. That was all that there was. Poor Gilbert. Mark and Hal had been instructed to look to see if
there was anything which might explain why Brother Gilbert had been out there, but they had found nothing. And although the
prior had questioned all his brethren himself, none admitted to knowledge of the crime.

‘Prior? May I speak with you?’

‘Of course, Coroner. I would welcome your views.’

Coroner Robert of Westerham was a shortish knight with the look of a man who would prefer to be in the saddle than idling
indoors. He rested his hand on his sword hilt, and tapped at it whenever he was thinking. There were many
coroners whom Prior Henry had known who had been less than honourable in the way in which they conducted their business, but
this one at least seemed to try to be fair. At least, he was in his dealings with the priory.

‘Your man was killed by a sword, I reckon. When I looked at him, the blade had sunk into the bones of his neck, so that means
a heavy bladed weapon struck him. Not just a knife drawn over his throat.’

‘I see.’ The prior was able to take some solace from that. ‘That means it is less likely to be a brother from the convent,
then. I am relieved.’

The coroner nodded. ‘Whoever it was was experienced in the use of swords, if I’m a judge. I suppose many of the brothers will
have learned swordplay, but how many would have practised recently? There’s another thing: whoever did this would have been
covered in gore. The blood splashes went all over the hay, and the man who killed him must also have been smothered. But none
of your monks’ habits seem to have been stained. I have checked.’

‘Good. But it still leaves the question of who could have done it.’

‘Clearly someone from without the priory. Is there anything stolen from the church?’

‘It was the first thing I considered. I had a full account of all the silver and plate made as soon as I was informed of Gilbert’s
death, just in case it was a robbery.’

‘Nothing gone?’

‘No. All our church ornamentation is still there.’

The coroner mulled this over a little while, frowning at the ground while he kicked at pebbles. ‘In that case … is there
anything else here of value?’

The prior smiled. ‘We have much of value. St Thomas’s
bones, our books … but nothing that a common thief would consider.’

There was no answering grin on the coroner’s face. ‘This was no
common
thief, Prior. This man was prepared to hack a monk to death.’

‘Sweet Mother of God!’ The prior’s face paled. ‘I will tell my sub-prior to search all our relics immediately.’

Eltham Palace

Richard of Bury sighed and leaned back in his chair, a deeply contented man.

This place was as comfortable as any palace in the land. For his money, it was one of the most beautiful, too. The great hall
was quite new – only about twenty-five years old, and there was a magnificent park to the south which the last owner, Bishop
Bek, had added. The park and the great buildings, with the massive stone walls strengthened with brick bastions, had been
improved when the Earl’s grandfather, Edward I, had been given the place by the Bishop. A magnificent gift. The kind of thing
that showed that Bishop Bek was looking for something significant in return.

Richard grinned to himself but his face soon hardened. There was a time when he would have said he was getting cynical, but
any man who said that now would have to have been deaf and blind. Cynicism was unnecessary now, in the reign of King Edward
II. Not something a man might dare to say in front of anyone else, of course, but it was a fact nonetheless. The King was
mad.

There were times when a man might have a degree of confidence in his king. The best kings were undoubtedly those who sought
to reign fairly and rationally. Logic was essential in a king. Promising one thing, then doing another was not
rational. It was unsettling. And a king needed a kingdom that was settled and calm, if he wished to rule in peace.

Bury patted the book nearest him. It was a history of the life of Alexander, a tome he often picked up and browsed through.
This was the kind of man a king ought to be, he thought. Honourable, chivalrous, strong of purpose, determined in battle,
and magnanimous in victory. That was the sort of king England needed. Not like the present king. He may never be able to mention
such things to others, but the king was dangerous to himself and the realm. Even when he was triumphant, he was vindictive
to his defeated enemies. Not only to them, but also to their families. That was hardly chivalrous.

If there was one thing Richard of Bury was determined to do, it was to show the Earl in his care that there was a better way
to rule a people than this. And thanks to God, Earl Edward seemed a keen and willing pupil to his tutor.

And God had also put in his way the means by which the King’s heir might exceed all expectations. The oil of St Thomas would
make him
more
than a mere King.

With Bury’s help, the boy would become a king to rival Arthur himself – as the prophecy predicted.

Thursday following Easter
⁸

Château du Bois

Simon was already on his horse and eager to be away before even the Bishop’s guards were prepared. Although Baldwin tried
to hold a world-weary disinterest on his face, he too was noticeably present from an early hour, his rounsey saddled, bridled
and ready.

A bishop would normally require a large force to travel with him, and wagons full of provisions and plate and cash for payment
along the way, but to Simon’s surprise, this Bishop of Orange apparently required little in the way of comforts. There were
five pack horses and a couple of small carts, and a total of only five men-at-arms to guard him on horseback, not counting
Simon and Baldwin.

‘He’s keen to travel fast,’ Simon said, nodding towards the party.

‘There is need for speed if the embassy is to be successful,’ Baldwin said. He swung himself up on his rounsey, a large beast
with spirit to match. He was stamping his feet and raising sparks from the cobbles, irritated at the noise all about. Men
were hurrying to and fro with baskets and sacks, while dogs milled about, some darting under the horses.

There was one dog in particular that caught his eye: a large, mastiff-like dog, but although it had a mastiff’s size, it lacked
the pendulous lips and excessive flesh of a brute like Baldwin’s late and sadly missed Uther. This was an entirely different
type, with a long, silky coat in several colours. Baldwin had seen dogs with these markings before, but rarely if ever quite
so pronounced: black all over, but for brown eyebrows and cheeks, with a white muzzle. The paws were all white, as was the
tip of the tail, while there was a large white cross on the dog’s breast. He moved with a heaviness, as was to be expected
with an animal that must weigh three stone, but there was a spring in his gait that spoke of his liveliness and strength,
and he ambled around the place, casting looks about him at all the people with such a benevolent, amiable expression that
Baldwin was smitten.