The Prophecy of Death: (Knights Templar 25) (7 page)

‘It’s all right for men like you to be cynical,’ Simon said righteously, ‘but for those of us who actually suffer, there is
nothing quite so wonderful as feeling the earth again.’

‘You were hardly even sick this time.’

‘Perhaps to you it looked like that,’ Simon growled. ‘“Hardly” does not cover the feelings I had whilst in that bucket.’

‘Well, with any luck you’ll never have to see a ship again,’ Baldwin said soothingly.

‘No.’

There was a shortness to Simon’s response which made Baldwin shoot a look at him. ‘You’re not missing your position at Dartmouth?’

‘No. No, I couldn’t say that. I disliked that job more than any I’ve ever had. I only really want to get back to Tavistock
and return to my old duties on the moor. I’m a moorman by nature. The idea of sitting in a room and agreeing bills of
lading with shipmasters, or more likely arguing over the customs due, is ideally suited to some blasted clerk, but not me.
I don’t like it.’

‘It is sad that our old friend promoted you.’

Simon nodded. He had been a contented man before, riding out over the moors and wasteland of Dartmoor, maintaining the peace
however he may, and making his way homewards each night whenever he could to see his wife and family. But then he had provided
a service to his master, Abbot Robert of Tavistock, who owned the revenue from the moors. That kindly old man had been so
pleased with Simon’s efforts that he had given him a new post, that of his chief official in Dartmouth, responsible to him
for all customs. Abbot Robert had been an enthusiastic gatherer-up of positions that might bring in precious treasure to his
abbey, and he had paid many pounds to the King for the rights to the port.

But it was not a job to Simon’s taste. He had felt divorced from his family, as though cast adrift on an unpleasant sea. Perhaps
not all sailors were disreputable thieves who looked upon life at sea as a form of legalised piracy, but there were few who
did not appear to do so. They all looked upon war as a wonderful excuse for them to break the heads of any foreign sailor
and steal his whole cargo, ideally taking his ship as well.

He had quite liked some of the sea-farers. Most, however, were simply rough, violent men who were little better than outlaws.
They would never have made a living on land. Although he held little sympathy for men like those of Brittany, who raided the
English ships unmercifully, he had little, too, for those from Devon who waged war on the Bretons. And the men of Lyme. And
those from the Cinque Ports … and those from any other town in England whose ships they felt they could steal without
being seen. The law of
the land only held force while a ship was in view of the land, after all. Beyond that, a man had to see to his own protection.

‘Ah, there’s the dog,’ Baldwin said. ‘He’s a beautiful animal!’

Simon glanced back to see that the great beast Baldwin had so admired before had launched himself into the water from the
rowing boat that was bringing the Bishop to shore with all the other dogs. Baldwin’s favourite paddled through the waves with
nose upward, as waves crashed over his head and smothered him, reappearing a moment or two later, blinking and straining determinedly
for the land.

‘I think he likes ships as much as you, Simon,’ Baldwin said.

‘No one can appreciate the depth of my detestation for ships,’ Simon countered.

His grimness made Baldwin look at him. ‘Not long now, and we’ll be home,’ Baldwin said quietly.

‘Cannot be soon enough for me,’ Simon said.

Christ Church Priory

Prior Henry eyed the coroner as he approached. ‘Have you any news?’

‘Little enough.’

Coroner Robert grimaced as he pulled off his thick riding gloves and wiped his brow. It was unseasonably hot today, and he
had ridden fast from the last inquest.

‘Sir Robert, please, I am forgetting my manners. Would you like refreshment? Wine?’

‘Ale if you have it, Prior. It is a little warm for exercise.’

The prior watched while one of his servants ran for the drink. The coroner appeared almost uneasy, avoiding the Prior’s eye
as he stood, tapping his foot and waiting.

Soon the ale arrived, a large pewter jug and a silver goblet that looked ridiculously small in comparison. It took five refills
of the goblet before the knight looked comforted and could nod to the Prior with a look of resolution on his face.

‘Very well. Can we speak here in privacy?’

‘Of course,’ the prior said.

‘Your dead man, Brother Gilbert, was undoubtedly murdered by the man who took the oil, but I am not sure that he was entirely
blameless.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘Just this: the man who killed Gilbert was seen. Or, at least
a man who appeared to have been trying to escape attention was seen on that night, running away from the convent. There is
a peasant outside the city wall who’s prepared to swear that he saw a man with what looked like a damp tunic running away
from the postern. He said nothing at the time because it didn’t occur to the cloth-headed fool. I daresay he was drunk and
just thought that it was someone else who had been drinking. Now he has heard of the murder, he’s had fresh thoughts, though.’

‘He should have come forward sooner,’ the Prior said bitterly.

‘Perhaps. Maybe he knew something else, though, and chose not to.’

‘That sounds a little strange, Sir Robert. What do you mean by it?’

‘In the days before his death, you had guests, did you not?’

‘Yes, you know that we had the embassy for the King pass by. They were asking where the King was, and I was able to direct
them to Beaulieu. They stayed one night only.’

‘In that night did you notice any of the monks speaking with the men in the embassy?’

‘Yes. Of course they did. The monks here may be devoted to God, but that doesn’t mean that they take no interest in affairs
outside the convent.’

‘Clearly that’s true.’

‘What are you inferring, Sir Robert?’ Prior Henry challenged testily. He was growing uneasy at the coroner’s apparent grimness.

‘Did Gilbert have a dispute with any of the men from the party?’

‘No, he did not. Coroner, I do not like your tone.’

‘And I don’t like what I’ve been hearing. The man who saw
the fellow running from here said that he was running away from the priory and heading westwards.’

‘After them? But that is ridiculous! You’re telling me that the men in the embassy could have stolen the oil? That is impossible.
They were all gone the afternoon before the theft.’

‘How many King’s heralds were there in the party?’

‘With the two bishops? I don’t know … there was that chubby one, and the shorter, stocky fellow. What of it?’

‘I’ve asked about. Apparently the party rode on to an inn at Ashford. There was only one herald with the party there.’

‘I am sure there were two.’

‘I am sure you are right. One stayed behind and killed your Gilbert.’

‘What possible reason could there be for him to do that?’

‘I do not know.’

‘I think you must be mistaken, Coroner. The party riding on would have noticed if they had lost a man.’

‘In a group of how many? Fifty? A hundred? They would all believe that the man was in another part of the cavalcade. But there
is another thing: the man said that the fellow’s tunic was all wet. He also said that it almost obscured the fellow’s tabard.
It was the tabard of a royal herald.’

Baldwin was glad when they saw the first lights in the distance and could smell the faint tang of woodsmoke on the air.

There were few signs of civilisation so welcome to a traveller as these. The first thing he always sought out was a gibbet
when abroad, because at least in a land such as Galicia or Navarre, when a man found a proof of punishment, there was also
proof of law, and law enforcement. Terrifying to him was a land in which there was no respect for laws. That was dangerous
indeed.

Here, though, they were approaching the city of Canterbury, and Baldwin was hopeful that they might soon be at the priory,
where they might beg a room for the night before it grew dark. He was unwilling to stay in the open out here. There had been
too much devastation during the terrible famine years. He had heard rumours of cannibalism here in Kent, and doubted that
matters were any safer yet away from the cities.

There was little conversation with other members of their party. Their companions were a mixed group. The Bishop of Orange
clearly thought himself too superior to Simon to speak with him, although he did condescend to talk to Baldwin on occasion.
For the most part of their hurried journey he had maintained a stiff haughtiness, patronising the guards when he spoke to
them, and irritating all who travelled with him.

The men-at-arms ranged from one scruffy churl, Pons, whom Baldwin would happily have seen fall from the ship just to see him
washed, he was so foul, to one fellow who looked as though he might have been the son of an earl, because he was always immaculately
dressed. This man, Jack, took one look at Baldwin early on in their travels, and appeared to wince at the sight of his old
threadbare red tunic and torn linen shirt. He almost made Baldwin defensive about his style of dress. This one appeared to
view the world with an eye that could discern a joke in any situation. Yet he reminded Baldwin of others, especially those
who had lost their livelihoods and were forced to hire themselves out to whoever seemed to be the best new master. There were
many of them since the famine of ten years ago.

Of the others he formed little opinion. There were two Flemings and a Frenchman, but they tended to keep to themselves and
messed together. They were not rude to Baldwin and Simon, but Baldwin gained the impression that they were
used to their master and tended to heed his moods. When he was quiet, so were they. Still, Baldwin noticed that the Frenchman
in particular appeared to possess an ill humour. André appeared to lose his temper swiftly when he felt himself thwarted.
Baldwin saw this when they stopped at one inn and the man-at-arms felt that his horse was not attended to speedily enough.
André almost set hand to sword until a companion, the foul little one, calmed him.

Still, he had not felt as though he was in danger from any of them during their fast ride from Paris. They had not been forced
to gallop, but the lightness of their loads had meant that they had been able to go at almost the speed of a King’s Messenger,
some thirty to forty miles each day, depending upon the land and roads. However, although messengers were entitled to take
their ease on the Sunday, the Bishop had not suggested that. After Mass, he insisted they should continue. His view was that
‘Travelling itself is not a sinful occupation on a Sunday. I look upon it as a necessary duty; the more so since we have a
need to hurry in order to try to prevent another war breaking out between the English and the French.’

Baldwin was happy with this attitude. There were all too many men who’d delight in a day’s rest when they had duties to perform.
He was content that while the Bishop might well be a hard man to like, an arrogant, pig-headed, stalwart noble who looked
down on any man who was not worth at least two hundred pounds a year, he was also dedicated. And no Christian could ask for
more than that.

They were clattering along the road into Canterbury as the light began to fade, and Simon and Baldwin, who were riding in
the vanguard, could hear the sound of bells tolling.

‘My Lord Bishop, they are ringing the bells,’ Baldwin called back urgently. ‘With your permission, we shall ride on.’

‘I will send my own men. You may remain,’ came the firm response.

Baldwin took a deep breath, but decided to make no objection as two of the guards were sent on. It was the two Frenchmen:
André and the scruffy little fellow, Pons.

It was a decision which he would later rue.

Beaulieu

The King motioned sulkily as he completed his meal, and his servants hurried to do his bidding.

His men swiftly finished their food and bowed their way from his presence, each carefully walking backwards so as never to
show him the insult of turning their backs upon him, and while one group of young servants set about removing all the mess
bowls and clutter from the tables, another set to removing and folding all the table linen. As soon as that was put away,
the table tops were taken from the trestles, and all cleared away, leaving a broad, empty space in front of him.

‘It is always thus, Hugh. Always. In every detail of my life, I have been thwarted. At first it was my father, refusing to
understand the depth of my love for poor Piers; then the earls took his place after his death and refused to countenance my
friendship with him, even going so far as to murder him. Murder him! My poor Piers. All I have ever wanted was to be a good
king, but I am prevented at every turn by fools and malcontents. Not satisfied with ruining my happiness by murdering poor
Piers, they tried to make me cast you aside too.’

Despenser nodded with a serious expression on his face. Piers Gaveston was a man who had been universally detested throughout
the country. Greedy, vain, ambitious and arrogant,
he had finally been captured by barons and murdered, to the King’s horror. ‘They didn’t succeed, my Lord, did they?’

‘But they shouldn’t have
tried
! I am their King, in God’s name. I am the man anointed by God, chosen by Him to be their ruler on earth. Do they dare set
their faces against Him through me? Are they that mad?’

‘Only a fool would attempt such a crime,’ Despenser said, clenching his jaw to stifle a yawn.

‘But they do. Then there is the felon Robert Bruce and his rebellion in Scotland, and the arch-traitor, Mortimer. How has
my reign become so mired with treachery and distrust? I only ever wanted to be a
good
king.’

‘You
are
a good king. The actions of a few fools and criminals cannot alter that.’

‘It all went wrong from that first moment. Do you remember that knight who died at my coronation?’

‘Come, my Lord, we have—’

‘Do not contradict me, Sir Hugh. I was delayed for a week because of that intolerable old fool Winchelsea, and all said it
was because of disputes between me and the barons. Then there was a genuine argument about which earl should carry which item
of the regalia, and the death of the knight when the mob pushed forward. Dear Christ, I can see it all now!’

And he could, in his mind’s eye. The press had been so forceful that a wall had collapsed, bringing down with it the royal
staging and knocking down the high altar. Sir John de Bakewell was the unfortunate man who happened to be standing at the
other side of the wall, and he was crushed to death. The most devastatingly unpropitious beginning to any reign.

‘It was an accident, my Lord,’ Despenser said smoothly.

‘An
accident
? It set off my reign perfectly,’ the King said
petulantly. ‘A man dies at my coronation, and within a day, there are rumours of my displeasing my French wife’s family, and
stories about my association with my best friend. How much worse could the omens have been?’

‘Yes.’

‘And it could all have been prevented.’

‘You mustn’t let yourself dwell on such matters, my Lord.’

‘
Silence!
’ The sudden, snapped command held the power of a man who could inflict death in a moment with complete impunity. ‘Do not
presume to tell me what I may and may not consider, Sir Hugh. I am the
King
. Sir Thomas, Earl of Lancaster, tried to tell me what I may and may not do, and I saw him executed. Do not forget that!’

Sir Hugh bowed his head repentantly, but in his heart he laughed to himself. Just now he was the King’s sole friend, and the
King would not dare to remove him. Indeed, a large consideration that swayed the King against travelling to France to pay
homage for the French estates was the knowledge that to do so would almost certainly result in a rebellion against Despenser.
Without the King’s protection, he was as secure as Gaveston had been on that lonely road when he was slain. And the only man
who hated Despenser more than a natural-born English Lord was the French King. He detested Sir Hugh.

It all stemmed from the dreadful days after the war of the Lords Marcher. The bastards had imposed demands upon the King,
first of which was that Sir Hugh should be exiled from England. That was not something he would accept. Instead, he based
himself in Kent, at the coast, and set about a life of piracy. One ship he took was French, and ever since then the French
King had said he was a felon. Were Sir Hugh ever to
set foot on French soil, so King Charles IV had said, he would be executed immediately.

He could not travel to France with King Edward. Yet without him, King Edward was reluctant to go to France. He trusted no
other man to act in his stead, but if Despenser were left, there would be a rising against him in moments, and he would be
killed. That was why the King remained here in England – it was in order to protect his companion. His irritation stemmed
from the knowledge that he would lose his French possessions in his attempt to protect his lover.

‘If only I had been anointed with the oil …’

‘It is over, my Lord. What is done is done, and there is little we can do to alter our destiny now we are set upon our roads.’

‘You speak like a man who has knowledge of such matters. You were not so damned sanguine when you thought your life was threatened
by the possible attack of a necromancer, were you?’