The Prophecy of Death: (Knights Templar 25) (12 page)

His companion was a younger man, with narrower features, but a heavier build. Where Peter was quite wiry, like a labourer,
John had the appearance of a knight, in the padding of muscle at his shoulders and arms. His eyes were darker, a
deep grey-blue, and there were fewer laughter lines at the corners. Instead of his friend’s alertness, this man’s eyes moved
with a noticeable deliberation, and he appeared to concentrate on one object or person at a time with great intensity.

Jack watched him, the still, serious man, and then turned and eyed the older man with the smiling face. He had been a felon
for too long. He knew how to recognise men, to see which would be most dangerous, which he could pick on easily.

He wouldn’t try anything with either of these, he decided – but of the two, he would leave the older, cheerful man well alone
by choice. He looked much the more dangerous of the pair.

After the excitement of the previous day and the morning, Baldwin was glad to be in the saddle once more, ready to leave Canterbury.
As he and Simon sat on their mounts, waiting for all the other men to collect about the Bishop, Baldwin saw the coroner at
the gate to the priory close. On a whim, he spurred his rounsey and crossed the court to Sir Robert’s side.

‘I thank you for your help today,’ he said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Scaring off our two guards. What did you say to them? That you’d be seeking their heads as soon as they left the good bishop’s
service?’

The coroner looked him up and down. He was leaning with his back at the gate itself, while his thumbs remained tucked into
his sword belt. Jerking his chin at the Bishop, he said, ‘What do you think of him? He worth protecting?’

‘Of course he is. He may be able to save some lives, if he persuades the King to prevent war with France,’ Baldwin said.

‘Hmm. How would you like him to have only outlaws for his guards?’

Baldwin cast a look over his shoulder at the men, before sighing, ‘Coroner, I and my friend may be the only two in his entourage
who have
not
been outlawed at one time or another!’

‘Ha! Yes, you could be speaking the truth there. And yet one
of the two last night was recognised by men here in the city. The short, smelly one? At the inquest, he said his name was
“Pons”, didn’t he? He has gone under the name of Stephen the Frank. I knew of him in Ashford as Stephen the Sailor, and others
knew him under other names. He is rumoured to have killed his own master. The other I didn’t know, but from his appearance
I would think him formed from the same mould.’

‘So you think you have helped to save the Bishop by persuading the two least reliable men from his party to go? Perhaps he
was well aware of their unreliability,’ Baldwin said. It was true enough. Often a baron or knight would gladly hire a man
who was dangerous and known as a killer, because such a man would appreciate his safety in a larger household, as well as
feeling a debt to his new master.

‘Perhaps he was. But with the two replacements, you’ll have a better party to travel all the way to Beaulieu. These two are
known to me … They are safe.’

‘Well, for that I thank you, at least,’ Baldwin said. ‘Do you know where the worst parts of the journey are likely to be?’

‘The forests of Kent are moderately safe, I think. It’s when you cross into Sussex and Hampshire that you’ll find your progress
endangered. That is what I have heard, in any case. Keep to the road past Ashford, through Cranbrook and Crowborough, and
you should be all right. Watch your bishop, and watch your own back, Sir Knight. I wouldn’t want you to learn that your companions
are dangerous by their attacking you.’

‘I am grateful for your words, Coroner,’ Baldwin said. And then he bowed and saluted the man. ‘Sincerely.’

Coroner Robert grunted. ‘Get off with you, Sir Knight. I hope next time we meet it may be under a more auspicious
light. Go with God and be cautious on the road. Farewell and Godspeed!’

Second Wednesday after Easter
¹²

St Mary in the Marsh

They were cold and tired by the time they saw the little cross in the distance. There had been plenty of other little settlements
on their way here, but they had been keeping quiet, hiding up in woods last night. They were happy to be away from Canterbury,
but now they had run out of food, and this prosperous little vill looked good to them.

Pons took a careful look about. It was the countryside he really liked. The marshes here were all flat pastureland, the grasses
sliced apart by a number of little streams and rivulets, each dully grey, like rivers of lead in the verdant green. As they
rode, the sheep on either side rose, startled, and occasionally they saw a shepherd in the distance, leaning on a crook and
watching them – although whether suspiciously or merely from a spirit of mild enquiry, they couldn’t tell.

So far as André was concerned, it was hard to imagine quite such a desolate landscape. It looked as though God had decided
to eradicate everything from the place. There were no trees nearby, no hills, nothing. Just this lengthening grassy plain
that had been slashed by water. It made him enormously nostalgic for his homelands, with the view of mountains in the distance.

‘Where are we?’ Pons said, looking about him with a frown of disdain.

‘If God wanted to give the world a kick up the arse, he’d do
it here,’ André summarised. ‘This is the shit-hole of the world. I’ve never seen a place its equal.’

‘
Oui
. So what do we do?’

‘We ride to that vill there, and see whether the road rides us out to the west. And if it does, we wait a while, and then
visit the church.’

‘And then?’

‘Take what we may, and ride on. I will not try to kill myself by riding onwards with no money in my pocket. There must be
something in there we can use.’

And as a plan, it was good. There was nobody about in the vill when they rode in. Everybody was out in the fields.

‘Come!’ André said, and trotted to the church door.

It was only a small churchyard, here, and the animals had kept the grass down, sheep and horses grazing it to a one-inch-long
stubble. The little hummocks and stones showed where the older members of the vill had been buried, while one or two smaller
lumps demonstrated that demise was not the prerogative of the ancient.

The door was new, but creaked like an abbey’s. André walked, conscious of the noise his spurs made as he went, the cheap chain
under the sole of his riding boots clattering on the flagstone floor.

‘Where is everyone?’ Pons demanded behind him.

‘Do we care?’ André said. His eyes were fixed upon the prize in front of him. There was a cheap cross made of wood sitting
on the altar, and a box lay behind it. He smiled to himself and hurried to it, testing the lid, but it was securely fastened.
Eyeing it, he reckoned he couldn’t lift it, let alone rest it on his horse for him to carry it. No, the blasted thing was
far too heavy. The metal straps ran about it, and it had two great locks at the front of it.

‘Well?’ Pons said. ‘Can you open the thing?’

‘Of course I can …’ He felt the locks, and knew he had no chance. They were made by a good blacksmith. ‘Where is the priest?’

All vills like this had a small lodging near the church, if not a lean-to beside it, for the priest to live in. Both men knew
that – but they also knew that the priest was usually a man like any other in the vill. If they wanted to find him, he would
almost certainly be out in the fields with the men and women, working the land or catching birds.

They tried the house next to the church, and inside they found the paraphernalia of a vicar, but no sign of the man himself.

‘Do we wait?’ Pons said.

‘No. If we try that, people will see our horses as they come back to the vill. No, there’s nowhere to hide or conceal the
beasts here. We’ll have to ride on,’ André said regretfully.

It was the only sensible conclusion. The sight of their horses would set all the tongues wagging, and when news of the attack
came to be known, the villagers would know exactly who to blame. They would be able to describe the two men on horses who
had come to their vill and stole from the church.

With a leaden sensation in his belly, André turned from the little house and was about to walk back to his horse, when he
heard the voice.

‘My son, can I help you?’

‘Holy Christ!’ Pons muttered.

‘Thank you, Father,’ André said, ignoring his companion. ‘May we have a word?’

Château du Bois

The Queen lifted her arms as her maids stood about and slipped them into the sleeves of her dress.

‘
Dieu!
’

The weight of it was astonishing! All the jewels which she had demanded, sewn into the fabric, made it extraordinarily heavy,
and she looked down with some perplexity. ‘Alicia?’

Alicia was her most trusted companion. It was not a position she had sought, but it was inevitable amongst the present ladies-in-waiting
that she should win it. The others had all been selected by the King and Despenser to join her, and the Queen and Alicia knew
perfectly well why that was: they were here to spy upon her.

There were two main agents of the King: Lady Alice de Toeni, the Dowager Countess of Warwick, and Joan of Bar, King Edward’s
niece. But the Queen was not so foolish as to believe that these were the only two who were watching her. Her husband was
mistrustful of everyone recently, and the fact that his Isabella had been loyal to him through all the trials of the last
ten years, that she had supported him when he most needed her aid, counted now for nothing. All the King would see when he
looked at her was the woman who was sister to the French King. Nothing else.

Of course it was not spies of the King of whom she must be most on her guard. No, it was any man or woman who could be considered
a friend or ally of that evil demon, Despenser. Evil demon. She rather liked that. The fact that the son of a peasant was
now the most powerful man in the realm was entirely monstrous, but her husband had allowed him to take that position. It was
his foolhardiness which had seeded the fruitful fields of Despenser’s ambition. And his spies would be all about her. She
knew that.

Interestingly, she was beginning to feel that Lady Joan of Bar was growing more and more sympathetic towards her. Perhaps
it was not surprising, for Lady Joan had suffered from a brute of a husband.

‘It pinches about my waist. I want it to be let out a little. I wish to be glorious, not suffocated!’ she stated, and the
dress was taken away to be reworked.

The wedding was not until July, but she must look her best. She had a duty to England, to her husband – whether he expected
or cared about it or not – and to her cousin, Jeanne d’Evreux, the King’s fiancée.

She was a lovely little thing, Jeanne. Already Isabella felt a certain understanding between them, which she hoped would only
continue once Jeanne had married her brother.

He, of course, was more circumspect. As the King of France, he could not demonstrate too much compassion for her, but he had
succeeded in making his feelings plain about some aspects. The fact that Despenser was gaining in wealth and treasure while
Isabella’s estates were confiscated was deeply insulting to the French crown; worse, the fact that her children had been taken
from her was shameful. That seemed to imply that the King viewed her as a
traitor
! To suggest such a thing was an affront to the French monarchy.

It was one thing to say that something was an insult, but another to live with the effects, though. Isabella missed her children
so much … her little John, only eight years old, and her little darling; Eleanor, two years younger, and Joan, little
more than a baby at three years. Her first-born, Edward, was almost thirteen, of course, and he would not be so dreadfully
worried. He had seen his father’s irrationality before, and had seen it dissipate. She hoped he would be strong enough. But
the others … to have been dragged from their mother, and still
not to know their own father’s love, they must be in misery.

She refused to think of such things. To do so in front of the ladies-in-waiting would only lead to rumours of her misery becoming
widely disseminated. She would not give such solace to Despenser, nor to her husband. Instead, she would keep cheerful during
the day, and only relieve herself in tears in the depths of the night.

At least some people were kind enough to support her. Henry Eastry at Canterbury had been very good to her; William Ayrminne
was a solid friend; even the Bishop of Orange relayed messages of encouragement from the Pope which were generous to a fault.
With fortune, all those with good wishes for her would be able to make their mark.

The Bishop was an interesting man, of course. Tall, urbane, shrewd as a farmer eyeing the cattle at market, he rarely allowed
anyone a glimpse of what was going on inside his head, but he was the Pope’s own ambassador just now, and that meant he was
one of the most powerful men in the world.

Well, she deserved to have a man like him visit her and take up her cause. She was the daughter of Philippe the Fair, King
of France, and wife to the King of England, whether he liked it or not. Isabella was a woman of standing. A noblewoman of
the highest rank.

And she was deprived even of the companionship of her
children
.

St Mary in the Marsh

The priest was a youngish man, with mousy hair and a slightly peering stance, head leaning forward, his eyes squinting slightly.

‘Father, we’re very glad to meet you,’ André said.

‘Ah, you are foreign?’

‘From Hainault, Father. We are lost, trying to find our way to London.’

‘You are a long way from there, my son,’ the priest said, and André heard the sudden reticence, the suspicion in his voice.

Ach, it was an obvious error. He mentioned the first town that came to his mind in this strange land, and should have realised
that the main city was some distance. But how could he know? It was many years since he was last in this country, and then
he hadn’t made it to London.

He smiled. ‘Oh? And we thought it was so near,’ he said as he put his hand about the man’s neck and shoved his dagger into
the priest’s belly.

The man just gave a quiet gasp, nothing more. He stared in horror as André carefully ripped the blade upwards, using the sawing
motion he was so experienced in, the priest goggle-eyed, mouth open, as though he hated to interrupt the fellow about his
business, and then André smiled at him, nodding calmly as he saw the life fade from the priest’s eyes, in a way hoping that
his gentleness would ease the man’s passing. In any case, it was fast, and there was not a great deal more any man could do
than that for someone.