The Prophecy of Death: (Knights Templar 25) (19 page)

‘My Liege, surely—’

‘Find it, find the oil, and find me the man who took it, Sir Hugh! The last man who stole from my father was skinned, and
his pelt still adorns the door to the crypt at Westminster Abbey as a sign to all the monks never to try their King’s patience
again. Well, someone
has
dared to try my patience, and I want
his skin for it
!’

‘The oil is gone,’ Despenser repeated quietly to himself.

It was a bad piece of news, certainly, although not a catastrophe – yet – and he would have to ensure that it never grew to
be one. True, the King should not have been told so quickly; Despenser should have been told first, so he himself could have
told him, but Despenser could rectify that. It was better to seek the oil and find it first. And hang the man who stole it,
by the cods from the highest beam in the ceiling at Westminster Palace! Any man who dared to steal from the King was dangerous,
but someone who was bold enough to take something that was useless to any
but
the King, he was a dangerous opponent. Or mad. Either way, he was a threat to Despenser. And Sir Hugh did not like to leave
threats go unheeded.

The King shouldn’t have been told yet. There was no need for him to know. He had that damned knight from Furnshill to blame
for this.

This was not the first time he had come across Sir Baldwin de Furnshill. Sir Baldwin, the meddler who had stood in his path
in Devon, in that outlandish vill called Iddesleigh, and who then had gone to France with the Queen. Somehow, whenever Sir
Baldwin was about, Sir Hugh le Despenser’s plans went awry. Not only him, either. Sir Hugh was reminded of the little embarrassment
at Dartmouth, when he had lost
one of his better allies. At the time the name of the Keeper of the Port had meant nothing to him, but now the name ‘Puttock’
took on a certain significance.

Well, no more! Furnshill had deliberately kept both these pieces of information from him. First that his own friend’s son
had died, and then that the King’s oil was stolen.

Sir Hugh le Despenser had many more important fishes to fry, but these two were treating him with contempt. The knight was
withholding information from him. From
him
! The King’s most favoured adviser, in Christ’s name! Shit, the bastard deserved to be grabbed and hauled off to the Tower!

But he had some powerful friends, from Bishop Stapledon downwards. Even the King appeared immoderately fond of him. That was
one of the strange things about King Edward. He would sometimes pick a man and decide that he was an honourable, decent fellow.
It didn’t matter what the man had done before, the King could forgive almost anything, unless it was disloyalty or treachery
to him. Now he appeared to have chosen Sir Baldwin. That was why the knight was sent to France in the first place. King Edward
actually
trusted
him about his wife.

Well, swyve him. Swyve them both! They’d learn that it was not a good idea to twitch the tail of Sir Hugh le Despenser.

Sir Baldwin and Bailiff Puttock. Stannary Bailiff, he was. Or had been until the Abbot of Tavistock died …
he
could be intimidated. He could be taught an object lesson in civility. Sir Hugh had not formed a very strong opinion of Simon
Puttock. He was a churl, a serf in the pay of the Abbot of Tavistock, and nothing more. Being made Keeper of the Port of Dartmouth
may have inflated his self-importance, and he had a few brains, no doubt, but little capacity to defend himself intelligently
against an astute man. Or a powerful one.

Sir Hugh had just such a man. A man who would teach the pathetic little Bailiff to be more careful with his betters, and who
would thus show Sir Baldwin that when he picked an enemy, he should be more wary. Sir Hugh was not a man to make bitter.

With his jaw set, he walked through to the door at the rear of his chamber. From there he passed through his solar block and
out into the sunlight, where he cast about for a little while, before seeing his man at the far side.

He beckoned, waiting with composure.

‘Sir Hugh?’

‘William, I wish you to travel to Devon as fast as you can. There is a man there, a fellow called Simon Puttock. He is a bailiff,
I believe, with a house in Lydford near the stannary gaol, as I understand it. Go there, and take his house.’

‘It’s yours.’

‘He may be there. If he becomes angry, provoke him. He’s not well trained in fighting. You know what to do.’

‘Sir.’

‘It is possible, if you ride hard, that you may reach his home before him, though. That would be amusing. You could enjoy
yourself with the man’s wife. You would like that?’

William Wattere smiled. He had an easygoing manner, and an ever-ready grin for the women, which concealed a lust for brutality
that was unequalled in Despenser’s experience.

Watching him swagger away bellowing for a horse and shouting at four or five others, Sir Hugh gave a thin smile himself. But
then he shook himself. There was much else to do.

There was another of his men near the horse trough. He crossed to the fellow, then held up the necklace of pilgrim badges.
‘You recognise this?’

‘No.’

‘They were found on the neck of a dead man in some woods. Apparently he was clad in a tabard of a King’s herald. And now we
have been set the task of learning who could have been responsible for the King’s loss. And I want to know, too. Do you have
any idea who was the most devout herald among the King’s men?’

‘There was that Richard de Yatton. He was very keen. I remember someone saying he travelled half as far as all the others
in a day because he stopped at every chapel to pray. He would be the most religious.’

‘Good. Now, I have something I need you to do for me.’

Monday before Feast of the Apostles
¹⁸

Furnshill

Jeanne de Furnshill, a tall, slender lady in her middle thirties, with a pale complexion and straying reddish hair, stood
upright, hands resting in the small of her back as her daughter ran across the grassed pasture before her house.

‘My Lady, you want some wine?’

‘No, thank you, Edgar. I am fine just now.’

She had much to thank Edgar for. When her husband had left her to travel with Bishop Stapledon, it had appeared that there
was no alternative. She had at the time only recently given birth to her son, and Edgar, her husband’s sergeant from those
far off days when he had been a Knight Templar, had been a sturdy support for her. He was reliable, constant, and although
often all but invisible, she had only to raise her voice and he would materialise at her side like some faithful hound, or
so she always thought.

His wife, too, had been a great companion to her. Petronilla had more experience in childbirth than Jeanne, and just as her
own Baldwin was born, Petronilla was weaning her own little boy. It was all too easy for her to become nursemaid to Jeanne’s
child, to the comfort of both women. Jeanne found breastfeeding her boy a trial, and Petronilla was very glad to be able to
help. She adored Jeanne’s boy almost as much as she did her own.

There came a pattering of feet, and Jeanne had to brace herself to absorb the impact as her daughter pelted into her, arms
clinging to her thighs beneath her skirts. ‘Richalda!’

‘Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!’

Jeanne looked down at her for a moment, and then across at Edgar, who gazed back blankly, and then grinned broadly. A large
dog had appeared about the corner of the house: a black dog, with brown eyebrows and cheeks, with a white muzzle and paws,
a white tip to his tail, and a white cross on his breast. ‘I think she is probably right, my Lady.’

‘What? I—’ and then Jeanne heard the steady trotting gait, and glanced up at the trail that wound past their door, and saw
him. And without realising that Edgar had taken her daughter, she was already running up the track to her husband, skirts
billowing, her coif flying from her head.

Fourth Tuesday after Easter
¹⁹

Baldwin woke with a panic, dreaming he was in a field, in a tent, Simon at his side, and the screaming was from a man murdered
outside in the fine snow … cold … it was so cold, especially at his armpit …

And then he opened his eyes with a jolt, drawing away from
the dog’s wet nose, and found himself in familiar surroundings. He knew that ceiling, those rafters, the feel of this bed
…
Home!

Pushing his newest dog away, he muttered, ‘You’ll be sleeping outside if you keep shoving your nose there, dog. Go on, piss
off!’

Still, waking him every morning was the least of bad behaviour he would have expected. ‘Wolf’ was in almost every way a perfect
companion. Handsome, obedient (when he understood what Baldwin was saying) and ever-present. Baldwin was sure he would become
an excellent guard.

Yawning voluptuously, he scratched his beard. It was strange to be here again, he thought contentedly. There was a loud whining
from the door, and he rose on both elbows to look. The beast needed to go out. At least the thing was house-trained. He stood,
let Wolf outside, and then slapped barefooted across the planks to his bed, flopping down. He grunted, stretched, and threw
his arms over his head, causing his wife to mumble and complain in her sleep. She rolled over to enfold herself into his body
again, her cheek against his breast, hands clasped as though in prayer under her chin, one soft thigh placed gently over his
own. He ignored the cries from his daughter, in the room beneath, and let his arm fall over his wife, cradling her closer.

‘What now?’ she murmured as his hand slid along her flank.

‘I was enjoying the peace before dawn,’ he said. ‘I do not suppose you …?’

‘It will not last,’ she said with confidence. Already there was the sound of small feet downstairs, and Baldwin was sure that
in a moment the door would be thrown wide open and Richalda would be upon him.

‘I missed you,’ she said quietly.

‘And I you.’

‘It was hard, not knowing when you would be returning.’

‘It was as hard for me, Jeanne. I had no idea when I might be permitted to return from the Queen. Still, I am back now.’

‘And hopefully you will not have to leave us again?’

‘Jeanne, if there was any such need, I would take you with me.’

‘What, even to France? You know that they have clothes and material in Paris that a woman would sell her children to buy?’

He chuckled. ‘Then it is fortunate that we won’t be going, maid. We can stay here and live the gentle life of rural knighthood.
I shall be Keeper of the King’s Peace again, you shall be my wife, and the King and the Queen may sort out their own problems.’

‘You think so? There are terrible rumours, Baldwin.’

‘Of what nature?’

‘People talk of traitors gathering hosts abroad, Baldwin. They say that we could be invaded by the French, that they will
come and pillage and kill all who stand before them—’

‘No. I saw no desire to try to overcome our lands while I was there. The French are angry that our King will not go to pay
homage to their King for the lands he holds from King Charles, but there is not desire for war. They will absorb the King’s
possessions, that is all.’

‘They say that the traitors will come, though.’

‘There is one traitor, Roger Mortimer, who would be able to collect some mercenaries about him, but even the French King knows
what sort of man he is, I think. He sent Mortimer from his court. The man’s without friends even there.’ He did not say that
Mortimer had warned Baldwin of the threat posed to him by Despenser.

‘That relieves me, husband.’

‘Good,’ Baldwin said. There was no need to worry her. She need not hear that he had met Mortimer. It was the kind of information
that could serve no useful purpose.

‘Will you remain here now?’

There was a small tone of doubt in her voice, a note that tore at his heart. Only a short while before, Baldwin had been unfaithful
to her. Oh, there were plenty of excuses to justify his behaviour, but he had found when he came home again afterwards, that
his relationship with Jeanne had been affected. He felt his guilt, and it put a pall over their love. It was only recently
that he had felt the shame and remorse lift, and their lives had returned to – if not the same tenor as before – a new balance.

‘I will remain here, woman. Unless the King calls me away. And if he does, you may journey with me, as I said, even if it
means I must take you to Paris and buy every item in every haberdashery shop!’

She mumbled at that, and by the regularity of her breathing, he knew she had fallen asleep again.

He wished to sleep like his wife, but try as he might, he was left with a sour flavour in his mouth whenever he thought once
more of the man left dead at the side of the road in those woods. He felt a certain guilt at not seeking the killer more relentlessly.
It was the first time he had not. There was no comfort in the reflection that it was not his responsibility while on the road
– that was only a sop to his own conscience. If he could return, he would spend more time on seeking the man’s murderer.

And learning who it was who had taken the King’s oil.

Beaulieu

Sir Hugh le Despenser was already in his chamber, his clerks at their table, running through the expenses for his stay here
at Beaulieu so far, and keeping an eye on his ready money, when the knock came at his door.

His man was a hard-faced fellow with the thick hair and grey eyes of a southern Welshman. He was slight, with a gentle gait
that concealed his strength. Although his limbs looked thin, they were immensely wiry and powerful.

He looked at Despenser. ‘I’ve checked.’

‘And?’

‘The herald you mentioned, Richard de Yatton, has been missing for some days. He was sent off to see the Castellan at Leeds
Castle, but he never came back.’

‘How long ago did he leave?’

‘About the end of the Lenten period. Not sooner.’

‘He left in Lent? Before Easter? You’re sure?’

‘He was sent away while we were still in Westminster, and hasn’t been seen since. He never came back.’

‘Good. I think we know who the dead herald at the side of the road was, then,’ Despenser said with a cold frown at the ground.
‘But who killed him, and why? What would be the point of killing a King’s herald? It’s not as though he was carrying a lot
of money about him. Or was he?’