The Prophecy of Death: (Knights Templar 25) (21 page)

The first intimation of danger had been when the plot to have Sir Hugh and some others murdered by means of that damned magician
had been uncovered. Well, Despenser had seen to it that as soon as the man was captured, his life and prospects were reduced
to precisely nothing. But that wasn’t all. There were stories of men being sent here to England by Mortimer and his friends,
spies, ill-contents, rumour-mongers, all trying their best to destabilise the realm.

Well, Sir Hugh le Despenser wouldn’t stand by and let them have their way. The most important thing to him was to protect
the realm from all these scum. And that was what he’d do, right up until the day he found Roger Mortimer in front of him
and he could kill the bastard, nice and slowly, and as painfully as possible.

Of course, Sir Roger had an incentive to unsettle the King, and he knew the King well enough, too. He would know just how
much the theft of the oil would affect the King. The King would be bound to think it unbearable that a man would dare to take
something quite so valuable from him; still more so now, while his reign was being looked upon with contempt by so many in
the land. Perhaps it was all an affair of Sir Roger Mortimer’s making. He had sent a man to find the oil and take it to France
for him. It wouldn’t matter whether it would serve any useful purpose, the mere fact that he had deprived the King of it would
be enough.

Yes, he nodded, it was sure to be him. Sir Roger had taken the oil. So the question now was how to retrieve it for the King?

Lydford

At his house, Simon looked through all his business and especially the state of the farm itself. His other affairs were in
good repair, fortunately. All his finances were strong, and that was fortunate because he had the expense of the impending
nuptials for his daughter to cover.

‘How is she?’ Simon asked his wife.

Meg looked at him seriously. ‘How would you have felt when we decided to marry, if you had heard that my father had left the
country and no one knew when he would return so that the marriage could go ahead?’

‘I’d have grabbed you and given you my oath and hoped you’d have done the same.’

‘Just because the Church accepts that you don’t have to wed in a church, doesn’t mean that it’s right,’ Meg said pointedly.
‘Your daughter is a good child, who wouldn’t marry until her father was here to join in.’

‘I suppose her boy doesn’t have enough money to be able to support her without the dowry, then?’ Simon demanded grumpily.

‘Nonsense!’

‘And you haven’t answered me yet. Wouldn’t you have made your oath to me if I swore mine to you?’

‘If you think, you great lummox, that you can evade the issue by asking silly questions like that,’ Meg said, tossing her
blond hair severely, ‘you don’t know me very well. Now, what will we do about this wedding?’

‘Arrange it urgently and save her any more damned torture, I suppose,’ he said heavily. He had no desire to see her married.
She was his little girl still. Allowing her to marry would be like admitting to himself that he was an old man now.

‘Very well. Where is she?’

‘In the field, I think.’

‘Get her here. I will need to discuss this with her. If I’m to give away my daughter, I’ll need to see the man who’s getting
her, too.’

‘Simon, you’ve already met him.’

‘I know. And I’ll meet him again, and make sure he’s going to be a good husband to her.’

Little Edith marrying. Leaving him and Meg. It hurt him just to think it.

It hurt more than the idea of losing his farm.

Beaulieu

The Bishop of Orange was sitting in the chamber given to him when the gentle knock came on the door. He felt quickly for the
dagger which he always carried strapped to his calf before calling, ‘
Entrez!
’ A man who knocked so quietly was often a man who was set upon violence. A quiet knock meant no one else would hear.

‘What do you want?’ he asked as Peter walked in.

Peter smiled. ‘Don’t worry, Bishop. My son is in the corridor out there. He’ll let me know if anyone comes.’

‘What do you want, I said?’

‘Well, now. Only this: we were asked to come here to help guard you on the way, but now it looks like our work is more or
less done, so we’d like to get back home again.’

‘You are to remain with me all the while I am in England.’

‘Yes, but there is little point. You’ve already got your old two back.’

‘Pons and André? Those two? I do not think that they are reliable men. No, I need you two, still.’

‘I don’t think so. We should return to our master.’

‘Your master? And what do you think he would say about you deserting me here before my long return journey? If any harm comes
to me, he will be most displeased.’

Peter grinned. ‘Ah, well, I think I can take that risk.’

‘He is perhaps little more than a boy, but make no mistake, my friend. The Earl of Chester is yet the heir to a realm. He
will be your king one day, if you live long enough to witness it.’

‘My master would want us back with him.’

‘Then go. But I will tell him you deserted me.’

‘Hardly deserted.’ Peter’s grin and expansive wave of his hand took in the whole abbey, indicating that there were many others
nearby to protect the Bishop.

‘In any case, it would seem likely that we shall meet him shortly.’

‘How so?’

‘We shall move to London, nearer him, before long. The King wishes to discuss the treaty provisions with his barons. He is
calling all his barons to Westminster. I am myself to go there to take any further instructions from your king.’

Peter nodded, still grinning, but there was little humour in his voice. ‘Very well. We’ll remain with you a little longer.
But only a little. We owe our service to him, and no one else.’

Feast of the Apostles
²¹

Lydford

Waiting for his daughter and her husband-to-be, Simon was fretful and on edge. He had already sent his wife off out, and his
manservant, Hugh, away to speak to Sir Baldwin, so that he could speak with his prospective son-in-law in private, but he
was not looking forward to the interview. The idea of losing his daughter was as painful as the idea of losing a limb. She
was a part of him. But, as Meg would keep pointing out, Edith
was over seventeen now. She was old enough to know her mind.

When he heard the horses arriving, he went slowly across the floor of his hall, and stood by the fire, now smoking gently,
and waited there, his back to the flames, arms folded, legs firmly planted. The boy would have to enter and confront him like
that, a challenging father. Perhaps a fearsome one.

The man who entered was not Edith’s Peter, though.

‘Who are you?’ Simon demanded.

‘You are whom?’ the man asked.

‘I am the owner of this farm, friend. Who are you?’ Simon grated.

‘My name is known to you already, I think. I am called William atte Wattere. And you are, I suppose, Simon Puttock, one time
Bailiff of Lydford for Abbot Robert?’

‘That is correct.’

‘Ah, good. Then I have the right place.’

‘I do not think so.’

‘You are wrong.’ Wattere smiled.

‘By what right do you claim to be able to take my land?’

‘It is not your land, friend. It belongs to my Lord Hugh Despenser. He owns it now, and wants it for his own, so I have been
sent to remove any obstructions.’

He did not look like the brutal enforcer of an illegal act of theft. Rather, he was a mild-looking man with a slight squint.
He had the narrow features of an ascetic, but without any appearance of a rat. He had gleaming eyes, which seemed to be bright
with pleasure and fun, and Simon had the distinct impression that he would be enormously enjoyable as a drinking companion,
if the circumstance of their meeting was different.

‘Such as the true owner?’

‘Such as any squatter, yes.’

Simon looked about him. His hall was as familiar to him as his own hand, and yet as he stood here, it looked to him slightly
different, as though it was already taken from him, and he was, in fact, a trespasser here.

And then a flood of pure anger washed through his veins.

He was no petitioner! He was no humble
churl
who could be forced to submit to the rape of his property and treasure. No man, none, could take from
him
what was his own. The bastard who tried it would have his head broken!

‘You must have your things out of here within the week,’ Wattere said. ‘I gave your wife a week, but in your absence, so I
suppose a little compassion is in order. Unless you make it difficult, of course.’ His mild grin grew wider. ‘I’d like that.’

‘Make it difficult?’ Simon snarled. ‘I’ll be damned to hell before I agree to being robbed by a felon like you!’

‘If you take that attitude, I will ensure that you are out of here in days, and your eviction will be as unpleasant as I can
contrive.’ And now the eyes changed. The humour and pleasantness left them, and in their place was an icy calmness. A calculating
expression that was almost desire.

Simon felt a red curtain of rage fall over his eyes. He grasped his sword-hilt and moved towards the man, sweeping out the
blade.

Wattere had seen Simon’s sudden movement, and he stepped back and to the side in the same instant. His sword was out, and
the two swords clashed, ringing. ‘It will make things worse for you if you try to thwart Sir Hugh’s official,’ he grated,
all amiability gone from his voice.

‘You dare threaten me for defending my own?’ Simon roared, and sprang forward, sword up.

There was a scream, and he shot a look over his shoulder. There, in the doorway, was his daughter Edith and her fiancé. Simon
felt a swift burning over his left shoulder, and knew he had been struck. Then he lifted his own sword and felt Wattere’s
slide down its edge. The two were watching each other, their eyes firmly locked. Simon could remember once being taught that
it was a mistake to watch the man’s sword. Better by far to keep an eye on the man’s face. ‘Watch his eyes, boy. Watch his
eyes. You’ll see his intention there, and when he wants to attack, he’ll betray it.’

And he saw it now. A momentary narrowing of the eyes, and suddenly the blade was lancing forward to his breast. A slash of
his own, and the blade was swept aside, an upward flick, and Simon’s point raked along the man’s inner forearm. He felt it
strike the elbow with a soft sucking, and yanked it free. Wattere’s arm was oozing blood, a thick mess, and his sword was
already on the ground when Simon took a pace forward and rested his sword-point on Wattere’s throat. ‘Yield.’

‘Why? What will you do?’

‘You attack me in my own house, my own hall, and you ask what I shall do? This is my home,
churl
. You desecrate it with your presence. Yield, or I’ll destroy you.’

Wattere looked up at him and curled his lip. ‘You? Kill me?’ he sneered. He knew enough about Simon Puttock. He had checked
on him before threatening him, for a man was a fool who tried to bully another without being aware of his strengths, and he
had been told that this man was a mere clerk at best. He’d been a bailiff on the moor, but that was an easy job, and then
he’d got an even softer position as Keeper of Dartmouth. That, Wattere had been told, was more or less a clerical post, and
the man was a lightweight. He hadn’t drawn
sword in many years. Anyway, these Devon boys were mere children when they were set against a man like Wattere, with years
of fighting and enforcement for Despenser. There was nothing to fear here.

Now, though, he saw something different in Simon’s eye, and was prey to a sudden doubt. Wattere recognised pure, blind rage
when he saw it, and the expression in Simon Puttock’s eyes just now was not that of a gentle, bovine creature. If this was
a soft-hearted animal, it was one which had contracted rabies. His eyes were more like those of a terrier when put in a sty
with a sackload of rats. The red mist had fallen over him, and he was perfectly capable of killing, especially now, in hot
blood.

‘
Shit!
I yield! I yield!’ he snapped quickly as he saw Simon’s sword move.

‘Get up, and go. If I see you here again, I will have you arrested and held at Lydford.’

‘Lydford, Puttock? You forget yourself. You have no authority to hold me there or anywhere. You are no bailiff any more. And
you’ve lost your job at Dartmouth, I hear? You are
nothing
. Me, I represent Sir Hugh Despenser. You have made him your own personal enemy. I should leave quickly now, before you earn
more of his just ire.’

He bent to pick up his sword, but Simon put his boot on it. ‘You will leave that. You draw steel on me in my hall, you prickle,
and you lose it.’

William Wattere nodded, his eyes lidded, and then he cast a long, slow look about the hall. ‘I shall tell my Lord what you
have done. I’ll show him this injury. I hope you enjoyed your time here, Bailiff, because it’s coming to a swift conclusion.
My respects to your wife.’

Beaulieu

Peter found his son outside and said nothing as he came level with him; he just nodded to John and continued on his way.

‘So we leave here and go back?’

‘Our master will have to cope without us for a little longer. We are to stay here with the Bishop. He tells me that the King’s
going to have a meeting of his advisers in Westminster before long, so we can travel there with the Bishop. All the members
of the King’s council will be there. That means all the Bishops and earls will be present for it.’

‘So if we stay with the Bishop, we’ll get up there anyway? Good.’

‘Yes. The sooner we can return the happier I’ll be.’

Lydford

Simon had a hurried conversation with his daughter and her man before sending Edith from the room.

‘Right, Master Peter,’ Simon said grimly, walking back to the fire with the two swords in his hands. He sheathed his own,
and peered at the one he had retrieved from William Wattere. ‘Hmm. Not bad.’

Peter was a young apprentice who lived not far from Lydford. He had been the cause of Simon’s unhappiness ever since he had
been given the post of Keeper at Dartmouth, and he held the lad in little regard as a result.

It wasn’t his fault, though. He had fallen in love with Edith, and she with him. That was why Edith had complained so bitterly
at the thought of going with Simon and Meg to Dartmouth: she had no wish to be further away from her Peter than necessary.
That was why she’d wailed and moaned and complained about the idea of being sent into ‘exile’ so far from her home. Peter
couldn’t go with them – he
was apprenticed to a successful merchant, Master Harold – so that was that. Edith did not wish to go, and they could not leave
her behind. So Margaret, his Meg, remained here in Lydford with Edith and their son Perkin, and Simon travelled on alone.

Peter was staring at him with unabashed astonishment. Perhaps mingled with fear. It was that realisation that made Simon grunt
an apology. If he had attempted to beg the hand of his own wife in marriage at a tender age from a man whom he had just witnessed
fighting with another, Simon might have been reticent, too.

‘What, boy?’ Simon demanded.

‘Do you want a cloth? A towel?’

Simon frowned, and looked down at his hand. His sword hand had blood all over the palm where Wattere’s blood had run along
the blade and down to the hilt. With a gesture of irritation, Simon wiped it on his breast. ‘It’s nothing. Not mine,’ he added.
‘Now, you are still determined to take my daughter?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Peter was staring at his other shoulder.

Simon eyed him a moment in silence, then realised that the boy was gazing at the wound Wattere had inflicted on him. With
a quick glance at it, he convinced himself that it was a very minor scratch, and marched across the room to his little sideboard.
There was a small pewter jug on it, and a couple of goblets which he had asked Meg to set out earlier. Now he poured from
the jug a little of that wonderful, potent, burned wine
²²
. Passing one to Peter, he contemplated the lad once more.

‘You are apprenticed to Harold the Merchant?’

‘I was. I am not now. I have finished my apprenticeship, and I work with him.’

‘What of your father?’

Peter was embarrassingly keen to tell Simon all he needed to know, and as the sun passed slowly around, the pool of light
from the southern window moving two feet across the floor, Peter told all about his youth, his father’s business as a merchant
in the city of Exeter, and his own hopes to become a freeman of the City himself.

‘Enough!’ Simon said, pouring the last of their drink. ‘You will look after her?’

‘Of course. I love her, Master.’

‘You can call me Simon,’ he said, and with those words, he felt an emptiness as deep as a well in his heart.

With those few words he had agreed to give away his daughter.

Morrow of Feast of the Apostles
²³

Furnshill

Baldwin had finished a leisurely breakfast of cold meats and a hunk of bread when he heard the clattering of hooves outside
on the cobbles, soon followed by a deep bark from Wolf. He turned his head to one side to listen, glancing at his wife as
he did so. ‘Who can that be?’

He did not have long to wait to find out. The man who entered was a grim-faced, glowering man who gazed about him with the
natural suspicion of a shepherd in an inn full of rustlers. Baldwin knew him as Hugh, Simon’s oldest and most trusted servant.
Hugh had no great affection for dogs other
than the native sheepdogs he had grown up with as a shepherd out near Drewsteignton.