The Prophecy of Death: (Knights Templar 25) (22 page)

‘Hugh, please come and take some wine or ale. What are you doing here?’

‘Have a note.’

Baldwin smiled as he took the scrap from the taciturn man, and read slowly. Gradually, his smile faded, to be replaced with
a cold scowl. ‘How is Simon now?’

‘Angry.’

‘And Meg?’

‘My lady is very anxious.’

‘She is right to be.’

‘Husband? What is it?’ Jeanne asked.

Quickly Baldwin explained what had happened to Simon. ‘He asks me to send for help from Stapledon.’

‘Is he in Exeter? The Bishop is so often away in London and elsewhere.’

‘I think he should be there,’ Baldwin said. ‘I will send Edgar to seek him out.’

Hugh nodded, then turned and would have gone, but Baldwin called him back.

‘Wait, man! Where are you going?’

‘Back to Lydford. Don’t know what the man’ll do next, but my master needs me. I was the only man he could send to you, but
he’ll be in danger without me.’

‘Wait, Hugh. I will be with you in the time it takes to have a horse prepared. Jeanne, do not worry about me. I shall be back
in a day or two, but this matter must be resolved. The idea that Simon and Margaret could have their house stolen from over
them is appalling.’

Jeanne smiled, although with a trace of fear. ‘That is fine, Baldwin. But why should Despenser seek to hurt Simon?’

‘That, my love, I hope to learn before long,’ Baldwin said. ‘Sadly, I expect it is only a vengeful, brutish sport for him.
Nothing more. Still, we shall inquire as best we may.’

Monday before Feast of Gordianus et Epimachus
²⁴

Beaulieu

The King threw down the notes and swore again. It was enough to make Sir Hugh le Despenser want to hit him. This temperamental
display was growing tedious. Christ’s teeth, he had better things to be doing than listening to the regular complaints of
the King.

‘The shits! They think they can scare me into this pathetic peace! I should be negotiating with—’

‘There is no one with whom you may negotiate. Not now. If you wish to keep your territories in France, you have to remain
constant to the French King, my Liege.’

‘Constant to him? The base-born bastard wants all my lands. Mark my words, Sir Hugh, he won’t be content until he holds the
keys to the Tower itself! He complains of
my
behaviour, but he would scarcely dare to do so to my face! In God’s name, the man steals from me and then demands I pay him
for his efforts!’

‘Your reply will be sent once you have consulted?’ Despenser said with a mild yawn.

‘Yes. Ayrminne and Stratford must do their best as soon as
I know the council is behind me. But it’s so unreasonable. I think I may write to the Pope and beg his assistance. Perhaps
if he were to consider the matter …’

‘What good could he do?’

The King snapped, ‘The Pope could instruct the French to be more bloody
reasonable
! I’m expected to surrender my territories to the French Crown, perform homage, and hope that they’ll be restored to me, and
all in so short a breadth of time as to make it next to impossible! Is that fair?’

‘Of course not,’ Despenser said smoothly. It was not the first time the King had made this speech, and he knew it would not
be the last. However, it was dull to have the same arguments regurgitated so often in the space of only a few days, and Despenser
was heartily bored with it.

‘And what of the other matter?’

‘I do not know what you mean.’

The King span to face him. ‘You were investigating the theft of my oil, Sir Hugh! I want that oil back – I
must
have it back! It could be my salvation.’

‘Why now? What does it really matter?’

The King shivered. ‘Build up that fire!’ he commanded a servant, and then he eyed Despenser. ‘What does it really matter,
you say? I tell you this, Sir Hugh, that oil may just protect me and the Crown. Have you not paused to think what it may be
worth to me? If the French do take my lands in France, what then could I do, other than retire in shame? But if I could make
use of the oil, then I may become revered again. People would look upon me and think, “Yes, he has been anointed with the
oil blessed by the Holy Virgin and St Thomas!” That would mean people would respect me again, and then, perhaps I could take
a host to France, even win back my lands again, and all …’

Despenser listened with a rapt expression on his face. To listen to the King, it was almost possible to believe that he was
rational. Could he seriously believe that the mere presence of a cardinal or bishop with a pottle of oil could change the
attitude of his barons and people? Perhaps he did. In Christ’s name, Despenser thought, it is fortunate that I am here to
protect the King, because if I weren’t, he would lose his crown, realm and probably head in an instant.

‘So I
need
that oil, Sir Hugh,’ the King finished. He held out a hand, and Despenser was ashamed to see that the King had tears in his
eyes. Not tears of shame or embarrassment, though, only those of a man who saw salvation. ‘You understand me, don’t you? I
must have it so that the people can renew their faith in me.’

Despenser studied him a moment, then nodded. ‘I have issued instructions to the Sheriff of Kent to eradicate the outlaws who
are living in those woods. There is as yet no sign of them. It is quite possible that they have moved somewhere else. In the
meantime, I did not worry you about this when you had so many other concerns,’ this was as close to irony as he dared sail,
‘but I am fairly content that the dead man was Richard de Yatton. You remember him?’

The King shook his head.

‘He was with you when you were last in York, and I think he served you when you were at Castle Rising.’

‘I think I vaguely remember him … a strong jaw, square face?’

‘That was him, yes. He left here to take a message to your son, and never returned, so far as I know.’

‘What else?’

‘I have had my own men visit the Christ Church Priory, and they have told me that the oil was stolen from a monk there,
who was himself slain. The man who committed the murder ran off into the night. But it is said that he was seen, and that
he was a man just like Richard de Yatton. He was described even down to his tabard.’

‘Christ Jesus! You say this seriously? The man went there and stole my oil? But why? Who would dare such a thing?’

‘Maybe the man sought to blackmail you? Some people are aware how much the oil means to you.’

‘He would understand that I would never know peace until I had seen him skinned and gibbeted if I knew he had done so!’ the
King growled.

‘Yes, but perhaps he hoped to keep his identity secret from you.’

‘How would he do that after robbing and then blackmailing me?’

‘I cannot tell, Your Highness. But either way, it would seem that he has paid already for his crime.’

‘A good thing – and bad that you do not say where the oil went. And is there something you have missed?’

‘I do not think so.’

‘You point out that many know how high a value I place on that oil, Sir Hugh. Who would be most alert to that value?’

‘I … I don’t think I …’ he stammered, trying hard not to allow his face to register the fact that he, of all those
in the realm, knew better than any other the value the King put on this damned oil.

‘The
French
, Sir Hugh. The French know how important that oil is to me. Who better? Is it not likely that this whole matter was thought
up by my brother-in-law?’

‘Ah!’ Despenser said, trying not to sag with relief. ‘I had thought it might be Sir Roger, Your Highness.’

‘Mortimer?’

‘He has much to gain by harming you and me, and he is a vindictive, cruel man, isn’t he? It is entirely in keeping with his
devious cunning that he might try this terrible theft.’

‘Yes. The evil devil! So, in that case, does he have it already?’

‘I should think that when the felons in the wood killed your herald, they would have taken everything of value. That is why
I am seeking them. Perhaps they recognised the value of the ampulla in which the oil was stored, and have kept it by in case
they can sell it.’

‘It is weeks now, since my oil was stolen. I want it back!’

‘And I hope you shall have it back as soon as the Sheriff tracks down and executes all the outlaws from those woods, my Liege.’

The chamber which Despenser had appropriated for his own use was a fair-sized one only a short way along a narrow corridor
near the King’s own, and Despenser went there now. He had plenty of work to occupy him, but today he wished to concentrate
on his own affairs. His estates were so extensive that running them was a full-time job for several stewards, and there were
some matters that called for his personal involvement.

‘Ah,’ he said as he found the message from Devon. He took it up and read it carefully, then set it down and frowned to himself
a little while.

It validated his reasoning before. The affair of the friar in Iddesleigh had been at the back of his mind for a while now,
ever since he had first met Sir Baldwin, and now his feeling had been confirmed. The two who had made his acquisition
down there in Devon so difficult were this knight and his friend the bailiff.

The bailiff, of course, was nothing. The man was little more than a peasant. Nothing except a focus for Sir Hugh’s anger and
bile. The knight, though, Sir Baldwin, he was different. Especially since Despenser had learned that he had once been a Templar.

Sir Baldwin had some credibility, it was true. Many appeared to like him, to trust him, and to court his advice and judgement.
The King was one, although of course it would only take a determined assault by Despenser to force him to change his mind.
Still, there were others who were less easily swayed, such as Bishop Stapledon and others. The Bishops were growing hot under
the collar again, because of Despenser taking over lands. True, he was taking territory which was not necessarily his own,
but that did not matter. It was the way of English rulers to take what they wished. It was the rule of the strongest. England
was a powerful land, with peasants and barons who were never slow to assert their rights, and in return England found herself
ruled by still more powerful lords and kings. Naturally. And their advisers, too. Like Sir Hugh le Despenser.

If a man wished to make a mark, then he had to take a firm grip on the various controls which maintained government. And Sir
Hugh le Despenser was clutching hold of all he could.

If Sir Baldwin de Furnshill was a fly in his food, he would scoop out that little fly, and crush it. That was what he would
do now. He would control the knight by the use of an attack upon his best friend. Simon Puttock could be ruined, entirely
destroyed, if Sir Baldwin did not come to see reason. Perhaps he would, in which case Sir Hugh could make up his
mind whether to appear magnanimous in victory, or perhaps just prove to all that setting one’s face against him was a recipe
for disaster. Either way, the bailiff would find life more difficult shortly, he told himself with satisfaction.

No one had ever managed to mark Wattere and live before, and Sir Hugh le Despenser seriously doubted that a peasant bailiff
from the bogs of Devon would achieve what so many had died in attempting.

Lydford

Simon felt the wariness again as he peered through his window.

‘There is no one there, Simon,’ Baldwin said. He was standing at the side of Simon’s large table, spearing a slab of meat
and putting it upon his plate. At his side the ever-expectant Wolf watched hopefully. ‘He won’t come this early.’

‘Why?’ Simon demanded, rolling his injured shoulder. It stung badly. Margaret had treated it with some foul-smelling concoction
of her own devising, which hurt more than the original wound. Well, he told himself, often the cure was a lot worse than the
injury. He only hoped that was correct.

‘Because he’ll have formed a regard for your hardiness, since you scratched him. He’ll either come at some unearthly hour
of the morning to intimidate you, or perhaps late at night, in the dark, when you’ll be unsettled.’

‘Not during the day?’

‘An all-out assault during the day? I doubt it greatly. That would be most foolhardy.’

‘What can we do, Sir Baldwin?’ Margaret asked quietly. She was pale with anxiety.

Baldwin smiled at her. He had never seen her look more
concerned, and the sight of her paleness was enough to stir his own anger. ‘My dear, we shall wait for Edgar to arrive here
with help from the good Bishop Stapledon, and then we shall take our fight to the man who has caused all this upset. This
William atte Wattere. You know where he can be found?’ he asked, turning back to Simon.

‘Hugh has tracked him down to an inn at Mary Tavy.’

‘Good. Then we can take a ride there later, when Edgar arrives.’

Eltham Palace

Richard of Bury left his table and walked the short distance from his room to the great hall, where he walked through to the
buttery and drew off a jug of ale.

Walking back to his chamber, he saw the Earl. ‘Your Highness, are you to come to study soon?’

‘I have other matters to occupy me just now,’ Earl Edward said.

Bury nodded, standing aside for the Earl. He was clearly very busy just now. From the look of his hosen, he had been riding
through some very muddy fields, and knowing the Earl as he did, Bury guessed that he had been hunting or hawking for most
of the morning. Now, however, there was something else in his eyes, too. ‘Is there anything with which I can help you?’

The Earl stopped a moment and peered at him. Bury almost had the feeling that he was going to speak, but then the moment passed,
and the Earl shook his head briefly, before walking off.

It left Bury with the odd feeling that, not only was the Earl keeping something back from him, but he was also keeping something
back in order to protect Bury himself.

That, Bury told himself, was not comforting. Because if the Earl knew of something that was so dangerous to Bury that Bury
himself must have it hidden from him, it was a deeply alarming secret indeed.