The Prophecy of Death: (Knights Templar 25) (24 page)

Beaulieu

Jack sat back easily. Resting came naturally to him, and since the hurried ride here, he had been keen to take his ease as
much as he possibly could. Any seasoned traveller, like a veteran at arms, would understand his enthusiasm for any snatched
moment of peace.

They had been here some time now, and if he was honest, Jack was growing a little bored. Beaulieu was a lively little palace
for monks, no doubt, but there was little entertainment for men like him. He had noticed that even the two, Peter and John,
from Canterbury, had been showing signs of restlessness recently. It made him wonder about them again.

Thing was, they’d been perfectly amiable during the ride
here. Oh, they still had that odd way of looking at a man as though wondering whether to knock him down immediately, or to
first let him open his mouth. Just once. There was nothing that inspired a man to trust them. But to their credit, they appeared
to be cautiously watching everyone else, too, as though they were themselves nervous. Not surprising. They didn’t really know
anyone.

Which was what was so odd about their coming here in the first place.

He was sipping a large mazer of wine as he considered them, and then he heard a shout. Idly standing, he wandered to the corner
of the barn, a good few tens of yards from his bench, and then gaped.

Some of the King’s men had encircled Peter and John.

‘Look at them! A pair of complete whores, aren’t they? Cock-queans, the pair of them,’ one was shouting exultantly. ‘Come
on, let’s take their ballocks. They don’t need ’em!’

‘You sad, little man? You want a kiss?’

‘Ah, look, he’s going to cry, if you’re not careful!’

The ribald comments grew more lewd and less subtle as the courage of the men grew. There was no sign from Peter and John,
no evidence of fear, no reaction whatever. And yet Jack was struck again with that sense of immense power and authority in
the two. It made him mutter to himself, ‘No, don’t pick on these two.’ He even winced, as though he knew what was about to
happen.

And then one of them, the smallest of the six taunters, stepped forward. Jack wasn’t sure what he was going to do, other than
tease and torment, but he had no chance to do anything. As soon as he was within range, he was suddenly snatched up, and heaved
over Peter’s shoulder. Peter eyed the men watching, while the little man on his back squeaked and
threatened, and then Peter hefted the fellow high, and allowed him to fall, flat on his back to the hard, packed earth. The
squeak became a squeal.

‘Oh, shit,’ Jack murmured. He had witnessed wrestling before, and he feared that this heavy man might jump at the body on
the ground, but then he saw his error. The little body was an obstacle for any others to surmount. It was plain enough the
two had fought together before, and now they stood shoulder to shoulder, Peter again with that oddly unsettling smile on his
face, almost as though he was a little sad, but if the others wanted to play like this, he would join in. The other just scowled
about him as usual.

A pair of men exchanged a glance, and then rushed forward. One drew a dagger. That was an error. In some kind of swift manoeuvre,
Peter took his hand with his left, pushed it away from him, and hooked his own right through at the man’s elbow. A jerk towards
his chest with his right fist, and Jack could hear the elbow shatter over the man’s shriek of agony. He fell.

John had done nothing, merely waited for the second. He hurtled forwards, swinging a punch at John’s face, feinting, and then
snapping his left into John’s belly.

It had no discernible impact. John caught the right fist in his left hand, and merely gripped it. Very tightly. Then he peered
down with an expression of near-perplexity at the man as he whimpered, gazing up at him, slowly sinking to his knees, not
even attempting to strike John again. That would have been as painful as it would have been futile. When he was down, John
looked across at Peter, who gave a short moue of consideration, and then shook his head. John released the man, who fell on
to his rump, and then stood with Peter, both blank-faced, and watched the last three.

There was no more fight left in them. The sight of their friends being so swiftly beaten was shocking to men used to bullying
others. They took up their fallen friends and helped them to hobble away, the man with the broken arm weeping in a high-pitched
tone. If Jack was any judge, that man would never wield a dagger again in that hand. He was ruined.

Jack whistled. He had known that the pair of them were dangerous.

He had no idea who they were, nor what they wanted, but suddenly he was glad that he would before long be leaving this country
with the Bishop, to return to the Pope.

Lydford

Bishop Stapledon was not a man who undertook journeys lightly. He was a tall, slightly stooped man, with fading hair and a
perpetual peering manner because of his failing eyesight. When reading, he was forced to use spectacles, a fact which never
failed to irritate him immensely. As a younger man, he had been possessed of exceptional sight, as he never tired of mentioning.
He could read the very smallest script without any aid whatever. No longer, sadly.

He looked up as Edgar bowed at his side, proffering a goblet of Baldwin’s best wine. Taking it, the Bishop eyed Baldwin and
Simon carefully over the rim. ‘This is a very serious matter, of course.’

‘I think we were aware of that,’ Baldwin said drily. ‘It is Simon’s house and farm that is at stake, after all.’

‘A little more than only that, now. The man you have captured and placed in my care is Sir Hugh le Despenser’s henchman. Despenser
will be furious when he hears that you have had him incarcerated in my gaol.
Get off, dog!
’

‘Come here, Wolf,’ Baldwin said quickly. Wolf, seeking an affectionate stroke, had nudged the Bishop’s elbow as he lifted
his wine to his lips, almost spilling it over his breast. Baldwin absentmindedly patted Wolf’s head as the dog sat at his
side.

‘He was trying to steal my house!’ Simon protested.

‘It has happened before. For some reason, this time Despenser did not use his normal approach,’ Stapledon said, warily eyeing
Baldwin’s newest dog.

‘What would that have been?’ Baldwin asked.

‘He would bring a large number of men and attack in main force, or, failing that, he would have no men appear at all, but
instead would proceed through the courts. I would think that he wouldn’t dare try that because he knows that the King trusts
you, and that I and many other senior members of the Church do too, so any fraudulent claim would be set aside. Usually, if
he couldn’t do that, he would turn to overwhelming force. I wonder why on this occasion he did not.’

‘Because he was not serious in intent,’ Baldwin said thoughtfully.

‘How so?’

‘He knew that I would react if he attacked my friend here. But there can be no basis for his assault on Simon. Simon leases
his own property. So any legal matter would fail, but so would an all-out attack. This was a little show, a threat. To show
what he could do, were he to choose to.’

‘But he failed,’ Bishop Walter said.

‘Did he? He cost Simon many hours of lost sleep, I would guess, and his wife plenty of distress, too.’

‘It’s true,’ Simon admitted. ‘I didn’t know what to do.’

‘You have at least gained a pleasing sword,’ Baldwin said. The sword which Simon had taken from Wattere was leaning against
the wall, and Baldwin went and took it up. ‘It has a good balance.’

‘It is the second sword I have taken from him,’ Simon said with a grin of shy satisfaction. ‘The first was when he came here.
Not that I have a sheath for it, sadly. I didn’t take that from him. Still, I have the sheath for this one.’

‘He appears to be providing you with all the weaponry you could wish for,’ Baldwin said with a chuckle.

‘It will infuriate the Despenser, the fact that you have prevented him,’ Bishop Stapledon said. ‘He is used to having his
way.’

‘Not this time,’ Baldwin said. ‘He will not take Simon’s lands. Nor mine. Not while we have friends such as you, Bishop.’

‘No,’ Bishop Walter said.

He smiled at Baldwin, and Baldwin gave a brief grin in return, but not with ease.

At any time in the last eight years or so since he had first met the Bishop, Baldwin would have said that he was a close friend.
All over Devon and Cornwall, Bishop Walter II of Exeter was popular and held in high regard for his stalwart defence of the
diocese. He visited all the churches and convents, and was a keen supporter of education. In Ashburton he had built a small
school, and together with his brother he had founded Stapledon College at Oxford, as well as aiding many poor boys by giving
them education if they appeared to merit the investment. All in all, his good works had benefited most of Devon.

But there was another side to his nature which Baldwin had discovered only recently. Stapledon had been involved in national
politics for some years, indeed, he had been Lord High Treasurer and reformed much of the administration of the treasury.
In the last year, he had taken the side of Despenser and the King against the Queen. It was said, and believably, that it
was Stapledon who had argued for the confiscation of her property in Devon and Cornwall, on the basis that this would remove
a potential threat to the realm, for if her brother, the King of France, were to try to invade the country, he would undoubtedly
try to land
there, where his sister held so many assets and had loyal servants.

For whatever the reason, Bishop Walter had seen to the sequestration of her estates, and then he supported Despenser in the
eviction and exile of much of her household and in the removal even of her small children, having them taken into protective
custody, as though the poor woman would have tried to poison their minds against their father, her husband. All this had left
a very sour taste in Baldwin’s mouth. He was still convinced of the Bishop’s good will towards him and towards Simon, but
he was not so certain that the Bishop was an ally in the greater political battles that raged in Westminster – and less sure
that he could remain friendly with a man who could actively seek to have a woman’s children taken from her. That, to him as
a father and husband, was cruelty beyond his comprehension.

However, although Stapledon was an unenthusiastic supporter of Despenser, perhaps because Despenser gave him a means of acquiring
much in the way of financial rewards, he was still not allied entirely. If there was a matter that affected the Church, Stapledon
would immediately oppose Despenser, and to his credit, if there was an issue of state, he would more than likely be independent.
But money was a strong lure to him. Some of the wealth he won went straight to the cathedral – a great deal, in fact – but
much also went into the Bishop’s pockets, Baldwin guessed.

It was his long-standing friendship with Simon that had counted in Baldwin’s mind when he sent Hugh on to the Bishop at Exeter
and asked him for his aid. At that time, though, he had not expected the Bishop himself to come all the way to Lydford. That
was a surprise and great relief, for with Stapledon having heard Wattere’s words, it
made the defence of Simon against the Despenser much easier.

‘Tell me, Simon. What is your status?’ the Bishop asked, leaning forward to peer intently at the bailiff.

‘Me? I’m not free, I’m a serf in the service of Sir Hugh de Courtenay.’

‘Not free?’

‘No. But I own this farm and my house on a lease. I have been successful. And I still own my old house outside Sandford.’

‘That is good,’ the Bishop said, but Baldwin saw his gaze slide over to him with a considering look in his eyes. He was not
happy about something.

‘Have you told the Bishop about your daughter?’ Baldwin asked, by way of filling the sudden silence.

It was successful. Suddenly Simon grew animated, and the Bishop and he discussed the wedding in detail, emptying their jugs
of wine, so that when Meg walked in again, Baldwin was pleased to see that she soon wore a soft smile that eased the lines
of worry and smoothed her forehead of fear.

He only wished he could feel confident that Simon’s problems were truly over. The trouble was, he feared that they weren’t.

Beaulieu

Sir Hugh le Despenser was sitting at his table when the friar entered. ‘Friar. How can I help you?’

Nicholas swallowed anxiously. ‘It is this matter of the oil that was stolen from Christ Church, Sir Hugh.’

‘What of it?’

‘I think I know who has taken it.’

Despenser was silent for a moment. He leaned back in his
chair and studied the friar doubtfully. ‘And who was it, then?’

Nicholas grinned without humour. ‘You think I’m a fool? First, I want to be able to speak to the King. You arrange for that,
and then I shall tell you who it is, and how I know it.’

‘What do you want to speak to the King about?’

‘We must find his oil! The holy oil given by St Thomas for him to be saved, because …’

Sir Hugh was peering at him like a judge who heard a beggar deny taking alms. ‘You think the King will trust anything you
have to say about his oil? You know what the King thinks about that oil? He thinks it is all a part of a conspiracy to upset
him. Nobody believes that the oil is genuine. That is nothing. Now, who was it?’

‘You say he doesn’t believe in the oil, and then you ask to know who took it! You think I am stupid but I am not!’

‘Oh, I think you are,’ Despenser said. He had risen from his seat and now he walked around his table. In a moment he had grasped
Nicholas’s throat, and now he pulled the friar towards him and snarled malevolently. ‘You are very stupid, Friar. You think
that because of your ragged robes you can come into my chamber here, and still be protected. You are not protected, and nor
will you be if you speak to the King. I don’t care about some oil that has a fictional story appended to it. I do care about
the murder of a monk at Christ Church, though, and about a king’s herald slaughtered by the roadside and left to rot. I care
about them very much, and if you don’t tell me all you know in the next moments, I shall have you carried down to where the
King’s executioner plies his trade, and we’ll see how castration can loosen your tongue!’

Wednesday before the Feast of Gordianus et Epimachus
²⁶

Beaulieu

It had sounded too bizarre to Sir Hugh le Despenser when the friar blurted out his story, but there was a crazy ring of truth
to it. There are some tales which are too peculiar for any man to have thought of inventing them, and this had all the hallmarks
of one.

He had spoken with one of his Welshmen as soon as Nicholas of Wisbech had concluded, and then had him repeat his story. The
Welshman understood what was needed of him, and went about the abbey to confirm the story.

In truth, there wasn’t much to validate. Sir Hugh remembered vaguely the knight who had died on the coronation day, not that
it was that much of a problem at the time. No, much more important was the obscene behaviour of Gaveston, the arrogant prickle,
prancing about like some earl from a bad dream, all purple and bejewelled, as though the day was
his
and not the King’s.

It was appalling, his conduct so repugnant that there were many there that day at the feast who were convinced from that moment
that Gaveston would have to be killed. Despenser was one of them. Not that he actually had any part in the murder. A shame.
He would have liked to have participated.

But his man had been able to come back and fill in the gaps. Yes, the herald called Thomas was the brother of John of Bakewell,
the knight who had been crushed to death in Westminster Abbey when the wall behind him collapsed. Thomas of Bakewell had been
looked upon sympathetically
by the Queen, and she had taken him into her household, and from there he had migrated to the King’s.

He had been a reliable member of the household, by all accounts, and had been sent to Christ Church to tell the Prior that
the King had been travelling to Beaulieu, so that when the ambassadors arrived there, they would know where to go to speak
with the King. As soon as they arrived, Thomas was supposed to have hurried back to tell the King that they were on their
way.

Oddly, he had arrived only a day before the others. While they should have been travelling more slowly than he, for some reason
Thomas was much more late than the journey could explain. And meanwhile, Richard de Yatton had been killed and left at the
side of the road.

‘I want you to find out where this man Thomas sleeps. Go through all his belongings, in case there’s a phial of oil there.
If there is, bring it to me.’

‘What about him, Sir Hugh? Do you want us to do anything to him?’

‘Not yet. If you find the oil, you can kill him.’