The Prophecy of Death: (Knights Templar 25) (29 page)

‘Sought to what?’ Simon demanded irritably.

‘I just had a most curious thought,’ Baldwin said. ‘What if he sought to conceal his identity by throwing his tabard on to
the dead man he saw at the side of the road?’

‘How would that work? Unless he was a herald himself, of course,’ Simon scoffed, and then frowned.

‘Yes, it would make sense, wouldn’t it? A man who was dressed as a herald would know that a king’s herald would be sought
for the murder of Gilbert, so as soon as he could, he threw aside that uniform. From that moment he would be seen as an innocent
when it came to the murder. People would seek a man in that tabard, and failing that, they would assume the murderer was dead.
They wouldn’t know who to seek.’

Simon frowned. ‘But they would still search for the murderer of the herald.’

‘Perhaps so. But it would be some local man, not a fellow from the King’s household, wouldn’t it? So they would hardly realise
who it was they questioned. And in fact, so long as the
murdrum
fine was paid, there would be little need for them to investigate further. The coroner and King would be content so long
as the money was in the King’s coffers.’

‘So the herald killed a stranger, and then ran into the woods with his oil?’

‘It is one possibility. I say no more than that.’

‘Then we need to consider who had a desire for the oil.’

Baldwin nodded. ‘And we already considered that, didn’t we? We both felt it was likely that only one man would have dared
such a bold theft.’

‘But why should Despenser want the oil?’ Simon said. ‘It
makes no sense. He could not hope to be crowned, so the oil would have no benefit to him.’

‘The only advantage it might hold would lie in the properties of the oil itself. Perhaps he thought that such a blessed unguent
might help him?’ Baldwin guessed. ‘Or the alternative would be that he sought to hold on to it until the King’s need became
overwhelming, and then intended to blackmail the King.’

‘Would he dare?’

‘There is little Despenser would not dare, given his appalling arrogance and greed,’ Baldwin said flatly. ‘But there is another
possibility, of course. Perhaps he wanted it solely so that he could ask the King to have it used urgently now, to give him
the sort of aid his reign requires.’

‘And to do so, he was prepared to see a monk murdered. Hardly the way to ingratiate the King with God,’ Simon said with contempt.

‘Despenser’s mind works in very strange ways,’ Baldwin agreed.

First Monday after Ascension Day
³¹

Thorney Island, Westminster

William Wattere was not happy to be here in the Bishop’s entourage. He had not actually been bound during the journey, but
at all times the Bishop had two powerful men at his side, and it was clear enough that a severe bump on the head was the minimum
he could expect, were he to try to escape.

The journey had been slow, too. That would not endear him to his master. Christ’s cods, the last thing he needed just now
was to upset Despenser, when he had failed in his main task at the bastard bailiff’s house in Devon. Not much he could do
about it, though. The bailiff had snatched him up with skill, and then having him confess while in front of the Bishop had
been something he could almost admire, were it not for the fact that he could have happily cut out the bailiff’s liver and
eaten it raw for making him seem a fool. He’d have that bastard. His arm still smarted badly from the cut the man had given
him. It had been washed extensively by the Bishop’s men, but it still stung, and although it hadn’t gone sour and sweet-smelling,
it was painful while riding. The skin seemed
to have tightened, and gripping the reins made it stretch, which hurt like hell.

The pain was not helped by the reflection that he was daily coming closer to his master, to whom he would have to explain
his failure. Approaching Westminster made him feel deeply uncomfortable.

At the entrance to the palace itself, he felt the weight of the gatehouse over his head like a threat, and just inside, when
the Bishop ordered that he dismount, he was tempted to disobey and bolt for it, but he knew that it would not save him even
if he tried it.

No, he would have to accept what fate had in store.

Simon and Baldwin had been here for over a day already. They had managed to make excellent time from Stockbridge, and were
here in Westminster late on the Saturday. However, both were very tired, and now they sat outside the tavern by the gate,
watching Wattere and the Bishop.

‘Come, Simon. Let us go and reintroduce ourselves to our friend,’ Baldwin said.

Simon flexed the muscles of his hand, feeling the stinging where Wattere’s blade had cut into his palm. ‘I’d like to do that.’

They stood and began to make their way over the great court, but before they could reach the Bishop’s party, another group
arrived. A man rode out in front, a knight, from the look of him. Then came several others, all well-mounted on dexters, and
a man on a palfrey who looked considerably less martial.

As Baldwin and Simon stood back hurriedly, the party swept past them in a rush of dust and hot air. The horses puffed and
blew, one neighing, while carts and a wagon clattered in
through the gates, and it was only when all was still, the horses stamping, that Simon saw the flag.

‘The King’s son,’ he said.

Richard of Bury eased himself from the saddle with some care, feeling the hideous soreness, and settled himself on the ground
with that caution that only men who have experienced piles while needing to ride a horse could possibly understand.

‘Thanks to Christ!’ he murmured as he sighed with relief. The pain of that journey had been hideous, although, if he had to
be honest, it could have been worse. Fortunately, his young charge was kind to him, and had not forced the pace at all. And
there was plenty of time before they had to be here, so it wasn’t as though there was a need for urgency. No, but for all
that, the saddle did mean that his backside felt as though someone had taken to rubbing sand and salt into his arse, and that
was not a happy sensation.

The Earl himself, of course, had the constitution of an ox, while his arse was as solid as a block of oak. As much sense in
it as in most men’s heads, too, he added to himself bitterly. But there was no need to be foolish. He was just a young lad
who was perfectly used to travel, and to riding his horses. He took the damn things out every day. At least he was comfortable
just now. It would mean that Richard would have an easier evening. Which was good, because Bury intended an early night, involving
something along the lines of three jugs of good wine …

‘Master?’

‘What? Who are you, and what do you want?’

‘I am called Sir Baldwin de Furnshill, Master. And what are you called?’

‘Don’t be impertinent, Sir Knight. I am the tutor to the Earl
of Chester, by the grace of God. I asked you what your business was?’

‘And I, in return, ask politely that you stop being such a rude person and instead treat your betters with the respect which
they are due,’ Baldwin said, and his smile held that strange quality which Simon had seen before, of being a smile with the
bottom teeth only. It reminded him of a story he had once heard of a beast abroad, a great reptile, with an enormous jaw studded
with many teeth, and which appeared to smile all the time – until a man approached too close and realised his error.

‘Um, Baldwin, perhaps you should—’

‘I wish to pass on a message to the Earl of Chester,’ Baldwin said.

‘You can speak to me. You are Sir Baldwin, you say?’

Simon felt his heart plummet. Behind him came the clear voice, as yet unbroken, of a boy of tender years. Boys of that age
could be capricious, dangerous, and when as powerful as this Earl of Chester, the first in line to the throne, they were still
more lethal. Simon glowered at his friend, but Baldwin appeared oblivious.

‘I am honoured to meet you, my Lord,’ he said, bowing low as he would to the King. ‘I have a message for you from Her Royal
Highness, your mother.’

‘You have seen my mother?’ The Earl’s excitement was unfeigned and so eager was he, that Simon forgot his fear of upsetting
the boy. He sounded so much like other lads he had heard in his home town when they had news of long-departed fathers.

The Earl of Chester was an extraordinarily good-looking boy, he saw. Fair-haired, with his hair held long, much like his father,
he had the ease in the saddle of a man who spent much of his time hunting. He was quite powerfully built, too, with
the shoulders and neck of a lad much older. It must be due to all his practising with sword and lance, Simon told himself.
It had paid off well. Already, although the lad was very young, Simon could see that he would be a dangerous opponent.

Now, though, his blue eyes were fixed on Baldwin with a strange intensity. He was much like an older man in that, too. Simon
would get to realise that this fellow would concentrate on a man like a philosopher on an abstruse concept, reading and rereading
the person until he felt he understood him. Perhaps living in a household with two strong, powerful, but sadly out of love
and opposed parents would do that to a boy. He would feel a great urge to understand people.

‘Speak, sir!’

Baldwin nodded. ‘Your mother asked us to say that she hopes you are strong and healthy, that you remember your lessons, and
that you pray for her with as much affection and love as she uses when praying for you. She said to say that she misses you
sorely, and that she is desperate to see you again. She said to send you her love.’

The Earl smiled and the tension seemed to leave him in an instant. ‘I knew that she would not have forgotten me. When you
return to her, please tell her from me that—’

‘My Lord, I fear we are not returning to Paris,’ Baldwin said hurriedly. ‘We have spent too much time away from our lands
already. We have wives, and cannot leave them any longer.’

‘Lands? Do you not have stewards? And wives? My retainers all have to leave them behind. It is a part of service. No, when
you return to her, I shall have a message for you to take. For now, though, you may leave me.’

And thus dismissed by the haughty Earl, Baldwin and Simon bowed and retreated before he could issue any more commands.

‘That was a happy experience,’ Simon said sarcastically.

‘Simon, what would you have had me do? Pretend that there was no message? What, then, when she returns and asks why he did
not reply? We should have been in serious trouble, wouldn’t we?’

‘In God’s name, though … you don’t think he will send us back, do you?’

‘There is every possibility of it, I fear.’

‘Dear God! How can we escape it?’

Baldwin looked at him with slow deliberation as they paused at the door to the tavern at the gate once more. There was an
enormity of shock in his eyes, like a man who bent to stroke a small lap-dog, only to be bitten by the mastiff behind. ‘All
I did was pass on her message.’

‘You had best start thinking about how we can avoid this, Baldwin. We cannot run from our wives again,’ Simon said seriously,
as he thought of the man released from the Bishop’s gaol. ‘Let’s have a quick drink to stiffen the sinews, and then find the
Bishop and ask his advice.’

‘Advice?’ Baldwin said doubtfully.

‘He knows politics and he knows Despenser. Who else can we turn to?’

Wattere had seen the two approaching, and had hurriedly slipped away, leaving the Bishop’s horse with a groom and moving swiftly
along the courtyard to the gate which took him past the great hall, and down to the side door. Outside it, he found a guard
who recognised him and was able to point him in the direction of the small chamber where Sir Hugh le Despenser was working.

Despenser was standing at his table, barking questions at
his clerks. He did not turn as Wattere opened the door, plainly assuming that whoever could have entered his chamber was little
threat to him. However, one of the clerks did make a gesture towards him, and suddenly his master turned to face him. An eyebrow
rose in sardonic amusement at the sight of him.

‘So you didn’t enjoy your stay at the Bishop’s pleasure?’

‘He kept me in his gaol! Like a common thief!’

‘When you are nothing of the sort, are you? There is little common about you, my friend. You are a very special form of thief.’

Wattere said nothing, but watched Despenser coolly.

‘Did you manage to evict that bailiff? No. Did you upset the knight? No again. You do not strike me as a particularly successful
functionary.’

‘I did do well at first, but I didn’t expect the knight to arrive with the bailiff, and both with other men too. I had expected
the man to back down quickly. Men usually do when they know that they are against you, my Lord.’

‘Yes. They do. But it’s dangerous to make assumptions about men like them. They can be fairly ruthless. What have you done
to your hand?’

‘It was the bailiff. He caught me. A lucky strike.’

‘Heavens, he has been fortunate, hasn’t he? What a lucky fellow,’ Despenser said. Then he took a swift pace forward and leaned
in close. ‘And you are not, are you? Once you were lucky, but now, clearly, you are not. I think I have no need for fools
who can’t obey a simple order and then get themselves caught. Jesus, you even gave them your ballocks, didn’t you? You let
them bring in my Lord Bishop Walter to hear your confession!’

‘That means nothing now, though.’

‘Doesn’t it? Oh, so you think that you can fight them here, and outwit them? When the good bishop is here too, and can vouch
for them and denounce you? Do you think that would be a good idea?’

‘I think—’

‘I don’t
care
what you
think
!’ Despenser spat. ‘Get out of my sight. I may find a use for you, but for now, you had best avoid me, fool. I’ll call you
when the privy needs to be emptied.’

William Wattere nodded and left the room quietly. He felt entirely crushed. In the past he had always been highly regarded
as efficient and now he was close to losing his post in his master’s household.

And his forearm was still stinging.

Despenser was often accused by the King of being a marvellous actor, of being able to feign almost any emotion at will, but
he was not acting today. He was consumed with anger at the way the fool Wattere had let himself be captured, especially since
his gaoler was the Bishop upon whom he most depended just now. The state required that he and Stapledon work together effectively.

‘Get out!’ he snapped at the two clerks, and aimed a kick at the slower of the two as they hurriedly scurried from the room.

He walked to the table again and leaned on both hands, his elbows locked, staring down at the boards.

‘Too many problems, too many problems,’ he told himself quietly, still simmering gently after his meeting with Wattere.

It was not only that bailiff Puttock and the knight. He had too much to consider, what with the issue of the Queen and what
she might be doing abroad, the rebel Mortimer and what he was up to, the Scots, and now this matter about the oil. He
still had no idea what had happened to it, but he needed it for the King and the bolstering of the King’s reign.

Sweet Jesus! He had to clear his brain and resolve one issue at a time! There was no time for this prevarication. Complaining
about the perils of his position was pointless. And pathetic. It was not the action of a man. Resolve the problems one by
one, he told himself.

Arriving here, he had been passed a message from one of his men. The outlaws had been tracked down in the woods near where
the body of the herald had been found. On the local keeper’s command, they had been cut down, almost to a man, and even though
the survivors were questioned carefully before they were hanged, none knew anything at all about a man in king’s tunic who
had been killed. Two had been able to walk, and had been taken to the spot where the body still lay, in the hope that they
might recognise the location if not the corpse, but both denied all knowledge. There were some who would do that in the hope
of life, but these two had no such false expectations. They knew that they would soon die.

No, if he had to guess, he would say that neither was involved in the death of Richard de Yatton. In which case, who was?
And where was the King’s oil?

Despenser clenched his fists and slammed both down on the table. ‘Damn the bastard!’