The Prophecy of Death: (Knights Templar 25) (8 page)

Sir Hugh shrugged. He had got over it once he’d ensured that the necromancer had been killed in gaol.

‘St Thomas’s oil,’ King Edward muttered. ‘If only I’d had it then. But no. Even then the earls were plotting my downfall,
weren’t they?’

‘I am sure that—’

‘Oh,
silence
! I am the most unfortunate monarch this land has ever seen. My reign was cursed from the first. And you know it!’

Eltham

The Earl of Chester was never happier than when on horseback. Riding out like this, his hounds and raches at his feet, he
was perfectly content. There was surely no pleasure greater than that of a man who was exhausted after a day’s hunting, he
reckoned.

This deer park was a wonderful testing place for a man, too. The trees were thick, and often the hounds would have to chase
into the undergrowth to spring the elusive deer, which made it still more challenging for the huntsmen to see where the beasts
would burst forth.

Today they had found a good stag, and he’d given them an excellent ride, all over the park and then out, when the wily old
devil found a weakness in the wall, and managed to clamber over a partly collapsed section. And then the men had to hurtle
over it and across three vills’ fields to catch him. A marvellous ride.

He had always been fond of this part of the country. The land was glorious, excellent for orchards and grain, and providing
lush pasture for horses and cattle. And at the edges, perfectly maintained woods and copses. It was a fine example of a modern
agricultural business.

Of course, it had been his mother’s until recently. She had been given it by his father as a mark of his respect for her,
and
she had quickly altered it to suit herself and the needs of her household, which meant making it suitable for children. John,
Edward’s younger brother, was born here, and the girls always loved it too. Which was the sad thing now, with all of them
away. It made the palace quiet. Quieter than it should have been. If he could, Edward would have had them all back – but his
father had decreed that the others should all be looked after elsewhere, and Edward missed them.

Not too much, however. He was almost thirteen, an earl in his own right, and he didn’t need to rely on
girls
and his mother to keep him happy. He was a man.

It would be good to see them all again. To hear their laughter in the solar, his mother’s happy voice with that very French
laughter in it as she played with them. He missed her too.

But he was a royal earl, and he had responsibilities that others wouldn’t understand. For one thing, he was born to the prophecy,
and he must live with that. The prophecy said that he would be another Arthur, the Boar from Cornwall, and it was a very daunting
prospect, to follow in the footsteps of the greatest King England had ever known.

Canterbury

Baldwin’s first indication of danger was the sudden movement at the gate.

The traffic entering a city was always predictable. There were streams of men and women entering by the main gates all through
the day, while another roughly similar number left. Those entering in the morning were pedlars, tranters and other traders
who had goods to sell, or carters bringing produce in from the lush countryside all about. Those leaving were the men and
women who had work in the suburban areas, or
travellers who had rested a night in the safety of the city’s walls. Later in the day the streams reversed themselves. The
tradespeople, carters and sumptermen all making their way home, in various degrees of drunkenness, while those who had been
at work outside made their way back to security. And travellers like Baldwin hurried to get in before the gates closed.

Yes. It was all predictable and regular, like the ebb and flow of the tide. But tonight there was something wrong. The stream
of people walking to the gates had snarled up, and there was a tangle of men and women crying out. As Baldwin watched, he
saw a flash, and knew in an instant that it was an unsheathed blade.

‘My Lord Bishop, there is danger ahead,’ he called quickly. ‘Simon, there’s a fight. I’ll wager those two pushed all from
their path and the locals have set on them!’

‘Fight there may be, but I do not relish a rest in the open all night,’ the Bishop grunted. ‘We may, possibly, press on and
meet with the people at the gate?
Viens! Allons-y!
’

Baldwin looked at Simon, who muttered a heartfelt, ‘
Shite!
’ and then the two clapped spurs to their mounts and hurried off, trying to avoid the hounds who, seeing the horses beginning
to race, joined in with gusto.

The road here was a dog-leg. A stand of trees at the wayside blocked their view for a moment. They rode past a great abbey
– St Augustine’s, Simon was later to learn – and after this, the road took a sharp turn to the right, following the abbey’s
outer wall. Now they could see the mess at the gate, and hear the shouting. Two men were plainly fighting. Simon could see
one of their mounts rearing, while the fellow beat down with his sword, although whether he was slashing at an attacker, or
merely knocking a fool on the pate with his pommel, Simon couldn’t tell.

Now they were taking an equally sharp left turn, and making a straight line for the city’s eastern gate, the Burgate. It was
a run of only maybe a hundred yards, but now it was crammed with people shouting and screaming, and in the midst of it were
the Bishop’s two men-at-arms, their arms flailing, and as Simon came closer, he could see that their blades were red with
blood.

‘Christ!’ Simon swore. ‘Do you see them?’

Baldwin had no need to answer. There were three people on the ground at the feet of the two horses, two with bloody heads,
and both the Bishop’s men were retreating towards the edge of the road, where a fence prevented their escape, and were looking
about them with angry nervousness, as well they may, for there was a ring of rough-looking men about them, four carrying pole-arms
as though they knew how to use them, two more with ash staffs, and more rushing to their side with knives and clubs.

‘Come, Simon!’ he called, and galloped to them.

It was almost too late. He saw a whirling flash of silver, and one of the Bishop’s men was lucky not to have his throat slashed
wide by the razor-sharp weapon. It was only by clashing his sword against the staff’s length that Pons managed to save himself,
deflecting the bill’s blade up and over his head as he ducked. His companion was less fortunate, and as Baldwin reached them,
the lance held by one of his opponents tore a deep gash along from behind André’s temple to the back of his head, behind his
ear. He gave a loud bellow of pain, and would have ridden the lanceman down, but bill and lance were too well paired. Even
as he crouched to spur his mount, the bill came down to point at his breast. Were he to move, he would skewer himself on the
point.

‘Stop this! Stop in the name of the King!’ Baldwin roared as he approached.

It was enough to distract one pole-arm. A man turned and faced Baldwin with his lance pointing dangerously towards him. ‘Halt!’

Before the others could turn, the mass of hounds and dogs was on them, barking and bouncing all about. The men with pole-arms
could do little but beat at them with the butts of their staves, trying to push them away or club them. One or two blows connected
– one in particular aiming a kick at Baldwin’s favourite dog which made him spur his horse onward.

‘Stop!’ Baldwin bellowed over the row of howling and shouting. ‘These two men are on the King’s business and carry letters
of safe-conduct. If you harm them, the King will have your heads! Stand aside.’

‘Who are you?’

He was a short, pugnacious-looking man of about five-and-twenty. Dark, suspicious eyes met Baldwin’s, and the set of his thin
mouth was determined.

‘I am Sir Baldwin de Furnshill, Keeper of the King’s Peace and member of the King’s Parliament,’ he said. ‘I am here to help
protect a papal legate on an embassy to the King. An insult to the Pope’s own official is an insult to the King who gave letters
of safe-conduct.’

‘That’s all pretty well, Sir Knight, but as you can see, your friends here have knocked three people down.’

‘This is not true!’ It was the injured guard. He held a hand to the flap of scalp which had been sliced wide. ‘We were trotting
down here, when some arse threw something at us for riding past their line. I was struck by dung, and so was Pons here.’

‘We were both hit.’ Pons nodded, and turned his shoulder to demonstrate. On his flank there was a large mess of horse dung
clinging to his tunic. ‘These
fils de merde
insulted us, and we retaliated.
C’est tout
.’

‘I saw these two wheel and ride down three people,’ the gate man said firmly. ‘That makes them felons unless the court decides
that they were acting in self-defence.’

‘This was no premeditated attack,’ Baldwin said. ‘They were attacked and defended themselves. Did you see the initial attack?’

‘No.’ The man met Baldwin’s eye for a moment, then slid away.

Baldwin had seen that look in a man’s face before. It was not outright dishonesty, but a wariness caused by knowing a little
too much, a little more than a man should have to.

‘Very well,’ he said after a moment. ‘I suggest this. Your name?’

‘I am Adam Cook to my friends.’

‘Very well, friend Cook. We are going to the Priory. I will wait for you there in the Prior’s guest rooms. We shall discuss
this matter there. For now, it is more urgent that you and your friends see to the locking of the gates than that we argue
the matter here in the open.’

Cook nodded slowly, ignoring the angry cries of the men and women queuing behind him. ‘Very well. Come along, get inside,
all those who want to. We lock the gates as soon as it is dusk.’

Baldwin nodded, and trotted forward as the Bishop reached them, gazing down and studying the three bodies on the ground as
he went. His dog sniffed at them with apparent confusion, as though not understanding what they were doing lying in the road,
until a stone was thrown at him. He yelped,
glancing about him as though hurt, before following his master, who absently made the sign of the cross as he rode past the
bodies.

It was another festering English city, the Bishop thought as he rode under the gates.

If only the Pope had managed to persuade another to come here and take on this mission, but it was not possible. There was
no one else with such a good command of the barbaric language these peasants spoke. Other ambassadors had suffered from that.
The English would tend to go into huddles and discuss matters in their own tongue, which often left the Pope’s men at a disadvantage.
With such important affairs to negotiate, it was important that the best emissary was sent.

And there was the Queen, too. There was no one else who could be sent to speak for her. She was, as the Pope had said, ‘an
angel of Peace’. She knew how to deal with her brother, and appeared to have some influence with her appalling husband. It
must have been a terrible existence for her, in this miserable, grey, country, acting as bed-mate to a king who showed her
scant regard. Poor woman.

It was a great pity that she was not the ruler of this land. The people were ferocious, unruly, disobedient, and entirely
without dignity. They would brawl at the slightest insult, the lot of them, churls, peasants, farmers, whores, lords and earls.
There was no sense in any of them. Obstinate and foolish. And cold.

The knight in his guard-party was one of the worst, too. Cold, unsmiling, taciturn … he clearly had no liking for the
Bishop, as though the Bishop had done something to deserve his enmity. But the Bishop had never met the man before, so
far as he could remember. No, this Sir Baldwin was just another typical example of an English ‘gentleman’.

The worst of them, naturally, was the one from whom all the ridiculous behaviour stemmed. A king who sought the companionship
of peasants, who tested himself against hedgers and ditchers, who preferred the company of play-actors, dear Heaven, and who
preferred to avoid the barons of his own land. He was intolerable!

It was fortunate indeed that no man thought him to be competent in his role as King. His failures in battle, his failure as
a husband, his failure as a human, made him the laughing stock of all other lands. If he were to lose any more respect, he
may even lose his crown among such a turbulent people.

That was a possibility to be desired. And it was why he was really here, of course.

‘Sir Baldwin.’

Baldwin turned to see Cook, the city porter, at the door.

They had been here in the priory long enough to divest themselves of their dirtier clothing, time to see that their horses
were well treated, to grab a flagon of wine and drain it, and to choose the best area for sleeping on the rough floor.

‘Master Porter.’

‘No, no porter. Just an honest cook who’d prefer to be in his kitchen than defending the city against miscreants.’

‘The men you stood against were indeed rash, but not miscreants. If a man were to throw ordure at me, I, too, would deprecate
his behaviour.’

‘Enough to murder three? Who are those men? They didn’t sound English.’

‘There was no murder here, Porter. Only a chance
affray. But to answer you, the pair of them are Frenchmen, I think.’

‘Will they be here long?’

‘If you will permit us, we shall ride from here tomorrow early. We have to ride to the King.’

‘Well, I’ll do what I can, but I promise nothing. Those who died will hardly be missed, they were just peasants,’ Cook said
with a dry smile that held no humour. He was not amused, but trying to explain to a knight how the land lay. If Baldwin was
truly in the party of an emissary of the King, it was best he was not delayed or provoked. ‘But there are some hotheads who’d
prefer to see some semblance of justice, even if they were all unimportant.’

‘No man’s life is unimportant,’ Baldwin said. ‘If I could, I would deliver the fools to you, but I have need of them to continue
to defend my Lord Bishop. Without them, we are too few.’

‘The city could present you with some replacements?’

‘What would happen to these two?’

‘They’d be held for the coroner. That will have to happen whatever may pass. You know the law. This was a slaughter on the
road. We have a duty to hold an inquest and see what the jury says.’