The Prophecy of Death

Chapter Ten

After the excitement of the previous day and the morning, Baldwin was glad to be in the saddle once more, ready to leave Canterbury. As he and Simon sat on their mounts, waiting for all the other men to collect about the Bishop, Baldwin saw the coroner at the gate to the priory close. On a whim, he spurred his rounsey and crossed the court to Sir Robert’s side.

‘I thank you for your help today,’ he said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Scaring off our two guards. What did you say to them? That you’d be seeking their heads as soon as they left the good bishop’s service?’

The coroner looked him up and down. He was leaning with his back at the gate itself, while his thumbs remained tucked into his sword belt. Jerking his chin at the Bishop, he said, ‘What do you think of him? He worth protecting?’

‘Of course he is. He may be able to save some lives, if he persuades the King to prevent war with France,’ Baldwin said.

‘Hmm. How would you like him to have only outlaws for his guards?’

Baldwin cast a look over his shoulder at the men, before sighing, ‘Coroner, I and my friend may be the only two in his entourage who have not been outlawed at one time or another!’

‘Ha! Yes, you could be speaking the truth there. And yet one of the two last night was recognised by men here in the city. The short, smelly one? At the inquest, he said his name was “Pons”, didn’t he? He has gone under the name of Stephen the Frank. I knew of him in Ashford as Stephen the Sailor, and others knew him under other names. He is rumoured to have killed his own master. The other I didn’t know, but from his appearance I would think him formed from the same mould.’

‘So you think you have helped to save the Bishop by persuading the two least reliable men from his party to go? Perhaps he was well aware of their unreliability,’ Baldwin said. It was true enough. Often a baron or knight would gladly hire a man who was dangerous and known as a killer, because such a man would appreciate his safety in a larger household, as well as feeling a debt to his new master.

‘Perhaps he was. But with the two replacements, you’ll have a better party to travel all the way to Beaulieu. These two are known to me … They are safe.’

‘Well, for that I thank you, at least,’ Baldwin said. ‘Do you know where the worst parts of the journey are likely to be?’

‘The forests of Kent are moderately safe, I think. It’s when you cross into Sussex and Hampshire that you’ll find your progress endangered. That is what I have heard, in any case. Keep to the road past Ashford, through Cranbrook and Crowborough, and you should be all right. Watch your bishop, and watch your own back, Sir Knight. I wouldn’t want you to learn that your companions are dangerous by their attacking you.’

‘I am grateful for your words, Coroner,’ Baldwin said. And then he bowed and saluted the man. ‘Sincerely.’

Coroner Robert grunted. ‘Get off with you, Sir Knight. I hope next time we meet it may be under a more auspicious light. Go with God and be cautious on the road. Farewell and Godspeed!’

Second Wednesday after Easter¹²

St Mary in the Marsh

They were cold and tired by the time they saw the little cross in the distance. There had been plenty of other little settlements on their way here, but they had been keeping quiet, hiding up in woods last night. They were happy to be away from Canterbury, but now they had run out of food, and this prosperous little vill looked good to them.

Pons took a careful look about. It was the countryside he really liked. The marshes here were all flat pastureland, the grasses sliced apart by a number of little streams and rivulets, each dully grey, like rivers of lead in the verdant green. As they rode, the sheep on either side rose, startled, and occasionally they saw a shepherd in the distance, leaning on a crook and watching them — although whether suspiciously or merely from a spirit of mild enquiry, they couldn’t tell.

So far as André was concerned, it was hard to imagine quite such a desolate landscape. It looked as though God had decided to eradicate everything from the place. There were no trees nearby, no hills, nothing. Just this lengthening grassy plain that had been slashed by water. It made him enormously nostalgic for his homelands, with the view of mountains in the distance.

‘Where are we?’ Pons said, looking about him with a frown of disdain.

‘If God wanted to give the world a kick up the arse, he’d do it here,’ André summarised. ‘This is the shit-hole of the world. I’ve never seen a place its equal.’

‘Oui. So what do we do?’

‘We ride to that vill there, and see whether the road rides us out to the west. And if it does, we wait a while, and then visit the church.’

‘And then?’

‘Take what we may, and ride on. I will not try to kill myself by riding onwards with no money in my pocket. There must be something in there we can use.’

And as a plan, it was good. There was nobody about in the vill when they rode in. Everybody was out in the fields.

‘Come!’ André said, and trotted to the church door.

It was only a small churchyard, here, and the animals had kept the grass down, sheep and horses grazing it to a one-inch-long stubble. The little hummocks and stones showed where the older members of the vill had been buried, while one or two smaller lumps demonstrated that demise was not the prerogative of the ancient.

The door was new, but creaked like an abbey’s. André walked, conscious of the noise his spurs made as he went, the cheap chain under the sole of his riding boots clattering on the flagstone floor.

‘Where is everyone?’ Pons demanded behind him.

‘Do we care?’ André said. His eyes were fixed upon the prize in front of him. There was a cheap cross made of wood sitting on the altar, and a box lay behind it. He smiled to himself and hurried to it, testing the lid, but it was securely fastened. Eyeing it, he reckoned he couldn’t lift it, let alone rest it on his horse for him to carry it. No, the blasted thing was far too heavy. The metal straps ran about it, and it had two great locks at the front of it.

‘Well?’ Pons said. ‘Can you open the thing?’

‘Of course I can …’ He felt the locks, and knew he had no chance. They were made by a good blacksmith. ‘Where is the priest?’

All vills like this had a small lodging near the church, if not a lean-to beside it, for the priest to live in. Both men knew that — but they also knew that the priest was usually a man like any other in the vill. If they wanted to find him, he would almost certainly be out in the fields with the men and women, working the land or catching birds.

They tried the house next to the church, and inside they found the paraphernalia of a vicar, but no sign of the man himself.

‘Do we wait?’ Pons said.

‘No. If we try that, people will see our horses as they come back to the vill. No, there’s nowhere to hide or conceal the beasts here. We’ll have to ride on,’ André said regretfully.

It was the only sensible conclusion. The sight of their horses would set all the tongues wagging, and when news of the attack came to be known, the villagers would know exactly who to blame. They would be able to describe the two men on horses who had come to their vill and stole from the church.

With a leaden sensation in his belly, André turned from the little house and was about to walk back to his horse, when he heard the voice.

‘My son, can I help you?’

‘Holy Christ!’ Pons muttered.

‘Thank you, Father,’ André said, ignoring his companion. ‘May we have a word?’

Château du Bois

The Queen lifted her arms as her maids stood about and slipped them into the sleeves of her dress.

‘Dieu!’

The weight of it was astonishing! All the jewels which she had demanded, sewn into the fabric, made it extraordinarily heavy, and she looked down with some perplexity. ‘Alicia?’

Alicia was her most trusted companion. It was not a position she had sought, but it was inevitable amongst the present ladies-in-waiting that she should win it. The others had all been selected by the King and Despenser to join her, and the Queen and Alicia knew perfectly well why that was: they were here to spy upon her.

There were two main agents of the King: Lady Alice de Toeni, the Dowager Countess of Warwick, and Joan of Bar, King Edward’s niece. But the Queen was not so foolish as to believe that these were the only two who were watching her. Her husband was mistrustful of everyone recently, and the fact that his Isabella had been loyal to him through all the trials of the last ten years, that she had supported him when he most needed her aid, counted now for nothing. All the King would see when he looked at her was the woman who was sister to the French King. Nothing else.

Of course it was not spies of the King of whom she must be most on her guard. No, it was any man or woman who could be considered a friend or ally of that evil demon, Despenser. Evil demon. She rather liked that. The fact that the son of a peasant was now the most powerful man in the realm was entirely monstrous, but her husband had allowed him to take that position. It was his foolhardiness which had seeded the fruitful fields of Despenser’s ambition. And his spies would be all about her. She knew that.

Interestingly, she was beginning to feel that Lady Joan of Bar was growing more and more sympathetic towards her. Perhaps it was not surprising, for Lady Joan had suffered from a brute of a husband.

‘It pinches about my waist. I want it to be let out a little. I wish to be glorious, not suffocated!’ she stated, and the dress was taken away to be reworked.

The wedding was not until July, but she must look her best. She had a duty to England, to her husband — whether he expected or cared about it or not — and to her cousin, Jeanne d’Evreux, the King’s fiancée.

She was a lovely little thing, Jeanne. Already Isabella felt a certain understanding between them, which she hoped would only continue once Jeanne had married her brother.

He, of course, was more circumspect. As the King of France, he could not demonstrate too much compassion for her, but he had succeeded in making his feelings plain about some aspects. The fact that Despenser was gaining in wealth and treasure while Isabella’s estates were confiscated was deeply insulting to the French crown; worse, the fact that her children had been taken from her was shameful. That seemed to imply that the King viewed her as a traitor! To suggest such a thing was an affront to the French monarchy.

It was one thing to say that something was an insult, but another to live with the effects, though. Isabella missed her children so much … her little John, only eight years old, and her little darling; Eleanor, two years younger, and Joan, little more than a baby at three years. Her first-born, Edward, was almost thirteen, of course, and he would not be so dreadfully worried. He had seen his father’s irrationality before, and had seen it dissipate. She hoped he would be strong enough. But the others … to have been dragged from their mother, and still not to know their own father’s love, they must be in misery.

She refused to think of such things. To do so in front of the ladies-in-waiting would only lead to rumours of her misery becoming widely disseminated. She would not give such solace to Despenser, nor to her husband. Instead, she would keep cheerful during the day, and only relieve herself in tears in the depths of the night.

At least some people were kind enough to support her. Henry Eastry at Canterbury had been very good to her; William Ayrminne was a solid friend; even the Bishop of Orange relayed messages of encouragement from the Pope which were generous to a fault. With fortune, all those with good wishes for her would be able to make their mark.

The Bishop was an interesting man, of course. Tall, urbane, shrewd as a farmer eyeing the cattle at market, he rarely allowed anyone a glimpse of what was going on inside his head, but he was the Pope’s own ambassador just now, and that meant he was one of the most powerful men in the world.

Well, she deserved to have a man like him visit her and take up her cause. She was the daughter of Philippe the Fair, King of France, and wife to the King of England, whether he liked it or not. Isabella was a woman of standing. A noblewoman of the highest rank.

And she was deprived even of the companionship of her children.

St Mary in the Marsh

The priest was a youngish man, with mousy hair and a slightly peering stance, head leaning forward, his eyes squinting slightly.

‘Father, we’re very glad to meet you,’ André said.

‘Ah, you are foreign?’

‘From Hainault, Father. We are lost, trying to find our way to London.’

‘You are a long way from there, my son,’ the priest said, and André heard the sudden reticence, the suspicion in his voice.

Ach, it was an obvious error. He mentioned the first town that came to his mind in this strange land, and should have realised that the main city was some distance. But how could he know? It was many years since he was last in this country, and then he hadn’t made it to London.

He smiled. ‘Oh? And we thought it was so near,’ he said as he put his hand about the man’s neck and shoved his dagger into the priest’s belly.

The man just gave a quiet gasp, nothing more. He stared in horror as André carefully ripped the blade upwards, using the sawing motion he was so experienced in, the priest goggle-eyed, mouth open, as though he hated to interrupt the fellow about his business, and then André smiled at him, nodding calmly as he saw the life fade from the priest’s eyes, in a way hoping that his gentleness would ease the man’s passing. In any case, it was fast, and there was not a great deal more any man could do than that for someone.

As the priest slumped, André allowed him to slide from the blade, and watched as the fellow began to jerk and twist in his death throes. One foot beat so hard against the floor, it ended up leaving a smear of blood, but that was nothing compared with the mess about his belly and the ground about him.

He had keys at his belt, though. While Pons took the ring from his forefinger, André went to the box in the church. The second key was clearly the only one that was the right size to fit the hole in the lid, and he thrust it in and turned it. The noise of the levers being shifted was music to his ears, and he opened the lid with a tingling anticipation in his belly.

Inside, he saw with a gasp of joy, was a gold cross with jewels set into it. The church here had a marvellous patron. Ach, he would have been glad to meet the man himself, and take advantage of the fellow’s hospitality! Whoever he was, he had a goodly purse.

Back in the priest’s house, he looked for spare clothing in the man’s boxes. In his little bedchamber there was a chest, and inside it was a shirt and a thick robe. It was good enough. André ripped off his bloody and messed tunic, and replaced it. It was made of good, soft wool, and he was glad to have made the exchange.

The cross was soon installed in his shirt, next to his stomach, under his belt. He gave a low whistle, and Pons came running. The two of them walked out to their horses, and mounted, both still watching carefully. Perhaps a mile away, there was a huddle of men and women walking back from the fields, and André smiled, then turned his horse’s head to the west and clapped spurs to the beast’s flanks.

There was no need to worry about buying food now. This venture would make them both a fine profit.