The Prophecy of Death

Chapter Eleven

Second Thursday after Easter¹³

On the road near Crowborough, Kent

The Bishop grunted when their concerns were raised, but he did at least allow them a few moments of rest while they studied the land and rested their mounts.

Simon was impressed with the single-minded determination of the fellow. The Bishop of Orange was a heavy-set man, with a great round face, and an oddly square shape to his skull, visible when he removed his thick woollen hat. Commonly his eyes had only a distant absentness, unless there was food in the vicinity, in which case they suddenly held an almost feral concentration. Yet all the while, whether bumping along on his palfrey or sitting as his men lighted a fire and began to warm food and drink, he appeared to ignore any hardship, and focussed entirely on the mission.

Not today, though.

‘I will not be delayed by the irrational and foolhardy concerns of a small number of peasants!’

‘We would be foolish to rush blindly into a lair of outlaws,’ Baldwin said.

‘There is no evidence that a single fellow lies in that forest, and if one did, what of it? We have many men amongst us, we do not need to fear being waylaid, do we? In God’s name, man, I say I am determined.’

Baldwin grunted and threw a harassed glance over his shoulder at the trees behind him. ‘The peasants in the farm told us to be wary. There have been many sheep stolen recently.’

‘Probably a neighbour’s dog.’

‘There are strangers who’ve been seen, the fellows said.’

‘There are strangers seen every day in the country. It is not cause to divert our route and delay our embassy. When the horses are rested we shall follow this road.’

It was not the first time that they had held this debate. The past few times they had passed under woods, Baldwin had been anxious, and cautiously cast about him for the threat of ambush, but each time his anxiety had come to naught. His warnings had been overruled by the Bishop — suavely and reassuringly, but definitely. However, this time Baldwin was more concerned.

They had paused at a small farmstead a mile or more back, and there the peasant woman had warned them of more footpads and felons who were hiding deep in amongst the trees. There was no doubt that the men in the woods were dangerous, she said as she poured them ale from an ancient, cracked earthenware jug, and Baldwin tried to soothe her with his gentlest of voices and manners, seeing that she was so anxious.

No one could doubt her sincerity. When they arrived, they saw her whirl in terror to see so many horses. For a moment or two, Baldwin had thought that she was about to flee, but something reassured her. Perhaps it was just the fact that she could see that these were no footpads or drawlatches. Outlaws would have worn shabbier clothing, or clothing that wouldn’t fit at all.

There were many outlaws near here, they learned. From the way that she looked about her, she expected them to appear at any moment. And Baldwin knew that she must be petrified that one of the outlaws might learn that she had entertained a large party. An outlaw might well assume that she had been paid in cash for her hospitality, and would soon come to rob and rape her. She had a husband, she said, and that in a way was still more worrying. All had heard tales of outlaws slowly torturing a man in front of his wife, or a wife being raped before her man, he being bound and impotent to help her, just for a few pennies.

‘Is your man here?’ he asked.

‘Working,’ she said, and although she smiled, her eyes were nervous the whole time. As she spoke, the reason for her fear became clear. ‘He has a coppice in the woods.’

She explained that having a man about the place would not protect her or the homestead. Will Fletcher and his Mabilla were both killed a month or so ago, although Will had tried to defend them both. Old Adam, the tranter who saw to the needs of so many about this way, had been set upon and slaughtered just inside the woods. Then a boy, one of Roger Hogward’s lads, was seen down near the road’s ditch, knocked down, although not killed, by a mercy.

His tale was one of misery. The lad had seen his father slain by a gang of men all armed with bills and long knives. Two had bows, and with them they used him for their practice after tying Hogward to an oak.

‘They ravage the whole area,’ she concluded.

‘Have you raised it with the Keeper of the King’s Peace?’ Baldwin asked kindly.

‘They do nothing for us. The keeper’s a busy man,’ she said curtly. ‘What does he care if a peasant woman and her husband are harassed or killed by these felons?’

He didn’t have an answer for her. He wanted to tell her that if she had complained to him, he would have raised a posse and ridden the outlaws down, for no man ought to be afraid of travelling about on his own business within the King’s realm, but that would only serve to leave her more distraught. In the end, he hurried to drink his cup, and was soon back upon his mount.

‘The woman said the boy was found only a matter of days ago, my Lord Bishop. His father’s body was still bound to the tree where he died,’ Baldwin said.

‘Sir Baldwin, your concern does you credit, but my need will brook no delay. I trust that is clear enough? We have need of speed. To circle about this immense wood will take a great deal of time, time I do not have.’

‘I am charged with others for your safety,’ Baldwin said stiffly. ‘She said that no one from this vicinity would enter those woods willingly until the outlaws have been captured and killed.’

‘Your anxiety is noted.’

Baldwin nodded and marched away before his anger could burst forth.

‘Well?’ Simon asked as he approached.

Baldwin went to his rounsey and cinched the saddle strap tighter. ‘Take my advice and make sure your mount is rested and that your saddle is tight,’ he muttered. ‘And then test your blade in the sheath. The thing may be needed soon.’

It was almost noon when the party prepared to make their way through the woods, and Simon was aware of a growing unease as the men climbed into the saddle again. The only ones who appeared entirely unconcerned were the two more recent guards from Canterbury. The older man, Peter, and the younger, who might have been his son, the one called John.

Simon had been content at first, but now he felt a little nervous at the sight of the two of them. They looked so stolid and resilient, they were Simon’s vision of a pair of outlaws. True, they were moderately clean, but that meant nothing. So far as he was concerned, they were large, bold men, just like any other felon. And they were travelling with the Bishop’s party as though they were entirely trustworthy.

Well, maybe they were. At least they hadn’t slaughtered any innocents trying to reach a city, unlike the Bishop’s original two men. Simon still reckoned that their flight was peculiar. They had been involved in the inquest and declared innocent, so what could the coroner have said to them that would have made them run away so swiftly?

More to the point, why would he have wanted to scare them away? Just so that he could have these two added to the Bishop’s entourage, perhaps? Why would he want to do that, though? Unless he wanted to have the men wander this way, and he could have them help outlaws waylay the Bishop’s party …

‘You’ve been travelling too long with strangers,’ he rebuked himself, and kicked his horse onwards.

There was nothing said, but all the men were wary and eyeing the trees with some trepidation. Nothing rustled or moved, there was no indication that there could be danger in there, but all knew the risks of walking under the trees. Woods gave too many opportunities for concealment, and a man hidden from view could do much damage with a bow. Two could halt a large force like this. They would only need to drop three or four men, and the Bishop’s party would be halved.

Baldwin edged his mount nearer to the Bishop as they walked down the slight incline to the path through the trees, and drew his sword, lifting the cross to his mouth and kissing it as he offered up a short prayer for their safety.

At first they were moving through pools of sunlight that dappled the grass. But soon they were into truly old woods, with trees standing in some places so close together that there was scarce space for the brambles to take hold. It grew dark, a darkness that was filled with the odour of dampness and mulch. The air seemed thick with the scent of decay, a sweet, pleasant smell, while it grew cooler under the shadows.

‘What do you think, Baldwin?’ Simon asked, drawing level with his friend.

‘I think that this would be an ideal place for a felon to launch an attack on a party such as this … but I can see no sign of such men,’ Baldwin admitted.

Yet even as he spoke, he felt sure that he heard a shout. A bellow of fear, a shrill scream, and then the rumble of hooves.

‘Simon — the Bishop!’ he called, drawing his sword and spurring his mount.

The two men cantered forwards, past the Bishop himself, and then paused, blocking the path. And now, as his mount jerked his head up and down, pulling at the bridle, Simon heard it too. The far-off thunder of a horse at full gallop. He glanced at Baldwin, and the knight slowly nodded. They could only see a matter of twenty yards from here. After that the roadway curved gently to their left. Baldwin motioned, and the pair trotted onwards to the bend. And now Simon caught sight of the man on the horse. He was already a mere eighty yards from them.

‘Stop!’ Baldwin shouted.

‘Sweet Christ, Baldwin — he’s a King’s messenger!’ Simon breathed, seeing the uniform as the man galloped towards them.

‘Let me pass in the King’s name!’

‘Wait!’ Baldwin said, and the fellow was forced to rein in his horse, drawing to a halt only a few yards from them. ‘We are riding to the King. What is your name, messenger?’

‘Let me past! Let me through, I need to get out!’

‘You will wait, man! Are you all right?’

‘I am Joseph of Faversham, Cursor to the King, and I am carrying messages for him. Let me through!’

‘What is the reason for your haste? You were riding like a man with the devil behind him.’

‘I have urgent messages!’ Joseph looked about him at the men. He could see that one of the men was clad in the dress of a bishop, and the sight was some reassurance, but even a bishop looked suspicious to him today. ‘Who are you?’

‘I am Sir Baldwin de Furnshill, Keeper of the King’s Peace, and this is Bailiff to the Abbot of Tavistock, Master Simon Puttock. We are here watching over the Bishop of Orange on his way to the King. So speak! What has so frightened you?’

Joseph glanced again at the Bishop, and then made his decision. ‘A king’s herald — he’s been murdered.’

It took little time for him to guide them to the body. It lay a scant two hundred yards from them, further on into the woods.

Baldwin felt no thrill of excitement as he approached the body. In the past he had been aware of that frisson as he found a corpse, knowing that the dead could always tell how he had died, and sometimes point to the murderer. Not today, though. This body was certainly over a week old, from the look of it. Decomposition had set in, and there were the marks of wild creatures all about it. The eyes were gone, pecked out, and fingers and belly had been gnawed, while ants had set up a trail to the wound in the stomach.

‘There is little we may learn from this,’ he said heavily, gazing down at the body.

The man had been left at the side of the road, bundled into a small ditch. There was a thin covering afforded by some branches from nearby saplings, whose pale leaves washed with sunlight were so bright against the dead man’s dark tabard, stained filthy with blood, that they concealed him all the more effectively. The tabard was disturbed where animals had foraged, and Baldwin doubted anyone would ever be able to tell how the man had died, there were so many signs of animal attack.

‘I doubt his own mother would recognise him now,’ Simon said from some yards away. He had a reluctance to view older bodies that had always rankled with Baldwin. To the knight, any corpse was a challenge intellectually, to tell how the man had died, to evaluate clues; for Simon, a corpse was merely repugnant, a foul reminder of a man’s mortality. The scents and sights could always turn his stomach.

Simon continued, his voice muffled by his sleeve, which he held over his nose to avert the odours, ‘Anyway, we know he must be about ten days dead. He was found by the outlaws who live here in the woods, perhaps, and they killed him for his purse.’

‘Perhaps, yes,’ Baldwin agreed. ‘Poor fellow — to be set upon and killed all this way from any help.’

‘Baldwin. His tabard is very filthy. Was that from a wound of his?’ Simon said. ‘Because if not, it could be the man who killed Gilbert.’

‘We know Gilbert was murdered on the night of the Monday after Easter … this is Thursday, so Gilbert died a week ago last Tuesday. It took us two days to arrive here, and one man on his own might have made the same distance a little more swiftly,’ Baldwin mused. ‘It’s possible, yes.’

‘That would be justice of a sort.’

Baldwin nodded. ‘Away, dog!’

His favourite dog from the Bishop’s stable had intruded its nose and was sniffing with some interest at the corpse at Baldwin’s feet. He gently pushed the animal away with his foot. ‘Perhaps we should seek for the oil here, then.’

The Bishop called out, ‘Are you done? We may report this man’s body to the nearest vill so that they might call the coroner, but for now we must hasten.’

Joseph nodded on hearing that. ‘I should be gone, too. I have urgent messages from the King to the prior at Canterbury. I have tarried long enough already.’

‘You may go, then. And when you see the good prior, please inform him that we have found this body, thanks to your help. It is possible that the thief and murderer is himself dead,’ Baldwin said.

Joseph nodded, but with a confused expression. ‘This man’s a murderer?’

‘Yes. How did you see him, though, Joseph?’

‘I saw a glint of some sort as I rode past. And, well, I have seen money discarded in the woods before. I suppose sometimes a man is beset by outlaws and seeks to prevent them winning his money, so throws it away. Well, I hoped it was that. And then found him, instead.’

‘Do you recognise him?’ Baldwin asked.

‘Your companion’s just said, Sir, that his own mother wouldn’t know him now. I certainly wouldn’t.’

Baldwin nodded, but insisted that the messenger lean closer. ‘You are in the King’s service too. This is probably a man you have met.’

Joseph obediently wrapped a cloth about his nose and leaned down closer, wincing, and then shook his head. ‘No, I cannot say. His hair is unfamiliar, and so is his face. But that is a genuine King’s tabard for a herald. I do know that much.’

Baldwin thanked him, and Joseph climbed into the saddle, whirled about, and then cantered off eastwards.

‘Should we mark the body?’ Simon said.

Baldwin was still gazing down at the dead man. ‘Yes. Yes, of course.’

‘What is it?’

Baldwin leaned down and peered more closely. To Simon’s disgust, he took a hold of the body by the shoulder. A cluster of flies rose immediately, but Baldwin simply waved them away from his face as he stared at the body. ‘Just that it seems odd. His tabard is rucked up at the back, where he fell. And look: there is no hole in the tabard itself. Nor a mark on his throat.’

‘What of it?’

‘It is peculiar, that the man is dead, but his tabard is undamaged,’ Baldwin said with a frown.

‘Perhaps he was knocked on the head? Or struck by an arrow in his flank?’

‘There is no arrow,’ Baldwin pointed out. ‘And as for knocked on the head — perhaps, but if that was the case, surely if he was struck hard enough to kill, his head would show some sign of it. His skull would be broken.’ As he spoke, his fingers were moving over the man’s head. ‘No. No broken bones there.’

‘Then, what?’

‘I think he was killed, and then the tabard thrown over him.’

‘That is a large inference from so little, Baldwin.’

‘True enough. But it does at least suit the facts here,’ he responded.

‘What is the delay, Sir Baldwin?’ the Bishop shouted from the main roadway. ‘We have need of speed!’

‘I have a need to ensure that this body is marked well so that the coroner can find it, my Lord Bishop. Do you continue with the rest of the men and I and my friend here shall see to it and catch you up in a moment or two.’

‘Make haste, then, Sir Knight. Your duty is to me, do not forget. Not to a churl murdered at the wayside.’

His tone was sharp. The Bishop was irritated to be thus held up, and he held Baldwin responsible. Baldwin nodded, but said nothing.

As the two from Canterbury passed by, though, Simon saw John, the younger guard, grin and sneer at them, as though the death of one little man so far from anywhere was amusing. It chilled Simon’s blood.