The Prophecy of Death

Chapter Thirteen

Third Monday after Easter¹⁵

Eltham Palace

Earl Edward strode along the passageway and burst in through the door to his tutor’s chamber without ceremony. ‘Richard?’

Seated behind his desk, the clerk made little impact, the Earl thought. There were many others who had tried to teach him in the past, but none had managed to affect him in the same way as this man from Bury.

There was a seriousness about him that was reassuring. Most of the others by whom the Earl had been tutored had been more frivolous. They sought to win his friendship, rather than his respect. Perhaps, he considered, they already respected his own position too much to be able to treat their own with any great devotion. They were mere servants, and could not see themselves attain any higher ambition or post.

Richard was different, though. For one thing, he clearly viewed the Earl as malleable. He did not seek to bow to the Earl’s will at every opportunity: to his mind, the Earl was a bright, intelligent twelve-year-old, and as such was demanding of instruction. And for that, Bury sought to ensure that the Earl’s mind was filled with material suitable to his station. And to the prophecy.

There was so much bound to his name, the Earl knew. He respected the prophecies, naturally, but at the same time he was a calculating realist. It was his calculation that the fact of the prophecies would make people regard him in a subtly different light than that by which they viewed others, and that, for a man who was to become King, was a very useful point. Certainly, he had already heard men whisper comments about him which showed that they were alive to the differences between him and his father. ‘A dragon, then a goat,’ they said. All knew what that meant. There was an inevitable sequence in life: after a strong, virile King there tended to follow an unfortunate one. Perhaps the successor would be incompetent, or more likely badly served by his advisers, but that made little difference. The fact was, that there was a recurring fluctuation in the fortunes of succeeding kings. And Earl Edward’s father was not a fortunate ruler.

Such prophecies affected some men more than others, and Richard of Bury was exceedingly susceptible to their allure. He lived and breathed the magnificent stories which were already weaving themselves about his earl. Earl Edward would become King, he would unite the Scottish within his realm, bring all the lost lands back under the Crown, win over the French territories once more, renewing the fabulous Angevin Empire, take for himself the crown of the Holy Roman Empire, and reconquer the Holy Land … Truly, Earl Edward would become a king to rival King Arthur.

But that was not to say that Richard of Bury was lax in his teaching of the Earl. That was not his way. He believed that God gave men an innate ability, a skill, but that the perfection of that skill was the duty of the man who possessed it. Thus, if Earl Edward was capable of being a new paladin, he must be shown the correct ways in which he must improve himself so as to bring out his own best qualities.

This determination had already led to some arguments, for on occasion when the Earl awoke with a mild hangover, the last thing he desired was a serious contemplation of the life of King Arthur, or Alexander of Macedon. And yet that is what he was forced to study, no matter the tiredness of which he complained. Richard was indefatigable in his resolve: the Earl would become a great world ruler, and must not waste a moment in striving to learn all he could that would make him a good King.

‘Today, my Lord Chester, I should like to talk about the marvellous leader, Julius Caesar, the man who conquered Rome itself, and the world. He was the foremost leader in warfare, and in the arts, too. A strong man, who was finally betrayed by those whom he had trusted.’

‘Is it true that he conquered England too?’

‘He conducted two excursions on to your soil, my Lord. It was Claudius who actually added England to the Roman Empire, though, not him.’

Earl Edward nodded, but he was considering other matters as he opened the book passed to him by Bury.

‘You seem distracted, My Lord?’

‘I was reflecting, Master Bury, that all the leaders you have shown me have all been both devout and literate.’

‘That is exactly the case I was going to make to you, my Lord! Hah! It is difficult to teach you some things! You pick them up naturally!’

Richard’s fulsome praise would once have rankled, so similar was it to the subservience of other members of the court. If there was one fault which annoyed the Earl more than any other, it was fawning insincerity. But with Richard, it was not obsequiousness — it was a reflection of his immense excitement and exuberance. He fairly bounced about the room when the Earl showed comprehension of a difficult concept. In the last nine months or so since Bury had arrived here as his tutor, the Earl had quickly realised that whatever else Bury might be, he was no slave.

Now Bury was flicking through the pages of another great book until, reaching the passage he sought, he turned it triumphantly to the Earl. ‘See? Read this.’

As the Earl of Chester began to read, slowly, his finger tracing the lines of the words, Bury continued seriously.

‘You see, no great ruler can achieve anything without learning. And the greatest proofs of learning are an appreciation of the importance of the written word, first and foremost. Because whether you or I know anything at all is unimportant, so long as we have the sense to own the books which already preserve that which we need to know. So long as we have our books, we have all knowledge at our fingertips.

‘That passage says that the Greeks had no ruler of stature who was not literate. I would extend that to include all the great Romans. All were intelligent men who appreciated the written word and the arts. And, more than that, all were entirely convinced of the help of God. True, the Greeks and Romans did not understand about God for they lived in heathen times before the birth of Christ, but can you doubt that a man of the strength of purpose of Alexander, would not have offered thanks and praise to Our Lord for his achievements, had he but known of our God? Of course he would. And Our Lord must also have felt that he had a purpose in elevating Alexander over all others in the world.’

‘A heathen?’ asked Earl Edward.

‘A great man, though! Look at him! A man who could do so much, and then, as they say, who could weep, seeing that there were no more great lands for him to conquer. He died young, and yet he achieved so much more than any other man before or since.’

‘No man can emulate him,’ Earl Edward said with some sadness.

‘You think so? You want to give up your crown now, my Lord? You want to surrender your future? Then do not say such a thing!’ Bury said with asperity. ‘In the Lord’s name, I declare, I believe you shall be a king to rival Alexander or Caesar! I swear that your name shall ring down the ages and lead Englishmen to sing your praise with admiration for as long as England survives!’

Earl Edward looked up at him. ‘Bury, keep a firm grip on yourself. You are growing overly choleric.’

‘How can a mere clerk not be passionate when he has such a great duty, so enormous a charge as I?’

Christ Church Priory, Canterbury

He was exhausted as he clattered under the city’s gate, but Joseph felt only gratitude and relief for the safety that the city walls promised. He saw the man at the gates, and nodded, but hurried on his way as soon as possible towards the priory, determined to reach it before the final bell and the closing of the gates.

It was little time before he was led upstairs to the prior’s chamber.

‘My lord Prior. Messages from the King.’

‘And what are these?’

He opened his little wallet and removed the tiny scrolls, passing them to the Prior, then he stood back, waiting.

‘He wants the oil?’ the Prior muttered. ‘This is wonderful! Just what I need now!’ To the messenger, he cast a sombre look. ‘Anything else?’

‘Only a short message from Sir Baldwin de Furnshill, Prior. He told me to say, that “The thief and murderer may be dead.”’

‘Why? What has he found?’

Joseph told of the discovery of the herald’s body, and the prior listened carefully, but then frowned hopefully. ‘And the oil? Was there any sign of the oil he stole from me?’

‘I know nothing about that, my Lord, but I do not think that there was anything on the body. Perhaps it was something in a saddle-bag? The man did not have it about his person, so far as I saw.’

‘And he was definitely dead?’

‘Oh, he had been dead for some days,’ Joseph confirmed. He swallowed uncomfortably at the memory. Poor fellow. It was one of those nightmares which he suffered from occasionally. The idea of being stabbed and left for dead in the middle of nowhere, perhaps never being discovered.

‘That is good. Good. But the loss of the oil makes my task difficult.’

Joseph knew when he should keep silent. While the prior stood and walked about his chamber, glancing every so often at the papers in his hand, Joseph held his tongue, waiting to hear what he might have to say.

‘Very well,’ the Prior said at last with a sigh. He looked at the note for a last time, and then admitted defeat. ‘Um. I have a note for you to take back with you.’

How to explain to this prickly monarch that the one salvation which he had counted upon had, in fact, already been stolen.

Third Tuesday after Easter¹⁶

Beaulieu

Baldwin felt only a lightening of his spirits as he rode into the grounds of the great abbey at Beaulieu. This, hopefully, was to be the end of his journeying in the King’s service. From here he and Simon could throw down their commitments to the King and return homewards to Devon, where Jeanne was waiting for him, as well as his little Richalda and baby Baldwin, his first-born son.

It had been too long since he had seen them. He was longing to hold his children, but still more keen to grasp his wife. The last time he had been apart from her, he had been sorely tested. Shipwrecked, lost, thinking himself the prisoner of pirates, he had taken the comfort and compassion of an island woman, and his treachery to his own wife, the betrayal of her trust, had marred their relationship for some time thereafter. It had taken a little while for them to recover that delicate balance which marks a successful and generally happy marriage, but at last they had achieved it, and now here he was, still a hundred miles away. He wanted to be with her again, lying with her in their great bed in his manor.

And soon, soon he would be!

The great estate of Beaulieu was entirely enclosed. Some five and fifty acres or more, Baldwin guessed as he entered through the huge gatehouse. From here, he could see the church clearly, a magnificent construction, all built of a plain white, clean-looking stone. The other buildings were set about to the south of the abbey church, as was normal for a Cistercian monastery. From the road leading up to the abbey, Baldwin could see the frater in the south wall, the lay-brothers’ living quarters to the west of it. The abbot’s house lay east, of course, but today the little gardens beyond, which would usually be so neatly set out, were a mess of tents and wagons.

‘The King is still here, then,’ Simon breathed, looking at the flags hanging limp at the poles.

‘Yes. He hasn’t denuded the area of food yet,’ Baldwin said, but not sadly. He couldn’t be unhappy today. Perhaps later this afternoon he would be able to leave Beaulieu and make his way homewards. He set to calculating. It must be some thirty leagues to Devon and his home, so at ten leagues a day, roughly thirty miles, he must ride for about three and a bit days to get home. Well, it wasn’t as fast as he would have liked, but it was a great deal better than riding back from Scotland. And since much of the land hereabouts, from memory, was quite good riding land, he might make better time, so long as he didn’t wear out his rounsey.

The Bishop gave a peremptory command, and Baldwin and Simon pulled aside so that he might lead the way, glancing about him with that absent expression on his face again, seeing much, but apparently noticing little.

‘How did a man like him ever manage to achieve the position of bishop?’ Simon wondered aloud.

‘Don’t underestimate the fellow,’ Baldwin warned. ‘We have seen him at his worst, when he has been uncomfortable, with a difficult mission to achieve, and many miles of journey ahead of him. Yet he is highly respected by the Pope, by the Queen, and, for him to be here, presumably by the King as well. He is no fool.’

‘You may think so,’ Simon said, ‘but all I know is, he appears to look down on anyone who is lower than a knight. It’s all right for you, old friend, but he has ignored me all the way here as though I was a churl — or a felon.’

‘And the good part about it is, he won’t want you to continue with him anywhere. He looks down upon you, you think? In that case, Beaulieu is the end of our official travelling, Simon. We can return home!’

‘Aha. Yes. He is not so bad, when you look upon him in that sort of light,’ Simon agreed amiably.

A guard at the inner gatehouse stood in front of the Bishop. He was clad in the King’s colours. ‘Who are you and what do you want?’

‘I am the Bishop of Orange, and I have urgent messages for the King from the Pope, and his wife in France.’

And suddenly Simon saw the Bishop change. He lost his absent appearance, and now he bent, glowering at the guard, fully alert and boldly seated in his saddle.

‘Open the gates and allow me to pass.’

In the corner of a room high overhead, he watched them closely. The Bishop he had seen before, although the man’s name wouldn’t come to mind just yet. He’d have to remind himself who it was later.

Thomas of Bakewell pushed himself away from the wall where he had been whittling at a stick, and used it to pick at a scrap of pork in his teeth. His wisdom teeth had been giving him hell for some time, but the pain had reduced now and, instead, he found that they were a storehouse for every shred of meat and vegetable after a meal. Not ideal. And irritating when a man was sitting on a horse. Sucking never seemed to work. It just hurt his tongue.

He swept a little dust from his tabard. Wherever you went in this place, the walls were freshly limewashed, which was nice to look at, but played merry hell with a man’s clothing. Especially when it was this dark. A king’s herald was always on show, and woe betide the man who allowed himself to look scruffy in the King’s presence.

Not that Tom wanted to. He was proud of his position. After his brother died, it was the Queen herself who spoke to him so kindly, so understandingly. She was a mere child, almost, then, only just old enough to have married, so some twelve years old, and yet she displayed more generosity of spirit than the monks in the abbey or any of the knights. They all looked on Tom as a nuisance to be removed urgently so as not to disrupt their great day.

It was because of the Queen that Tom had a job now. Taken in by her, into her household, he was given the job of learning the job of a kitchen boy at first, then page, and finally she permitted him to enter her service as a messenger. Which was fine until the King saw fit to destroy her household and exile all her French staff. At least the English were taken into his own household so that they could work for him direct.

The royal family had been good to him. Yes, very good. But he would have traded every suit of clothing, every free drink, every wonderful meal, just to have had another week with his dear brother John.