The Prophecy of Death

Chapter Twenty-Four

Lydford

It was a very exhausted Bailiff Puttock who was assisted by his wife to his bedchamber that night. Peterkin had already fallen into his truckle bed, and Simon and Margaret stood undressing, both watching their remaining child.

‘For all the arguing and troubles over the years, the house will seem quiet without her,’ Margaret said ruminatively.

‘That little devil will make up for any lack of noise on her part,’ Simon said with a mild belch. ‘He’s already taken it upon himself to talk more than all the rest of us put together.’

Margaret smiled, then lifted her tunic over and off. She only wore a linen shirt beneath, and this she now removed as well, before climbing into bed. Sitting up, she watched her man undress.

He was still firm in the body. Every so often he would put on weight, but then the rigours of his work on the moors would wear it away again. That was the case in the past, anyway. The last months, living away from her, while he was working in Dartmouth, had made him lose more weight than before, and as she looked at him, she saw how the lines had become more deeply graven into his forehead. He was a good man, she knew. All through the dreadful times when she had been trying to give him another son, he had been sympathetic, calm, generous … and all the while he was desperate for a little boy to replace the one they lost.

It was some years since that appalling disease had struck. Poor little boy, he had died slowly, and Simon had never forgiven himself. Whereas usually he was the calmest, kindest father and husband, the one thing he could never abide was witnessing one whom he loved suffering pain. And their little boy had died so miserably, vomiting, screaming, with diarrhoea, and unable to eat or drink anything at all. It had torn at both of them to see him fade away, but Simon found it harder. He had once admitted to her that he blamed himself because he had wished the child to die at the end. He was so exhausted by the three days of sitting up and trying to comfort the boy, that the end was almost a blessing. And Simon never forgave himself for that.

It was sad, too, that Edith had always been ‘his’ child. They had an unholy alliance, Margaret sometimes felt, against any form of order in the house. And now he had lost her. She was in love with another man. It must be terrible, she felt, to be a parent and see the love which once had been specifically reserved for you to be passed over to another. It was something she feared herself, because she knew that Peterkin, her little Peterkin, would always be closer to her than to Simon, and she knew that when Peterkin was old enough, she would be desolate to see him leave the home and start his own family.

Ah, well. All mothers have to accept that. Once they have given life, they have to keep on giving, until they’ve given so much that their son can leave. And the mother must hope there’s enough life left within her to keep herself alive for a little longer.

‘Feeling lecherous, wench?’ her husband leered.

She looked up and smiled. In truth, she had hardly ever felt less lecherous in her life. Yet Simon had been a good husband to her, and if she were being truthful, the loss of her daughter made her ache with sadness. She was an old woman now. Soon she might hear that she would be a grandam. She was unsure how she could cope with that.

Margaret was filled with a warm sense of love for him. This was no duty, it was a proof of her affection for him. Moving aside, she made space for him, opening her legs to ease his entry. She had the marriage debt still to pay, after all. As did her daughter now, she thought with a twinge. She hoped Edith would take as much pleasure from the debt as she always did.

Simon grunted with pleasure, smiled down at her, belched, and then, resting his head on her bosom, began to snore.

Monday before Ascension Day²⁹

Eltham

Up as dawn was breaking, Richard of Bury found that his charge was already out of his bed and on a horse.

It was one more proof of his mental and physical fitness. The lad seemed determined always to show himself as capable as any other, no matter what the task. He was exactly the sort of fellow who would, when King, lead his hosts from the front rank. ‘Never ask others to do what you would not dare yourself’ appeared to be his motto. And since he believed that a strong man needed to make the most of every day, and a fit man would be first to rise in the morning so he could take advantage of every moment of sunshine, he was usually one of the earliest to be out of his bed. It made his guards deeply unhappy.

The Earl had always been a strong-willed lad, Richard of Bury considered. Not only did he have a mental rigour when considering abstruse philosophical arguments, but he could also be quite ruthless in his reasoning when he thought about more practical matters of kingship. When a fellow took into account the fact that he was born of such a disastrous marriage, it was perhaps no great surprise, but the mental powers which he possessed were still impressive. They would have been in a much older man.

Some might have said that he was callous, that he was cold and unemotional when viewing other people and their needs, but to Richard of Bury that was essential. A king was first and foremost the supreme arbiter of justice, and any man who would be King must be entirely impartial — unless it was an issue that affected his own authority or the realm, of course. Then the two must override all other considerations, naturally.

That the lad had the ability, Richard did not doubt. He was a thoroughly effective student, and appeared to appreciate all that Richard told him of past kings, and his analysis of what had made them great.

They had held an interesting discussion this morning, for example, while walking outside in the court.

‘So, my Earl, what do you think of the present disputes between your father and your uncle?’

The Earl had smiled slightly. ‘The King my father has a fully legitimate claim to the lands which are the remnants of the lands which he inherited. My mother brought a great deal of France with her as her dower, and it would be shameful to deprive her of that. But my uncle also has his own realm to consider. He is the King of a great land, and it has to be his desire that he might one day bring all under his authority. While my father holds on to his lands and refuses to pay homage to my uncle, his loyalty is suspect. And if my father does go there, he is accepting the fact that he is subservient to my uncle. That would be a galling draught to swallow for any man.’

‘Can there be a resolution?’

‘Only if the two crowns are united, or if they are entirely separated. If my father had no lands in France, there would be no issue. Or if my father was King of both England and France, there would also be no difficulty. It is merely this intermediate stage, when both are King, and yet one should pay homage to the other, that creates all the trouble.’

‘I see. So how would you resolve it?’

The boy looked up at the towering beech trees and for that moment looked just like any other young boy: innocent, guileless, but looking for the next mischief he could cause.

‘Me? I would stake all on a great gamble. I would raise a host and go to France to conquer her. I would take her in a series of mighty battles, relying on my ability to move about the land at speed with a number of knights and men-at-arms all mounted on horses. Forget the idea of a series of long-drawn-out sieges of cities. We would ride out on chevauchée and devastate the countryside, eating all the foodstocks, burning what we could not eat. It would be a case of ravaging the country to prevent the people from ever living comfortably again. And I would force the French King to meet me in battle, and I would destroy his forces. And once I had him captured, I would treat him with great humility and generosity, as an equal. Because the war could only be won through the magnificence of chivalry. Like Arthur, I would be magnanimous in victory, but relentless in pursuit of it. All would hear my approach and tremble.’

‘Interesting. And do you think you would be able to command enough men to make such a prospect even remotely possible?’ Richard said, half jesting. ‘You do realise that for every English knight the French King has five or six? His is a greater land than all England.’

‘I would do it.’ There was an unsettling certainty in his tone. ‘I would create more knights from the wealthy, and those who refused to accept knighthood would needs must pay a fine to permit me to fund two men-at-arms. A king must have the men he needs to fight his wars. Of course, my father cannot do this.’

‘Why?’

‘He has lost the respect of his men. When he succeeded at Boroughbridge, many were prepared to give him their respect, but that all ended when he treated his victims so shamefully. That caused others to fear him. And when the Despenser family took so many spoils, people grew to despise him. There is no respect for him. And since Boroughbridge, he has lost more battles, hasn’t he? That is no way to inspire his men. So he cannot go to France. His barons would not trust his generalship, and his men would not have faith in his largesse.’

‘You can reason very clearly. Although I should say that your father the King has the love and adoration of all his loyal subjects, of course.’

‘Yes. You should say that. But do not pretend that you believe it, Bury. We both know the truth.’

‘May I ask how you came to such a conclusion, then?’

‘It is very easy, Master Bury. When I look at an issue, I try to think how one of your heroes would have viewed the same problem. And I try to emulate the greatest of them all, Arthur. How would Arthur have looked at an affair like the breakdown between England and France? How would he have resolved it? After that it becomes very simple. He was a man of honour, chivalry and enormous power. All I need do to succeed is copy him.’

‘And you can be so rational about the present position?’

‘You mean my father, don’t you?’ the boy said with a little sigh. ‘Well, of course I know I ought to be more plainly loyal and devoted to him, but the truth is, it is difficult. I hardly ever see him now. He is always roving about the country, and I know he is very fearful of losing the Agenais and Guyenne for ever. He would be devastated by that, but it is really no worse than his loss of Scotland. And he appears to have accepted that.’

‘You think so?’

The Earl turned to him with such an adult look on his face that Bury shrugged and apologised.

‘I am sorry, my Lord. Yes, of course he has. He has negotiated, and a man with whom you negotiate, you assume has the power to do so. If the King will negotiate with the Bruce, he has demonstrated that he believes the Bruce to be the actual authority in Scotland.’

‘Precisely. And the reason why he feels now more than ever he must resort to negotiating is nothing to do with the Bruce himself. It’s not him my father fears.’

‘Who, then? The French?’

‘Master Richard, I seriously believe I may have to instruct you, my tutor! No, of course not. He fears his own mightiest and greatest general, Sir Roger Mortimer. The traitor who now lives in France or somewhere. That man is the real danger to our realm. Not the Bruce. The Bruce and Scotland are merely a distraction.’

‘So what do you think King Arthur would do?’ Bury asked with a smile.

‘You mean if he were King? He would not have come to this pass.’

‘So, if you were to become King, what would you do, bearing in mind how matters stand?’

‘I would have to curry favour with my uncle, and betray my father.’

Now, back in his chamber, Bury could see the expression on the lad’s face once more. There was no sign of irony there. Only a fixed, serious concentration. Bury was sure that the lad meant what he said. If he had been King at the time, the realm would not have come to this pass. And if he were to take over in the near future, he would be forced to become a traitor to his own father.

He also wondered … the boy looked as though he could easily plot to do just that … but no. No, that was stretching things too far. He was a lad of not yet thirteen years. There was no possibility of his planning anything at his age.

Still, he was plainly the right heir to Arthur, just as the prophecy foretold.

A series of shouts from outside made him look up, momentarily forgetting his disturbed thoughts. He went to the window and peered down into the courtyard, and saw a messenger dismounting and stretching.

‘Message for the Earl of Chester.’

As Earl Edward’s tutor, he was soon to hear that the message was a summons to Westminster. Usually that would be a cause of excitement for Richard of Bury, because any excuse to go to the centre of power was reason for rejoicing, as it also involved excellent food and drink. But not today. Today Bury had a cold sensation in his belly. He remembered that look on the boy’s face the other day, a week ago, when he had seen Earl Edward. That day, the Earl had seemed on the verge of saying something. In God’s name, he hoped the Earl hadn’t done anything that could be regretted.

Perhaps his tutoring of the boy had been too rational, too worldly. Maybe he should stop the teaching of political and military achievement from ancient Greece to Rome, and instead, concentrate on less martial subjects.

But how could he deny the training Arthur’s heir demanded?

Lydford

Baldwin was already outside in the little garden when Simon rose that Monday morning. It was a lovely, fresh, late spring day. The clouds were few, and high in the sky, the sun casting long shadows this early, and there was a fine dew on the grass as Baldwin went through his exercises.

Simon sat on an upturned stump. Soon afterwards Wolf came and sat beside him, leaning against his thigh and resting his head on Simon’s leg, staring up at him beseechingly, demanding his attention. Simon patted his chest, enjoying the peace of the morning. Both their wives were still in their beds, as was Simon’s son. Baldwin’s children were still at his house. Jeanne had left them with their nurses rather than make the journey too slow. She would not be here for long, after all.

As he watched, the knight span and whirled, sword in his right hand, now in his left, making the movements that had been taught to him as a Templar. His order had placed a great deal of emphasis on daily weapons practice, and now Baldwin’s muscles were inured to the routine. He stood with his sword up, point angled downwards, right hand over his forehead, left hand flat like a blade, over his belly, where he could slap away an attack. Then he whirled, sword sweeping about, until he stopped with his right fist at his belt buckle, sword pointing upwards to block, left hand over his breast. Each manoeuvre carefully distinct, every time the blade glimmering with speed, only to halt firmly, unwavering. And as uncompromising as the movements of the steel was the expression on his face.

‘You should train as well,’ Baldwin said.

‘At this time of day? I don’t think so.’

‘At any time, Simon,’ Baldwin said.

Simon gave a twisted smile and nodded towards his shoulder and hand. ‘With the wounds still this fresh? Meg would kill me if I opened them.’

‘Aye, you may have a point there.’ Baldwin grinned. He sheathed his sword before wiping a forearm over his sweaty brow. ‘Let us not be fools. We both know that Despenser sent his man to you to make a threat. But the fact that we bested his man may lead Despenser to decide to try again, just to soothe his feelings of injured pride. He does not need your land or house, but the fact you stood up to him and prevented him from taking it makes it unbearably tempting for him.’

‘What will William Wattere do about it?’ Simon scoffed. ‘He’s in gaol.’

‘For now. Do not forget that Bishop Walter is a close associate of Sir Hugh Despenser. Despenser is perfectly capable of demanding that his man be freed. He will twist the King’s arm until he has a pardon, or perhaps he will simply deny that there is a case to answer and have his man released by threatening the Bishop.’

‘How could he threaten the Bishop?’

‘Simon, to my knowledge, he has stolen lands from ladies up and down the country. He has threatened and captured men, and taken all he wanted from them. He has deprived men and women of their treasure. He will stop at nothing to maintain his power and authority, and if he finds a man is in his way, he will do all he can to force him to move. Now if news of your success against his man was to become known, he would be in an intolerable position: he would be in a situation where others could see that he could be prevented. If men see that an outlaw can be stopped, they do not fear that outlaw again. It is only the ruthless exercise of might that keeps Despenser in power. Take away that might, and he becomes a nothing. That is what he fears.’

‘So what do you propose that I do?’

‘Keep a wary ear on any sounds of escape from the Bishop’s gaol. So shall I. If Wattere is freed, we know that Despenser is tensing his muscles ready for some kind of demonstration. And beyond that, plan to defend your home.’

‘You do not fill me with confidence.’

‘I fear I have little enough of it,’ Baldwin said heavily.

It was later that same day that they heard Wattere had been released.