The Prophecy of Death

Chapter Twenty-Five

Beaulieu

Jack set about his own packing early in the morning. There was little for him to worry about. A small parcel of clothes which was bound inside a linen sack, a goatskin for some wine, a leather wallet with some bread, smoked sausage and cheese, and a pair of thick fustian blankets, rolled tightly and bound with thongs, for the colder nights. He pulled his cloak about him, and he was ready.

Everyone else here appeared to be preparing to leave as well. The Bishop of Orange was watching carefully as men stored his papers in a cart, the King’s steward and Despenser’s bottler were stalking about among the wagons and sumpter horses ensuring that all was packed, while clerks of the various departments of state were hurrying about, squeaking at men who looked as though they might drop a chest or misstore a box in the wrong wagon, and generally getting in the way of everyone else while making themselves thoroughly miserable at the same time.

It was not the kind of sight a man like Jack would see often in a lifetime. Once, he would have stood here on the steps near a hall watching for very different reasons. Then he would have been here to assess the best method of stealing as much as possible. He would have kept an eye on the wagons so that he could see which was holding all the gold or coins. Treasure was best, of course, because a handful of rubies was lighter than its value in coin. Yes, there had been a time when he would have been eyeing all this with carefully concealed desire. But not today.

Strange to think that a man like him could change so much. Yet he had. What had he been? A farmer, a sailor, a fisherman, an outlaw, and now a guard. Honourable again, he knew he was a rarity. Most men, if they once turned out bad, were bad for life. That was what all said. A man who became a felon was as dangerous as a wolf. That’s why they were called ‘wolfshead’, and the law entitled any man to strike off their head without fear of punishment.

It was just. A man who was determined to be evil, who wanted to make his living by stealing and taking the property of others deserved his end, he told himself — and then gave a wry grin. Strange how quickly a man’s attitude would change to reflect his new reality.

The carts and wagons were for the most part filled by the middle of the morning. Clerks and men-at-arms stood about looking weary already before the last sumpter horse had been fully packed, and Jack took stock.

Over on the left the marshal of the horses stood frowning at a horse which was holding a hoof in the air, injured, while the yeoman of the horses berated two grooms for some infraction in the beast’s treatment. Nearby were the wagons set aside for the King’s favourite treasures. They were filled with the leather chests bound with iron, which, earlier, Jack had seen packed with cotton before having the more easily damaged goods installed, the expensive silver plates and bowls, the salt and mazers of gold. The buttery had been more or less squeezed into four different wagons, the barrels all chocked and held in place with ropes, while the other foodstuffs were kept in a pair of wagons behind. All in all, with the men milling about the place and the noise of the hounds, it was impossible to concentrate on anything.

This was an enormous household. Jack hadn’t appreciated just how large before, because many of the men and most of the horses, the palfreys, sumpters and many dexters, had all been lodged elsewhere in the neighbourhood — there were too many to expect the good Abbot of Beaulieu to support on his own at one location. Of course, not everyone would travel together. The harbingers had already gone. One from the King’s chamber, a clerk from his kitchen, a servant from his hall, and a pair of servants from his kitchen staff. They left very early, so as to make sure that the next stop would have food and drink waiting. Meanwhile, the second team to go was the party who had the clothsack. They had the King’s personal items with them, all his clothing and basic articles, and would leave shortly. After them would come the King, once he had eaten his meal. With him would be the steward, his marshals of the hall and chamber, the sewer and other servants who would serve him, and all his men-at-arms and knights. Finally, all the other servants and main baggage would follow on behind.

Jack shook his head. He would be travelling with the Bishop in the main party with the King, so he had heard. It would be a slow business, though. On the way here, they had managed between thirty and forty miles each day, striving hard to make the journey as swiftly as possible, and now all was being delayed for the King’s pleasure. The Bishop had hoped to be back at Avignon with the Pope by now, but instead here they were, waiting on the King’s letter. He wanted to write to the Pope, he said, so the Bishop must hold up here, and hope to receive the letter before winter arrived. And in the meanwhile, their journeying would be far lengthier than necessary. The King would probably only make fifteen miles a day or so. Jack had heard a servant talking about the speed of the King’s father, Edward I, who had managed twenty, but Jack seriously doubted that anyone could do that with so many wagons. The damned things were so slow and unmanoeuvrable, and every time they came to a hill, the dexters hauling would fail, and the grooms of the marshalsea would have to go and hire some oxen to pull them up. No, it would slow things down immeasurably.

All of which was frustrating. But there was nothing he could do about it, and besides, he was in no hurry personally. Jack idled the early morning away, watching the preparations with some amusement.

Until, that is, he saw the man in a herald’s uniform.

Lydford

‘How could he have let the bastard loose?’ Simon demanded. He clenched a fist and slammed it into his cupped hand. ‘Sweet Jesus! Didn’t he know the bastard would be a threat to us?’

The messenger from the Bishop stood, somewhat disconcerted by the reaction to his news, and immediately Wolf grumbled deep in his throat. The man looked at him, alarmed. ‘I was only asked to come and tell-’

Baldwin shook his head at the man, and held out both hands soothingly. ‘Simon, be calm! Wolf! Silent!’

‘My love,’ Margaret said, pale but calm, ‘he is an old friend. I feel sure he would never knowingly put us in danger. He knows us all so well, and he is so kindly towards us. Can you imagine him willingly hurting us or our children? Of course not!’

‘Whether he intended it or not is irrelevant, Meg,’ Simon said harshly. ‘That goat-swyving churl is a danger to us while he lives, if he remains with his master and in Despenser’s service.’

She was silent as he stalked away and stared from the window.

‘I begin to wonder whether the Bishop is truly our friend,’ he said, and there was a cold tone to his voice she hadn’t heard before.

She turned to the messenger. ‘Was there anything else the good bishop wished us to know?’

‘Like I say, he has released the man Wattere, but only because Sir Hugh le Despenser has asked for his man to be sent back to him so that his transgressions may be investigated.’

‘I suppose Bishop Walter couldn’t do that himself in Exeter?’

‘Simon!’ Margaret snapped. ‘Let the man finish!’

‘He has been taken by the Bishop with his entourage. The Bishop has been summoned to advise the King in Westminster. He told me to tell you that it is a matter of grave importance about the affairs in France. And he said to tell you that the man will not be likely to come here to trouble you. He will remain with the Bishop all the way to London.’

‘How reassuring!’

She hated seeing her husband like this. It was unnecessary; pointless. She had been nervous, of course, when the horrible man had turned up and threatened her. It wasn’t something she was used to, having been a bailiff’s wife for so long. People usually tended to show her and her family respect. But perhaps this was just a sign of the troubles to come.

Simon and she had known that when the Abbot of Tavistock died, it was possible that their lives could become more difficult, for Simon had already been sent to Dartmouth to work, ironically, as a kind gesture by Abbot Champeaux, who thought he was rewarding Simon for all his work in the past years. Sadly, though, it was the worst thing he could have done. It split their family, and made it extremely difficult for Simon to maintain contact with their children. Let alone the debilitating effect it had on his relationship with Meg herself. When she heard that poor Abbot Robert had died, she was slightly relieved to hear it. She knew that with Abbot Robert gone, there would be a change in power at the abbey which must inevitably lead to Simon being asked to give up his post on the coast.

As had happened. However, she had not been prepared for the fact that both of the protagonists seeking the abbacy might try to put someone in Simon’s place on the moors as well. If he were not to have his old post as bailiff, when he had already lost his position at Dartmouth, then what would they do for money? It was hard to tell. Perhaps he would be forced to leave this area completely?

At least Simon was not a serf of the abbey. He was one of Sir Hugh de Courtenay’s men, so he could leave here whenever he wanted, and they could return to their farm, if need be. The little farm near Sandford. It would be a shame to leave this house. She had been very happy here — but the farm was a good property, too. It had been a wrench when she had first been told that Simon had won the post at Lydford. With a sad little smile, she could now remind herself that she had not wanted to come here. It was odd how attitudes could change.

It was Jeanne who tried to placate him now. ‘He tries to be your friend.’

‘You don’t understand,’ Simon said.

‘I think she understands better than you, Simon,’ Baldwin said.

‘What does that mean?’ Simon demanded.

Margaret said, ‘Surely if Despenser’s demanded the release of his man, the Bishop can hardly refuse? The Despenser is the most powerful man in the country after the King, you keep telling me.’

‘He is, yes, but the Bishop must be almost as powerful. The King listens to him, and-’

‘There is no “and”, Simon,’ Baldwin said. ‘You were in London with me. You saw how the King deferred to Despenser. The two are close. Very close. And the good bishop has little power compared with Sir Hugh.’

Simon turned to face him. His face showed his bitterness and concern. Margaret would almost have called it fear. ‘You want me to just accept it, then? Should I give up my home here? Make a gift of it to Despenser? What is it to him, after all? The man has so much, so many houses, castles, entire provinces! What does he want with this little place?’

Margaret shook her head. ‘He doesn’t care about the size. From all you’ve said, he’s like a hound who feeds until he cannot eat more. He won’t stop eating because he’s full, because he doesn’t know when he can gorge again; in the same way Despenser won’t stop stealing all he can because he doesn’t know how to. While he is in a position to, he will seek to continue taking all he can.’

She stopped and looked about her. This little house had been her delight. She still loved it. That screen she had had built a while ago, a neat, wooden construction that kept their private chambers beyond warmer and less draughty. She had had paintings on the wall, one of St Rumon, the patron saint of the Abbey at Tavistock, and one of St Boniface of Crediton, to remind them always where they had come from, where they had been so happy. This had been her home for almost ten years. It was a long time. Hard to give it all up. But better that than find a man like Wattere appearing again.

‘No man just keeps stealing for the fun of making mischief, though,’ her husband was saying.

‘But, Husband, he isn’t. He is doing this to upset you, as he has succeeded, and to upset Baldwin through you,’ she said. ‘Why else would he do this?’

Simon stopped and stared at her. It was Baldwin who responded, though.

‘I think you are quite right, Margaret.’

‘What can we do, then, Baldwin?’ Simon said. ‘If you two are correct, and the evil bastard son of a whore is trying to anger you and me, what should I do?’

‘Well, there is little point arguing with his henchman,’ Baldwin said. ‘It is he alone who can prevent any further problems.’

‘But would he? He hates us both, so he’ll hardly want to help us, will he? He could deny all knowledge of Wattere’s actions, and support Wattere in the background, and we’d not be able to do anything. We could take Wattere to court, and with his money, Despenser would be able to bribe any justice, any jury … I would be ruined in no time.’

‘There is no point, Simon,’ Margaret said sadly. She looked about her again. The picture of St Boniface had a lovely smile to the face, and she smiled with a weariness she hadn’t known since her boy had been weaned. ‘He has won the battle. There is no point in struggling against him. We should rent this house, and move back to Sandford. That way, we gain more time. And it won’t matter, because you aren’t Bailiff any more.’

‘You want to give up all we have done here?’

She looked at Baldwin. ‘How many men and women has he killed?’

‘I don’t know. Many, though.’

‘Simon, I cannot lose you, and I cannot risk losing Peterkin. The house is just a house. We have another. Perhaps if we move back to Sandford, he will leave us alone.’

‘Perhaps he will, at that,’ Baldwin said, to her surprise. And then he continued, ‘But I should feel happier if I had brought the whole matter to the attention of the King himself. And I think that he owes you and I a favour, Simon.’

Beaulieu

Thomas of Bakewell never felt entirely right here among all the King’s men. At heart, he was still the Queen’s, heart and soul. He would never forget her lovely face, only a little older than his own, and the frown of compassion on it as she smoothed the hair from his brow that dreadful day of the King’s coronation.

Not the only thing that went wrong, either. There were other problems. The barons all deprecated the fabulous riches worn by the King’s past lover, Piers Gaveston, the smarmy son of an impoverished Breton knight, whom the old King had exiled. Gaveston was cocky and rude, and he seemed to set out to upset all the most powerful in the land, giving them insulting nicknames and then using them in front of others. And it wasn’t helped that he was enormously competent in the lists. He beat all the older barons in a tournament.

But on that coronation day, he inspired more than jealousy or contempt. He may have set the scene for the difficulties between the King and Queen — and France.

The Queen had arrived with a fabulous dowry, not only lands, but many jewels as well. And on the evening of the coronation, she saw that Gaveston was wearing them. This was a mortal insult to her, and to those members of her family who were also there. It was a miracle, so she said later, that no one had demanded to know how the primping fool had acquired them all. But then, no one needed to. They all saw perfectly clearly how the King fawned on his ‘brother’. Sickening.

Yes, the Queen had the patience and kindness of a saint to have coped with her husband for so long. His infidelities, his deceits, his conceits, and his string of friends and advisers, on whom he lavished ever more inappropriate gifts — he could not help himself.

Thomas shook his head, hefted his little pack and blankets, and continued on his way out to his horse. He was to ride off with the King and his men, and had best hurry, for the King and his companions had almost finished their meal.

He walked from his room, down a narrow staircase, and along the passage at the side of the hall, until he came to the open air again — and was suddenly shouldered back inside.

‘What in God’s name-’ he spluttered, reaching for his sword.

Immediately a knife was at his throat, just behind his chin, pointing upwards, making him lift his head and stop struggling. There was a man at his back, who said slyly, ‘Didn’t you hear me, Herald?’

A Welshman, Thomas noted, but that didn’t mean anything for a moment. Then he heard footsteps, and he rolled his eyes to see who it might be. As he did so, he saw Sir Hugh le Despenser appear. He was ready for the journey, cloaked and gloved, but as he approached Thomas, he tugged at the fingers of his left glove, gently easing it off. At last in front of Thomas, he gripped it in his right hand and slapped Thomas twice on each side of his face. The heavy leather made his cheeks smart, and there was a loose rivet, which slashed his cheek open near his jaw.

‘That, Herald, is merely a beginning,’ Despenser said. ‘I want to know where the oil is. Where did you hide it?’

‘What oil? I don’t know what you mean, Sir Hugh.’

‘I’m glad to see you know who I am. Now listen to me carefully, Herald.’ Despenser approached closely and leaned near to Thomas, so that Thomas could see little other than his eyes, peering into his own with a look of mild enquiry. ‘You were coming back that way, weren’t you? You met with Richard de Yatton, and you killed him. Why do that? Just because he saw you there?’

Thomas frowned up at him. ‘I don’t know what you are talking about, Sir Hugh. I went up to-’

‘Canterbury. I know. And while there, you stole oil from the monks and killed one. I don’t know why, but I am not bothered about him. What is one monk, more or less? Nothing. But the oil you took, that is valuable, my friend. And murdering a king’s herald, that is still more terrible. The King has a habit of not forgiving those who shame him, and he does, I fear, consider men who steal from him to be profoundly embarrassing to him personally. He will not be pleased with you, I fear.’

‘Then take me to him now. I have done nothing.’

‘I don’t know if I believe you.’

Thomas shook his head. ‘I don’t know what you are talking about.’

‘Open his bags,’ Despenser commanded.

Thomas watched silently, keeping absolutely still as the knife under his jaw pressed upwards. He was sure he could feel the dribble of blood at the tip as the second man with Despenser took his dagger to the roll of blankets. He cut through the hempen string binding them, and unrolled them. There was nothing inside, but the man was nothing if not thorough. He ran his blade along the blankets until there was nothing but a shredded mess. Nothing useable.

The pack was a simple canvas one with a single strap. He took his knife to this too, opening the material and laying the lining bare. All the items inside were taken out and studied, before being crushed or ruined. There was nothing inside of real value, for Thomas had never owned anything of genuine worth, but the sight of the man merely ravaging his property for no reason was enough to set Thomas’s blood racing.

‘Not here, then, eh? We’ll find it,’ Despenser said coolly. ‘And when we do, I’ll take you to the King myself for judgement. You’d best be ready for that.’

‘I do not have it.’

‘What made you kill Richard? Eh? What had he done to you to deserve such ill-use? Or the monk, come to that? And after the poor devil had brought you the oil in the first place. It doesn’t seem very kindly to accept his aid, and then cut his throat.’

Suddenly there was a shout, and Thomas felt the man behind him slowly release his hold, the knife blade running slowly to the line of his jaw-bone, then backwards to beneath his ear, where it remained a short while. Then it was gone. Meanwhile Despenser and his other man had retreated, and now were out of sight.

He was alone again. Gradually he sank to his knees, then fell forwards to all fours, choking and retching with shame and rage, as another man hurried to him.

‘Are you all right?’ Jack demanded.

Thomas was so relieved, he could not speak, but instead closed his eyes and allowed his head to droop.