The Prophecy of Death

Chapter One

Monday following Easter in the eighteenth year of the reign of King Edward II⁴

Eltham Palace

He was not yet thirteen years old, but he could still remember the horror of those days. Three years had passed, but he would never forget them. Not if he lived to be a hundred.

At first he had been confused. Only a boy, he had grown to appreciate the men of his household, great men, good men, who were entirely trusted. Knights, squires, even lords, had been his companions all his life, and he admired them, all of them. Everyone did. They were the pinnacle of nobility.

Many great men lived in his own private household: Damory, Audley, Macauley — they were the men he could look up to. Other than the King, they were the men he respected most in the world.

But his world was about to collapse about him.

It was no sudden shock. He knew that now, but to a lad of only nine and a half years it had come with the vast speed of a river in spate, washing away all before it. He had listened in horror to the tales of death and torture with utter incomprehension. In truth, the catastrophe was a long time building, had he but known it. But he was so young when the civil war began, he couldn’t see that this was a ponderous disaster that had been constructed on the foundations of hatred over ten years — before his birth. It was the result of the King’s capricious nature. King Edward II had long resented the attitude of the men who thwarted his whims. To the King’s mind, he had the inalienable right of the Crown. God had made him King. None other. So no man had the right to overrule him. There was no one with the right to stand against him, and yet many tried.

The first rebellion, so the King said, was when his close friend Piers Gaveston was captured and murdered by the earls of Hereford, Lancaster and Warwick. Gaveston had been the recipient of too much of the King’s largesse, and the earls resented royal generosity at the expense of others who had more noble birth. So they took the King’s adviser and killed him.

When Gaveston was removed, the King seemed to settle and willingly spend his time with his other friends and his family. The birth of his first son gave him enormous pleasure and pride, so they said. But the King was not content. And soon he found a new favourite — a man of such rapacious greed that he set all the land against himself and the King: Sir Hugh le Despenser. It was his fault that there was a fresh civil war.

The Lords Marcher allied themselves with the lords of the far north and rampaged over the territories owned by the Despenser. They burned and looted all the vast Despenser estates, and then marched upon London, forcing humiliating terms on the King, demanding that he exile his friend and agree to rule within limitations set by them. It was degrading for a man of pride; shameful for a King. So, at the first opportunity, the King took action, and the war was finally concluded when he encircled the rebels at Boroughbridge.

If only he had shown tolerance and demonstrated that magnanimity which was the mark of a great man … but King Edward II was driven by baser motives. Instead of accepting apologies and forgiving those who had shown him such disregard, the King launched a ferocious attack on all those who had set their standards against him.

His own cousin, Earl Thomas of Lancaster, was led to a field on a donkey, and there beheaded. The Lords Clifford and Mowbray were executed at York, and up and down the country lords, knights and squires were hanged. The tarred bodies were left there on the gibbets, pecked over and desiccated, for two years and more, proof of the vindictiveness of the man who ruled the nation.

Except he didn’t. Not alone. He had left his wife, and it was he and Despenser who controlled the management of the realm together, for all the world as close as lovers. Both of them feared by his subjects; both of them hated.

No king could be universally loved, of course. The boy may be just twelve years old, but he knew this; he had been well tutored, and he had read enough of the lives of Arthur, Alexander and others to know that a powerful leader would always have his enemies. But this was taking matters too far. It was one thing to alienate certain members of the nobility, but another entirely to turn even a wife against him. And her children.

Especially, Edward of Windsor, the Earl of Chester and first-born son of King Edward II, told himself, when it meant losing the trust and love of your own heir.

Night of Monday and Tuesday following Easter⁵

Christ Church Priory, Canterbury

It was the howling of the blasted creatures that woke him — again — and Mark of Faversham rolled over in his little cot with a grunt and a muttered oath, rubbing at his eyes.

By the names of all things Holy, they were terrible. Here he was, a man in his middle forties, worn, old, and in need of his sleep, in God’s name, and each night the damned creatures would wake him. And if they could wake him, they could wake anyone. It wasn’t as though Mark was a light sleeper. If they could get through to him, they could wake half the monks in the cemetery.

The things were worse than bloody wolves descending on an innocent flock. Locusts had nothing on them. He had managed this estate with efficiency, with economy, and with cautious good sense over some years now, and built it into a modern, profitable little manor. And it still would be, if it wasn’t for her damned hounds!

The prior hadn’t wanted them. Hounds were an expense Henry of Eastry could well do without. Who on earth would want them eating the priory’s wealth week in and week out? Not Prior Henry. He knew the way that they could eat through food. It wasn’t as if you could throw them all the crusts from the table, either. Oh no. Dear God in Heaven, what would she say if she heard that? And she would. There was always someone looking for a small reward, and the hope of largesse to follow, by speaking out of turn.

He pulled on boots and, without bothering to lace them, stomped over the floor to the truckle bed in the eaves, kicking it. Twice.

The first served only to set the figure snuffling and grunting, which was at least better than the rumbling, discontented snoring, but at the second blow, there was a short rasping snort, and the fellow sat upright, bending over to the side of the bed so he didn’t brain himself on the rafters angled over his head. ‘Hey? Wa’?’

‘The bloody hounds again,’ Mark growled unsympathetically. ‘The Queen’s hounds.’

‘Not again! Sweet Jesus’ pains, can’t the things sleep like everyone else?’

‘Not everyone, Hal. Not you and me.’ Mark took the candle from the wall’s sconce, and set it on the floor beside him as he knelt, reaching for his tinderbox.

‘Thanks, Brother. Thanks for reminding me,’ Harry said.

He flopped back on his bed as Mark struck again and again with flint and steel to light some tinder. It was hard in the dark. The flash of sparks illuminated the tinder at the first attempt, but that brief explosion of light blinded him for the next three, and he kept missing the target, sending sparks flying uselessly to the rough timber floor.

Hal had been a Godsend to Mark. For too many years he had tried to manage this estate with the help that the lay brothers could provide during those odd moments when they had time to spare. But it was never enough, and when a man had a sudden emergency, like when he discovered that the shepherd had fallen and broken his head on a rock, and the sheep were all escaped, a man needed more than the promise of some aid towards the middle of next week, in God’s name!

Prior Henry was good, though. When his steward went to him and explained about the problems, he listened sympathetically, and told him to leave the matter with him. Mark had thought he meant he’d to dispose of Mark’s complaints in the same way his predecessor always had, by ignoring his troubles and hoping that the problem would go away. It was often the way that priors would deal with their more difficult staff — tell them not to bring problems but solutions, and threaten punishment if they continued to bother their betters. And then Hal arrived, young, strong, keen, and eminently capable.

At first Mark made the usual uncharitable assumption: that the boy was the love-child of the prior, and the prior had found him the best post he could while not admitting paternity. But more recently Mark was forced to consider that the lad was nothing of the sort. Apart from anything else, he came from a place some distance from the priory, and Mark had never heard that the prior had ever been up that way. Then again, the prior seemed to show no interest in the lad’s development. No, Mark was forced to conclude that Hal was nothing more than a boy whom the Prior had heard of, who happened to be bright enough, and who Prior Henry considered might be a useful additional body to have in the priory. He came from a good area — other novices had come from his part of Kent, like John, Simon and Gilbert. They were all from the same vill, almost.

‘Ah. Good. At last!’ he grunted as a tiny glow glittered in the tufts of tinder. It remained, golden, even as the flashes played with his eyes. Picking up the tinder in a bundle, he blew gently until a flame caught, and with his other hand he patted the floor looking for the candle he had placed there. At last he found it — it had rolled under his leg — and set the blackened wick to the flame. As soon as it caught, he carefully extinguished the tinder and replaced it in his box. Tinder took so long to find, to dry, and prepare, it was best not to waste it.

The candle he set back in the sconce, and retrieved two more from the box beneath, lighting them. ‘Come on, boy!’

Hal was more a man than a boy now, but he’d remain ‘boy’ to Mark. Maybe eighteen years, slender as a willowwand, tall, lanky and with the gangling clumsiness of so many youngsters, it was hard to think of him as ever growing up.

‘What is the matter with them?’ Hal demanded as he took the candle, shivering slightly in the middle-night chill.

Mark went down the ladder, muttering, ‘Goddamned hounds. They’re no good to man or beast. If they were warning us of invasion or the end of the world, that would be one thing, but these monsters only ever bark at the moon. They were disturbed by a cat or something, I daresay. Blasted creatures.’

It was a common enough occurrence. The cellarer had a cat, a promiscuous and undiscriminating little draggle-tail, who had just borne another litter. Several times in recent weeks the mewling things had irritated the hounds beyond restraint, and one kitten had fallen in among the pack. It didn’t live long. Perhaps this was another of the little brutes, sitting up on a ledge and taunting the pack below again. However, it could be something else. They had to check.

The Queen’s pack had arrived unexpected and unannounced about a month ago, as she passed by on her way to the coast. The Prior had remained urbanely calm about it while she was there, but all knew how problematic looking after them was going to be. She left them no fewterer to look after them, and as for money … well, all knew that her own finances had been curtailed since the outset of war with her brother, the King of France, last year. Since then, it was said, the King and his main advisers did not trust her, and they wouldn’t let her have the income from her lands. So, in effect, she had nothing.

That was probably why the French wench had deposited her beasts on the priory, Mark told himself grimly.

They had been housed in the old tithe barn. It was a great building over at the farther side of the priory grounds, unused for some months since the new barn was completed. In time, they had planned to pull down the old building and reuse the stones and timbers for some new storage rooms nearer the priory itself. Now they’d have to wait for the blasted hounds to go first.

‘What is the matter with them?’ Hal asked.

Mark made a snarling noise. There was nothing for them to make all this row about. It was the contrariness of hounds, that was all. If he had his way, the things would be loosed tomorrow and the devil take them. All Mark wanted just this minute was his bed again. The thought of the well-stuffed mattress, the roped frame, the soft pillow filled with hens’ feathers, was all enough to make him scowl and want to kill a man.

There had been other little disturbances as well, of course. A couple of days ago there had been the arrival of the envoys from France on their way to find the King. Prior Henry had been able to direct them to Beaulieu, where he had heard the King had descended. God be praised, the envoys and their assorted train had departed yesterday, Monday.

At the door to the barn, he passed his candle to Hal before struggling with the great bolt. It should have been greased, and he reminded himself again to see to it. The old timbers of the doors had dropped, and the iron bolt was firmly fixed in its slot. He was forced to haul and jiggle it, gradually making it move side-to-side before he had loosened it enough to draw it free, and then he had to pull at the door while trying to lift it at the same time, the ancient timbers scraping across the paved entrance way.

Inside they had fenced off the left-hand side. This was where the hounds were supposed to live, while opposite was being used for hay storage. The two were cautious with their candles in here, for all knew the dangers of lighted candles and hay, and Hal’s wick was already spitting dangerously. Mark made a mental note to trim it in the morning.

The noise was deafening here. Baying and howling, some of the beasts jumping up at the partition, while others prowled, heads low and suspicious.

Mark took up a switch from a peg by the door. He never liked dogs, and certainly wouldn’t trust them. The first time he had been bitten by one was when he was nothing but a youngster, and the experience of seeing that enormous gaping jaw in front of him, smelling that foul breath, and feeling the teeth clench over his puny forearm, was one he would never forget. All he could recall was screaming in a high tone, like a hog feeling the knife open his throat. The memory was enough to make him shudder, and now, as he stood there in the gloom, candle high overhead, switch in his other fist, he was taken with an urge to destroy the lot of them. Just toss his candle into the hay, and all the hounds would soon be gone. Burned to ash, all of them.

Except he couldn’t. The Queen would delight in repaying the priory for such dereliction. And Mark himself would be blamed. He was the man responsible, after all.

So no. He would have to see what the problem was.

Hal had taken hold of a small whip, and flicked it at a dog trying to leap the partition. It fell back, yelping. Another took a cut across its nose, and fled to the rear of the pack, howling — although whether with rage or pain, Mark couldn’t tell.

‘What’s the matter with them?’ Hal demanded, trying to speak over the noise.

‘They’re beasts! Just hounds. They don’t need a reason to make this row. They do it for fun,’ Mark shouted back. God, but it was so tempting to throw his candle down and …

His eyes caught a glitter in the straw even as the enticing thought caught at his imagination. There was something there, he thought, and peered more closely.

‘What is it?’ Hal called, his attention split between the hounds leaping at the screen and his master, who had crossed the floor and stood staring down at the straw. ‘Master?’

He cast a glance at the hounds once more, but then something made him walk over towards his master. ‘Master?’

‘No! Keep back, Hal!’ Mark exclaimed urgently, and tried to stop the lad. But he was too late.

‘Oh, Christ! Oh, God! Gilbert, no! What’s happened to him? Gilbert …’

Mark tried to turn and shield Hal from the scene, but the boy turned and retched against a sack of grain, face white-green, clearly visible even in the warm light from the torches. He had already seen the obscene gaping wound, the pale, yellow cartilage, and the blood that lay all about Gilbert’s body, smearing the hay in foul clots and puddles.

Run! He had to run! The noise of the hounds behind him was swelling all the time, and he had to escape the row. He didn’t think they were after him, but the noise — Christ Jesus! He had to get away from the town as fast as he could. The castle was a short distance in front now, and he could see its battlements. There were only a few yards to the door, and then he was inside, panting with fear and exertion, feeling his heart pounding, the sweat cooling on his forehead. Or was it the blood? God’s body, but there had been so much blood!

Three men waited just inside. They said nothing. There was nothing to be said, only a nod of mutual recognition, all aware of the great danger they ran. All knew that if their act tonight was discovered, they would certainly perish. Painfully. He gave them the small phial, and that was his part done.

Soon he was bustled out, still no time to rest. A man took him swiftly, all the way from the castle’s outer gate, back into the town, quietly now, the pair of them scurrying like mice through the deserted streets, and out to the little postern. There was no guard here — it was the castle’s men who were supposed to look after this doorway, so close to the castle itself — and then he was outside, in the open, the sky a purple velvet cloth overhead, sprinkled with clouds and shimmering sheets of silken mist. It was a strange sensation, standing there in the open, suddenly still, with no animals, no sense of urgency, no need to run …

Except there was. He would be running for the rest of his life now, unless the plan succeeded.

Of course, if that happened he might even win a great reward. Become a knight, even. Either that, or he’d be found dead one day in a ditch for his perfidious behaviour. The King would have his balls for what he’d done.

But for now, he must escape. He moved swiftly along the roadway, keeping the castle on his left, until he reached the cross on the Wincheap way, and there he turned south and west, heading towards the leper house of St Jacob. A short distance before that, he found the track off to the left into the trees, and met with the men who had the horse.

He took the reins, and with a sense of relief to be safe again, the man in the King’s herald tabard sighed and clapped spurs to the beast. There were many miles to cover before he could rest properly again.

Since getting here from France he felt as though he had been in the saddle all the time. He only prayed he might find some peace soon.