The Prophecy of Death: (Knights Templar 25) (13 page)

As the priest slumped, André allowed him to slide from the blade, and watched as the fellow began to jerk and twist in his
death throes. One foot beat so hard against the floor, it ended up leaving a smear of blood, but that was nothing compared
with the mess about his belly and the ground about him.

He had keys at his belt, though. While Pons took the ring from his forefinger, André went to the box in the church. The second
key was clearly the only one that was the right size to fit the hole in the lid, and he thrust it in and turned it. The noise
of the levers being shifted was music to his ears, and he opened the lid with a tingling anticipation in his belly.

Inside, he saw with a gasp of joy, was a gold cross with jewels set into it. The church here had a marvellous patron. Ach,
he would have been glad to meet the man himself, and take advantage of the fellow’s hospitality! Whoever he was, he had a
goodly purse.

Back in the priest’s house, he looked for spare clothing in the man’s boxes. In his little bedchamber there was a chest, and
inside it was a shirt and a thick robe. It was good enough. André ripped off his bloody and messed tunic, and replaced it.
It was made of good, soft wool, and he was glad to have made the exchange.

The cross was soon installed in his shirt, next to his stomach, under his belt. He gave a low whistle, and Pons came running.
The two of them walked out to their horses, and mounted, both still watching carefully. Perhaps a mile away, there was a huddle
of men and women walking back from the fields, and André smiled, then turned his horse’s head to the west and clapped spurs
to the beast’s flanks.

There was no need to worry about buying food now. This venture would make them both a fine profit.

Second Thursday after Easter
¹³

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.