The Prophecy of Death: (Knights Templar 25) (26 page)

He had to find that oil. It may be just enough to put a little fire in the bellies of the men who needed it, and Despenser
must find it to prove once again that he was the one man in the kingdom upon whom the King could rely.

‘You want us to catch the man, Sir Hugh?’ Ivor said hesitantly. ‘I could tickle him up a little with my knife, see if that
loosens his tongue?’

It was tempting. But … ‘No. Not yet. We will be leaving in a couple of days. The King must return to Westminster, ready
for a meeting of his barons to discuss France. He is to persuade the Bishop of Orange to join him. The king’s heralds will
all be on the journey with us. It will be easier to find the
oil then, on the road. He will have to bring it with him, unless he’s planning to leave it down here. It’s too valuable for
that. No, leave him for now. We’ll take him and have our sport later.’

The Bishop of Orange was content to be leaving this place, but it was a source of great annoyance that he was to travel up
to London. The city was no doubt diverting enough for most men, but for him it was merely an additional journey which entailed
going still further out of his way. His path should take him back to the Pope, not up to London. It was almost the opposite
direction, in God’s name!

When he heard the knock at his door, it made him glance quickly at his table to ensure that any indiscreet documents were
hidden before he called out, ‘
Entrez!
’

Nicholas walked in slowly, downcast. This was no time for pride. He had to show how humble he was. At other times he could
show a little pride in his habit, but not today. Today he was a mere supplicant, begging some assistance from another man
of God.

‘What do you want, Friar?’

The tone was not welcoming. ‘My Lord Bishop, I am a deeply miserable friar. I have been here at Beaulieu for some weeks, trying
to see the King to plead my case, but he will not see me.’

‘What is your case?’

‘The oil of St Thomas,’ Nicholas said, and felt sure that the Bishop understood. Immediately, the Bishop seemed to give him
his full attention, and even as Nicholas told his story, he gained the impression that the Bishop already knew, or guessed
much. Perhaps it was not so surprising, though. The Pope knew about the oil, and surely some of his closer advisers would
also have been told of it.

‘This is most interesting,’ the Bishop said. ‘But what do you want me to do? Raise the matter with the King? I do not think
he would be grateful for a foreigner to bring it up.’

‘No. I was hoping to be able to travel with you, my Lord. If you would allow me to join your party on the way to the Pope,
I would be very grateful.’

‘Your gratitude is no doubt a fine thing,’ the Bishop said without enthusiasm. ‘However, I have a large entourage already.
If you wish us to carry food and drink for you too, it will add a great deal to my baggage.’

‘I can walk, and I have little need of food, my Lord. We friars are used to the ascetic life and little nourishment.’

‘True enough.’ The Bishop studied him thoughtfully for a while, and at last nodded. ‘Very well. I will allow you to join my
men on the journey to the Pope. However, I cannot guarantee the reception you will receive.’

‘I am very glad to hear it! I will make my peace with him as best I may.’

‘Yes. I am sure that he will be most interested to hear more about this marvellous oil,’ the Bishop said.

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 Day
²⁹

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.