The Prophecy of Death: (Knights Templar 25) (35 page)

‘Sir Baldwin? The Earl of Chester would appreciate a few moments to speak with you after this audience.’

Baldwin nodded and inclined his head to the Earl.

He looked just like any other young boy. It was cruel that life should thrust the cares of the realm on such small and insubstantial
shoulders.

Ayrminne was angry as he left the hall. The King’s meeting had lasted much longer than usual, and now he was in that terrible
position of having too much to achieve in a very short period of time.

The King was an obnoxious little man. Preening himself up there on the throne as though he was in some way deserving of respect
and support from the barons. But few, if any, of the barons saw fit to give him more than a little word or two of support
now. Nobody wanted to see his reign continue if it meant retaining Despenser at the very summit of power in the realm.

He’d already done his best to ruin so many, and now Ayrminne could feel his clammy hands on his own collar. Despenser was
no ally of his. Ever since that first time that Ayrminne had stood up for the Queen, he had seen the way that Despenser’s
cold gaze turned to him, as though he was measuring Ayrminne for a coffin already. That was a good nickname for him, ‘The
Coffin Seller’, because wherever he went, the sale of funerary items was sure to increase.

He left the hall and strode on to Westminster Abbey, around the church itself, and on to the little room at the southern side,
near to the wall that bounded the Abbey precinct, where he had been given a room. Soon afterwards there came a knock at his
door, and a quiet voice called.

‘Canon?’

Ayrminne threw open the door. ‘Get in here! Now, speak!’

Jack smiled easily. ‘There were two guards with me when I came here with the Bishop. He’s arranged for the oil to be stolen.’

Ayrminne curled his lip. ‘You say that the emissary of the Pope has become a thief? Out of my way, you are wasting my time!’

‘It would give him a bargaining counter against the King, if he had the oil,’ Jack said. He gestured with his hands, palms
down. ‘Just hear me out.’

While Ayrminne tapped his foot, Jack told him what had happened at Canterbury: the dead monk, the stolen oil, the disappearance
of Pons and André. ‘The man who killed the monk was probably living there, in Canterbury. The Bishop of Orange’s party arrived
a week or so later.’

‘Everyone said that it was the herald, Yatton, who stole the oil.’

‘I knew Yatton. He wasn’t a murderer. No, I think that he was the victim of an outlaw, nothing more. I was there at Canterbury.
I know what happened. The Bishop’s men were held up for attacking some locals, and next morning took flight – even though
they were found innocent by the coroner. Why would they do that, if not because they had something on them and didn’t want
it found?’

‘You said they didn’t arrive until a week later!’ Ayrminne said, trying to find holes in the tale.

‘That’s right. The thief kept it that long, and passed it on to them when we all arrived. In a city the size of Canterbury,
it’d be easy to meet with the man who had the oil. He gave it to them, and they took it and ran.’

‘It is an interesting theory.’

‘More than that, it’s likely,’ Jack said smugly. ‘Now, what we must do is get the oil back.’

‘What will you do with it?’

‘Bring it to you so you can take it to the King.’

‘Good.’

‘Unless …’

Ayrminne held his face carefully blank. ‘What?’

‘Unless you felt it better that you took it to the Queen.’

‘Me? Why should I wish to do that?’

‘I know you are in her favour. And then, when I get back to France, you can ask her to look on me favourably. I’ll have saved
it for her son, so he can use it at his coronation.’

‘What makes you think she wouldn’t punish you for keeping what was her husband’s?’

Jack grinned. ‘It’s
you
who’ll take it to her. I’ll just keep in the background until you tell me to come to her. Is it a deal?’

In answer, Ayrminne opened his travelling chest, he took out the little soft leather purse and hefted it in his hand. Not
quite a king’s ransom.

‘Be careful. The King is keen on the story of St Thomas. He would dearly like to bring punishment down on the head of the
man who killed a monk down there in the priory where Henry II had seen to the slaughter of the saint.’

‘Oh, I’ll be careful,’ Jack said. It would be the last sentence he spoke to Ayrminne.

Baldwin and Simon were wary as they approached the King’s son.

All Simon could think of was how young the Earl looked. His own first-born son would have been how old now? About ten? This
lad was two years older than that, if he was right, and yet he hardly looked it. He held himself well, though. His
manner was haughty, and he had a cold eye for Baldwin and any others he glanced at. He wasn’t impressed by rank, clearly.
No reason why he ought to be. He had as many servants looking after him as any king, and he had knights and bannerets in his
household, too.

‘Your Highness, you asked to see us?’ Baldwin said.

‘I noticed that you had taken some interest in my behaviour at the King’s hall just now.’

‘No, I was merely looking about the hall to see who else was there,’ he said.

‘You were both watching me and my friends,’ the Earl corrected him. ‘And I wish to know why.’

Simon kept his head down, but his mind was whirling. The Earl must be perfectly used to being observed by others at all times,
surely.

Baldwin was more conciliatory. ‘My Lord, I was not aware I had caused you any offence.’

Bury was bristling with righteous indignation. ‘You stare at the Earl and think you do him no insult?’

‘Does my glance occasion such an insult?’ Baldwin said, staring fixedly at Bury.

Bury was quiet for a moment, and then opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, the Earl held up a hand. Instantly Bury
was stilled.

The Earl eyed Baldwin closely. ‘If I were King, I could consider your attitude to be insolent.’

‘When you are King, I shall be more cautious, I swear,’ Baldwin said, but he was smiling, and he lowered his eyes to avoid
the Earl. ‘I promise you, upon my honour, that I meant you no harm and didn’t mean to insult or offend you. I was only looking
about the hall.’

‘Why?’ the Earl snapped.

‘Because it occurred to me that among the men of the hall may be the man who had murdered the monk at Canterbury, and stolen
your father’s oil. And I caught your eye because I was reflecting to myself that the oil itself, were it to be recovered,
may be extremely valuable to you.’

‘You suggest that I stole it for myself?’

Baldwin shot a look upward, and stared a moment. ‘My Lord, the oil would be valuable to you, I said. I meant that, were someone
to try to blackmail you by demanding money in exchange for the oil, you might feel forced to agree to pay.’

‘I might be more inclined to take the bastard’s head off for stealing what would be mine anyway. As well as declaring him
to the King for treason, in stealing what is the King’s.’

‘And perhaps also for bringing about another instance of embarrassment at Christ Church.’

‘Yes. The man who killed the monk there was obviously not a friend to the King,’ the Earl said. He was eyeing Baldwin with
a speculative expression now. ‘You are saying all this for a reason, are you not? What is your interest in this?’

‘I am a humble knight,’ Baldwin said. ‘But I do have my own interest.’

‘I thought as much. What is that?’

‘Your father’s friend has instructed me to investigate the matter for him. He has his own reasons for wanting to know where
the oil is.’

‘Despenser, you mean?’ the Earl said with a raised eyebrow. ‘You may tell him from me that you do not need to investigate
further on his behalf. I will not have the oil in his hands.’

‘I …’ Baldwin was for the first time in a long while confused. It would have given Simon some pleasure, were it not for
the fact that his own life and security depended upon his not upsetting Despenser.

‘I would prefer you to seek the oil, find it, and bring it to me,’ the Earl said.

‘But, my Lord Earl, that is very difficult. I cannot simply—’

‘You can decide whether to obey him, or me. He is the ally of my father the King – but that position could change at any time.
The other alternative would be for you to support me. And those who do so will become my firm friends for the future. You
understand me?’

‘Earl, I am afraid that the Despenser has already demanded my help in locating the oil, and if we do not help him, he has
sworn to make my friend here suffer the direst consequences.’

The Earl gazed at Simon with a pursing of his lips. ‘Let me guess – that he’d take your house?’

‘And rape my wife and see to my death,’ Simon said quietly.

‘You love your wife?’

Simon was about to respond with a wild demand to know what Chester meant to suggest, when he reflected that the Earl had seen
his own parents’ marriage dissolve under the pressures of politics and the King’s infidelities. He swallowed back his angry
response, and merely nodded. ‘Yes. I love her dearly. I would not do anything that could endanger her.’

The Earl looked at him, then back at Bury. ‘Then I shall have to consult to see how best to ensure that you are safe, Master
Bailiff. I am sure that there must be a way.’

‘What do you think?’ the Earl said to Richard of Bury as Baldwin and Simon backed away from him.

‘I would find it difficult to like that knight. He does not seem a sympathetic soul,’ Bury said scathingly, adding, ‘I doubt
he owns a single book.’

‘Do you think so? I should have said he was quite an educated fellow. Still, no matter. The main point is that I felt sure
he was honest. I would trust him.’

‘He has already confessed that he is working for Despenser,’ Bury said warningly.

‘And gave good reasons why he and his friend were forced into it.’

‘It is hard to trust a man who is the ally of your enemy.’

‘Sir Hugh is not my enemy – yet!’ the Earl said with a faint grin. ‘And aren’t you always saying that I should have faith
in my own judgement of a man? I judge this one to be honourable and decent. And as you know, my mother was herself complimentary
about him. She had some experience of him, and then was happy with him as her guard on the way to Paris.’

‘True. And yet—’

‘And yet nothing! I trust him well enough. That is enough.’

André and Pons were both seated at a bench in the gatehouse tavern, when the messenger arrived. Jack looked about him at the
people inside for some little while before he recognised the two. He smiled to himself, and then crossed the floor to them.

‘Friends, I think you are fortunate today,’ he began.

Pons looked at him, then across at André, before looking back up at Jack. ‘What do you want?’

‘I think you can guess that, can’t you? I am like you two: a man-at-arms for the Bishop. I shared your journey all the way
to Canterbury, where you two decided to flee. I have had a hard life, you know. A little money would go a long way for me.
But I have the problem that I am not now a free man to take whatever I want. So I have to seek an accommodation if I want
ready cash.’

André sniffed and reached out with an elegant hand to pick
up his drinking horn, a green pottery thing shaped roughly like a horn, but with two legs to convert it into a cup that could
stand on its own. ‘I don’t think I understand you, my friend.’

‘I got to thinking that if a man was to steal something from a priory, he’d have to run soon after. Especially if he killed
someone to get it. You took the King’s oil and fled. Only to bring it to your master, of course. The question is, have you
still got it, or is it given to the Bishop already?’

Pons looked at his companion again, then shrugged. ‘We have no oil.’

‘That is a shame. Because I’ve been offered ten English shillings to get it back from you. With my three-shilling share, that
would still leave you with three and a half each.’ Jack smiled and sat opposite them.

André smiled with an easy calmness. ‘And that would indeed be a wonderful present, if we had the oil. But, my friend, we do
not. So, you rise, please, and leave us.’

‘Are you trying to tell me you never had it?’ Jack grinned. ‘That’s a shame. I reckon I can get the King to think you did
have it. And the Despenser, too. You want him to come looking for the oil? Perfectly possible. I can see to it.’

André eyed him with a cold, calculating expression. ‘You threaten us with this? I think you do not know what you are doing,
friend. Pons, do you think the Bishop would miss one man-at-arms on the way homewards?’

The shorter man responded in swift colloquial French, and Jack suddenly felt wary. He had his knife ready under the table,
in case these two decided to try to silence him, and now he wished he had kept to a seat nearer the door. He sat more upright,
moving his legs underneath him, his left hand on the bench. ‘Well?’ he said.

Pons spat something that sounded like a deeply insulting
reference to his mother, and suddenly the two had lifted the table and it was moving towards his face. Jack leaped up and
back, hurling the bench away, as the table rose and hit his cheek, but his knife hand was already on it, and he jerked it
down and away, slamming the heavy wood down, the edge striking André on the foot and making him howl. Pons was right beside
the table, his dagger out. He pushed the table, which now hit Jack’s hip, the weight driving him backwards, while Pons jumped
forward, the sharp tip of his dagger snagging in Jack’s linen shirt. Jack felt the prick of the blade in his belly even as
his heels both struck the bench he had shoved back, and he began to fall backwards, his eyes on that damned blade.

He hit his rump, then his back, and tried to roll away, but the knife was very close. And then he snapped his legs away, and
was on his flank, drawing his legs underneath him, pushing with a hand to lift himself up again, and … felt the knife
at the back of his neck, the point tickling just under his skull, where he knew a sharp thrust would cut his spinal cord and
end his life in an instant.

‘Now, friend, perhaps we should go and talk somewhere quieter?’ André said. And this time there was no humour in his tone.
Only fury – and hatred.