The Prophecy of Death

by Michael Jecks

Genres: General Fiction; Medieval; Historical Mysteries

Synopsis

1325: King Edward II’s reign seems cursed. Although he has rejected his wife, Queen Isabella, he still relies on her. Even now, she is in France to negotiate peace with her brother, King Charles IV of France – but he fears for the outcome.

Meanwhile, Sir Baldwin de Furnshill and his friend Bailiff Simon Puttock, return from France with an urgent instruction for the King. It is to be their last mission. But they soon find themselves at the centre of a deadly court intrigue involving the most powerful and ruthless men in the country – once again their livelihoods and lives are in mortal danger.

Release date: February 27, 2014

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 441

Sample

Assart

A clearing in a forest, in which a farmer had created arable land by cutting down trees and grubbing up the roots.

Bellatores

Medieval society thought itself composed of three groups: religious, who prayed for men’s souls, peasants, who gave their
labour to provide food and clothing, and the warrior class, the bellatores, who maintained order.


Buttery

King’s office which was responsible for ales, wines and other stores.

Castellan

The man in charge of a castle.

Cokinus

Literally, ‘Cook’, but was used as the term for messengers who went about on foot rather than on horseback – and older term,
used before ‘Cursor’ came into vogue.


Cursores

Late in King Edward I’s time, this term began to replace the older ‘Cokinus’.

Fewterer

The officer who had responsibility for the packs of hunting dogs.

Frater

This was the room in which the monks would eat.

Host

The King’s army. Army was a new term to the later fourteenth century.

League

An ancient measure of distance, roughly equivalent to three miles (although no medieval measures were standardised across
the country!).


Lords Marcher

Also known as Marcher Lords, were the knights and barons who owned estates on, or near to, the ‘marches’.

March

The lands along the Welsh and Scottish borders. They had their own customs and laws which gave great independence to the Lords
who owned them, mainly because they were almost permanently in a state of war – especially on the Scottish March.


Marshal

The man in charge of the ‘Marshalsea’.

Marshalsea

The stables, and those who worked in them.

Murdrum Fine

‘Murder’ was so termed because of this fine. In short, after the Norman invasion, the rebellions against the invaders were
so regular, that unless a corpse could be proved to be that of an Englishman, by men coming forward to assert the dead man’s
‘Englishry’, the body was assumed to be that of a Norman. The death of such a man meant heavy fines to be imposed on the vill
where he was found – the ‘murdrum’ fines.


Nuncius

A messenger on horseback.

Palfrey

These were better quality horses for riding.

Porters

The men who were responsible for the gates to cities, or to castles or halls.

Rache

A specific form of hunting dog which was used to hunt by scent rather than others, like greyhounds, which depended upon sight.

Reredorter

A toilet that was at the back of the dormitory in a monastery.

Rounsey

A general, average quality horse used for riding, carrying goods etc, but not for pulling carts.

Sewer

The attendant on a lord who would serve his master, and who would see to the setting of the table, as well as tasting the
King’s food in a royal household.


Sumpter

Packhorse.

Tranter

A wandering salesman of various essentials.

Sir Baldwin de Furnshill

Keeper of the King’s Peace in Crediton, and recently made Member of Parliament, he is known to be an astute man and shrewd investigator. From his past as
a Knight Templar, he has a deep hatred of injustice or persecution.

Jeanne

Baldwin’s wife, Jeanne is mother to his two children.

Simon Puttock

Baldwin’s friend for many years, Simon was a bailiff to the stannaries at Lydford, where he gained a reputation for honesty
and fairness.


Margaret

Simon’s wife.

Edith

Simon and Margaret’s daughter.

King Edward II

the feckless king of England, Edward has gone down in history as one of our most brutal, sly, and devious kings. His reign
is noted for the disasters, natural and otherwise, which dogged his rule.


Isabella

Edward II’s queen, Isabella was the daughter of King Philip the Fair of France, and was thus the sister to the current ruler,
King Charles IV.


Sir Hugh le Despenser

probably one of the most unsavoury characters ever to gain influence at an English court, Hugh Despenser the younger was noted for his avarice, his cruelty,
and his ruthlessness in the pursuit of his own personal ambitions.


Edward of Windsor

the son of King Edward and also called the Earl of Chester, the Earl was never officially made a Prince. He would later become
King Edward III – one of England’s most successful monarchs.


André

mercenary and guard to the Bishop of Orange.

William Ayrminne

a canon, Ayrminne is a close ally to the queen.

Sir John of Bakewell

one of many knights serving King Edward II at his coronation.

Thomas of Bakewell

the brother of John, and later a king’s messenger.

Matthew atte Brook

the owner of an assart in Ashdown Forest, near Crowborough.

Agnes atte Brook

wife to Matthew.

Richard of Bury

a royal clerk who was based in Chester, in 1324 Bury became tutor to Earl Edward.

Henry of Eastry

the Prior of Christ Church Priory, Canterbury.

Mark of Faversham

steward and bailiff to Prior Henry.

Brother Gilbert

a monk at Canterbury.


John

son of Peter, John is a strong fighter too.

Joseph of Faversham

a King’s messenger.

Jack of Oxford

one of the guards of the Bishop of Orange.

Hal

assistant to Mark of Faversham at Christ Church Priory.

Bishop of Orange

one of the Pope’s trusted emissaries, Orange is attempting to bring peace between France and England.

Peter

one of the men-at-arms in Canterbury under the castellan, Peter is a ruthless fighter.

Pons

a friend of André’s and guard to the Bishop of Orange.

Walter Stapledon

the Bishop of Exeter is a wily politician. Twice the Lord High Treasurer, he is known to be a loyal servant to the crown –
and deeply suspicious of the queen.


Sir Robert of Westerham

the King’s Coroner at Canterbury.

Nicholas of Wisbech

a Dominican sent by the King to negotiate with the Pope.

Richard de Yatton

Herald to the King, Richard is a trusted messenger.

This book was intended to be a very different tale originally. The main bulk of the story was to be set in the later part
of the year 1325 in France, but things have conspired against me, as usual.


The problem I suffer from, and the attraction to me of my writing, is that the stories are set in ‘real time’ through history.
This means that the stories have to stack up logically with the events of the period. When there was a famine, I have to mention
it. Likewise, when there was a massive scandal over the princesses in King Philip’s court in Paris, I have to incorporate
that, too. It also means I have to be accurate about where people were.


I cannot, for example, cheat and suddenly have Edward II lifted from England and set down in Paris, just to facilitate the
plot. He didn’t go there. Worse, I know where he was in April, so I have to be true to the history and have the plot working
around him in Beaulieu.


Equally, though, it’s hard to jump from The Templar, the Queen and Her Lover, which was set in March and April, and suddenly move the action straight to September when the Earl of Chester was sent to
France to pay homage for the English territories. That would be a large gap, and one which would take a lot of background
flashbacks to explain.


So, to the despair of my editor, I threw the synopsis for Book 25 (untitled) into the box marked ‘Stories to return to’, and started again from scratch.


And came up with this plot.

It is different from earlier stories, but the main aspects are quite correct. There was a prophecy regarding the ‘Boar from
Cornwall’ and the story of the Oil of St Thomas was also well known. No, it’s not made up by me.


Nor is the basic story of the coronation. I am afraid that John of Bakewell did die during a mad press at the time of the
coronation in the manner described. It was only one of a number of aspects of the coronation day that struck chroniclers at
the time as being proof that Edward II’s reign would be enormously unlucky. And they were not wrong, as events were to prove.


The nature of the King’s son, Earl Edward of Chester, is very much my own interpretation and guesswork, but set on solid foundations.
I would refer any serious investigator of the period to look at Roy Martin Haines’s work King Edward II (McGill Queen’s University Press), and the truly excellent book published by Random House, The Perfect King – The Life of Edward III, Father of the English Nation, by my good friend Ian Mortimer of Exeter University.


To a large extent I can blame Ian for this book. It was his mention of certain aspects of the younger Edward’s life that tempted
me to look at this story from the viewpoint of the Earl. The idea that the next king would have grown to manhood in a febrile,
dangerous environment, with a father who was so alienated from his mother that she lost her properties, her income, her servants,
even her children; all taken away because her husband considered her too dangerous, was too appealing to my novelistic imagination. He feared she might pollute their children with treasonous thoughts. All this,
because her brother was considering (how actively, I am not sure) invasion of England.


To look at the boy, and then consider his tutor, the strange Richard of Bury, who was an avid book collector (although detractors
said he was illiterate!) and taught his charge all about the Greek and Roman heroes, and then to see the kind of man into
which Edward grew, with the various influences which had shaped his life, this was fascinating.


Earl Edward (I am reliably informed by Ian Mortimer that he was never created a prince, and the title was not in those days
automatically passed on to the King’s sons, so he was at this time a mere earl) must have been an impressive character. It
is true to say that he was one of our most revered Kings up until relatively recently. Attitudes have changed, largely as
a result of politically correct rethinking, but, bearing in mind his dreadful upbringing – he would have witnessed his role
models being executed, even his father’s cousin, seen his family broken up, and the hatred that surely existed between his
mother and his father’s probably homosexual lover, Hugh le Despenser – it is astonishing that this lad developed into such
a spectacularly effective king. Not only that, by all accounts he was also a loving, generous father and husband. A marvellous
role model – if you can ignore the numbers of dead from his wars, the devastation of swathes of France, the consequential
destruction of much of Europe when mercenaries swept over the continent, and the obscene cruelty aimed at the general population
by arrogant and largely barbaric men-at-arms.


The trouble is, it is easy to admire men of his stature for what he achieved in his time – but his time was not the same as ours. It is hard to imagine living in a period when, to take the John Hawkwood example, two men arguing over which would
rape a nun first were told that their leader would cut her body in two and they could both have ‘half each’ as some sort of
Solomon-like judgement. The simple fact is, these were appallingly vicious people living in a harsh and uncharitable environment.
Those who won were those, like Sir Hugh Despenser, who were the most appalling, the most cruel, the most ruthless. Pacifism
was not a successful trait.


Those, like King Edward II, who wanted a more gentle, kindly existence, were forced to accept the facts of their era and become
more cruel.


And after saying all this, the final comment has to be that this is my twenty-fifth book in the Templar series. It is rare
for any author to be able to write these words, but for me to write them in the knowledge that the whole of the backlist is
still available and selling, gives me a wonderful sense that the effort is worthwhile.


In my research, I have referred endlessly to so many books, from Mary C. Hill’s The King’s Messengers 1199–1377, to Ian Mortimer’s book on Edward III mentioned above, and his superb The Greatest Traitor; Alison Weir’s Isabella – She-Wolf of France, Queen of England, and many of the Selden Society records, that it is hard to know which books should be mentioned and which need not be. So
I shall take the easiest line, and suggest that if you really want to learn more about the period, refer to my website at
www.michaeljecks.co.uk where you will find a more detailed bibliography for the period, based on my own library.


As always, though, the mistakes are my own. And I confidently expect Ian Mortimer to point them out to me!


I hope you enjoy this book, and that for a little while it gives you the distraction from modern life which so many of us
crave.


Michael Jecks

North Dartmoor

November 2007

Saturday following Maria Visitatio, beginning of the reign of King Edward II1

Westminster Abbey

Within his burnished steel shell the knight looked utterly impregnable, standing close to the place where he was about to
die.


To the boys all about he was a giant. Tom could see that. Massive, with all his limbs looking larger than natural, larger than life. It made his heart swell to
see John, his brother, looking like that. He couldn’t keep his feet still. His toes were tapping a staccato rhythm as he stood,
waiting with all the rest.


This was the most exciting day of his life! All his life, he’d lived under the reign of the old King, Edward, but now for the first time in many years, five-and-thirty,
some said, there was going to be a coronation again! Everyone was thrilled by the idea. All the apprentices were here, most
of them drunk as usual; they hadn’t the decorum of a bitch on heat, most of them. They were contemptible. But there were also
all the rich ladies and their squires. He could see some merchants from the City over there, where the main gate to the abbey
lay, and nearer were some Aldermen. Everybody had come here to witness the great event.


Flags were flying, there were songs being sung outside near the taverns, and from here Tom could hear the chanting from inside
the great abbey church. It made his whole body tingle with anticipation. He’d never seen a king before, and today he was going
to see the King, his Queen, and all the glorious chivalry of the country. It was just brilliant!


There was a sudden tension, and people started shouting and cheering. People behind him started to push forwards, and he found
it hard to see over those who were standing in front. He jostled along with all the others, staring. Looking over the other
side of the way, he could see John. He may be a knight, but John himself was straining to see, peering round the doorway as
keenly as any boy in the crowd, his back to the new wall.


Then there was a blaring of trumpets and shouted commands, and the regular tramping of many booted feet, and . . . and there
they were!


First in view were the prelates, all with hands clasped before their faces, mouthing their prayers for the King, asking God’s
divine support for him; after them was a group of barons, one carrying the gilded spurs which would be placed on the King’s
boots, another with the sceptre, another with a rod that had a white dove carved on the top – a beautiful piece of work, Tom
thought; after him came three great knights – earls, he heard later – with the great swords of state. Then there were more
men carrying a massive wooden board on which all the King’s royal clothing was set. Oh, there was so much! And all were knights,
lords and earls. Tom could hardly breathe for the joy of the sight.


The King was behind all these, barefoot, walking on the carpet that had been laid between the palace and the abbey church. And as he passed by, the crowds grew silent, from respect
and from astonishment. Such good looks didn’t seem possible on a human face. ‘Such a physique, such deportment,’ people were
saying approvingly, and then he was past and the whole group of knights and others strode into the church.


He saw John again just then. John was at the wall, staring up at the altar. It was Tom’s hope afterwards that John was even
then praying, and speaking with God. He was always a good man, John, and it would have been good for him to have been in a
state of grace.


Because suddenly there was a low rumble and a splintering sound, and even as Tom’s head snapped up to look at it, the wall
behind John suddenly crashed to the ground, smothering John with the rubble and dirt from the timbers and lathes and plaster.


Small fragments and a cloud of dust swept over everyone, getting into their eyes and noses, making everyone choke and cough.
People panicked, running hither and thither, and some at the back were trampled as those who had seen the disaster tried to
escape. Although Tom fought them, pushing and shoving, it took him a while to get to John. By the time he did, there was nothing
he could do.


‘Back, bratchet, or I’ll have you beaten by the bailiffs,’ a man snarled, and Tom tried to explain that the knight was his
brother but, before he could, he had a cuff round his ear, and he fell to the ground in the midst of the plaster and dust,
staring up in horror at the arrogant young knight before him. He saw the man’s badge, and would have said something, but the
knight spat on the ground near his head, and then strode off, bellowing for servants to clear up the mess.


‘John! John!’ Tom whispered, but although he tried to reach his brother’s hand, he could see that there was already no life in his eyes. John’s head was crushed.


Fields near Crowborough, Sussex

Agnes thought it was an auspicious day to be married, the day that the new King was crowned. It would set the seal on her
happiness.


The field was still, with a fine haze rising in the brilliant midday sun, and they were all lying in the shade of a tree,
eating their bread and cheese, drinking cider from their small barrels, tired after a long day already, gathering up the sheep
from their little flocks and washing them in the stream that passed by the pasture, all the folk ending as wet as the sheep
themselves. The filth that ran from the fleeces was extraordinary, and she thought to herself, ‘Aye, they must be glad to
lose all that weight, the poor beasts.’ A short while after that, she fell in fully, her shift all sodden about her. She could
feel his eyes on her immediately, running over her body as he would have liked his hands to. When she looked at him, he didn’t
stop, either. She liked that. He was bold, but so was she, when she wanted, and now, seeing him stare at her breasts, she
arched her back a little, teasing.


For all the splashing and effort, she and the others soon dried off. More than half the flock had been washed, but there would
be more to do that afternoon, and she would have to do her part.


She would do it at his side.

He was called Matthew atte Brook, and his father was a freeman, quite rare down here. While Agnes and her family lived here,
near to Crowborough itself, Matthew’s family had a little hovel inside the woods. The great forest of Ashdown surrounded all
this area. Villages and towns might encroach on the trees, but the trees still remained. Assarts sprang up amongst them and flourished for a while, but all too often the
buildings would decay and collapse, and the trees would return. But Matthew’s father had maintained his house. It had survived
much, with storms that had destroyed so many places in the last years, and a fire that had almost encircled his land last
year, but for all that, he had managed to expand his holding little by little, and now he had two cows as well as his pigs.
He made money by selling the cheese his wife made in their dairy.


Agnes gave him a cautious glance from under her long lashes. He was strongly made, her Matthew, with arms corded with muscle
already, and his eyes were dark and broodingly intense. Oh, she wanted him! So much!


It happened at long last when she decided to wander into the woods to empty her bladder. Soon, as she rose from her crouch,
she heard steps in amongst the trees, the crunch of twigs and the rustle of leaves.


‘Matthew?’

‘Agnes, I thought . . .’

She knew what he’d thought. It wasn’t fear for her safety that had brought him here. No, it was the thought of her tight shirt
over her breasts, wet and glorious. She didn’t care. She wanted him as well.


He stood beside her, looking away, suddenly shy in her presence. He’d never been like that with her before. She had to take
his hand and hold it to her cheek, and when that didn’t work, she drew it down to her breast and rested his palm over her
nipple, letting him feel it harden. She reached to his head and pulled it down to her, kissing him softly at first, gradually
allowing her desire to transmit itself to him.


When she put her hand on his thigh, she felt him shudder, and the proof of his lust made her tingle, and then chuckle throatily. ‘You want me?’


‘Yes!’

‘You can’t just ’ave me without the proper form, Matthew. Got to ’ave that.’

He didn’t move away. He kept his arms around her and shoved his head into her shoulder. ‘I’ll do that.’

‘You’ll take me?’

‘I will.’

‘Now?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then come on,’ she said quickly, and drew him after her, back to the stream.

‘Listen! Listen!’ She waited until all the others were quiet and watching her, and then she turned to him again, holding both
hands, looking up into his beautiful face.


‘Matthew, I take you to my husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, in love, to honour and obey you, in sickness
and in health, from now until I die, and there I give you my oath.’


And as soon as he had said the words too, they left the others at the stream. And while the others laughed and screamed and
played and then carried on with their work, Agnes, new wife to Matthew, lay on her back and let him take her virginity, her
love and her soul.


She only grew to hate him ten years later. By then all her love had been squandered by him.

Thursday following Easter in the thirteenth year of the reign of King Edward II2

Chester Castle

Bad news deserved lousy weather, the friar thought to himself bitterly.

At the very least, such news should be relayed at dusk. There ought to be a lowering sense of foulness in the air, the sort
of malevolent fume that would make a man realise his life was about to be ruined. Not today, though. No, not even though his
career was now effectively ended.


Nicholas of Wisbech crossed the court in front of Chester’s castle in the south-west of the city with his mind numbed. The
bastard had sat there smugly as he spelled out Nicholas’s ‘difficulty’. The prickle!


Master Richard of Bury was not the sort of person whom Nicholas would ever have warmed to. A slightly short man, chubby, and
with glittering little eyes in his podgy face, he didn’t inspire anything but contempt from a man like Nicholas. Nicholas
was a friar, in God’s name. A Dominican. He was a papal penitentiary. And what was this Richard? A royal clerk, a man whose
life revolved around writing letters and collating information on accounts, and fattening himself at the King’s expense. His
flabby body was proof of his laziness and lax intellect.


He had tried to cultivate a different atmosphere, of course. Master Richard had begun to collect books, and now he sat among
towers of them, although Nicholas reckoned he had not the wit to remember anything from any of them, even if he had read them.
Which the Dominican found doubtful.


Master Richard’s voice was as oily as his manner. ‘Friar, I am so glad you could come to see me.’


‘Your message said it was a matter of royal importance?’ Nicholas pointed out.

‘Aha! Well, yes, it is in a way. It is a matter which is embarrassing to the King. So, rather, it’s a matter of some importance
to you.’


Nicholas knew full well that the fat fool in front of him wanted him to enquire what was meant by that, but he refused to
play his game. Instead, he stood silently, unmoving, his hands hooked over his corded belt.


He had once been told that he would make an excellent inquisitor, because with his sharp features, dark, intense eyes and
ability to remain utterly still, he could drag information from the most reluctant witness. It was not the path he wished,
and he had rejected the proposal, but now he made full use of his unsettling frown, fixing his cold, searching stare upon
the clerk.


Richard moved a wax tablet from one side of his desk to the other. Then he fiddled with the binding of a scroll, as though
gathering his thoughts. Richard thought he was trying to appear at ease. He failed.


‘You see, Friar, it is like this: we have the rumour from you of this marvellous oil—’

‘You dare to doubt the evidence of Saint Thomas?’

‘Hardly.’ Richard smiled, but uneasily, at the snarling tone. ‘No, it would be fine so far as I am concerned, but there are
others who’re not so certain. The Pope himself . . .’


Nicholas could barely control himself. It was so unreasonable! He knew what had happened, of course. The others who’d spoken
to the Pope had warned him of the unpopularity of the King, and warned against becoming embroiled in English politics, which was fine, but this could potentially have rescued the King, and with him, saved the realm
from further damaging dispute.


‘. . . The Pope himself refused to listen to our King’s petition, didn’t he?’

‘I did all I could to persuade him!’

‘Of course you did,’ the clerk said suavely, but also absently, as though other, more pressing matters were already occurring
to him, and he wished not to be detained. He glanced at a scroll on the table top at his left, moving it with a finger as
he peered. ‘Um. But you know the whims of a king. I fear he is about to write to the Pope.’


‘To complain about the Pope’s decision?’

‘No, I rather feel he will complain about you and demand that you lose your post as penitentiary.’


‘Why? What have I done?’

But there did not have to be a reason. As the fat clerk shrugged and concealed himself further behind his piles of books,
Nicholas knew the truth. A man who put himself out to help the King must always succeed, for to fail was to bring down the
full weight of the King’s enmity. He was a weakly man, this king. Nicholas had noticed his flaws often enough before in their
meetings, and weakly men in powerful positions always tended to punish those who were unable to stand against them.


‘So I am ruined?’

‘I rather fear you will not be employed by the King again. But never mind. As a friar, you will be happier to be released
from the arduous responsibilities of working for King and Pope. It must have been a terrible effort, trying to persuade the
Pope to send us a cardinal, after all.’


He could have no understanding. The weeks of formulating the best approach to the Pope, the long journey to Rome, the difficulty of explaining how important this matter was . . .
all had taxed his mind and body enormously. And now, simply because he had tried and not succeeded, he was to be punished.


‘I did my best.’

‘But the Pope didn’t listen. Yes, I quite understand. But you do see, don’t you, that it would be impossible for me to keep
you on here? I am afraid that the King’s largesse will no longer apply to you.’


‘I have never sought it,’ Nicholas hissed. ‘Look to others who may seek only self-enhancement in the King’s service. I toiled
as a loyal subject must.’


‘Without any thought of future appointments?’ Richard said, and his pale grey eyes were turned upon Nicholas. With a strong
tone of sarcasm, he added, ‘How very noble of you.’


For that, if nothing else, Nicholas could have thrust his fist in the clerk’s face. But no. He remained calm and restrained,
and left the room a short while later.


And now, as he left the castle and walked down the lanes to meet his brother friar, he could not even pray. There was no prayer
he could utter that might express