The Prophecy of Death: (Knights Templar 25) by Michael Jecks Page B
Authors: Michael Jecks
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thief, Prior. This man was prepared to hack a monk to death.’
‘Sweet Mother of God!’ The prior’s face paled. ‘I will tell my sub-prior to search all our relics immediately.’
Eltham Palace
Richard of Bury sighed and leaned back in his chair, a deeply contented man.
This place was as comfortable as any palace in the land. For his money, it was one of the most beautiful, too. The great hall
was quite new – only about twenty-five years old, and there was a magnificent park to the south which the last owner, Bishop
Bek, had added. The park and the great buildings, with the massive stone walls strengthened with brick bastions, had been
improved when the Earl’s grandfather, Edward I, had been given the place by the Bishop. A magnificent gift. The kind of thing
that showed that Bishop Bek was looking for something significant in return.
Richard grinned to himself but his face soon hardened. There was a time when he would have said he was getting cynical, but
any man who said that now would have to have been deaf and blind. Cynicism was unnecessary now, in the reign of King Edward
II. Not something a man might dare to say in front of anyone else, of course, but it was a fact nonetheless. The King was
mad.
There were times when a man might have a degree of confidence in his king. The best kings were undoubtedly those who sought
to reign fairly and rationally. Logic was essential in a king. Promising one thing, then doing another was notrational. It was unsettling. And a king needed a kingdom that was settled and calm, if he wished to rule in peace.
Bury patted the book nearest him. It was a history of the life of Alexander, a tome he often picked up and browsed through.
This was the kind of man a king ought to be, he thought. Honourable, chivalrous, strong of purpose, determined in battle,
and magnanimous in victory. That was the sort of king England needed. Not like the present king. He may never be able to mention
such things to others, but the king was dangerous to himself and the realm. Even when he was triumphant, he was vindictive
to his defeated enemies. Not only to them, but also to their families. That was hardly chivalrous.
If there was one thing Richard of Bury was determined to do, it was to show the Earl in his care that there was a better way
to rule a people than this. And thanks to God, Earl Edward seemed a keen and willing pupil to his tutor.
And God had also put in his way the means by which the King’s heir might exceed all expectations. The oil of St Thomas would
make him
more
than a mere King.
With Bury’s help, the boy would become a king to rival Arthur himself – as the prophecy predicted.
Thursday following Easter
8
Château du Bois
Simon was already on his horse and eager to be away before even the Bishop’s guards were prepared. Although Baldwin tried
to hold a world-weary disinterest on his face, he too was noticeably present from an early hour, his rounsey saddled, bridled
and ready.
A bishop would normally require a large force to travel with him, and wagons full of provisions and plate and cash for payment
along the way, but to Simon’s surprise, this Bishop of Orange apparently required little in the way of comforts. There were
five pack horses and a couple of small carts, and a total of only five men-at-arms to guard him on horseback, not counting
Simon and Baldwin.
‘He’s keen to travel fast,’ Simon said, nodding towards the party.
‘There is need for speed if the embassy is to be successful,’ Baldwin said. He swung himself up on his rounsey, a large beast
with spirit to match. He was stamping his feet and raising sparks from the cobbles, irritated at the noise all about. Men
were hurrying to and fro with baskets and sacks, while dogs milled about, some darting under the horses.
There was one dog in particular that caught his eye: a large, mastiff-like dog, but although it had a mastiff’s size, it
common
thief, Prior. This man was prepared to hack a monk to death.’
‘Sweet Mother of God!’ The prior’s face paled. ‘I will tell my sub-prior to search all our relics immediately.’
Eltham Palace
Richard of Bury sighed and leaned back in his chair, a deeply contented man.
This place was as comfortable as any palace in the land. For his money, it was one of the most beautiful, too. The great hall
was quite new – only about twenty-five years old, and there was a magnificent park to the south which the last owner, Bishop
Bek, had added. The park and the great buildings, with the massive stone walls strengthened with brick bastions, had been
improved when the Earl’s grandfather, Edward I, had been given the place by the Bishop. A magnificent gift. The kind of thing
that showed that Bishop Bek was looking for something significant in return.
Richard grinned to himself but his face soon hardened. There was a time when he would have said he was getting cynical, but
any man who said that now would have to have been deaf and blind. Cynicism was unnecessary now, in the reign of King Edward
II. Not something a man might dare to say in front of anyone else, of course, but it was a fact nonetheless. The King was
mad.
There were times when a man might have a degree of confidence in his king. The best kings were undoubtedly those who sought
to reign fairly and rationally. Logic was essential in a king. Promising one thing, then doing another was notrational. It was unsettling. And a king needed a kingdom that was settled and calm, if he wished to rule in peace.
Bury patted the book nearest him. It was a history of the life of Alexander, a tome he often picked up and browsed through.
This was the kind of man a king ought to be, he thought. Honourable, chivalrous, strong of purpose, determined in battle,
and magnanimous in victory. That was the sort of king England needed. Not like the present king. He may never be able to mention
such things to others, but the king was dangerous to himself and the realm. Even when he was triumphant, he was vindictive
to his defeated enemies. Not only to them, but also to their families. That was hardly chivalrous.
If there was one thing Richard of Bury was determined to do, it was to show the Earl in his care that there was a better way
to rule a people than this. And thanks to God, Earl Edward seemed a keen and willing pupil to his tutor.
And God had also put in his way the means by which the King’s heir might exceed all expectations. The oil of St Thomas would
make him
more
than a mere King.
With Bury’s help, the boy would become a king to rival Arthur himself – as the prophecy predicted.
Thursday following Easter
8
Château du Bois
Simon was already on his horse and eager to be away before even the Bishop’s guards were prepared. Although Baldwin tried
to hold a world-weary disinterest on his face, he too was noticeably present from an early hour, his rounsey saddled, bridled
and ready.
A bishop would normally require a large force to travel with him, and wagons full of provisions and plate and cash for payment
along the way, but to Simon’s surprise, this Bishop of Orange apparently required little in the way of comforts. There were
five pack horses and a couple of small carts, and a total of only five men-at-arms to guard him on horseback, not counting
Simon and Baldwin.
‘He’s keen to travel fast,’ Simon said, nodding towards the party.
‘There is need for speed if the embassy is to be successful,’ Baldwin said. He swung himself up on his rounsey, a large beast
with spirit to match. He was stamping his feet and raising sparks from the cobbles, irritated at the noise all about. Men
were hurrying to and fro with baskets and sacks, while dogs milled about, some darting under the horses.
There was one dog in particular that caught his eye: a large, mastiff-like dog, but although it had a mastiff’s size, it
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