The Prophecy of Death: (Knights Templar 25) by Michael Jecks Page B
Authors: Michael Jecks
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Bailiff?’
‘Me? Well, I’m not really a bailiff any more.’
‘No?’ Ah. No doubt the man had been taking bribes or—
‘I was made the Abbot of Tavistock’s personal representative to the Port of Dartmouth. Now I only hope to become bailiff once
more.’
‘You
hope
? You have lost your post at the port?’
‘It did not suit me. I’m happier away from the sea.’
‘But it must have been a rewarding position.’
‘Fairly, yes.’ His expression darkened as though he resented the coroner’s assumption that this could have had any bearing
on his decision to leave his post.
The prior was clearly growing irritable. ‘Coroner, are you going to discuss the matter or not? If you will not broach it,
I shall.’
‘What subject is that?’ Baldwin demanded.
‘Can I have some wine first, please?’ Simon asked plaintively.
In the guest chamber, the guards ate their food and for the most part did not speak. Why would they? They were not comrades
by friendship, but merely associates who had been thrown together by their service to the Bishop. It did not make for the
refreshing sharing of confidences or the offer of sympathy, Jack of Oxford told himself.
He glanced across at the others as they ate, and winced inwardly. It was very difficult to have any feelings other than contempt
for such fellows – and it was a mark of his own disgrace that he was here in their company.
Those two, André, his head swathed in linen after his wound had been stitched, and Pons, were both sitting a little apart.
They were no different from any of the others, although today they were more reserved. The others were avoiding direct contact
with them, as though they already had the ropes about their necks for their murders.
It was unfair, of course. If he had been there, Jack would have reacted in the same manner, drawing his sword in order to
defend himself, especially if he’d seen someone throwing dung at him. The peasants in a city like this had no respect fortheir betters! Still, the pair of them were quiet now, fearing that here in this strange town their bishop might not be able
to protect them. Now, without even the friendship of their peers, they sat solitary and grim-faced, contemplating their fate,
should their master fail to defend them.
These fellows had nothing in common other than their master, and there was nothing to bind them either to him or to each other,
really, except the money which he offered. For his own part, Jack felt no bond to the Bishop. He was not a warmhearted man
who inspired devotion. He was too lawyerly in his manner, looking at anybody as though he was peering at an interesting specimen,
rather than a human.
Most of the men here had been in the service of the Bishop for some years. It was a large household, and life with the Bishop
had great advantages. No man would go hungry living with a bishop. And that was an important consideration – especially after
the dreadful years of famine.
Jack remembered them, all right. All too clearly.
He had been barely eighteen when the rain began in that awful year of 1315, and he had watched as the fields flooded and the
grain rotted on the stems. All the food which they had expected to farm that year was lost, and there wasn’t enough to feed
the people, let alone the animals. Within two years, the herds and flocks had been all but wiped out, and the grain stored
went rotten each winter. Although that was not what Jack remembered most of all. What he remembered most clearly was the sight
of the bodies lying at the side of the road, the peasants who tried to work their lands, only to collapse and die, thin and
racked with hunger, where they fell. It had been a time of misery, of grim, unremitting hell. The devil himself could not
have imagined such scenes.
Jack’s family had been moderately well-to-do at the time.They had been small farmers, but they were at least free men. His older brother Peter was to
‘Me? Well, I’m not really a bailiff any more.’
‘No?’ Ah. No doubt the man had been taking bribes or—
‘I was made the Abbot of Tavistock’s personal representative to the Port of Dartmouth. Now I only hope to become bailiff once
more.’
‘You
hope
? You have lost your post at the port?’
‘It did not suit me. I’m happier away from the sea.’
‘But it must have been a rewarding position.’
‘Fairly, yes.’ His expression darkened as though he resented the coroner’s assumption that this could have had any bearing
on his decision to leave his post.
The prior was clearly growing irritable. ‘Coroner, are you going to discuss the matter or not? If you will not broach it,
I shall.’
‘What subject is that?’ Baldwin demanded.
‘Can I have some wine first, please?’ Simon asked plaintively.
In the guest chamber, the guards ate their food and for the most part did not speak. Why would they? They were not comrades
by friendship, but merely associates who had been thrown together by their service to the Bishop. It did not make for the
refreshing sharing of confidences or the offer of sympathy, Jack of Oxford told himself.
He glanced across at the others as they ate, and winced inwardly. It was very difficult to have any feelings other than contempt
for such fellows – and it was a mark of his own disgrace that he was here in their company.
Those two, André, his head swathed in linen after his wound had been stitched, and Pons, were both sitting a little apart.
They were no different from any of the others, although today they were more reserved. The others were avoiding direct contact
with them, as though they already had the ropes about their necks for their murders.
It was unfair, of course. If he had been there, Jack would have reacted in the same manner, drawing his sword in order to
defend himself, especially if he’d seen someone throwing dung at him. The peasants in a city like this had no respect fortheir betters! Still, the pair of them were quiet now, fearing that here in this strange town their bishop might not be able
to protect them. Now, without even the friendship of their peers, they sat solitary and grim-faced, contemplating their fate,
should their master fail to defend them.
These fellows had nothing in common other than their master, and there was nothing to bind them either to him or to each other,
really, except the money which he offered. For his own part, Jack felt no bond to the Bishop. He was not a warmhearted man
who inspired devotion. He was too lawyerly in his manner, looking at anybody as though he was peering at an interesting specimen,
rather than a human.
Most of the men here had been in the service of the Bishop for some years. It was a large household, and life with the Bishop
had great advantages. No man would go hungry living with a bishop. And that was an important consideration – especially after
the dreadful years of famine.
Jack remembered them, all right. All too clearly.
He had been barely eighteen when the rain began in that awful year of 1315, and he had watched as the fields flooded and the
grain rotted on the stems. All the food which they had expected to farm that year was lost, and there wasn’t enough to feed
the people, let alone the animals. Within two years, the herds and flocks had been all but wiped out, and the grain stored
went rotten each winter. Although that was not what Jack remembered most of all. What he remembered most clearly was the sight
of the bodies lying at the side of the road, the peasants who tried to work their lands, only to collapse and die, thin and
racked with hunger, where they fell. It had been a time of misery, of grim, unremitting hell. The devil himself could not
have imagined such scenes.
Jack’s family had been moderately well-to-do at the time.They had been small farmers, but they were at least free men. His older brother Peter was to
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