The Prophecy of Death: (Knights Templar 25) Read Online Free PDF Page A

of Chester and first-born son of King Edward II, told himself, when it meant losing
     the trust and love of your own heir.
    Night of Monday and Tuesday following Easter
5
    Christ Church Priory, Canterbury
    It was the howling of the blasted creatures that woke him – again – and Mark of Faversham rolled over in his little cot with
     a grunt and a muttered oath, rubbing at his eyes.
    By the names of all things Holy, they were terrible. Here he was, a man in his middle forties, worn, old, and in need of his
     sleep, in God’s name, and each night the damned creatures would wake him. And if they could wake him, they could wake anyone.
     It wasn’t as though Mark was a light sleeper. If they could get through to him, they could wake half the monks in the cemetery.
    The things were worse than bloody wolves descending on an innocent flock. Locusts had nothing on them. He had managed this
     estate with efficiency, with economy, and with cautious good sense over some years now, and built it into a modern, profitable
     little manor. And it still would be, if it wasn’t for
her damned hounds
!
    The prior hadn’t wanted them. Hounds were an expense Henry of Eastry could well do without. Who on earth would want them eating
     the priory’s wealth week in and week out? Not Prior Henry. He knew the way that they could eat through food. It wasn’t as
     if you could throw them all the crusts from the table, either. Oh no. Dear God in Heaven, what would
she
say if she heard that? And she would. There was always someone looking for a small reward, and the hope of largesse to follow,
     by speaking out of turn.
    He pulled on boots and, without bothering to lace them,stomped over the floor to the truckle bed in the eaves, kicking it. Twice.
    The first served only to set the figure snuffling and grunting, which was at least better than the rumbling, discontented
     snoring, but at the second blow, there was a short rasping snort, and the fellow sat upright, bending over to the side of
     the bed so he didn’t brain himself on the rafters angled over his head. ‘Hey? Wa’?’
    ‘The bloody hounds again,’ Mark growled unsympathetically. ‘The Queen’s hounds.’
    ‘Not again! Sweet Jesus’ pains, can’t the things sleep like everyone else?’
    ‘Not everyone, Hal. Not you and me.’ Mark took the candle from the wall’s sconce, and set it on the floor beside him as he
     knelt, reaching for his tinderbox.
    ‘Thanks, Brother. Thanks for reminding me,’ Harry said.
    He flopped back on his bed as Mark struck again and again with flint and steel to light some tinder. It was hard in the dark.
     The flash of sparks illuminated the tinder at the first attempt, but that brief explosion of light blinded him for the next
     three, and he kept missing the target, sending sparks flying uselessly to the rough timber floor.
    Hal had been a Godsend to Mark. For too many years he had tried to manage this estate with the help that the lay brothers
     could provide during those odd moments when they had time to spare. But it was never enough, and when a man had a sudden emergency,
     like when he discovered that the shepherd had fallen and broken his head on a rock, and the sheep were all escaped, a man
     needed more than the promise of some aid towards the middle of next week, in God’s name!
    Prior Henry was good, though. When his steward went tohim and explained about the problems, he listened sympathetically, and told him to leave the matter with him. Mark had thought
     he meant he’d to dispose of Mark’s complaints in the same way his predecessor always had, by ignoring his troubles and hoping
     that the problem would go away. It was often the way that priors would deal with their more difficult staff – tell them not
     to bring problems but solutions, and threaten punishment if they continued to bother their betters. And then Hal arrived,
     young, strong, keen, and eminently capable.
    At first Mark made the usual uncharitable assumption: