But the oil had been the target of an attempted robbery, and the Duke of Brabant had instead taken it for protection. When Edward was to be crowned, the Duke brought it with him, but for some reason it was not used. Instead, it was kept safe — originally in the Tower, and more recently in Christ Church Priory, for that was where it belonged, so some thought, with St Thomas who had first received this marvellous oil in a dream.
Why it hadn’t been used, Sir Hugh did not know. He wasn’t a close companion of the King in those days, he was merely one of the knights in the household. However, he did know one thing, and that was that were the King to be known now to be so desperate for any assistance that he was turning to an old tale like this, he could become a laughing stock — and it would not be long before he was evicted from his throne.
And Sir Hugh could not allow that. His own future depended upon the King’s authority. Without King Edward II, Sir Hugh would lose all — including his life.
He could not permit the King to acquire that oil again. Not unless he could ensure that the King’s reputation wouldn’t suffer. There would have to be some means of guaranteeing that the King would remain secure even if he decided to use the oil, and until Sir Hugh found such a means, he could not permit the oil to be found again.
The question was, how?
Christ Church Priory
Leaving the Bishop of Orange in the Prior’s chamber, Baldwin walked down into the crypt with the Prior and coroner, Simon bringing up the rear.
‘And that is it, really.’
‘So the Queen deposited her hounds here because she knew you were supportive of her?’ Baldwin said.
‘Who could not be? I argued strongly that her embassy should be strengthened were she to be given some finances. How the King could propose to send her off with nothing, I do not know.’
‘Which is very good, and redounds to your honour,’ Baldwin said. ‘But you feel that if the oil is not recovered, the King will take it ill?’
‘He thinks I am disloyal because I was loyal to the Queen. We live in a strange land, Sir Baldwin, when a man can be thought of as a traitor to his King, just because he is known to support the King’s wife.’
‘Yes. Although I do not know what I may do to help you in this.’
‘All I ask is that you look into the matter for me.’
‘I must leave tomorrow with the Bishop.’
‘Then please do what you can tonight to convince yourself that we have not omitted to seek the killer, so that if the King asks you, you can tell him we have done our best.’
‘In one night? Do you know how long an inquest would usually take?’
‘All I ask is that you satisfy yourself I have not been remiss,’ the prior pleaded. ‘Please.’
The crypt was a large space, filled with boxes and barrels, and strongboxes made of thick oak with steel bands, and Baldwin stood in the middle gazing about him, while Simon leaned against a wall near the doorway, watching him.
‘This is where the oil was kept?’ Baldwin said.
‘It seemed safe enough down here,’ the Prior said mournfully.
He was staring down into a heavy, iron-bound chest. One enormous key inserted into the middle of the lid unlocked the bolts on each face of the chest, and then the chest could be opened. The Prior opened it and showed them the inside. It was part-filled with documents and leather wallets containing scrolls.
‘You’re sure it’s gone?’ was Baldwin’s first question.
‘We have emptied it three times to make quite sure.’
‘Would this monk normally have had the key?’ Simon asked.
‘No. There was no reason for Gilbert to have it,’ the prior admitted. ‘But sometimes a man may acquire such things. He had a close companion in the monastery, a man called James, who was responsible for the relics. James remembers having the key the day before. I suppose …’
‘Gilbert must have taken it from him at some point,’ the coroner said.
‘I still find it incomprehensible that a king’s man could have come and taken it from us,’ Prior Henry said. He gazed down at the open chest with near despair. ‘Why would the King order that?’
‘There is nothing to suggest that the King knew anything about it,’ Baldwin said hurriedly. ‘It is perfectly likely that the man who saw this supposedly blood-sodden herald was simply mistaken. He saw a tabard and assumed it must be royalty. It was dark, you say, and you think he had been drinking?’
‘Quite so,’ the coroner said.
‘There, then. It was as likely a merchant wearing a shield on his breast as a genuine herald.’
‘Yes. I see,’ Prior Henry said, uncertainly.
‘The other thing to bear in mind is that the King could have no need to steal what is rightfully his. I understand the Duke of Brabant gave it to him?’
‘That is what I understand,’ the Prior said.
‘Well, then. Clearly, it is nothing to do with the King.’
‘Then who?’ the coroner asked.
Baldwin looked at him, considering. ‘The interesting feature in all this is Gilbert’s own part. Why was he there helping in the theft?’
‘People will assist thieves for many reasons. Perhaps he was simply evil? I suppose we could have been misled,’ the Prior attempted.
Baldwin smiled ironically. ‘A monk? Surely not. No, there must have been a reason.’ It was good to see the Prior’s relief at his words. And yet, why not, he thought. Maybe there was another man? Perhaps Gilbert was more innocent than he gave the dead man credit for. Was it possible that another monk had gone to take the oil to this ‘herald’ and Gilbert saw him, and so was killed? Possible, certainly. But not likely. ‘Still, it is an interesting problem.’
The Prior looked at him sideways. ‘Does it pique your interest?’
‘Well, naturally. It is a fascinating little conundrum.’
‘Then you will look into it for me?’
Baldwin smiled. So that was why the prior was telling him this tale. ‘I wish I could, but as you know, I have to be on my way in the morning with the Bishop of Orange. We go to the King.’
‘Yes. And I must inform the King of the theft,’ Prior Henry said.
He looked at Baldwin. Baldwin looked back. Then Baldwin glanced at the coroner, and a slight frown passed over his features. ‘Oh! Oh, no. No, I don’t think that this is a matter for me to-’
‘All I ask is that you inform him of the loss of the oil,’ Prior Henry said. ‘I shall write a note for you to take to him. What, would you ask that a special messenger be asked to do it when you are to be going to him anyway?’
Baldwin glared at the Prior, then peered down at the chest. ‘No. You may well find the oil over the next few days. Telling the King would be a bad error, I think.’
‘But we do not know how to seek it! You, you are the expert, won’t you-’
‘Oh, show us where his body was found. Perhaps I can help there, if only a little.’
Simon and Baldwin spent the next couple of hours studying the barn where Gilbert’s body had lain, but there was nothing there which seemed to help with an inquiry. Too many boots had already gone over this ground for there to be any hope that they might discover something new.
‘I didn’t expect you to be able to help,’ the coroner admitted as they walked back towards the prior’s chambers over the grass.
‘What do you believe happened?’ Baldwin asked.
‘Same as you. This Gilbert entered into some sort of agreement with another man, someone probably wearing a tabard similar to that of a king’s herald, and then when he passed over the oil, he was slain to silence him.’
‘Like a king’s herald, as you say,’ Baldwin agreed. ‘And yet, what purpose could a man like that have for stealing what was already the King’s?’
‘You tell me.’
Baldwin eyed him. The coroner was one of those who kept his own judgement, a man who was silent much of the time, watching and assessing rather than opening his mouth. He reminded Baldwin of a Devon farmer. They were often happier to keep their peace, judging quietly rather than speaking. One had said to him once that: ‘’Tiz better to keep gurt zilence an’ be thought a fule, raither’n open yure mouth and prove ’un.’