30 - King's Gold

by Michael Jecks

  Ham’s beast was large, with a splash of white like a fist on his breast, and a star of white on his rump, while on the left foreleg he had a white band about his ankle. In his youth, Ham said, he had been a spirited beast, but now, after many years of hauling loads up and down hills, the poor fellow was no longer at his best. It was a miracle, Luke thought, that the animal had survived this long. And it would be a miracle indeed, if he made it all the way to Kenilworth.

  Instead of halting here, Dunheved proposed to allow them to rest when they reached the little village of Lecwotten16, a few miles north of Warwick. Ham and Luke exchanged a glance. Picking a fight with a senior official was foolish when the delay would be but a matter of an hour or so. What’s more ale in a small place like Lecwotten would be considerably cheaper than in a town like Warwick.

  So they agreed to continue and soon reached the inn, which was little more than a tatty ale-house designed to service the small local community.

  The purveyor and Ham went inside, Dunheved loudly demanding drink and food, but Luke chose to wait outside, to keep an eye on the cart and his metal-bound chest.

  He detested the very sight of that box, and could not wait for the moment when he could pass it on to someone else. At times, he had thought to give it to this purveyor, but at the last moment he had always resisted the temptation. Dunheved seemed a hard man, and Luke would not be surprised if he didn’t just take the money for himself. Purveyors had a reputation for theft and shameless rapacity, often fleecing the populace and selling the excess goods at a profit. There were regular stories of such men being arrested for their corruption. This man was almost certainly formed from that mould. The only reason Luke was safe was due to the presence of Ham. The fellow might have the brain of an ox, but an ox can intimidate, and Ham was loyal to his priest.

  Luke wandered over to the cart. In the bed were the sacks of provisions which the purveyor had bought, and Luke had carefully installed the chest in the middle, between two small barrels of perry, and behind the sack of lampreys, to stop it moving about too much. Now he pulled the sack aside, separated the folds of some blankets, and reached in to touch his chest. It was there, but very well wedged, and he must tug hard until he felt it move. Soon it was at the edge of the cart, and he raised the lid and peered inside. All was well. The coins were in little sacks of soft leather, and he counted them: none was missing. He would not put it past the purveyor to open it and steal a purse, but so far as Luke had seen, the man had shown no interest in it. He had other things on his mind.

  Taking a purse, Father Luke opened it and marvelled again. The coins were gold, with a lily on one side, the image of St John on the other. He knew it was called a ‘Florin’. The Florentines minted them, and they were worth some shillings each. If they were valued at three shillings, he thought, with twenty purses of fifty coins in each, there were one thousand gold coins here: that must mean at least three thousand shillings – a hundred and fifty pounds! It made him weak to think of such wealth. He was about to shove the chest back into the gap, when he heard a cheerful voice calling to him.

  ‘Father Luke? You’re far from home!’

  Luke spun on his heel and found himself staring into the face of John of Shulton, the man who had told him of Despenser’s death. ‘Why, good day to you, sir! And what are you doing here?’

  ‘Riding to Kenilworth. What of you?’

  After days with the sullen purveyor, Luke felt something akin to affection for this man. He forgot how nervous he had been when he first met John.

  ‘Isn’t that the mark of my lord Despenser?’ John added, peering at the chest.

  ‘Yes. It is his,’ Luke whispered with a glance at the inn. ‘He gave it to me for safekeeping, and I am taking it to Kenilworth for the King.’

  ‘You mean Sir Edward,’ John corrected. He eyed the chest with some interest. ‘They call him Sir Edward of Caernarfon now, you know, Father.’

  ‘Hey! Who are you, and what are you gawping at?’ Dunheved shouted from the door. He was walking from the ale-house with a pair of jugs in his hands, and passed one to Luke. ‘This load is all for the garrison at Kenilworth.’

  ‘It is no matter to me,’ said John, and nodded his head to Luke. ‘I would have joined you on your journey, Father, but I think your grumpy friend here has no wish for company. Godspeed you on your way!’

  Luke muttered his own farewell, but the man was already riding away at a smart trot.

  The purveyor said nothing, but his eyes were on the man, and he wore a strange expression, almost a smile, as John disappeared into the distance. And then he shook himself and said bluntly, ‘Food is on the way.’

  Luke could not help but notice that the man’s eyes turned now to the cart, and suddenly he squinted. And when Luke turned, he saw the edge of the chest protruding from the blankets, which he had inadequately arranged to cover it.

  Lecwotton

  Stephen Dunheved was eager for a drink. As soon as he had finished his first quart of ale, staring thoughtfully up the road in the direction John had taken, he went back inside the ale-house for another.

  It was one thing to be assured of acting for the general good, but when it came to a situation like this, knowing that men would soon die, and that he himself could be one of them, that was a different matter. Not that he was scared, just tense, because he knew what lay ahead. A fight, certainly, and possibly the release of their rightful king, along with the glory that would ensue. It was a wonderful ambition – and yet he felt weary and fretful, and couldn’t shake off a sense of impending doom.

  He had been in difficult situations before, of course. Six years ago he had been forced to abjure the realm for killing a man, and didn’t return until the King pardoned him. Within the year he was Valet of the King’s Chamber, and soon afterwards, Edward made him custodian of Lyonshall Castle, then appointed him to hold an inquisition. Stephen’s future had seemed assured. He had not conceived of the King losing his throne.

  This wretched tavern seemed to emphasise just how far he had fallen. Once, he had moved in the best circles – not that you would think it, to look at him now. To all he was a scruffy acquirer of goods, little better than a churl, and everyone knew that purveyors had a bad reputation.

  He grimaced. The fire was smoking profusely in the middle of the room, and there was a loud hissing as moisture bubbled from the ends of the green logs. It was typical of the landlord that he hadn’t the foresight to cut wood earlier in the year so it could dry.

  Going outside, he sat on a log near the door. Soon a wench came out with a tray on which there was a large round loaf and a lump of cheese, as well as two more jugs of ale.

  ‘Thank you, maid,’ he said, eyeing the loaf hungrily.

  She set it on the ground, and wiped her hands before leaving them to their meal.

  ‘Ham, come and eat,’ Luke called.

  Stephen was already cutting into the bread with his knife. He took a quarter of the loaf and studied the lump of grit-infested, blackened crust. He, who had eaten the best paindemaigne with the King’s household, forced now to subsist on this! It was enough to make a man weep, he thought, washing a piece down with a mouthful of ale. At least the liquid made it soften.

  The carter joined them at the table, sitting and reaching over for the cheese. ‘I don’t know that the horse’ll make it much further today.’

  ‘He won’t have to go very much further,’ Stephen said. ‘It’s only a league or more to the castle. We are halfway there, from Warwick.’

  ‘Good.’

  Luke glanced over at the horse. ‘He has done well to bring us here so swiftly.’ He saw the old beast droop his head towards the grass. He seemed hardly able to rip the grass from the verge.

  Stephen looked at the sun. ‘Don’t worry. You can rest him a while here. We don’t have to move off again yet.’

  Wycombe

  They had set off late the previous afternoon, and Alured still resented the way that he had been imperiously called into
service. It was not the sort of job he had ever considered for himself, being a personal bodyguard to a banker.

  It was lunchtime when they saw the little bush bound to a pole over a cottage’s door, denoting an ale-house, and Alured went in to ask about food and drink while Matteo Bardi and the three servants with him waited outside. The old woman inside was content to let them share her food when she was promised payment, but even now, with food in his belly, Alured continued to eye his new master with suspicion.

  He knew that Matteo was hiding something. The man had regularly thrashed around and cried out in his sleep during the time when he was at Alured’s house, and the constable had a shrewd suspicion that he was petrified of someone close to him.

  There were many who looked at Alured askance when he mentioned his intuitions, but he had been involved with people all his life, and knew how to read a man’s thoughts. Fear was easy to spot; and he was getting the distinct impression of fear from Matteo Bardi.

  When they were riding on again, he broached the subject while out of earshot of the other henchmen.

  ‘Master, do you have reason to be fearful about this journey?’

  Matteo turned to him with such a startled look that Alured had to stifle a grin. ‘Scared? Me?’

  ‘Look, I was ordered by the city to come with you whether I like it or not, and I will do as I’m told. But if there’s some reason for your alarm, I’d like to know it. Then at least I can prepare for it.’

  ‘There is nothing. Nothing!’

  ‘All right,’ Alured said, and jogged onwards.

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Because you’re on edge, master. It’s to do with your dreams, I reckon.’ Alured snorted, hawked and spat into the roadway. ‘When you were in your fever, you kept calling out to your brother – the one who died.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You knew he was going to die that day.’

  Matteo shot him a look with wide, alarmed eyes. ‘I told him not to ride his horse. The mob were grabbing anyone on horseback. He didn’t have a chance!’

  ‘Then there was nothing you could do. It wasn’t your fault he died, master. He was a grown man, and too cocky, that’s all. He went off up there, assuming that everyone would back down when they saw him – that’s what Bill told me. And he was proved wrong. Not your fault.’

  ‘Perhaps not.’

  ‘And then they got you too.’

  Matteo nodded, then muttered, ‘But I have my own suspicions about that.’

  Alured heard him. ‘What do you mean?’

  In a low, conspiratorial voice, Matteo confided how scared he was of Benedetto. The brother who, he thought, had tried to kill him.

  ‘He will try again,’ he finished.

  ‘Your own brother?’ Alured said. But he knew there were many in London who had gained advancement by stepping into a dead man’s shoes. And often a man would hate his own brother far more than any other enemy.

  ‘He was there when it happened. He lives up towards Saint Benet Fink.’

  Alured felt as though his heart had stopped. ‘Where?’

  ‘Saint Benet Fink. Why?’

  Alured said nothing. But in his mind he saw again that alleyway with the two young bodies lying in it. The very same alley that led to St Benet Fink and Benedetto’s house.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Woods near Kenilworth

  Father Luke was relieved to be moving again when they left the tavern. Soon he would see the castle in which the King was held, and so could pass over the box of florins. He wanted nothing more to do with any of it. But he also longed to reach the castle, simply so he could sit at a hot fire and drink spiced cider or ale.

  Not many men would so willingly relinquish such wealth, but for Father Luke the trepidation which he had felt since hearing of Despenser’s death had steadily increased over time, as if the weight of the cash was dragging on his very soul. A hundred and fifty pounds! The box contained more than the value of Father Luke’s entire parish.

  He wondered what reception he could expect at the castle. The men there would naturally be suspicious and might not let him see Sir Edward – in which case it was possible that someone there might actually steal the box. And if they did, what could he do to stop them? It was unlikely they’d take it and say, ‘Thanks, this will help pay for our garrison’s Easter feast!’ More probably they’d take it, promise to pass it on, and then the poor imprisoned King would never get to see it.

  He was mulling this over, when there came a low whistle from ahead.

  The purveyor turned and said brusquely: ‘Don’t worry, carter. These are friends of mine.’

  Luke shot a look at Ham, and saw he was concerned. Ham cast an eye over his shoulder as though estimating the chances of turning his cart and fleeing, but of course it was too late. Luke gazed ahead and felt a sudden surprise on seeing John of Shulton and Paul of Bircheston.

  The two men were on large horses, and as Dunheved came closer to them, they rode forward and slapped him on the back, laughing and chattering.

  ‘Thought you’d got lost until I saw you in that tavern,’ John was saying. ‘I was trying to find you.’

  ‘I didn’t want us to stand there chatting.’ The purveyor appeared to be less enthusiastic than the other two. ‘I need to be off out of here as soon as I can.’

  ‘Don’t worry yourself,’ John said. ‘This won’t take long.’ His grin was infectious, and the priest found himself smiling in return. The fellow really was attractive in a roguish way, and Luke felt he would be an excellent companion in a tavern. He would be the first to begin to sing or tell saucy jokes, and generally make any evening an event to remember.

  As if reading his mind, the fellow began to whistle and then sing, a silly tale about a woman who was trying to sue a man for the paternity of her child, while the man refused to listen, and instead boasted about the other women he had bedded, and why he wouldn’t touch an old trout like her. Which was amusing enough – but the last verse told of how she was, unknown to him, the wealthiest woman in the county, and since he had rejected her and caused her son to be known as a bastard, she would marry the man’s servant instead, and elevate him to a position of significance in the land.

  A fine song it was, and John managed to use different voices as he sang, with occasional lewd and bawdy gestures. It was all Luke could do not to laugh aloud at his antics.

  But the joy in his heart was stopped when Paul and John moved to the back of the cart, and began to move things about.

  Ham was the first to protest. ‘Hoi, don’t meddle with that stuff! It’s the purveyor’s, and I don’t want it—’

  Paul stopped and stood before Ham, smiling, but with his hand on his sword’s hilt. ‘Shut up, carter.’

  The purveyor called, ‘Carter, this is all right. There’s nothing to worry about. They are making room for additional stores, that’s all.’

  Luke was watching John, though, as he peered at the casket on the bed of the cart. He pulled it towards him, then tested the lid. Seeing it was locked, he tried to pick it up, then made a face at the weight.

  Luke felt as though the blood was rushing to his face. John of Shulton had the look of a fellow who would slit a priest’s throat for twenty shillings, and in that box, as Luke knew, there were many pounds. He swallowed, anxious, but even as he did so, Paul walked over to John and began passing him the new cargo for the cart. Luke’s eyes widened.

  They were all weapons.

  Near Kenilworth Castle

  Dolwyn did not dare to stay in the town that night. Instead he left the castle, and then set off in an easterly direction until he came to a small farming hamlet, where he bought some ale and eggs fried with a spot of grease from a pot of bacon fat. It was delicious, and when he asked, he was permitted to make use of their little hayloft, where he slept the night in warm comfort, unworried by the rats and beetles that scurried about him.

  All was well; better than well. He had seen the contents of the letter – a
nd had hoped for some small reward for delivering it to Sir Edward. How naïve he had been! For now he saw how much more he could make by helping the man. While Edward’s position was not as good as once it had been, at least Dolwyn had won his confidence. And if the grateful Sir Edward of Caernarfon was ever brought back to power, Dolwyn knew that he would personally be granted a good posting himself. Perhaps become a sergeant in a royal castle, or land some cushy job in the Tower of London – something like that, something without hard work. Ideally in a place like Barnard Castle, where there wouldn’t be too many others to keep an eye on him. Then he could copy Jack the Irishman, and cream as much money as he liked off the local peasants. As a King’s official, they would have no way to refuse any demands he made.

  Life, he reflected, could be sweet.

  Now that Edward knew that he had the support of the Bardi, he had said he must think about how to effect his escape from this prison. It was terrible, to think that all Dolwyn’s future dreams depended upon the former King’s escape, but better that than for Edward to remain in gaol and for Dolwyn never to see the fruits of his efforts.

  He would help Edward escape, he swore to himself now, and as a result, he would be elevated to a position of importance.

  All that remained was to work out how this escape could be effected. That, he knew, would take some thought.

  Kenilworth

  They were close now. Stephen Dunheved could feel his excitement growing as they passed up the road near to Kenilworth, his eyes roving about the trees that lay at either side of the road watching for any signs of ambush – a half-concealed figure, a glint of steel.

  He was riding his own sturdy pony, but his urgency to reach the castle was such that even his mount was behaving like a destrier, prancing skittishly as they proceeded over the rough roadway.

  This was not the first time he had set out on a journey that would end in danger. In the last months he and his companions had forged a reputation for ruthless determination. Only two weeks ago, he and others with Sir Edmund Gascelin had stolen horses, oxen and cows, as well as a thousand sheep, from villages in Gloucester, and then they had gone on to Shilton near Coventry and taken more. The beasts were good for barter, but also for food, and the men needed food, God knew.