‘Our horses?’
‘I am a friar. I don’t hurry on horseback,’ Thomas said loftily. ‘But I can run like a greyhound if I feel an arrow behind me,’ he added.
Stephen took a deep breath. He stared ahead at the gateway, so temptingly open, so temptingly close.
‘Oh, ballocks, brother. Let’s dodge a clothyard.’17
In the White Hall he had heard the shouting, roared orders, the tolling of the bell and doors slamming shut, their bolts rammed home, and in his chamber, Sir Edward of Caernarfon leaped to his feet, staring about him wildly.
His guards had been removed when he renounced his crown, months ago. He was no longer considered a threat to those who ruled his kingdom, he had thought. But now he realised his foolishness: it meant there was no one to protect him!
So: this was how his life would end, with an assassin’s attack. Just as Piers Gaveston had been waylaid by Sir Edward’s enemies, so he would in his turn fall to a murderer’s blade, here, inside one of the strongest castles in the land.
It was what he had expected, yesterday afternoon. When he heard the door open, and turned to see the stranger standing there, he had thought that his hour had come. But no assassin would have bent his knee. And, as Edward had stood there, frozen, awaiting a blow, the messenger had produced that astonishing letter from the Bardi.
Edward had read the parchment with incredulity. It had not occurred to him that he had loyal subjects so committed to helping him even now, in these desperate straits. It was heartening to learn that, although he had been dragged down, others were still honourable supporters of his cause.
The parchment he had given back to Dolwyn, for fear that it could be discovered, but its contents had filled him with renewed hope. With luck, he could be freed!
There was more shouting, a shrill scream, and he swore aloud, ‘I’ll not die here like a coward!’
He drew his sword, the blade’s point unwavering, and allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction: they could take his crown, his throne, his realm, but they would not make him cower like a dog.
There was a bellow outside his door, and he stepped away as the latch was opened. Three men rushed in, and he lifted his sword, ready to fall upon them, until he realised that the three had no interest in him. Two pulled the door shut behind them and shoved the bolts over to lock it, while the third darted from one window to another, peering out into the court and cursing volubly.
‘What is happening?’ Edward demanded. ‘Is it assassins? Murderers?’
‘Sorry, Your Highness,’ the man at the window responded. He was still staring down at the inner ward. ‘There’s an attack on the castle.’
‘To kill me?’ Edward said.
‘What?’
And at the sight of his surprise, Edward felt his breath catch at the sudden realisation: the men attacking intended to rescue him! The man with the Bardi letter was not alone!
More shouting. There was a steady metallic clattering, then a rattle and hiss, and Edward glanced at the open windows. Arrows flew through the air, and he narrowed his eyes. Some of the men must have got into the castle, then, but having gained that inner space, they would find every door closed and barred, against them. They would be trapped.
A roared command, to ‘Fall back! To the gates!’ and Edward knew that the attempt to save him was doomed. Stumbling slightly, he made his way over to a seat at the window, from where he could see out.
There were four bodies lying in the court. Two were moving; one appeared to be trying to crawl to the gate, but then a guard hurried from a doorway with an axe, and hacked at his head until he was still.
Edward shuddered. To have gone from the conviction that he was in immediate danger, to the belief that someone was attempting his rescue, had left him drained. He did not acknowledge the men as they unbolted the door and left, allowing a page to enter. As the lad wandered about lighting candles, seeing to the fire and setting out the table for a small supper, Edward sat staring out.
But now he was not full of resentment.
He had rediscovered hope.
Dolwyn stood frozen to the spot as the last of the riders hurtled off into the distance. He was transfixed with horror, since from a simple situation in which he had anticipated being able to arrange the release of Sir Edward, he now felt as though he had been propelled into a nightmare.
Who in God’s name were those fools? Had they no brains? No one without at least two hundred men could hope to storm a castle like Kenilworth. No, make that two thousand. And these congeons18 had tried it with ten, perhaps twelve.
He wanted to roar his rage at the moon and vent some of the frustration he felt, as he realised that there was no possibility now that he could free Sir Edward of Caernarfon. The King would be secured tighter than a tick, and even with all his cleverness, Dolwyn would not be able to get close to him.
‘Aw, shite,’ he said with feeling.
Second Tuesday before the Feast of the Annunciation19
Caerphilly
Senchet Garcie stood beyond the drawbridge at Caerphilly and drew in a deep breath. ‘It smells better out here, don’t you agree?’
‘Nah, it’s not that much different,’ Harry le Cur said grimly. ‘Inside there it smelled of shit and piss, and out here it’s the same.’
Senchet looked from his friend to the men all around. ‘So long as nobody tests his sword on me, I will persist in being happy.’
‘Aye, well,’ Harry said quietly. He too eyed the men about the castle. After a long siege, surrender was a dangerous time. ‘Hold! Here’s our welcoming party.’
It was impossible to be sad today, Senchet thought: they were out of the castle. There was a certain amount of tension in the air, in case the promises of safety had been lies, but he doubted it. They were being released with honour, and for that he was grateful. He would make a donation to a church . . . when he had some money.
The capitulation had taken an age to negotiate. All were to be freed without surrendering their weapons and had been promised full pardons. Even Hugh III, the son of Hugh le Despenser, was assured of his freedom.
Hugh III was bearing up well. His father and grandfather had both died hanged, drawn and quartered, and at only eighteen or nineteen years, Hugh III had shown courage that men double his age lacked.
The castle’s guards had held out, honourably defending the King’s last castle, as they had been commanded. Initially they had clung to the hope that relief would come, until news came of the execution of Sir Hugh le Despenser and the King’s abdication. After that, they held on in order to secure the best terms. And so they had.
Senchet scratched behind his ear where a flea had bitten. ‘No, the air out here definitely tastes better, my friend. Here, my soul feels free again.’
‘There’s a wind, true,’ Harry grunted, but as he spoke his attention was drawn to the rattle and thump of wagons making their way towards them. ‘What are they for?’ he asked suspiciously.
Senchet gave a chuckle. ‘The first thing any attacker would think of, naturally. They’re here to take any loot.’
Harry gave a relieved sigh. ‘To grab the King’s gold, then.’
‘And Sir Hugh le Despenser’s, eh?’
‘You can be assured of that, Senchet.’
‘All those barrels. Five hundred pounds in each of ’em.’
‘Aye,’ Harry said. They had both seen the rows of barrels in the undercroft. It was a sight to gladden a man’s heart.
‘Except the last one. Despenser’s contained a thousand pounds,’ Senchet recalled with a sigh. ‘Ah! It is sad to be a poor man, my friend. To think of that vast wealth in there. So desirable, so beautiful – and so far from us!’ He held his fingers to his mouth, kissing them with a look of such mournful longing that Harry laughed despite himself.
‘Senchet, such riches aren’t for the likes of you and me. We have to seek out a new lord and plead for his largesse.’
‘You have any thoughts about this new lord?
’
‘There are some who may welcome us,’ Harry said. He took in the grey landscape about them. ‘They’re all a long way from here, though.’
‘If we had but a small part of the money from the barrels, travel would be easier,’ Senchet noted.
‘And if we had wings, we could fly.’
‘So we must walk.’
‘Yes. And hope to find a new master,’ Harry said.
He was not optimistic.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Near Kenilworth
Frere Thomas Dunheved shivered at the sound of thundering hooves approaching. He knew with a certainty that, were he to be captured, his life would not be worth a penny. They would kill him – once they had garnered all the information he held.
On hearing the horses, he had flung himself down into a thicket of brambles and holly, the only cover that lay about here. His black gown was all besmottered with mud, his hands, and no doubt his face, were smeared with it too, and he had a thorn in his thumb.
He could have sworn aloud at the disaster. All that planning and effort, gone to waste. God had not aided them, and Frere Thomas was once more on the run from the enemies of the true King.
How different things had been, once! The House of the Black Friars in London seemed a lifetime ago, a thousand leagues away. Was it truly only six months since his urgent flight with the King from London? It was difficult to believe.
But there were more pressing concerns. Where was Stephen? His older brother had pelted through the gate with him, the two of them thrilling with the sheer lunatic excitement while bolts and arrows fell all about them. Two others from their gang made it. The others . . . well, all perished in the storm of clothyard arrows and crossbow quarrels in that deadly ward.
Once outside, their predicament had grown clear. There were too many men in the castle, too much open land in front of it, and too much damned water in the moat, apart from anything else. They had been lucky that Stephen’s horse was near to hand, another running wildly, crazed at the smell of blood, the shouting of fighting men. It was the action of a moment to snatch at the reins, leap into the saddle and, bending low over the horse’s neck, ride away as fast as possible.
Stephen had been in front, just, when they pelted over the bridge and causeway, past a goggling priest, and thence to the road. They were delayed by a terrified carter, who stood by his horse, tugging at the rein. Thomas and Stephen had flown past him like hawks past a pigeon, but soon afterwards, they had heard the pursuit.
There was nothing to be done out here in the open lands other than whip, spur, and pray. Stephen was drawing away, but Thomas’s brute was suddenly flagging. Stephen turned and would have stopped, but Thomas waved him on. No point in them both being caught. ‘Ride on!’
He had reached some woods, and there he slipped from his saddle and slapped the horse’s rump. Only then did he see the arrow protruding from the horse’s back, just behind the saddle. It sent a chill down his spine to think how close that had come to ending his life. Only a couple of feet higher, only a tiny additional angle from the archer’s perspective, and it would all have been over.
Then the horses were closer, and fear took hold. Thomas had run off, like a hare before the hounds, darting in and out among the thin tree boughs, hoping to deter any bowmen, but to be truthful, he doubted that they even noticed him. They certainly seemed to think they had better targets. He had heard one man scream in pain, but there was no telling who. Perhaps it was Stephen. He did not know.
He disliked admitting it, but there was no denying that if it were Stephen, it was more important that he, Frere Thomas, had survived. He was the strategist who had God’s approval.
Frere Thomas lifted his head, brought back to the present. He was sure he had heard another horse from the east. Could that be them again? His nerves were tight as bowstrings as he strained his ears to listen, but there was nothing, no one to be seen. It must be his imagination, or maybe a rider ambling along at the extreme edge of his hearing, and passing now into a wood or gulley where the sound of his hooves could not be heard.
He blew the air from his lungs, rolled over and closed his eyes a moment. Yes, all that was yesterday. Last night he had dozed fitfully with his back against an old oak after walking miles over muddy fields. The peasants here would have good reason to curse the Dominican for the coming year, he thought with a weary grin. His feet would have disturbed their crops.
Today he had risen with the sun, wondering where on earth he was. Although raised not far from Kenilworth, this land was unfamiliar, and he peered about him warily before setting off again, making for the nearest church, which stood on a small hill a mile or two to the south. The priest there was entirely unwelcoming. A hidebound old fool, who believed that friars were only in his parish to steal his tithes, he made it clear that if he heard the friar preaching, he would come and chastise Thomas with a stick.
Personally, Thomas did not think this very likely, since the man looked so frail, but he did not want to raise attention to himself. He managed to persuade the priest to give him bread in exchange for his departure, and a brook was adequate for his thirst.
In the brook he caught sight of his reflection, and it exasperated him. He was used to a good life, to courteous discussions with the King and with the Pope, not to this indignity. Dear Heaven, what would the Pope say if he saw Thomas in this condition? Probably nothing, Frere Thomas admitted to himself, since the Pope would not have been told of a scruffy churl asking to meet him. Guards would have prevented him from entering the presence.
Now he rolled over and studied his injured thumb.
Recently he had been one of the most important men in the country. When there was a need for a cool head and diplomatic manner, King Edward II would send for Frere Thomas. Whether it concerned messages for the Pope, negotiations to assess the possibility of a marriage annulment – anything – it was to Frere Thomas that the King would turn. Sir Hugh le Despenser had been the King’s best friend, yet he had the guile and subtlety of a hog cleaver, in Christ’s name. He could hack, but when it was a silent assassin’s stab that was needed, Despenser failed.
Well, the fool had paid for his manifold crimes. Hauled to a gallows fifty feet from the ground until almost dead, then dropped to a table where he had his genitals cut off and thrown into a fire before he was ritually disembowelled, the entrails also thrown into the flames, and his beating heart hacked from his breast. If it was still beating. Frere Thomas had his doubts about that. He believed that a man tended to expire a short time after his belly was opened.
He had no liking for Sir Hugh le Despenser, but he could sympathise with the man for his fate. It was difficult to think of any creature who deserved such a barbaric death.
Putting the ball of his thumb to his mouth, Frere Thomas bit into the broken-off stub of blackthorn that had stabbed him. It was a tough little imp, but he managed to tug it loose and spit it away, studying the marble of blood that formed, growing to a nugget of almost a half-inch diameter before running quickly down his wrist.
Frere Thomas sighed. As the fresh drops of rain began to clatter among the holly leaves, he closed his eyes, then cast a long suffering look upwards.
‘Thank you, Lord,’ he said, but then rose and made his way to the road. Here in this part of Warwickshire the land was flat, and in places very wet, and there was no jauntiness in his spirit as he stared off into the south, and began to trudge.
He wouldn’t look back. That way lay defeat and misery. That way lay Kenilworth, where the man to whom he still owed his allegiance was held.
John wept as he pulled the hood over Paul’s face, then stood stiffly, the wound in his flank hurting as he moved.
His friend was already cold. He had died soon after they left the roads and entered among the trees, falling from his horse before John could catch him, and gagging as the blood from that awful wound seeped into his throat and lungs. He clung to life with the desperation of a badger in a trap, grasping John�
��s arms as though he could hold on to life the same way.
John closed his eyes again as tears moved down his cheeks. There was no shame in mourning the passing of an old friend, and there was no friend so close, so dear to his heart, as Paul.
That fight had been so sharp and swift, it took him a moment to comprehend that Paul was injured. Through the part-opened gates, he had seen the men falling, and realised his friend must be badly wounded in the same instant as he saw that face in the court: Sir Jevan de Bromfield.
It was enough. He slashed at his assailant, grabbed Paul’s bridle, and fled.
He would never forget that ride. They had pelted along through the bushes, and Paul had seemed all right at first. Until they stopped.
It was astonishing he made it so far. The blade had cut deep, not through the vein or artery at the side – that would have killed him in moments – but opening his gullet. When he attempted to speak, no sound came. A bloom of crimson spread from his neck down the front of his chemise, and his eyes were desperate, like those of a dog gripped by a bear.
Later, when John could still his sobbing for his friend of so many years, he swore that he would take the body to a place where Paul could be buried decently, with a priest to look over his soul.
Those who had survived would have to meet to discuss what to do, now that they had failed so magnificently in rescuing the King.
Kenilworth
Sir Edward of Caernarfon stared into the yard below. There was little to be seen now of the carnage that had reigned last night. Only black stains on the ground, where flies squatted. As a dog wandered past, the stain rose, leaving behind the rust-coloured mark of dried blood, but then the flies returned, gorging themselves on a man’s death.
The light had faded quickly behind the castle walls last night, but he had seen the bodies. Men dragged the dead to the wall, where they were left side-by-side. While he watched, two dogs trotted over, one to urinate, the other to lick and nudge, and he had wondered whether the latter was trying to waken its master, or whether it was testing the quality of the meat.
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