30 - King's Gold

by Michael Jecks

  His own son would never have grown so bone idle as this, that much he knew.

  There was a muttered curse, and the fellow appeared in the doorway, arms filled.

  He wasn’t so bad, really, Hugh reminded himself. The lad had grown up in the port, son of a woman who gave herself in exchange for ale or wine. He had never known his father. The man was just one in a succession of sailors who had been entertained by his mother. It would have been a miracle for him to turn out any better. Most lads like him were dead before they were thirteen, and if not, they became sailors themselves. Fishermen or warriors for the King, it made little difference. Being employed by Simon had probably saved young Rob’s life.

  ‘Get the fire going, lad,’ Hugh said, having blown the little sparks into life, and rising from his knees, grunting to himself, he lumbered from the room.

  This was his sanctuary, the small buttery at the farther side of the screens passage, in which the household’s ale and wine was stored. It was only a small chamber, but for Hugh, who had grown up without walls while he lived on the moors, it was as good as any man’s grand hall. He sat on a stool and drew a quart of ale into a leather jug, drinking deeply.

  He was still there when he heard the rattle of hooves outside.

  Near Mickleton

  Dolwyn woke in the early light, head aching, bones sore and rubbed, and cursed the sun. Another hour of sleep would not have hurt him.

  All the way here, he had hurried, desperate to catch up with Ham. He was used to it. In his time he’d been forced to hurry to battles, as well as away from them afterwards. He had bolted from homes when he learned that a posse sought him, he had joined posses in search of felons when told to, he had ridden at speed with the King’s messages from York to London and back. Once he had run from a woman’s husband, leaving his hosen, belt and knife behind somewhere on the bitch’s floor in the dark.

  And in all those years he had never flagged, whether he was quarry or hunter.

  He knew Willersey. Some years ago he had been to Gloucester, then was sent to Warwick, and on the way he passed through Broadway and Willersey. They had struck him then as ideal places for a man like himself. He could have taken the vills with very few men, and the rich land all about there would have fed and watered a goodly-sized force. Perhaps it was close to time for him to think again about such things. If he didn’t manage to free Edward of Caernarfon, he would have to think about another opportunity; perhaps he could raise a force in order to free him.

  First, though, he wanted food, followed by revenge – the chance to silence a man who had seen him too close to the castle where Edward was being held. He also wanted that horse and cart.

  He just wished his head didn’t hurt so much where that bastard had hit him.

  Once up, his blanket rolled, he returned to the lane where the wide-set wheel-tracks stood out so strongly.

  ‘Right, you son of a pox-ridden whore!’ he muttered, and set off again, his bruised skull pounding with every step.

  West Sandford

  At the door, Hugh heard a familiar voice bellowing. It was almost enough to make him spill his ale. He walked to the hall, where the boy Rob was kneeling and blowing furiously in an attempt to keep the fire going, then along the screens passage to the open front door.

  ‘Sir Richard,’ he said.

  ‘That’s right, Sir Richard de Welles. Good God, man, you look like you swallowed a turd! Where’s your groom, eh? Someone needs to come and take me horse and see to it. Simon indoors, is he? I’ve a throat as parched as a wild dog’s in the Holy Land, and the idea of an ale is very welcome. If there’s a little cheese and bread, that would be good too. Or some cold meat. Anything, really. What, lost your tongue, man?’

  ‘Sir Richard, my master’s not here.’

  Sir Richard de Welles stood with his legs spaced as though preparing to fight, his hands on his belt – a tall man, at least six feet and an inch in height, somewhat heavy in the paunch, and with bright, genial eyes set in an almost perfectly round face. His brow was broad and tall, and his beard was so thick and long it looked much like a gorget. He had a mass of wrinkles on his amiable features, most of which had been carved into his flesh by laughing.

  Hugh knew the knight moderately well. Sir Richard had first met Hugh’s master Simon in Dartmouth some three years ago, when his skills as a coroner had helped Simon and Baldwin discover a murderer. Loud, apparently impervious to all types of drink, no matter what the quantity, with a head like an ox and a memory for foul jokes of all forms, he was an example of the sort of rough and crude, but honest and kindly, knight whom Hugh could respect.

  Now Hugh frowned, his head low on his shoulders. ‘There’s some cold meat and ale. And bread.’

  ‘Excellent! Capital! You know, this reminds me of a manor I used to know a long way from here. Up towards Wiltshire,’ the knight said, staring out over the view. A happy smile spread across his features as he stood surveying the little plot of pasture, the field beyond, the small coppice and shaw, and the hill that rose steeply in the distance, thick with old trees. ‘A pleasant little farm, that was. And they brewed some fine ales there. Hah! I hope yours is as good, eh? Where’s the hall, then?’

  Hugh called for a groom, cursorily throwing the horse’s reins over a tree’s limb, before hurrying inside.

  The house was a simple one: the cross passage was screened from the hall, and two doors on the right led to the buttery and pantry, while beyond was the little dairy. Margaret had persuaded Simon to modernise, and now there was a chimney rising from the hall itself, a recent innovation that did little, to Hugh’s mind, to alleviate the thick smoke that always filled the room.

  In fact, he could see Rob still blowing ineffectually at the fire, trying to force a glimmer from it, while Sir Richard strode inside. The knight was peering down at him with a frown on his face, watching intently.

  ‘GOOD GOD , BOY!’ he bellowed at last. ‘DO YOU HAVE NO IDEA?’ He pushed Rob aside, then went down on all fours, blowing steadily. In only a short time there was a strong crackling noise and Sir Richard sat back on his haunches, studying the burgeoning flames with satisfaction. ‘That’s how you get a fire going, boy! Now, off with you. I need bread, cheese, ale, some scraps of salad if you can find them, and if you have a meat coffin, so much the better. A little pasty always works a wonder on an empty stomach. Oh, and if the ale’s thin, a pint of wine too. I need to keep me strength up. Stop!’

  Rob, who had been sulkily making his way to the door, paused and turned to look at the knight.

  Sir Richard’s eyes narrowed and he subjected Rob to a short study. ‘You are the boy from Dartmouth, eh? The one the good Keeper of Dartmouth found?’

  Rob gave a surly nod.

  ‘Ah. I had cause to chastise you there, I remember. You didn’t get up in the morning, did you? Don’t make me have to do so again, lad. Go on, be off! And look sharp, too!’

  Sir Richard shook his head as the fellow darted into the buttery. ‘Master, that churl deserves the whip more than a number of the felons I see before me in my courts. He needs a firm hand, eh?’

  Hugh said nothing. The boy needed discipline, it was true, but Hugh didn’t need help or advice from the knight. He had taught enough dogs to know how to raise animals.

  The food arrived shortly, and Sir Richard looked at the wooden platter with an approving eye as he seated himself. Picking up the quart jug of ale that Rob placed at his hand and sniffing it with every sign of pleasure, he raised it to his mouth, closed his eyes, and sank a pint in three immense gulps. In a few more moments, the second pint was gone and the knight gave a belch of happiness as he passed the empty container back to Rob. ‘Refill it, boy.’

  He then pulled a knife from his belt and began to cut his meats, shoving each piece into his mouth with gusto. Only when the bread was gone, and his trencher clear of all meats and leaves, did he lean back and take up the third quart of ale, a beatific smile spreading over his face.

  ‘There now, t
hat feels much better,’ he said. ‘Where’s your master, Hugh? Did you say he was away? What about his wife, eh?’

  ‘They’re at Exeter. Seeing their daughter and grandson,’ Hugh said.

  ‘That so, eh? Right. I’ve urgent messages for him. You’d best tell me how to reach him there.’ Sir Richard glanced out through the open window. The sky to the south was darkening, with pink and red and orange clouds standing still as the sun sank to the west, out of sight. ‘Can’t go tonight, though. We’ll have to go in the morning.’

  ‘I can’t leave here,’ Hugh objected. ‘My master told me to stay and look after the place.’

  ‘He’ll want you with him, when he hears my news,’ the knight said with certainty.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Mickleton

  Alured and the three men guarding Master Matteo di Bardi were conscious of the trees and bushes on either side as they rode up towards the village, and their eyes moved from one possible hiding-place to another.

  For a London man, this landscape was alarming. Alured would rather be walking alone and unarmed in a narrow alley in London, than here. Any tree trunk could conceal a bowman, while all the greenery about the ground would be ideal for a determined band of outlaws ready to make an ambush. Alured had heard of many bands which roamed about the kingdom preying on poor travellers, and he had no intention of becoming one of their victims.

  It was as they were approaching the village, dusk darkening the countryside around them, and as the men about him were beginning to relax, that they saw the man walking along in front of them.

  He looked as though he had spent many days on the road already, and from his scuffed and muddied boots to his worn hat, he was a picture of exhaustion. Alured paid him little heed, but when he heard Matteo give a sharp intake of breath, he hurriedly turned in his saddle. ‘Master?’

  ‘Dolwyn?’ Matteo was staring at the fellow with a gaping mouth. ‘I thought you must be dead! What have you been doing?’

  ‘You want me to tell you?’

  Matteo threw a look at Alured. ‘No, no, you are right. Master Alured, please take these other men with you to the vill. Find a tavern to rest in. I shall follow on shortly.’

  ‘I’ll stay,’ Alured said. ‘You could be in danger.’

  ‘There is none here. You know my man . . . He is my confidential adviser.’

  Alured looked from Matteo to the tatty man glaring at him. ‘I remember Dolwyn. I have told you before these other men that I don’t think I should leave you,’ he stated. ‘If you insist, I will go, but I don’t like it. Will he guard you to the town? This is dangerous country.’

  ‘Just be gone,’ Matteo said wearily. ‘I shall join you at the tavern as soon as I may.’

  ‘Very good, Master Matteo.’ Alured called to the others, and clucked his horse, urging it onwards. They were soon in the little village, and there Alured busied himself with arranging accommodation and food, but all the while, his attention kept returning to the roadway.

  The tavern-keeper lighted candles and told him, ‘I’m supposed to keep the door closed and locked at night.’

  ‘You will be paid. This door remains open until my master is back.’ Alured held the man’s gaze for a long moment, until the landlord looked away and nodded.

  Alured sat up and waited for Matteo to return, sitting on a stool outside the tavern’s door, staring back the way they had come, wondering what on earth Matteo was doing with the man.

  Willersey

  It was late when Ham steered the cart into the side of the roadway at the top of the enormous hill that spread out east of Broadway, and he sat there for a long while, staring down into the plain. In the gathering gloom, he could make out little twinkles of light where candles had been lighted, and there was a series of columns of smoke rising in the still air. It looked so peaceful.

  Down there was his home.

  He had thought often enough that it was a prison. It was a place he’d been tied to by land, by custom and by duty. So many times he had thought about breaking free, running away and finding a new life. But it was a dream, that was all. There were bonds that kept him here, especially his love for his daughter.

  On occasion he had thought of the death of his wife, with a kind of longing. He could never kill her himself, but the idea of her death was attractive. Agatha was like a leaden weight about his soul, preventing him doing any of the things he wanted. Lonely, without the comfort of a woman’s love, Ham existed in a world of unremitting toil.

  To his friends he was an object of amusement. They looked on him with affectionate sympathy, knowing he was a slave to his wife’s will. Ham was no dullard – it was just that his opportunities had been too fleeting, his disasters too numerous and overwhelming. At every point, when he had thought that he could make a good profit either the money didn’t materialise, or it was soon lost in taxes or some other expense.

  Just like this time.

  Agatha couldn’t help being disappointed by him. She herself was strong-willed, and if she had been born a man, her indomitable spirit would have won her an empire. As it was, she was a woman whose husband could not provide her with the life she craved.

  He climbed down from his cart and hitched up the front of his tunic to piss at a tree – like a dog, he thought.

  At first, when they had been newly wedded, he had wallowed in the happiness of his life with her. They could not help but be merry and cheerful in each other’s company. But gradually they slipped into this grim, passionless existence. It was after Alice went off to Warwick. The bitch was always dropping sarcastic little comments about Ham when she deigned to return to her old home, wearing jewellery to impress and incite avarice. She resented him because before Ham married Agatha, she was Agatha’s closest friend. And now Agatha resented him because she felt he had let her down: he should have made more of himself, like Alice’s husband.

  Ach, it wasn’t only her. He too was jealous. Other couples had big families, while he and Agatha must needs survive with Jen. Their daughter was an angel, but there was no denying that Agatha and he could have done with a boy, to keep crows from the crops, to dig the vegetable garden, to take a hand mending the fence about the pigs. But they would have no more children. She appeared barren, or felt she was, and rejected him whenever he tried to . . . She didn’t want him near her. That was an end to it.

  It was not the life he would have picked.

  Anyway, returning home wasn’t safe. That vill, so placid in the evening’s murk, could be teeming with men searching for him.

  Oh well, even if he was captured the next day, it would be good to see Jen. And even Agatha, he admitted. Wearily, he walked back to the cart and took hold of the reins. He’d have to lead the old brute down the hill. It was steep here, and he must go cautiously.

  All those miles north and east, only to turn about and return, and all for no payment. He was exhausted, mind and body. The way had been hazardous, never more so than when he had met Dolwyn.

  He mused on the lethal nature of the fellow all the way down the hill. Dolwyn was the sort of man who would draw a knife and argue later. Ham was glad he had put so many miles between them. But a nagging doubt did remain, even as he led his old horse along the main roadway towards Willersey. He wished he had taken the final step and actually killed the man. He suddenly recalled what he had said to Dolwyn. He had mentioned his home, hadn’t he? And his own name, of course. There were many here who would be able to point him out to a stranger. A chill ran through him.

  That was daft, he chided himself. Dolwyn would not want to walk all the way here to find him. Ham had nothing to make such a journey worthwhile. He was only a poor villein, when all was said and done.

  It was almost full dark now. He had planned on getting to his home, and bracing himself to listen to a torrent of Agatha’s complaints, but now he stopped in the road, and stared ahead, to where his wife would be readying herself for her bed.

  The vill was serene. Houses lay dotted about, encircl
ed with wraiths of smoke. It was a clear evening, and the ponds reflected the setting sun and the salmon-coloured sky. A dog barked, and he was sure that he recognised his own brute’s voice. It would be typical of the old fellow to recognise the sound of his cart’s wheels even from such a distance, Ham thought with a grin to himself.

  Darkness enveloped the world like a blanket as he listened to the lowing of cows, the occasional call of an owl, the lone bark of his dog.

  This was his home, and it was strange to him. He was filled with trepidation and sadness, and he dared not go down into the vill. Perhaps he should stay out here tonight, and face his wife tomorrow.

  All would seem better in daylight, he told himself. He looked about him, then led the horse to the side of the road. Here there was a narrow clearing, where he unharnessed the horse, set the cart down, then hobbled the horse with leather straps before wrapping himself in a blanket and sitting with his back to a tree. He drew his hat over his eyes, and his hood over his face, and settled to sleep.

  It was already dark when Dolwyn approached the vill. He stepped quietly, because a man who has once strayed onto the wrong side of the law knows all about the dangers of being found at night. After curfew, any man would be at pains to explain why he was wandering about near people’s homes. There was no criminal so loathed as a robber of houses after dark.

  He heard some horses, and stepped into the shadows behind a large beech tree. The moon was not full, but there were no clouds, and the area looked to him as bright as daylight. No people. He heard a creaking, as of leather, and turned to eye the space between the trees, but there was nothing he could see, even in this light. Carefully, he took one step, then another, and gradually made his way forward, anxious at every point that he might stumble or break a twig and alert someone nearby.