30 - King's Gold

by Michael Jecks

  Men walking about at night were always liable to be slain, for only outlaws wandered the country in darkness. And Dolwyn did not want to be stabbed as he sought Ham.

  He would find out what this creaking was, but then settle and have a sleep.

  The crackle of twigs made Ham half-open his eyes for a moment, but the evening was chill, and although he was usually a light sleeper, tonight, after so many long journeys, he was too weary to get up and investigate. Besides, as he told himself, the sound was probably just the horse moving. He often raised one hoof, then set it down again, crunching the twigs beneath the shoe.

  Another crackle. Then another.

  The brute must be unsettled to keep shifting so. As he listened, caught in the twilight world between wakefulness and dreaming, it occurred to Ham that the noise was regular; it could be someone moving stealthily through the darkness, attempting to approach without alerting a dozing carter.

  That last crunch was close, he thought. He opened his eyes and sat up, blearily staring about him, and saw the . . .

  ‘Hey!’ he called as he took in the scene: someone was at his cart. And then . . . he felt the blow on his head. ‘What are you doing?’ he demanded angrily, and would have climbed to his feet, were it not for the strange ponderousness of his legs. He rolled slightly, and felt the second blow strike, and this time he was stunned, falling back.

  ‘No!’ he said quietly, looking up. ‘Please, I—’

  All he could see was that hideous axe, dripping with blood, and suddenly he realised that he was about to die. This was no dream, no mare sent to terrify, but the solid, terrible truth. His death was here.

  He tried to open his mouth to plead, but there was no strength in his muscles or his voice. He tried to crawl away, but only succeeded in exposing his pate once more, and the axe slammed into the top of his skull, hammering his face into the twigs and dirt of the ground. He felt the teeth of his upper jaw snap on a pebble, the agony at the back of his jawbone as both hinges dislocated with the force of the blow, then the ripping horror of his skull’s bones as they opened out, exposing his brain to the cool night air – but that was all.

  His soul was a shiver on the breeze as it left his body and drifted away.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Wednesday, Feast of the Annunciation28

  Exeter

  The baby was crying again.

  Every time Simon heard that sound, it pulled at his heart. It was so like the cry of his firstborn son, little Peterkin.

  The baby boy had been a delight to Simon and his wife when he was born. Small but sturdy, he had been utterly different from their daughter Edith. She was tall, slim and fair, whereas both Simon and his wife Margaret felt sure that Peterkin would be short and dark.

  Their dreams ended in disaster when Peterkin was struck down with a fever, and gradually over three days his crying became weaker and weaker as he succumbed. The little fellow’s death had profoundly affected Simon and Margaret, but it was Simon who felt the guilt, because by the end of the third day, he was desperate for the sound to end. It tore at his nerves to hear it, and when the noise ceased he felt a kind of horrible relief.

  When their second son was born, it seemed only natural to name him Peter as well. But Simon always quailed at the sound of a child’s crying since it brought Peterkin’s death home to him once again.

  This time, though, the crying was the natural demand of a child for his mother and milk. Incredible to think that this was his own grandchild.

  Simon passed the little bundle to his daughter, and watched with pride as she untied the laces at the front of her chemise, releasing a breast for the baby.

  ‘He’s a good pair of lungs,’ Simon observed.

  ‘Henry is a strong little boy, aren’t you?’ Edith cooed. ‘Father! Get that look off your face.’

  ‘What look?’ he protested.

  ‘The one that makes you look like a lapdog staring at his mistress.’

  ‘Well, I’m happy,’ he objected. ‘How do you expect me to look?’

  ‘Are you going to stay at home now? Mother was very distressed about your absences last year.’

  ‘I know, but there was nothing I could do.’ Simon sighed. ‘Now that the kingdom is calm again, there is no more need for me to worry. I am just a farmer, whatever the great lords may think.’

  ‘You’re more than that, Father,’ Edith protested. ‘You were the Abbot of Tavistock’s man for years.’

  ‘But the good Abbot has been taken from us.’ Simon shrugged. ‘I know little about what happens at Tavistock now, and care less. I will not risk my family again by thrusting myself into politics. Not that I meant to before,’ he added.

  There was a loud knock at the door, and Edith called to her maid, Jane, to go and answer it. Before long the maid was back, but before she could open her mouth, Simon grinned. ‘Bring him in.’

  ‘How did . . .?’

  The bellow of greeting as Sir Richard de Welles entered was enough to make the child stop suckling and start to cry. Edith looked up in consternation. Her mother walked in shortly afterwards and said, ‘Sir Richard, it is good to see you, but surely you wouldn’t mean to distress my daughter as she feeds her child?’

  ‘Hah! Madame Puttock, as God is my witness, I wouldn’t wish to upset her or you!’ the coroner said in a loud whisper. ‘My apologies, ladies both, but I was too overjoyed to see Master Puttock once more. And Madame, you look extraordinarily well just now.’

  ‘It is kind of you to say so, Sir Knight,’ replied Margaret Puttock.

  Simon was about to speak, when he saw the shuffling figure in the doorway. ‘Hugh? What are you doing here? You should be at home.’

  ‘ I brought him,’ Sir Richard beamed. ‘Master Puttock, I have to ask for your help.’

  ‘Help? How can a farmer help a knight, sir?’

  ‘I need a posse. Men have tried to release the last King from the castle where he’s held. Damn their souls, the fools would threaten the realm’s stability if they let him go.’

  ‘No,’ Simon said immediately.

  ‘Simon, this is not a request from an elderly knight. It is a demand from the King. King Edward wishes to ensure that his father is safe.’

  ‘He is held in a castle, in Christ’s name. How might I help protect him? There are many others who would do a better job.’

  ‘As I said, men have tried to break into Kenilworth Castle to free the King’s father.’

  ‘Sweet Jesus,’ Simon murmured as the knight’s words sank in. ‘Who could want to do that?’

  Sir Richard grunted and sat on a stool. ‘I don’t know – someone out to earn themselves a good purse of gold and a future secure from debt? Whatever the reason, I have been told to get up there with help. You and I, Simon, are to assist in transporting the old King to a new home.’

  Willersey

  It was early in the morning that Agatha saw the sudden burst of activity over near the church.

  She had been out seeing to the chickens, throwing a little corn to the stupid creatures as they pecked at the grit and rubbish about the yard. They were the most foolish animals. Even more dim than sheep, Agatha reckoned, and she had little enough respect for their intellect. Throw corn down, and they would likely peck at the stone next to the food, rather than the grains themselves.

  Jen tried to help her, but Agatha could see that her heart wasn’t in it. The poor chit was anxious about her father. It made Agatha look more kindly upon the girl. But then she saw her making a pile of their precious grain and asked. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I was only thinking they could come and gather all they want,’ Jen said. Her eyes were huge in her thin little face. ‘I thought it would be easier.’

  ‘I am spreading their food here already,’ Agatha spat. ‘And you go wasting good grain like that? Well, if you want to take over, do so, maid. You obviously know better.’

  ‘No, Mother, wait! I’m sorry, I was only trying to help.’

  ‘Well
, you didn’t,’ her mother snapped. She walked to the precious corn sack and carefully let her apron down to release the golden grains back inside it. ‘If you can’t think, you’re no help at all.’

  Jen was silent, and Agatha saw the glistening trickles at either cheek. There was no satisfaction at seeing the hurt she had caused, but neither was there any guilt. You couldn’t go wasting grain.

  It was then, as she strode back towards the house, that she became aware of some drama going on, up at the church. Jen heard it too, and Agatha saw her staring at the great building. Together they watched the short, stocky man talking to the priest. The man, who wore a leather jerkin over a faded green tunic, was pointing back up the road. The priest put his hands to his face as though in horror, and then there was a general movement by a small crowd in that direction, following the ashen-faced priest and the fellow who had fetched him.

  ‘Where are they going?’ Jen asked, and instinctively reached for her mother’s hand. Surprisingly, this once Agatha did not give her a stern reprimand, but squeezed her hand gently. Then, the two slowly trailed after the others.

  Jen knew that this was evil tidings. It was there in the way that the priest walked, as though bludgeoned with bad news. She felt sorry for him.

  They were at the woods now, and Jen recognised this as a place where her father used to bring her to collect wood in the autumn. They would coppice the trees, taking the spare twigs as bundled faggots for the fire, while the long boughs would be used for renewing buildings, for tool handles, or for carving into bowls or spoons. This was one of her father’s favourite places, she knew. Here, he could find some peace from her mother’s endless nagging.

  There were three men standing at the edge of a little clearing. Jen knew them from the vill. They, and the other men and women, were looking at her with sorrowful eyes. Jen could scarcely breathe. She was paralysed with dread.

  . . . And then time moved on and she saw the blood, the axe – still embedded – and then she was on her knees and there was a roaring sound in her ears as she reached out to her father to try to console him . . . and then the noise reached a peak and was stilled, as the girl toppled forwards and knew no more.

  Tavern two miles west of Broadway

  John of Shulton strode into the ale-house with every bone in his body telling him that it was likely to be a trap. Even the scab of his wound was burning as though in warning.

  He had hated deserting Paul’s body. Paul and he had been together from the days when they had joined Despenser’s household. At least he had managed to find a priest. The man took his money and swore that Paul would receive a full Christian burial. It was enough for John.

  The ale-house had one long chamber. A fire smouldered in the hearth in the middle of the room, and over to the far right was a little alcove in which a man stood and served cider from a barrel. About the fire was a big group of men huddled together. He saw a flash of metal, and felt his hackles rise, then a hood was cast back and relief swamped him as he recognised Stephen Dunheved, beside him Frere Thomas.

  He nodded to the other men as he approached: William, son of William Aylmer, John Boteler, Sir Edmund Gascelin, and more – all men who had sworn to free the King.

  ‘Where is Paul?’ Frere Thomas asked.

  ‘Dead. I did all I . . . I did all I could,’ John said. He saw that gaping wound, the blood . . . and then he saw Sir Jevan’s face again. It sent a ripple of hatred through his body.

  ‘I am truly sorry,’ Thomas said softly. ‘I shall pray for him. It was a terrible slaughter in that castle.’

  ‘It was a disaster,’ Stephen corrected. ‘We were so close, but the failure was mine. All mine!’

  ‘Brother, we’ve been through this before,’ Thomas said.

  ‘And I’ll go over it all many times again, I expect. It was my fault: I was late. If only I had reached the castle sooner, the weapons would have been there and ready.’

  John dragged up a stool and seated himself. ‘Perhaps. And perhaps not. We’ll never know.’

  Stephen nodded, staring at the ground. ‘What can we do?’

  Thomas leaned forward and slapped his face with his open hand, hissing, ‘Bestir yourself! This is not some game in which we can afford ourselves the luxury of defeat. We have a duty to complete our work!’

  Stephen looked at his brother, then at the others, and the despair in his eyes was, to John, almost as shocking as Paul’s death. It was unlike Stephen Dunheved to admit to failure.

  ‘Stephen,’ he said firmly. ‘If you cannot help, it would be better that you leave now.’

  ‘You think I am a broken man?’

  ‘Sweet Mother of God!’ John cried, and leaned so close he could feel Stephen’s breath on his face. ‘We need resolution and determination, man! It’s not your courage I doubt, it’s your conviction. Do you have faith in yourself

  ‘You doubt me?’ Stephen growled. ‘When it was I who planned Kenilworth, I who determined how to free Sir Edward?’

  ‘He needs us to be strong, Stephen. Not flinching at shadows.’

  ‘I will not flinch.’

  ‘Good.’ Thomas leaned back. ‘Are we satisfied? My brother and I will perform our part.’

  John was content with Stephen’s resolve, but now he glanced about him. ‘We need more men. Look at us – we are hardly enough to rob a child of a toy.’

  ‘We are dedicated,’ Sir Edmund said loftily.

  ‘Yes, but that doesn’t mean we can survive against a hundred men at once. Kenilworth will not be easy to break into a second time – not without surprise on our side,’ John pointed out.

  ‘This is true.’ Thomas was downcast, his voice quieter.

  John set his jaw. ‘Come, fellows. Perhaps we should all take our leave and agree to meet again when we are likely to have more—’

  He was cut off by Sir Edmund, who stared into the fire and prodded the logs with his dagger as he said, ‘According to rumour about Gloucester, Lord Thomas of Berkeley is gathering a force to fetch the King.’

  ‘You think he’ll have the King taken from Kenilworth?’ Thomas said.

  ‘I’ve heard Sir Roger Mortimer is in Wales, close to Berkeley. If you were he, would you want King Edward held at Kenilworth by your rival or held under the control of your own son-in-law?’

  ‘How quickly could we gather our forces?’ Stephen Dunheved asked his brother.

  ‘They are scattered, but we could bring fifty or more together,’ Thomas said, frowning. ‘It would not be enough.’

  ‘No,’ Sir Edmund said. ‘If we make an assault on Lord Thomas’s party, the King would be in danger.’

  ‘You think they’d kill him?’ Stephen said. He gave a short laugh. ‘Do you think they’d dare?’

  Sir Edmund looked at him coolly. ‘If I held a hostage, and was attacked, I would kill the hostage. Certainly, Lord Thomas would kill the King and any companions with him as a matter of necessity. So if we don’t have enough men to ensure success, we should hold back until we do.’

  ‘Until they’re in Berkeley, you mean?’ Stephen spat. ‘Another castle? No, I say we attack while they are on the road.’

  ‘What does your brother say?’

  Frere Thomas said, ‘I agree with Stephen. If there is the possibility of a successful ambush, we should exploit it. If we can, I would avoid assaulting another castle. At Kenilworth we had men inside to help us, and still things went awry. It was a miracle more of us did not die.’

  Sir Edmund snorted, leaning back in his seat.

  ‘You wish to add to your comments?’ Frere Thomas said.

  ‘I know Berkeley. The land all about there is a bog. You may be able to find a route across it, but if you do, you will not be able to run in knee-deep mud.’

  ‘So, we take the road,’ Stephen said.

  ‘Which is the direction upon which all their artillery and bows will be concentrated. You’d not get within a matter of yards.’

  ‘What would you suggest then, Sir Edmund?’ Frere T
homas asked quietly.

  ‘Strategems,’ the knight said, leaning forward again. He set his elbows on his knees and looked at each of the men in turn. ‘Berkeley is being renovated. When Despenser despoiled it, he did a good job. They’re having to rebuild walls and towers. They have need of workmen.’

  Frere Thomas stared at him. ‘You are sure?’

  ‘At Kenilworth we had a few inside on one day. All depended on the success of that one day. At Berkeley, labourers and masons will be welcomed inside. Position your men, and then mount your assault. If we’ve enough men inside to raise hell, this time they won’t be able to stop us.’

  ‘We will need more comrades,’ Stephen said.

  Sir Edmund nodded. ‘Earl Donald of Mar. He’s devoted to Sir Edward of Caernarfon. With forces like his, Berkeley will fall.’

  Frere Thomas looked around him. He felt a warm glow of appreciation for this rough knight. Like all experienced warriors, Sir Edmund was shrewd. The men nodded their assent, and Frere Thomas urged them to bend their heads while he spoke a short prayer for success.

  ‘We ask this not for ourselves, Good Lord, but for the safety of Your son, Your anointed King, Edward of Caernarfon,’ he finished, and began the Pater Noster.

  John found his attention wavering. He looked about at the other men, and knew that none of them felt the same dread as him. Sir Edmund had called the King by his demeaned title, merely ‘Sir Edward of Caernarfon’, and it seemed like a bad omen. There was a coldness in his belly – the certainty that soon he would be with Paul.

  The blackfriar finished: ‘Amen. Godspeed you all. Be careful, be cautious – and be suspicious of all men whom you do not know. And never forget, this is the work of God, and He demands our best efforts to ensure success.’

  John nodded, and rose with the others. They began to filter from the chamber, and he was about to follow them when he felt Frere Thomas’s hand on his arm.

  ‘A moment, my son.’

  Thomas waited until the room was emptied before sitting at John’s side. He spoke quietly.