‘What is it?’ John had asked. ‘There are other women.’
‘No, it’s not that,’ Paul had answered. ‘I just feel that our best times are past.’
‘You feel all you want,’ John had responded. ‘I’ve plenty of time left in me, mate!’
‘Aye, me too,’ Paul chuckled, and the two knocked their mazers together and drank. But later, John had seen Paul staring into the fire, and now, after reliving those moments in his dream, he wondered whether his old companion had been granted a vision of the future and his own painful death.
John stood, and draped his blanket over a low branch to dry off the dew while he tidied his camp and began to pack his goods. Thirsty, he wandered to the little stream and filled his skin, drinking enough to assuage his thirst, then topping it up. He opened his saddle-pack and took out a loaf, which he broke in two. Half went into the pack for his lunch, and he took a bite from the other, squatting by his fire of the night before while he took a stick and began to scrape at the ground.
He had found a rabbit in a snare late last night. Some poacher had set a loose twine loop in a rabbit track, and no doubt intended to return later to collect it. John had got there first. He had paunched and cleaned it, then wrapped it in some large leaves and set it in the earth before lighting his fire over it, a little to one side. Loosening it from the soil now, he unwrapped the leaves and pulled off a hindleg. It was a little tough and dry, but tasted good, and he enjoyed the rest of his meal. With another draught of water in his belly, and the remainder of his piece of bread, he felt fit for the day.
Saddling his horse, he rode north. This was the time of day he knew he would miss Paul the most. It was strange, perhaps, because neither was communicative at such an hour, but it was that very companionable silence that he missed now. They could be up and break camp, then ride all morning without speaking, and yet enjoy each other’s friendship as much as another man might enjoy a two-hour conversation.
His thoughts were still on Paul as he jogged along the lane towards Broadway.
After the arrival of the Queen, all had changed. Before, they had led a life of relative peace, enjoying Despenser’s largesse. They had food and drink, good clothes, the best arms and armour . . . But when the Queen’s forces landed, life had become a sudden explosion of urgent travel. First they had ridden to Bristol, and formed part of the last guard that went with the King to Wales. There they had been set free of their oaths. It was better that way. They had missed the last desperate days: the flight to Caerphilly, thence to Neath and capture. The humiliation of Despenser’s execution.
John had hoped that there would be peace. He knew that his master had ruled with a determined avarice that appalled many, and alienated the Queen from him. But now Sir Hugh was dead, it seemed the Queen herself was taking on his role. Before, there had been an uprising of men who had been impoverished by the King and Despenser; now there was a force of disinherited whose sole crime was that they had remained loyal to Despenser. It was the replacement of one injustice with another.
He wondered whether the land could be ruled more justly.
Behind him there was a metallic clatter. It sounded like a stone under a horseshoe, and he turned around to stare, all thoughts of dreams and his friend flown in an instant.
Three men were trotting towards him, and the man in the front was the one knight he did not want to meet: Sir Jevan de Bromfield.
John pulled his horse’s head round, raked his spurs down the brute’s flanks and thundered off through the trees as fast as his steed could carry him.
Furnshill
Baldwin woke to the feeling of cold steel under his left armpit.
It was one of the easiest ways to kill a man. A sword thrust in quickly would meet little resistance as it pierced the lungs, filling them with blood so the victim drowned; if fortunate, the blade might also strike the heart and stop it. A fast death, and a kind one.
Baldwin was wide awake in an instant. He was in a field near Paris, and the men standing about him were all men-at-arms for the French King. The sword blade was being pressed gently into his flesh, but for some reason it wouldn’t penetrate . . . He reached through the fog of sleep to find he was not in France but in his own bed, in Furnshill - and the hideous wet weapon was Wolf’s nose.
‘Get off, you stupid brute!’ he exclaimed, bringing his arm down to cover the soggy patch where the dog had nudged him. ‘Go and bother Edgar or Wat – they should feed you.’
He kissed Jeanne’s neck and rose from his bed. For all his disgust at being woken in such a manner, he was pleased to be up and about. The weather looked fine and dry as he pulled on a chemise and pair of hosen before taking up his new sword and walking down the stairs and out to the grassy area before his house.
While a Templar, he had learned the importance of weapon training and keeping fit. One of the keys to the Order’s fighting brilliance was the training that all the knights and sergeants underwent. Rather than being a loose accumulation of men gathered together for a fight in which few had any interest other than serving their liege lords, the Order provided a force of men who were used to fighting together in a compact unit, each seeing to the defence of the others, riding in tight formation, wheeling on the command, galloping in unison, and using specific martial skills that had proven themselves over time. The Templars were unbeatable under most conditions because of this emphasis on preparation.
Drawing the sword, Baldwin stood with his legs apart. And then began the mock–battle which he underwent every day. It was a series of simple routines, designed to test every muscle in his upper body, reminding him of all the possible attacks, and how to block, parry or avoid each. It was as much a part of him as his beard, this daily ritual, and soon he could feel the blood coursing faster through his veins.
However, today there was a problem which affected his movements and a strange dullness in his right ear, put his balance off: it reminded him of when he had been swimming, and occasionally water would enter his ear and remain there until he tipped his head to the side, when he would find his hearing restored. But today, although he pressed his little finger into the hole and tried to scrape out whatever might be causing the blockage, nothing could move it.
He shook his head and determined to continue with his training. When he’d finished, he went back to the house, feeling disquieted.
‘You look as though something is unsettling you, sir,’ his servant of almost thirty years observed. Edgar was a tall man, suave and elegant, and when the mood took him, as lethal as a viper.
‘It’s my ear. I can barely hear,’ Baldwin said pensively. ‘I feel as if I have gone deaf overnight.’
‘Perhaps you have, sir.’
‘Why should I suddenly lose my hearing?’ Baldwin scoffed. ‘There is no reason for it.’
‘How often did you fight in the lists? In how many battles did you get belaboured about the head with a sword or mace? The ringing of an axe on a helmet could deaden your hearing.’
‘But no one has hit me in recent years,’ Baldwin pointed out. ‘No, it must just be something stuck in there.’
Edgar agreed to investigate for him, and spent some while with a candle held dangerously close to Baldwin’s ear, peering into it, but when the knight heard the crackle of hair singeing, he quickly decided to halt that form of enquiry.
‘When do you leave, Sir Baldwin?’ Edgar asked.
‘As soon as I may,’ Baldwin replied. ‘The old King will not wish to have matters delayed any longer than necessary, in case they choose to move him without us there.’
‘Would they dare? If he has expressed a desire to have you with him . . .’
‘They do not treat him with any respect,’ Baldwin said shortly. ‘And there is an urgency now because of the attack on the castle. Mortimer will be terrified that the next attack might succeed.’
‘It is a terrible place, Kenilworth Castle,’ Edgar mused. ‘I’m astonished that a raid managed to storm it.’
‘
I doubt they reached far inside the place,’ Baldwin said. ‘From what I have heard, the party broke into the main gate, but did not succeed in getting further. No, that is not what concerns me. It is the idea of taking the King from Kenilworth to Berkeley. On that long road, it would be a great deal easier for a group of men to break through a circle of guards and get to him.’
‘And then what?’
‘That is what I wonder. Were they there to rescue him, as so many reckon? Or were they there to kill him. Mortimer might well like to remove this constitutional embarrassment. When else has there been a King and that King’s father, both alive? The usual route to kingship is for the son to inherit his realm, but this poor father was forced to surrender his crown.’
‘What of it?’
‘Simply this, Edgar,’ Baldwin said with feeling. ‘I do not know the law, but I daresay that it will prove to be a very fine point, as to whether a King who was forced to relinquish his crown can do so. If God installed him and saw him anointed with oil in the manner that He has decreed, which man has the right or authority to gainsay God?’
‘And so?’
‘Sir Roger Mortimer is not a man who likes to have loose threads lying about ready to be picked at,’ Baldwin said. ‘The old King is one such thread, and an impediment to the new King.’
‘So you will go?’
‘I must. I still hold my vow to the King to be in force. I made that oath before God, and I will not be forsworn.’
Edgar nodded. ‘In that case, I will come too.’
‘No, old friend,’ Baldwin smiled. ‘I must have you here to protect Jeanne and the family while I am gone. And in any case, you have your own family to consider.’
‘Sir Baldwin, for one thing my family is safe enough. I remained here against my better judgement when you rode off last year, and a poor show it was. If I had been with you, you would not have been struck down and almost killed.’
‘I doubt whether—’
‘I shall not make the same error again.’
‘What of my wife, Edgar? I need you here to see to her safety.’
‘I think that is unnecessary.’
'I will decide what is needful in my own house,’ Baldwin stated.
His wife’s voice cut across his words as she walked towards him. ‘No, Baldwin. This time it is my choice. And I will not be gainsaid.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Exeter
Margaret Puttock’s prediction was all too accurate, sadly.
Simon came awake very slowly. His eyes were gummy and sore, and when he finally opened them it felt as though sawdust was trapped beneath the lids.
‘Bloody knight,’ he muttered to himself as he sat on the edge of the bed and paused, legs on the floor. After dealing with Sir Richard de Welles over some years, Simon could quickly evaluate the level of his poisoning. This was not so bad as that time in Exeter when he had immediately been forced to spew on waking . . . He winced at the taste of bile in his throat, and got up and walked to the window. On the floor beside it he had placed a little jug of ale the night before. It was soured now, but at least it took away the flavour from his mouth as he gargled and spat out of the window, and then swallowed a good mouthful.
He had first met Sir Richard in Dartmouth, where the man appeared to know everything about the town, pointing out where the best brothels and ale-houses had stood in his youth. The knight had always appeared to be in the most deplorably robust health – completely immune to the aftereffects of excess wine or ale. But for all that Simon would often regret the day they had met, Sir Richard was a truly kind, compassionate man who had, early on in life, married a woman whom he adored, and then been forced to see her die. Perhaps that was why he had such an iron constitution, Simon thought: he had learned to drink heavily on his own after his wife died.
‘How are you, Bailiff?’ Sir Richard asked now, marching into his chamber.
‘Please,’ Simon said with a pained look. He put his hand to where it felt as though his brain might explode, and was glad to see his Meg stand and fetch him a goblet of wine.
At breakfast, Sir Richard picked up a chicken thigh and slurped at the meat, sucking the bones dry and licking at his fingers as he went. He smiled at Simon, who essayed a weakly grin in return, before pulling apart a large slice of bread and shoving it into his mouth, easing its passage down his throat with a gulp of red wine. ‘Not bad, this,’ he said. ‘So, Simon, if you can have a bit of something to break your fast, we’d best be off.’
‘What?’
‘To Kenilworth. We have to get a move on, eh?’
Simon winced and burped carefully. ‘There’s no hurry, is there?’ he said queasily. ‘How about tomorrow?’
‘Hah! So your head is hurting then – eh, Bailiff? No, seriously, old friend, we should be on our way as soon as we can. Our path is a long one, so it’s best we get started now.’
‘But I’m not ready!’
‘You’ll soon be ready when you get some fresh air in your lungs, man. That and some food is all you need.’ The knight smiled with a demon’s amiability.
‘Yes,’ Simon whispered. He didn’t nod. His head hurt too much.
Near Broadway
John stopped his horse as soon as he was convinced he had lost his pursuers. The woods here were dangerous to ride in at speed. After spotting Sir Jevan de Bromfield, he had pelted through the trees at full gallop, bent so low over his mount’s neck that the saddle crupper had stuck in his belly. Behind him he knew that the other three were not gaining, but neither were they slackening. It was only when he saw ahead a low bank of holly bushes, that he hoped he might be able to lose one or two of them, and he had jerked the reins right at the last minute. In a moment he was flung almost from the saddle as the great beast hurtled off in a new direction, and he risked a quick glance behind him. He saw that one rider had been thrown by the suddenness of his manoeuvre, and gave a grin of savage delight to hear the scream of pain as the man fell into the thorny leaves.
Then he was facing forward again. Just then, his beast put a foot into a ditch. It could have snapped his leg like a dry twig, but somehow the magnificent animal recovered and set off along the road. Still, when John looked back, he saw that the first man was much closer, and it was Sir Jevan himself.
Sir Jevan de Bromfield: it was a name to make a man shiver. He was the dedicated servant of the last Earl of Lancaster, before King Edward II had him executed, and he hated all the followers of Despenser as much as his master had.
Sir Jevan had seen John at Kenilworth. And he would kill him if he caught him. It was as simple, and as deadly, as that.
Charlton Abbots
Dolwyn felt as though he was almost safe. There had been no sign of any pursuit since that first posse, and he wondered whether his pursuers had given up. After all, in these difficult and fearful times, there were many who deserved punishment more than him to seek.
He pulled the reins and the brute finally began to move again. The animal appeared to have made up his mind that he disliked Dolwyn and wished nothing so much as to leave the road and crop the grass. When Dolwyn pulled, the horse had taken to setting his ears flat back on his head and whinnying angrily. It took three firm cuffs about the head to make the animal obey him, and then only because he kept a firm hold of the reins.
It was a short while after this, still about the middle of the morning, when he heard a horse trotting towards him. Dolwyn was on a grassy track that was only just wide enough for the cart, and as soon as he heard the hooves approaching, he knew he would soon be in trouble.
‘You! Have you seen three men-at-arms here today?’
The man was younger than Dolwyn, and he was dressed in a pale green-coloured tunic with a red cloak at his shoulders. He was sitting astride a huge grey, who pranced and prodded at the ground as the man watched Dolwyn suspiciously. His side had been injured, Dolwyn could see. The material of his tunic was rent, and there was a stain about it, as though he had bled there profusely a li
ttle while ago.
‘Why?’ Dolwyn asked. He let his head drop, and spoke sullenly like a villein who resented being questioned.
‘Answer me, churl!’
‘No.’
The knight nodded, but absently. Now he was looking at the cart closely. ‘Where are you going?’
‘Goin’ ’ome,’ Dolwyn said. ‘Back to Gloucester.’
‘Where did you find this cart, fellow?’
Dolwyn scowled. ‘Why?’ he said again. ‘I’ve ’ad this for years.’
‘Years, eh? That is curious: this cart is like a friend’s whom . . . I saw this only recently, at Kenilworth. Where did you get it?’
‘I said I’ve ’ad it years,’ Dolwyn repeatedly sullenly.
‘I heard you,’ the man said, drawing his sword. ‘But I don’t believe you. It is what all felons would say.’ He was staring at the bed of the cart. ‘What do you carry?’
‘Usual rubbish.’
‘Show me!’
Dolwyn looked up at him. The rider may have been injured, and did appear to be favouring his right side, but he was yet on a fleet horse, and Dolwyn could not hope to outrun that. Commonsense said he should be as gracious as the situation allowed. Accordingly he imitated a peasant with a grievance, but stood back and allowed the man to investigate the cart.
Still on his horse, the fellow poked about with his sword’s point, lifting the blankets and tapping the two perry barrels. ‘What else do you have in there?’
‘Perry.’
‘I didn’t mean the barrels, man. What else is there here?’
‘That is it, sir. I’m only a wanderin’ tranter,’ Dolwyn whined.
‘Really?’ The fellow stared hard at the cart and horse as though he knew them, and he was about to speak again, his eyes on the small chest that lay between the barrels, when he sighed and muttered like a man distracted, ‘I have too many troubles to worry myself about this. Move aside, you fool, and let me pass!’
Dolwyn did as he was instructed, and soon he was watching the man trot off up the roadway. But when he reached the bend in the lane, the man stopped, whirled his mount about and came hurtling back up the roadway towards Dolwyn. It was only by a miracle that Dolwyn wasn’t struck by the flailing hooves as the beast thundered past.
30 - King's Gold Page 19
