30 - King's Gold

by Michael Jecks

  ‘I know. I met him a few times,’ the monk said, ‘when he was here with the King.’

  ‘He and I used to travel with our lord, Despenser, and the King quite regularly. They knew that they could count upon us. But he died after the adventure at Kenilworth.’

  ‘What actually happened there, John?’ William asked.

  ‘We were sorely beaten,’ he said shortly. As if in sympathy, his wound flared again, and he had to put a hand to his side with the pain.

  ‘I forgot your injury!’ Brother Michael castigated himself. ‘You are in pain. Come over here and let me see to it. I have some skill with curing ailments.’

  John disliked the idea of taking his mail off, but the notion that this kindly-looking old monk might be seeking to hurt him was on the face of it ludicrous.

  He began to tell them about the attack, while William helped him to remove his tunic and mail, setting them on a nearby bench until John was down to his braies. He had spoken to no one of that awful day since the meeting in the tavern, and to be able to unburden himself felt good.

  ‘We’d stopped earlier to pass the weapons to Stephen, as was agreed, but by the time he got to us, the rest would have been in the castle some hours, all of them waiting for us and the cart. God knows what he was thinking of, but he stopped at an ale-house, and that delayed us all. So when we reached the castle, the gatekeeper was already bellowing to have the gate locked. Stephen rode on ahead to try to delay that, because without the cart of weapons, we could achieve nothing. Paul and I went to assist, and suddenly all hell was let loose. A man in the gateway was preventing us from getting in, and there were arrows everywhere . . .’ He broke off, remembering. ‘I was stabbed in the flank here by a man with a lance or something. The same fellow managed to strike Paul in the throat.’ He swallowed. ‘There was nothing I could do.’

  ‘I understand,’ the monk said, peering. ‘You have been lucky, indeed, my friend. The blade stabbed into your ribs – and painful though it is, that injury prevented the point from thrusting into your vitals. If your lungs or liver had been penetrated, you would not be here now.’

  ‘He paid for his attack,’ John said bleakly. ‘I saw to that.’

  ‘Good.’ The monk had a wad of cloth in his hand; he smeared some honey onto it, then added some paste from a jar. ‘You have a melancholic appearance. This should help soothe the injury.’

  John winced as the thick pad was placed on his wound, and then Brother Michael began to wind a length of muslin about his chest and shoulder to hold it in place. He tied it up and stood back to survey his work. ‘That should hold for you,’ he said. ‘You must avoid any excessive strains with that arm.’

  ‘Is that intended to be a joke?’ John demanded, swinging his sword arm to see how painful it was.

  Michael gave him a nervous smile. ‘No. I am sorry.’

  John gave him thanks, and then began to dress once more. William helped, and then stood back as John bound his sword-belt about his waist.

  ‘You will be able to ride tomorrow when they leave?’ William enquired.

  ‘Yes, I will. What of you?’

  ‘I shall join you, I think. I have heard that there is a need for builders at the castle at Berkeley. I can carry a hod well enough.’

  John nodded, then glanced at Brother Michael.

  ‘I, my son, will remain here,’ the elderly monk said. ‘It would be difficult for me to leave my priory without a lot of tedious explanation.’

  ‘And the less there is of that, the better,’ William said briskly. ‘This whole business is too important to leave to you and a few others, Master John.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Llatony Priory

  Edgar was walking back from the stables, in search of Sir Baldwin, when he saw John stalk out from the small chamber. He knew that the man had been injured, after all – his stiffness and occasional winces had been noted, and John had explained that he had pulled a muscle – but he felt that John had a curiously shifty look about him now, and he moved off in a hurry as though eager to be away from the door.

  Shortly afterwards, a friar appeared in the doorway too, glancing furtively about the court as he stepped aside to let another man out. Then he locked the door behind him, giving Edgar a challenging stare as he did so, as if daring him to comment.

  Edgar was not the sort to be easily intimidated, so he simply smiled back and was about to walk onto the field in which the tents were being erected when on a whim he dawdled, and made his way slowly in the same direction as John.

  ‘Ride all this way, and then they expect us to set up camp for ’em too,’ Hugh grumbled. He was shuffling his way along the outer perimeter of the cloister, and had caught up with Edgar.

  ‘That man,’ Edgar said, pointing with a jerk of his chin at John. ‘Do you know anything about him?’

  ‘He came to Kenilworth with you, didn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, but I begin to wonder about him. He does not look like an ordinary man-at-arms.’

  ‘He’s just a guard who’s been with us from the castle,’ Hugh grunted.

  ‘He’s no knight,’ Edgar said. ‘He’s been injured though, hasn’t he?’

  ‘He said he’d pulled his muscle. What of it?’

  ‘Nothing, I daresay,’ Edgar said, and bestowed a beatific smile upon the glowering Hugh. ‘But it was curious to me that he arrived here with us and instantly appeared to know where he was, where to go, and what to do here. He knew a friar, and has already been treated for a wound, when the larger portion of our group are still erecting the tents.’

  Hugh frowned. ‘He went to the infirmarer, did he? So what?’

  ‘Probably nothing,’ Edgar said easily. ‘But we are transporting a highly important man, friend Hugh. I would not wish for something unpleasant to happen.’

  ‘Nor me,’ Hugh said with certainty. ‘I’m going to sleep like a newborn pup when I get to my bedroll. Nothing’ll wake me.’

  ‘I am glad to hear it. For myself, I think I shall sleep more lightly tonight,’ Edgar said. He watched as John glanced about him, and then walked off towards the stables once more.

  Hugh might not find anything suspect about the man, but Edgar did – and Edgar was too experienced a warrior to ignore his instincts.

  Monday after Palm Sunday37

  Llantony Priory

  John was in the saddle as early as possible the next morning, keen to avoid Sir Jevan. The man scared him.

  He had not passed a comfortable night. The lump of sticky material placed next to his skin felt odd, but he had to admit that this morning, the pain was somewhat abated. He had much more freedom of movement with his left arm than before, too. It was almost as easy as it had been before that bastard had shoved his lance at him . . .

  ‘Ready to ride, master?’

  John stared at Edgar, who had spoken. John had no reason to be concerned about his master: Sir Baldwin, to him, was just an elderly, scruffy-looking knight from some obscure manor far to the south-west – a spent force. Edgar, however, had the look of a competent warrior. There were many folks to keep an eye on, from carters and sumptermen, to the two women who tagged along with the baggage, but this knight’s servant kept his attention fixed a little too firmly on John for his comfort.

  ‘Aye, I am ready. What of your knight?’

  ‘He is always ready for any little journey,’ Edgar said with a cool gaze.

  ‘Well, you can tell him that today’s journey will be a short and easy one,’ John said. ‘There are only some five leagues or so to Berkeley, so we can hope to be there by noon.’

  ‘Noon? Perhaps so,’ Edgar said.

  John nodded and patted at his horse’s neck, ignoring the impudent churl. He was glad to hear the fellow ride away a short while later. As though he could be intimidated by some knight’s servant! He only hoped that Edgar’s unwelcome attentions would not become obvious to others. Especially Sir Jevan.

  He eyed the others in the party again. When they had set out he had
been so terrified of being seen by Sir Jevan that he took little notice of the others. Now, however, he paid more heed to them as they came closer to Berkeley and the possibility of an attack increased.

  Most of them were not of the highest calibre. There were all kinds of dullards among them, lads who should be back at home prodding oxen, as well as some aged warriors with more white than grey in their hair. But there were the odd few to watch out for. That servant of Sir Baldwin’s, and also Master Simon, who was clearly a close companion of the knight. He looked a dangerous man, and while his servant might ride like a sack of turnips, he had a belligerent look about him. The other knight, Sir Richard, was too fat and slow to pose any kind of a threat.

  Of course, there were others: Gilbert had four or five men about him and the King who looked competent with their weapons, and there were another thirty or so amongst the rest who could be challenging, too, but overall John was content. The garrison of Berkeley, if these men were representative, could be overwhelmed by a strategem.

  A shout, and the rattle of steel, and the King appeared walking slowly from the abbot’s house. He stood bleakly surveying his guards, his long fair hair moving in the wind, his shoulders still strong, a powerful man, but yet a man broken. He no longer stood erect like a knight, but bent, like an old man. When he moved to go to his horse, he shuffled at first, as if the weight of his worries was all but unsupportable.

  It was not difficult to see why, John thought.

  As he walked to the horses, another man pushed rudely past him. Without even glancing at the man who had been his King, Lord Thomas de Berkeley strode to his horse, pulling on soft pigskin riding gloves. He reached his mount and sprang up into the saddle in a moment, gazing about him expressionlessly. The only time he smiled was when he saw his friend Sir John Maltravers. That knight strolled indolently along the court to his horse and climbed up easily. Both men were enormously resilient, John thought, bearing in mind how long each had been in gaol or exile in recent years.

  The former King Edward II – he who had ensured Lord Thomas’s arrest and Sir John’s flight – must surely feel all the horror of the last years lying heavy on his conscience. He had done so much damage to the kingdom, to his God-given inheritance – and now all that harm was being repaid, with interest. The kingdom itself had finally rejected him. All could see how the Queen’s departure for France, her ensnaring of her own son to join her, and now her taking of the kingdom, had affected him. And then, of course, he had seen his friend Sir Hugh le Despenser literally cut to pieces. His best friend and most loyal adviser, and yet he could do nothing to save him.

  Yes, he thought, Sir Edward must bear a hideous weight of guilt.

  Baldwin watched Sir Edward stumble across the court to his horse, and with the help of a page climb up into his saddle.

  ‘He looks like a man on the way to his noose,’ Simon observed.

  ‘The thought of what must be going through his mind does not bear considering,’ Baldwin agreed.

  ‘Ha! There are some who wouldn’t mind seeing his pain eased,’ Sir Richard stated. He was quiet for a moment, then continued: ‘The thing is, no man knows what goes on in another fellow’s mind. He’s taken many poor decisions, based on poor advice given him by poor advisers. Is that a reason to blame him? He only saw a limited number of men each day, after all. If they were churls and incompetent, it was not his fault, but the fault of his advisers.’

  ‘He allowed free rein to Despenser,’ Simon said. ‘I can never forgive him that.’

  ‘Despenser has paid for his crimes,’ Baldwin said.

  ‘Yes. And is no longer here, which is a blessed relief,’ Simon said, looking up at the sky. ‘Should be good weather.’

  Sir Richard tilted his head back and gazed up at the small wispy clouds floating by. ‘Aye, you’re right.’

  There was a blare of horns, the herald shouted a command, and the men began to file off towards the gate.

  At the last gate, Baldwin saw a friar with thin, ascetic features. He noticed that Edgar was watching the man.

  ‘That friar,’ Edgar muttered, ‘was with the fellow John yesterday. I conceived a dislike for their companionship.’

  ‘For all you know, the two may be brothers,’ Baldwin said. ‘This John is an honourable man, I deem.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Edgar said. ‘In which case it will hurt no one if I keep my eye on him.’

  ‘Your man has a good brain in his head,’ Sir Richard remarked to Baldwin.

  ‘I know. But like a good guard dog, sometimes he is inclined to bite first, and ask questions afterwards,’ Baldwin said, smiling at Wolf, who stood sniffing at a wall nearby.

  Sir Richard chuckled at that, and although Edgar kept his eyes on John and the friar, who had started to walk alongside the guards, he saw nothing that led him to suspect that there was any foul play planned.

  Until they met with the cart, there was nothing out of the ordinary on their ride that morning.

  Near Berkeley Castle

  Senchet was walking alongside the cart when he spotted the first of them. Harry was dozing on the board, and Dolwyn was lying back on the bed of the cart, his eyes closed in pain.

  ‘Harry,’ Senchet called desperately, ‘wake up!’ but it was already too late. The leading horsemen had seen them, and now three men-at-arms approached, calling to them to halt the cart.

  Senchet bowed politely as the riders approached. ‘Mes Sieurs, how can we help you?’

  The leading man was a squire, and he appeared young and calm, but the man behind him was a more dangerous fellow, a large, strong-looking, green-eyed knight. Senchet saw his eyes moving to Harry and back to Senchet, noting the weapons both carried, and then moving aside from the squire so that if Senchet tried to attack, he would have complete freedom of movement. No fool this one, Senchet thought.

  ‘Where are you from? Where are you going?’ the squire demanded.

  ‘We are travelling from Wales, m’Sieur, to the north, in the hope of finding a new lord.’

  ‘Who was your lord?’

  ‘My apologies, but why do you wish to know?’

  ‘Answer him, now!’ the second man hissed. His horse had arrived at Senchet’s side, and Senchet found himself staring along two and a half feet of gleaming steel.

  ‘If you insist,’ he shrugged. ‘We were loyal members of the old King’s household.’

  ‘Really?’ the man said. He kept his sword at Senchet’s throat.

  ‘Sir Jevan, please, lower your weapon. There is no need to threaten them,’ the squire said.

  ‘Perhaps, Squire, but we would be foolish to take any chances. This fellow should drop his weapons, and his companion too. Squire, please send your man-at-arms to my Lord de Berkeley and warn him that we have a cart blocking our path. Suggest that he comes here to speak with the man.’

  ‘Very well,’ the squire said. He was a young man of perhaps five-and-twenty, who surveyed the countryside with a world-weary air. ‘But I do hope you can be swift. I was looking forward to a good lunch at Berkeley, and I am sure that Sir Edward would appreciate it too.’

  ‘We shall see,’ Sir Jevan said. He glanced at the man in the back of the cart. ‘Who are you? Are you injured?’

  ‘I was set upon by footpads, and I have a wound in my flank. These kind gentlemen have saved my life, taking it upon themselves to bring me to safety.’ Dolwyn had spoken with his eyes closed, but now he opened them and suddenly took in Sir Jevan’s face. His face paled as he recognised him.

  Sir Jevan saw his expression change, and his attention quickened. He peered at Dolwyn’s face closely, his eyes narrowed. ‘You were the churl who slowed me when I chased the felon!’ His glance fell upon the cart, and he saw the shape of weapons concealed by a blanket.

  ‘Climb down from the cart very slowly,’ he advised them. Harry and Dolwyn moved obediently. Senchet tried to slip sideways, but Sir Jevan spun his horse about. ‘Move further, man, and you will lose your head. Comprenez? You are to come wit
h us.’

  Senchet smiled, but there was no humour in his face. ‘What now?’

  ‘Drop your sword-belt and any knives about you.’

  There was the sound of approaching hooves. An order came from behind him, and Sir Jevan turned to see the chief guard of Edward of Caernafon.

  ‘Dieu ou diable?’ Senchet muttered. ‘Sieur Gilbert?’

  ‘You haven’t hanged yet then, friend Senchet?’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Near Berkeley Castle

  It was the bad fortune of the age, John reflected. He was unlucky enough to have been born in a period when no man could live an honourable life, free of fear. Everything conspired always to swyve the best plans possible.

  He fretted on his horse, staring ahead at the huddle of men, and it was all he could do not to shout and demand that they get moving again. He had to keep his head down below the back of the man in front so that Sir Jevan would not see him, but even so, he flinched every time Sir Jevan glanced in his direction.

  ‘Why have we stopped?’ a man asked him, and it was all he could do not to punch him for his stupidity.

  He spoke with frigid precision. ‘There is a cart in the road. Perhaps it is the cart of a local farmer, eh? But what if this wagon is the property of a man who has a desire to kill Sir Edward of Caernarfon? There are many about who have cause to hate him, are there not?’

  ‘Oh.’

  John could see Sir Baldwin talking to the three who stood by the cart, but from here it was impossible to discover what they were saying. Lord Thomas de Berkeley gave a command to Sir John Maltravers, he saw, and Sir John rode forward at a fast trot, four of his own guards riding with him – which left only a handful of men-at-arms guarding Sir Edward of Caernarfon.

  Almost without thinking, he kicked his horse into motion and rode towards Sir Edward. Gilbert was ahead of him. The man was turning in his saddle: he looked as though he was going to say something, but then, as he came closer, John saw that there were only a couple of men between him and Edward.

  There was a rushing in his ears. It would be the work of a moment to trot forward, right alongside the prisoner, draw a knife and cut his throat. And then – no more fighting, no more strife. No more deaths like Paul’s.