30 - King's Gold

by Michael Jecks

  The Bardis wouldn’t want him to talk, so they had better be careful. Very careful.

  The door creaked open at the top of the staircase, and he felt his breath catch in his throat. The footsteps coming down the stairs must be those of a pair of guards, and he instantly began to shake, as though these men were going to take him up to the fresh air and the light and slip a rope over his head in an instant.

  And then he heard a voice . . .

  ‘Come with me, my friend,’ Baldwin said. ‘You will not wish to be questioned down here. Let us go together and enjoy some food and drink.’

  Within a few minutes, Dolwyn found himself seated on a bench, and before him was set fresh, warm bread, a block of cheese, a bowl of thin stew, and a pot of ale. He touched the food with a restraint that was torture. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘The truth. Perhaps to save your life?’ Baldwin took his seat opposite Dolwyn. ‘Eat.’

  Dolwyn took a little bread and chewed it slowly, savouring the flavour, and then he picked up the pot of ale and drained it in one long draught. Sighing with pleasure, he put it down again and set about the cheese and bread with gusto.

  ‘There is a reckoning, of course,’ Baldwin said. ‘It comes to men no matter what they think of the justice. But if you were truly innocent of the murder of Ham Carter, I would not see you punished for that crime.’

  Dolwyn eyed him. It would be all too easy to admit to a past offence and be hanged for that, he guessed. He must be cautious. At least he could be honest about Ham.

  ‘I quite liked the carter. He was a fellow as I was once. More than a little hen-pecked. He reminded me how I was before my wife’s death.’

  ‘How did that happen?’

  A convulsive shiver ran through Dolwyn’s frame. ‘I killed her – and my daughter. But I had not meant to hurt either of them. I could never have harmed my little girl. She was all the sweetness in life to me.’

  Baldwin could see that the man was affected, unless he was an excellent actor. ‘Go on.’

  ‘My woman was always over-willing to chastise me. That was why I used to go and drink, sometimes too much. That night I returned and we had a row, as usual. The vill heard and some of the men came to demand that we keep the peace and stop our wrangling, but she berated them in insulting terms. I could see that they were horrified to be addressed in such a way. So, after they left, I determined I would try to correct her behaviour. I took up a stick, and threatened her.’

  As he spoke, he saw again the cramped room that was their home, little Emily terrified in her bed, the glow from the rushlights throwing a fitful orange light over everything. Maggie stood with her hands on her hips, her face turned sharper, more like a ferret’s. He had been standing beside his barrel of burned cider45 with a cup in his hand. A stiffener before bed, he had thought. Something to strengthen his resolve before his wife started to lay into him with her tongue. And then she began.

  She had taunted him, telling him he was less of a man because he couldn’t hold his drink. ‘You used to be someone I could admire, but look at you now,’ she jeered. ‘A pathetic dog is what you’ve become, with the sense and courage of a rabbit. Once our Emily looked up to you, but these days she would be happier with Saul Archer as her father. You’re nothing but a drunken wastrel.’

  ‘What about Saul?’

  ‘I should have married him after he swyved me before you,’ she said spitefully. ‘He is worth ten of you.’

  He could recall throwing aside the cup of spirit, and screaming at her to shut up, to just leave him alone, and then he lashed out with his stick and saw it catch her cheek, and he remembered throwing his stick aside and trying to catch her to hug her, but then she had drawn her knife, and the blade caught his forearm. The sting of it stirred his rage. He punched her, with all the malice and fury that seven years of marriage had given him, and saw her fly to the ground.

  He left the house. Saul’s was only a few hundred yards away, and he remembered staggering dangerously up towards it, the anger sparkling and fizzing in his blood like acid. But before he could get close to Saul’s, he stumbled. It was only by a miracle that he managed to throw himself to one side before he tumbled into the narrow well at the roadside, and he lay there, on his back, panting, before throwing up. He had the presence of mind to turn away from the well, so he did not pollute the water, but even as he was vomiting, he felt the waves of self-disgust rising and washing through him.

  She was right – he was weak. How could she or Emily respect him, when he was a miserable brethel without prospects or skills to create them? He stood up, determined to show her he could be worthy of her. It was true – she did deserve better than him. And if she had rolled in the hay with Saul, what of it? That was more than seven years ago, if it was before they had wed. He would not hold that against her.

  That was when he had heard the screaming. Emily must have been screaming for a while before that, he assumed, because Peter and John were there with buckets, and others were, bellowing to the girl and her mother to escape.

  Completely sober now, he ran for his door. The flames were already leaping up and the thatch had caught a spark. Smoke rose in black clouds, and then there was a hollow roaring noise, and a warm flame lazily rolled from the door, throwing aside the thin oiled screen at the window, and a strange thudding detonation came to his ears, and he knew instinctively that it was his burned cider.

  The barrel-staves were found later near the fire in the middle of the hearth, and gradually he pieced together what must have happened. His wife had decided to destroy that spirit that had taken him so long to make, and rolled the barrel to the drain-hole at the rear of the cottage, opening the taps to let the drink run away. But some had reached the flames, and the liquid caught fire. The barrels themselves exploded like flour in a mill.

  He had tried to make his way inside to save them. God knew, he had tried – but John and others held his arms and pulled him away as the flames licked about the doorframe and the window. If he had gone in, he would have died, there was no doubt.

  Baldwin listened carefully. The man’s sorrow was plain enough. ‘So afterwards, you said you were pardoned?’

  ‘I was accused, but it was agreed that I had not killed them. I was outside when my little girl screamed. And I tried to get in to save them. I wasn’t actually pardoned. There were discussions about my having tried to harm them, and the coroner recorded them, and the facts of our shouting at each other, but the court agreed I was innocent. That was that.’ He gave a long, shuddering sigh.

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Sir, I know how this must look,’ Dolwyn said, ‘but I had nothing to do with Ham’s death. He was a sad little man, who inspired sympathy in me because he reminded me of how I once had been.’

  ‘A pathetic churl. But one with a chest of gold and an array of weapons that might be sold,’ Baldwin said.

  ‘I knew nothing of gold. That was hidden from me. Like his axe.’

  ‘So you say you did not know where his axe was?’

  ‘I didn’t know he had one. I did find the weapons, but not his axe.’

  ‘You still state that you did not slay him?’

  ‘Sir, I state that I did not even see him. Alive or dead, I did not see him that night. I found the horse and cart and bethought me that they gave me more chance of evading capture in the days following the attack on Kenilworth.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Sir, is it true that you are loyal to the memory of our last King? I had heard the gaoler say that you were called here by Sir Edward to help guard him.’

  ‘It is true.’

  ‘Then, sir, ask him about me,’ Dolwyn said, his voice dropping. Ask about the man who went to see him at Kenilworth.’

  Baldwin’s mind whirled. He remembered the King speaking of someone giving him a message. It seemed madness to think that this could have been that man, but he had heard stranger things in his life. ‘Do you have a token he would know?’

  Dolwyn licked his
lips, and brought out from within his shirt a small purse. He untied the thongs that bound it, and passed Baldwin the parchment within.

  Baldwin read it with shock. ‘The Bardis?’

  ‘Sir, they think that note has been destroyed, but I have guarded it with my life. Now, perhaps, it can help to save me.’

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Monday after Easter46

  Berkeley Castle

  It had been impossible, in the midst of the Easter feasting, for Baldwin to find a private moment with Sir Edward of Caernarfon. During the early morning, Sir Edward had been permitted to attend chapel with all the household of the castle, and afterwards he had been allowed a place at the table in the hall with Lord Berkeley. Not that he was engaged in conversation, as Baldwin saw. He was kept there as a sop to his past position as King, rather than from a desire to honour him. Nor did he eat much; for the most part, he picked at his food, seldom raising his eyes from his plate.

  Today, as early as he could, Baldwin walked to Sir Edward’s chamber in the castle. In his purse he held the parchment which Dolwyn had passed to him, and so, as soon as they were alone, he handed it to the former King, saying, ‘Do you recognise this, sire?’

  Sir Edward paled. ‘Where did you find it?’

  ‘A man in the dungeon,’ Baldwin said, and explained about Dolwyn languishing in the gaol.

  ‘Dear heaven! You must have him released immediately, Sir Baldwin. That man should be attempting my freedom.’

  ‘He is held guilty of murder. The Lord Berkeley will want him kept here until the coroner can come and witness his execution. If he had his way, Dolwyn would be dead already. It is only Sir Richard’s strong sense of demarcation that has prevented its happening.’

  ‘Can we not arrange for his pardon?’

  Baldwin said nothing. Sir Edward was unable to provide pardons now.

  He realised his impotence even as he looked at Baldwin for support. ‘Good Sir Baldwin, if that man speaks out, he could save his life by threatening mine. My gaolers would be happy to free him, if he were to speak of an attempt to save me. You must have him freed, Sir Baldwin – please! There must be some way in which the fellow can be brought from his cell.’

  ‘Any influence I have would compromise you,’ Baldwin said heavily. ‘If I demand his release, men will immediately question why.’

  ‘Speak with the coroner, Sir Richard, and ask whether there is some pretext on which he can be allowed out. I beg you, Sir Baldwin. Try to have him released.’

  Tuesday after Easter47

  Berkeley Castle

  The castle was hideous to her. Agatha was staying in the vill nearby, where she and Father Luke relied upon alms from the church to eat and live, but apart from that, she spent her time at the castle.

  It was some relief to know that their horse was being well looked after. She went to check on him regularly, always suspicious that one day she would find him gone, but so far there had been no cause for concern.

  Today Father Luke was already at the court when she arrived, and she nodded to him as she peered over into the stables.

  They were less crowded now, as the majority of the beasts had been passed out to the various farms in the area, and her own was still standing and munching happily on his hay. At least they had not lost him, she told herself. That would have been a terrible price to pay.

  She could kick Ham for getting them all into this mess.

  ‘Agatha, I don’t know how much longer I can stay here,’ Father Luke was saying.

  ‘You won’t leave me?’ she said, panicked at the thought of being left here all alone.

  ‘Mistress, I have duties with the souls in Willersey.’ The priest was looking drawn and haggard.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I did not sleep well last night,’ he admitted. He shook his head apologetically. ‘It could be weeks before they hold a court to listen to Dolwyn’s case, and I have the vill at home in Willersey to serve. The man I asked to take my place while I was absent will be wondering what has happened to me.’

  ‘Why can’t they do it sooner?’ she fretted.

  ‘There is so much else for them to think of,’ Father Luke said. ‘And I don’t know that the Lord Berkeley wants to have it handled quickly. I expect he hopes to keep the money.’ There was a bitter note in his voice. How foolish, to think he could rescue it for the vill. The money was tainted, but he could have put it to good use in Willersey, rather than leave it here.

  ‘If you go, there will be no one to speak for it and to claim it,’ Agatha pointed out.

  ‘If he wants, he can keep us here waiting for a year,’ the priest said bleakly. He looked about the court like a man seeing it for the first time. ‘What a horrible place. Nothing is what it seems here. It is full of savagery – greed and violence. Agatha, you should come home with me – home to Jen. She will be missing her mother.’

  ‘I cannot,’ Agatha said. ‘How will we live without that money?’ She was about to plead with him that he should remain at least one more week when she was cut short by the sound of hooves.

  A man cantered in through the gates. ‘My Lord Berkeley – urgent message for Lord Berkeley,’ he panted as he threw himself from his horse.

  The shouts and rattling of hooves in the court drew Baldwin to his feet. Wolf lay by the door, and opened an eye.

  On hearing the noise, Sir Edward looked over at the window, remarking peevishly, ‘There is to be never any peace in this place. What is it now?’

  Baldwin was in Sir Edward’s chamber, carrying out his increasingly irksome protective duty. While Sir Edward sat quietly and read his books, occasionally staring out through his window, fingers tapping on the desk before him and sighing fretfully, Baldwin was forced to remain quiet and attentive. It was not a task to which he was suited.

  ‘Please be seated, Sir Baldwin,’ Sir Edward said irritably. ‘You distract me. Can you not see that I am reading?’

  ‘My apologies, my lord,’ Baldwin said, striding to the doorway and peering out. Here, there were always two guards on duty, and beyond them, a small guardroom. There was movement in there, and he soon saw three men coming out, all gripping weapons. They ran along the corridor, and then out to the main court. But from this chamber there was no means by which Baldwin could see or hear what was happening.

  Edgar was not permitted to join him in here during his enforced incarceration with the prisoner, because apparently Lord Berkeley did not trust Baldwin’s servant any more than he trusted Baldwin himself. Instead, Baldwin had told Edgar to remain in the court and listen and watch for danger.

  There was no need. Soon after the urgent hoofbeats came hurrying in, there came the tramp of booted feet, and bellowed orders. Baldwin stood back from the door and felt for his sword as Wolf stiffened. He knew where those feet were coming: here, to Sir Edward’s room.

  The sound had stirred Simon, who had been dozing in the court while Sir Richard de Welles waxed lyrical about the pleasures of such a fine castle.

  All had enjoyed the fruits of the additional money supplied for Sir Edward’s confinement, but few had done so well as Sir Richard. He had the roseate glow of a well-fed fellow, for his little maid was as infatuated with her rotund knight as any maiden with a noble squire.

  ‘I don’t know how he does it,’ Hugh grumbled more than once, much to Simon’s amusement.

  It was ridiculous that such a heavy, hoary old man should have won the heart of such an attractive little wench, but that he had was not in doubt. Whenever she came into the yard, she would look for him, and when she saw him, her face would light up like a child’s seeing her father. Perhaps that was it, Simon reflected. It was just that she saw something of her own father in Sir Richard. Not that any father would behave with his daughter in such a manner, he added to himself censoriously.

  Hugh glanced over the court towards the gaol’s door. ‘I heard that the man thought to have killed the carter had killed his own wife, too.’

  ‘Baldwin sai
d his wife and child died in a fire,’ Simon said quietly, eyes still shut. He knew how Hugh missed his family.

  ‘I’m all right,’ Hugh said grimly, ‘but I’d kill him myself if it was true.’

  Before Simon could speak, he was grateful, for once, for Sir Richard’s intervention.

  ‘HOI!’ he called, nudging Simon. ‘Look at this, eh?’

  The messenger had dismounted by the time a bleary Simon had rubbed the last of the sleep from his eyes and could take in the world once more. ‘What?’

  ‘Messenger from the King. Wearin’ the King’s colours,’ Sir Richard said, but there was no humour in his tones now. ‘Think we could be in for a little local trouble. Christ’s bones, you don’t think the King’s comin’ here, do ye?’

  ‘No, not while the Scots are fighting again,’ Simon said, and with that thought both stared at each other, even as the shouting and horn-blowing began.

  ‘Oh, God’s blood,’ Sir Richard complained. ‘Just as you get comfortable, they decide to muster us all for a damned war in Scotland, eh?’

  Rumours began to fly about the castle in moments. Agatha and Father Luke heard the news from one of the grooms, who was laughing as he ran past them to his duties.

  ‘What is it, boy?’ Father Luke demanded, catching hold of his jerkin.

  ‘War, Father. God be praised! Young King Edward’s going to lead us to war. We’re to gather our belongings for the ride.’

  ‘Dear Heaven,’ Father Luke said with despair. ‘Not again.’ In his mind’s eye he saw once more the bodies outside Kenilworth, and heard the screams and shouts of the dying. Now he saw that same vision, magnified.

  He saw John’s face too, as the man-at-arms made his confession to him in the chapel: he had confessed to killing the guard at Kenilworth, plotting to release Sir Edward, and meeting others of the same mind. John of Shulton was sunk deep in infamy. He had told Father Luke all of this – and all in the confidence of the confessional. That was why the priest was so desperate to be away from this dreadful place.