30 - King's Gold

by Michael Jecks

  There was no need of further words. The three gazed about them, Dolwyn in particular bewildered by the sudden turn of events. He watched the knight and Simon for a moment with his mouth open. Then: ‘Where is everyone gone?’

  ‘They’ve been called to fight the Scottish,’ Simon explained. He felt less antipathy towards this fellow than Sir Richard did. To Simon’s mind, his tale of finding the cart was believable enough. If he had wanted, he could surely have invented a better story than merely finding the cart and no carter.

  Dolwyn nodded and looked around again, searching for the Bardis, but the only person he saw whom he recognised was that woman, the carter’s wife, who glared at him balefully from near the gate. At her side was the priest, who watched him with more a look of sympathy in his eyes, rather than disgust or hatred. Dolwyn saw them both pick up packs, she with a stick to carry hers over her shoulder, while the priest had a length of cord bound through his to hook over his shoulder . . . and then the two turned away and walked out through the gates.

  It was a relief. The poor woman had lost everything, but it was not Dolwyn’s concern. He was glad to be alive, and free again. If she was to suffer, that was sad for her, but he had other matters to attend to.

  If he was spared, of course. Since the lord was gone, he had no idea whether his life was to be taken soon or not.

  ‘What are these men doing out of the prison?’

  The voice made his eyes snap wide. Dolwyn looked over to the other side of the yard, where he saw the hated figure in a cream tunic once more. This fellow was called Sir Jevan, he now knew, and he looked at the man with trepidation.

  Behind him he heard the booming voice of the coroner again. ‘I released them on their own parole.’

  ‘Their “parole”? You think that they understand the concept of honour? They should be returned to their cell at once.’

  ‘I have taken their oaths. I will not send them back for no reason.’

  ‘No reason? Three felons and outlaws, and you think they should be released?’

  ‘They are not convicted.’

  ‘They are guilty. Look at them!’

  ‘I am a Coroner to the King, and I have some few little powers. One allows me to hold these men to their word.’

  The other knight gazed at him with contempt, then spat into the dirt at his feet, turned and walked away.

  Dolwyn watched him go. All he could feel at that moment was the flaring of the wound in his flank. That and his utter loathing of that bastard.

  ‘Masters,’ he said to Senchet and Harry. ‘I feel I owe you much. I cannot pay you for my life, but I can buy you some ale. Would you join me?’

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Berkeley Castle

  Sir Jevan sneered as he watched the coroner leave the court. A man who was prepared to release criminals did not deserve to be in the position of responsibility held by that tub of lard. Such a fat fool would be a useless comrade in a fight.

  It was a relief to Sir Jevan that he himself had not been called upon to join the King’s muster. He had no objection to fighting, of course, but he knew that his master would much prefer him to be here, to keep an eye on Sir Edward of Caernarfon. The latter was far too valuable to Earl Henry of Lancaster for him to be allowed to be killed.

  Sir Jevan wiped his brow. It was hot, and he felt uncomfortable in his thick tunic. Still, better here than on a long march north. Those fellows would soon be in some discomfort, with the sun shining on them all day long. He knew – he had taken part in such journeys before. Dust clogged the throat, and sat on collars, sanding away at exposed flesh like a hone on steel, until a man could only jog along trying to keep his head still. Dreadful business.

  He looked around the court and spotted a small company playing at dice at a low table. The bankers were both sitting on a bench, and two others were testing their luck with knucklebones. A maiden watched, serving them with ale as the bones were thrown. In the past, Sir Jevan had enjoyed such pursuits, but not now, of course. After the execution of his master, Earl Thomas of Lancaster, by the King, Sir Jevan had lost interest in gambling.

  Thank God that the man who had been King Edward II was now merely Sir Edward of Caernarfon – a lowly knight, no matter his former status. It was satisfying at a deep level – and quite inadequate at all others.

  Just then, he noticed Matteo Bardi observing him from beneath hooded eyes. It was enough to make him clench his jaw. The man had a discourteous manner. Turning away, Sir Jevan strode off. This was not the time for him to get angry with these people. There was still much to be done.

  He was just mastering his annoyance when he saw the three men released from gaol sitting out near the hall. Rage arose in him once more.

  Dolwyn of Guildford was lucky to be breathing, the prickle. It was not for Sir Jevan to impose a punishment here, but if this were his Earl’s castle, he would soon ensure that the fool discovered that a churl’s place was not in the way of a knight, no matter where it might be – on the road, in a castle, any damned where! The man seemed to think he was entitled to take his place with other free men. Dear God, if all peasants were to think like this, the kingdom would collapse.

  It irritated him beyond measure, yet once again, the only thing he could do was walk away. The alternative was to run this churl through with his sword, and that would only bring embarrassment and might even cause a renewed rift between his master, Earl Henry, and Sir Roger Mortimer. That, he knew, was not to be desired.

  He must not get into a fight here in the castle. But if he were to leave the place, and was followed, he would be justified in defending himself. And it would be his word against the peasant’s . . .

  The Town of Berkeley

  John saw William approach, but kept his eyes on the road – watching for any men following. There was no one.

  ‘There is a muster, I’m told,’ he said. ‘Has Sir Jevan gone?’

  William shook his head. ‘No, unfortunately. You must be careful and avoid him.’

  ‘How can one man avoid another in such a small castle? He knows me, and if he sees me, he will try to kill me.’

  ‘Then you will have to ride away,’ William said dismissively. ‘It is not my concern.’

  ‘Well it should be, man! What if he does capture me and I am put to the peine forte et dure? No one can survive that for long. I would be forced to give something away – and I don’t want to do that.’

  William studied him for a moment. ‘You may be right,’ he said. He glanced over his shoulder at the door, and then, when he turned back, found himself staring down the blade of John’s sword. ‘What are you doing?’ he hissed.

  ‘You were going to draw steel, weren’t you?’ John whispered. ‘A look over your shoulder to see there were no witnesses, and then you planned to take my head off.’

  William scowled. ‘You are a cretin, John. Just now I am your only true friend in the castle, and yet you threaten to kill me? I was looking to see that no one could overhear our conversation, nothing more.’

  John slowly let his sword-point drop. ‘I am sorry. I am so aware of the dangers here at all times, especially with Sir Jevan. I . . . I do not know what I was thinking.’

  ‘Then start thinking again now! You need to escape here. That is clear enough. I suggest you pack, mount your horse and join Lord Berkeley’s men. Ride with him and leave this to me. It is too dangerous for you here, and your capture would make the whole plan fail. We cannot afford that.’

  ‘Very well.’ John sighed, and began to make his way out towards the stables.

  ‘Oh – and John?’ William called.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘If you ever draw steel on me again, you had best use it. Next time I will not be so tolerant.’

  Berkeley Castle

  As Dolwyn came out from the buttery with Senchet and Harry, all carrying jugs of ale, he saw Sir Jevan and his heart sank. There was no safety here, not with that bastard staying behind. It was curious, from here, to see how his hair l
it up with the sun’s kiss, as if he was a saint – supreme, sacred, safe. But then he passed beyond the gateway, and suddenly his hair was dark brown again.

  Sir Jevan personified everything Dolwyn hated about so many knights. It was there in the impunity with which this knight had attacked him, as though he was irrelevant, like a fly in his way. A fly that could be squashed and destroyed.

  On a whim, Dolwyn followed after Sir Jevan. He walked out through the gates, and stared out beyond. The knight was not there!

  Dolwyn hurried forwards – and then there was a sudden jerk at his side as his arm was grabbed and he was pulled over – and then he realised that there was a white-hot mark where a dagger’s blade was set to his throat.

  ‘Peasant, you want to harm me, don’t you?’ Sir Jevan hissed. ‘Well, it will not happen. I am watching you all the time, and I am trained. Do you really think you can confuse me, or cause me to drop my guard for a single moment so that you can have your chance to kill me? It will not happen, I am warning you. You will die trying. And that is good. Because you know you deserve it, don’t you?’

  ‘Something wrong here, master?’

  Dolwyn looked over his shoulder. There, a matter of a couple of feet away, was Alured. His sword was in its scabbard, but he stood on the balls of his feet in readiness.

  ‘This is nothing to do with you,’ Sir Jevan growled.

  ‘I am an officer of the law in London, and it’s my job always to prevent men fighting. Seems to me you’re trying to threaten this man, and I won’t have that.’

  Sir Jevan was about to call for some of his men, but to start a fight within the castle’s grounds, was sheer folly.

  ‘Sir, you are holding a dagger to his throat,’ Alured went on. ‘I think you should take it away – now.’

  Sir Jevan bit his lip, then withdrew the blade and marched off to the main gate once more, without giving either of them a backward glance.

  ‘You all right?’ Alured said, watching the knight.

  ‘Yes.’ Dolwyn swallowed, and wiped away the blood from his neck. ‘I am grateful to you, master.’

  ‘So you should be, Master Dolwyn. So you should be,’ Alured said, but his attention was on the knight still, because from beneath the long tunic that Sir Jevan wore, he had caught a flash of dark-red boots: boots of Cordovan leather. And he wondered suddenly if those boots had tassels . . .

  Thursday after Easter49

  Berkeley Castle

  Alured woke the next morning to the regular sound of snoring coming from a large, black-haired man with a beard and moustache that had not seen a barber’s knife for at least a month. Alured blinked and found himself gazing into the man’s open mouth. It was not a seductive sight.

  The ale-house where he had spent the night was a scruffy peasant’s house in which the only chamber was used for both drinking and sleeping. The accommodation was sparse, the palliasses thin and rank, but the food was plentiful and the ale excellent.

  Rolling over, he put his arms behind his head, staring up at the rafters. There was a homely smell of woodsmoke and ale in here, the smells he remembered from his own home all those hundreds of miles away in London, and for a moment he thought about his wife and what she would be doing today – sweeping out the rooms, tending the fire, setting the pot on its trivet to boil some water, heating a stone to cook a little cake for her breakfast. It was a scene he had witnessed many times, and never before had he felt the full force of its importance to him.

  Sir Jevan had reddish-brown boots. No surprise there. Many other men wore boots made of good Cordovan leather. Alured must have seen twenty or more such pairs of boots on the way here – and amongst the garrison he had seen others. So what made the sight of Sir Jevan’s boots so uniquely surprising, he asked himself. And then he realised. It was not so much the boots on their own, but the boots combined with Sir Jevan’s character.

  Most knights were intelligent enough, and although there were some who were prepared to flout the law and steal or rob, most of them were honourable enough by their own lights. However, Sir Jevan was not one whom Alured would trust. It was easy to believe that he could have been involved in the murder of those two youngsters. But why? That was the question that nagged at Alured.

  He would see what he could learn.

  Saturday after Easter50

  Berkeley Castle

  Simon had enjoyed his breakfast that morning. Sir Richard was already up and outside, so the good bailiff was able to relax and eat a leisurely meal, not attended, for once, by a violent hangover.

  He was shovelling a large plate of eggs into his mouth when Alured appeared in the doorway. Simon did not know this man well. He was aware that he was some form of servant or guard to one of the Bardi, but that was the extent of his knowledge.

  ‘Master Bailiff? May I speak with you?’

  Alured stood looking down at Simon. He had a kind of steadiness in his eyes which Simon rather liked.

  ‘What is it?’

  Alured licked his lips, and then sat down at Simon’s side. ‘I think that I have discovered a murderer,’ he murmured. ‘I need your help.’

  Simon’s face hardened. ‘That is a serious accusation.’

  ‘You think I don’t realise that?’ Alured grated. ‘I am well aware of the penalty for a wrongful accusation.’

  ‘Are you?’ Simon asked. ‘If you accuse a man of murder and it’s shown he was innocent, you pay the price he would have paid. You would be hanged in his place. You do realise that?’

  ‘It is worse that the man is a knight,’ Alured mumbled.

  ‘A knight?’

  ‘Sir Jevan. He is a murderer, I am convinced of it.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Second Monday after Easter51

  Berkeley Castle

  Simon and Sir Richard walked together about the upper north wall. It was a place where they were guaranteed some peace, and could speak for the most part with the security of knowing that no one could overhear them.

  It was not easy, Simon reflected, to find a place where no one else would hear Sir Richard’s booming voice.

  ‘Are ye sure?’ the knight said in what he fondly assumed to be a quiet tone.

  Simon nodded, looking down into the castle’s court at the men milling about there. The place had settled into a new routine in the last few days since the departure of Lord Berkeley and his men. Now there were three men sitting out at the entrance to the main block where Sir Edward of Caernarfon was kept. Sir Ralph now shared the chamber with Sir Edward at all times. He was the constant companion, who shared in every meal, who watched over every visitor, and stood always between his former King and any possible danger.

  If Alured was right, and Sir Jevan was a murderer, there were enough men here to capture him and make him safe. The garrison was reduced to a minimum, with perhaps thirty or so men, and the host of labourers was possibly larger than the garrison itself. There were only a few genuine men-at-arms, but they should be enough to help capture one man even if he were inclined to try to kill again.

  ‘Ye know, not all murderers are maddened fools,’ Sir Richard mused. ‘Would it not be better to speak with this Sir Jevan and see what he has to say? The man seemed reasonable enough when we met him.’

  ‘Perhaps. But I would be anxious that he might attack us and then flee.’

  Sir Richard looked at him. ‘Flee? I don’t think he’d get far if we had the gates locked first.’

  ‘You think so?’ Simon said. ‘Those gates are so old, the lock so worn, I daresay he could pull them apart! But if you are sure, I would be happy to go and talk to him with you.’

  ‘There he is,’ Sir Richard said, pointing.

  Down in the court Simon saw the knight speaking with the older Bardi brother, Benedetto. ‘Let’s go and tackle him, then.’

  ‘Yes,’ Sir Richard agreed, but his mind was elsewhere, Simon saw. The coroner was staring down past the two men towards a dark, shadowed doorway. ‘Isn’t that the other fellow?’
/>
  ‘Yes. It’s Matteo Bardi,’ Simon said. ‘He’s watching and listening to them, isn’t he? And he did accuse his brother of trying to kill him. Do you think Benedetto and Sir Jevan could be in league?’

  Willersey

  Father Luke had never been so glad to return to his church. Travel, he thought, may broaden the mind, but for him, remaining here in his vill was infinitely better. The whole journey had been a disaster. He had learned that his bishop viewed him as a vile womaniser, just because he had tried to help a widowed parishioner in need. And then the wretched castle at Berkeley, with the lord and his men keen to steal what they could. A horse and cart were useful items – and the fact that the thief Dolwyn of Guildford had dropped them into the lord’s lap made them only more attractive.

  At least poor Agatha had her note from the kindly knight Richard de Welles, and he had promised to ensure that she did recover her property later. That was good. At least that knight was honourable, Luke thought to himself.

  He was in his meagre garden, weeding and pulling the snails and slugs from his lettuces. It was good to bend and work like this, revelling in the sunshine and thanking God all the while for His bounty. At last, Father Luke felt that he was regaining a little of his composure.

  Looking up, he saw Jen at the door to her house, a large pail of water from the well in her hand. She looked, if anything, more pale and fearful than ever, the poor child. She had been blooming before her father’s death, but his dying had changed her for ever. Any child would miss her father if he was taken from her prematurely, but to see his murdered body, with the axe still in his head . . . that must have been traumatic.

  He saw her glance in his direction – a pale, seven-year-old child, skinny from lack of food, with eyes as wide as a puppy’s waiting for a thrashing, before she quietly slipped into her house.

  Yes, it was terribly sad to see her in that state. He would pray for her. No young girl should suffer so much.