30 - King's Gold

by Michael Jecks

  Sir Richard stared down at him in bafflement. ‘Fellow’s fainted,’ he muttered, and pushed him aside with his boot. Then he lifted his fist and beat on the timbers. ‘Hoi! It’s me, Sir Richard de Welles. You all right in there? Eh? Speak up, man? Are you all right, I say?’

  There was a muttered response, and Sir Richard glanced around. ‘Open up. There’s no danger for a while.’

  He heard a thud or two as the heavy bolts were pulled aside, and then the door opened and he slipped inside. ‘Lock it again,’ he ordered. ‘How’s Sir Edward?’

  The three men at the door gazed at him uncomprehendingly and he grunted to himself before striding off to see for himself.

  Sir Edward of Caernarfon had heard the noise of battle from the first, and now he stood in his chamber with a feeling of panic. Sir Ralph was with him, and Gilbert, and the two stood resolutely at his side.

  There was a loud rapping at the door, and he felt his heart leap into his throat, but then he heard the welcome bellow of Sir Richard. ‘Sir Edward, you all right in there?’

  ‘Yes,’ he cried. ‘Sir Richard, what is happening?’

  ‘A force come to break into the castle,’ Sir Richard shouted. ‘Don’t know why.’

  Sir Edward felt a chill at those words. Sir Richard no fool, was reminding him that there was no guarantee that this attack was destined to save him. It could be for another reason entirely – to kill him. It was certainly not past Sir Roger Mortimer to arrange for his death by sending men to sack the castle. He would not care about the loss of life that ensued.

  ‘What should I do?’

  ‘Stay where you are,’ Sir Richard said. ‘With luck we’ll hold ’em off.’

  When Sir Richard had finished speaking, he went to a window that gave a view of the courtyard, and the scene that met his eyes was a shock. The main gates were wide, and there was a rabble of men outside, some on horseback, milling about. He heard a crashing thunder, and knew that already some men were attacking the door to the keep. With all the masons’ tools, he knew it would not take too long before the door gave way.

  He scowled at the thought, then strode to a door which led to the spiral staircase in the wall. Climbing quickly for a man of his build, he went to the topmost wall and stared about, trying to assess possible methods of concealment or escape, but could see nothing.

  Baldwin, he saw, was still on the battlements. His companions had almost all fallen, and only two survived with him of all the garrison and labourers who had joined him. As he watched, three lunged forward, and Baldwin stepped back, feinted, and stabbed. One of the attackers gave a shrill scream, dropped his sword and clutched his throat.

  ‘Good man,’ Sir Richard said approvingly, but his eyes were already studying the rest of the battle, and it was quickly apparent that there was little hope of escape. The courtyard was held by the enemy, and there was no sign of Edgar or the others fighting to defend the castle.

  Then he saw Edgar, a dark, rushing figure carrying a ladder; he set it against the battlements and then swarmed up it, to run at the men holding Baldwin at bay. He gave a cry Sir Richard could hear distinctly from the top of the tower, and soon Baldwin was relieved. The last attackers were driven off. Sir Richard saw Baldwin pointing and staring down into the yard, and when their eyes met, he waved. Baldwin waved back.

  In the castle there was the sound of breaking timbers as doors were smashed open, and a few wisps of smoke showed where some men had broken tables and stools just for the pleasure of destruction. A bellow of delight told that one man had discovered the undercroft where the wines were stored. Sir Richard returned to the door to Sir Edward’s chamber and stood outside.

  He had enjoyed his life. It had been moderately long, and he was happy enough. If he could serve Sir Edward now by dying in his service, it would be no bad thing. He was ready enough to die. Since the death of his wife many years ago, raped and killed by a servant he had trusted, he had felt as if he had lived on too long. And to die in the service of a fellow’s liege lord was always good. Better than living as a coward.

  So he gripped his sword more firmly and waited.

  The men were already turning to looting as Stephen Dunheved knocked on the doors to the keep.

  ‘There is no need for more blood to be shed,’ he shouted. ‘We want our King, that is all. Let him out, and you can all live.’

  The negotiations took a little while, but it was not long before a sulky face appeared in the doorway and Stephen and Thomas walked inside. Their men were behind, and they took the weapons from the guards before herding them outside, while the brothers took one to lead them to Sir Edward’s chamber.

  ‘I will prevent you,’ Sir Richard said as they ascended the stairs.

  He was a great bear of a man, and he balanced on the balls of his feet, readying himself to launch at them.

  Stephen held up his hands in a placatory manner. ‘Sir Richard, do you remember me?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘I used to serve your King, just as you did. Sir Richard, would it not be arrant nonsense for us to battle – you to hold him, I to free him? Ask him what he wishes. Do not listen to those who demand you keep him here. If it is against our King’s wishes, who are we to argue?’

  ‘Our King wishes to keep Sir Edward here,’ Sir Richard said.

  ‘Ask Sir Edward, then,’ Stephen Dunheved said. ‘Look through the window at how many men I have with me, Sir Richard. If you wish, I can have an archer come here and fill you with arrows. It would change nothing. Your death would alter nothing. Sir Edward will still be released.’

  ‘If I die defending him . . .’

  ‘But you aren’t. You are fighting to protect Sir Roger Mortimer’s plan to hold him here. Do you want that?’

  Sir Richard gripped his sword tighter. ‘No. But it is my duty,’ he said.

  Stephen was about to order a general charge at Sir Richard when Sir Ranulf pushed past him.

  Sir Richard’s face was pale with shock to see him. ‘You? Coroner, you are with them too?’

  ‘Of course,’ Sir Ranulf said. And Rodney, too. We want the real King on his throne. Think of the rewards for the bold ones who reinstal him!’

  Sir Richard shook his head. ‘This is treachery!’ He lifted his sword and was about to leap on them, when the sound of the door unlocking behind him made him pause.

  Sir Ralph walked out and put his hand on Sir Richard’s shoulder. ‘Sir Richard, I think there have been enough dead, my friend. It is time to end it.’

  Aye, perhaps,’ Sir Richard said, but his eyes were on Sir Edward.

  Sir Edward of Caernarfon slowly walked from the room like one in a dream. He stared at Sir Richard with an expression of blank uncertainty, as though he had no idea whether he was being rescued or captured.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  Berkeley Castle

  It was obvious that the castle was lost. Where there were one or two men left standing, they were collected by the attackers in dribs and drabs, and led to a wall where they were watched.

  Senchet eyed the men with interest. Beside him, Harry was binding a cut over his knuckles where a sword had caught him, swearing quietly to himself.

  ‘There!’ Senchet hissed, and pointed. There, with the men being held, was the Keeper of the gate. Senchet remembered him from the day of their capture. ‘He had the keys.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The room over there, where our chest has been stored. That man locked the door.’

  ‘What of it?’

  Senchet licked his lips. The gatekeeper’s room was a little chamber in the gatehouse, and from here Senchet could see the open door. There was no one inside.

  ‘Come with me,’ he said.

  Carefully they made their way past bodies, past piles of rock, and in at the chamber. Nobody challenged them; nobody paid them any heed. And inside, there on the floor, they saw the little bunch of keys. Senchet took them up reverentially and thrust them into his shirt, turning a look of simple happiness
to Harry.

  ‘We’ll wait here until they have gone, and then . . . We’ll be rich!’

  The noise was infuriating! Matteo wanted to know what was happening, but when he beat at his door, early on, he was told to belt up and be quiet, and now, there was nothing. It was clear enough that there was a battle going on, and he wanted to know who was attacking. With luck, his brother and the snakes who had thrown him in here would die, and then he would be able to take over the bank as he had intended for the last few months. That would be good, he thought with a smile.

  There was a clattering in the corridor, like men running and dropping weapons, but then there was silence again.

  He jerked and pulled at the door, but it was firmly locked. If only he could have escaped this chamber, he could have climbed through the little window that gave access to the roof, along which he had fled that evening when he killed Sir Jevan.

  It had been shocking how the man writhed and shrieked. Matteo had intended to just hack once and leave him for dead. It had been easy enough to plan. He had merely left a piece of parchment in Jevan’s room telling him to meet Benedetto in the tower before dawn because of a new threat to the Queen’s finances. It was all he needed write. He knew that Sir Jevan would be unable to ignore the summons. And Sir Jevan was punctual. All Matteo need do was step up close and strike with his axe.

  The axe had seemed such a clever idea. A weapon that could implicate Dolwyn, and thus remove the two threats to Matteo’s stability and comfort. He wished he had an axe here now. That would be good.

  He had no weapon. The only tool he had in the chamber was a large steel poker. Perhaps with that he could break through the door? It was worth trying, he thought, and he took it up – but just as he was about to begin, he heard voices outside.

  ‘Help me! Help!’ he shouted, and to his relief he heard the key turn in the lock. As the door was thrown wide, he dashed forward to thank his rescuers.

  It was his misfortune that the three men outside had reason to fear all those held in the castle. They knew that this was not their King, for he was already saved. But seeing a man armed, so they thought, with a sword, rush at them, they all took the precaution of cutting at him before he could hurt any of them.

  Matteo fell screaming at the agony of the blows, and was still shrieking as he died.

  Up on the battlements, for a moment Baldwin thought that there might have been a victory in the keep, but then he saw the men cheering, lifting their hats and waving them as the slim, elegant, fair-haired figure stood in the doorway at the top of the stairs.

  ‘What was it all for, Edgar?’ he said tiredly.

  ‘I think we may be heading for another war, Sir Baldwin.’

  ‘Sweet Mother of God, preserve us from that,’ the knight breathed. He set his blue sword blade against a fold of his tunic and wiped it clean. The blood, mingled with the oil used to preserve it, stained the material, but he was past caring. Looking about him, he could see the bodies of four men he had killed, and seven more lay dead or squirming. One man had crawled to the corner and lay there now, shivering with shock and cold as his lifeblood drained and drenched his clothes.

  Baldwin shoved his sword into its scabbard and leaned against the battlements. All these dead . . . and if Sir Edward were to escape, more would die in the continual struggle for power. This time the battles could range over the whole nation, if the King were to gather enough support.

  But there was nothing he could do to stop it. He had done his best.

  John stood in the court looking on while all around him men cheered and shouted as the King appeared at the top of the stairs, a hand raised tentatively, as though not quite sure whether these men actually planned to support him or kill him. He had the look of a man who receives a pardon while standing on the ladder, the noose already about his neck, unsure whether the ladder will be taken away before he can have the rope removed.

  John moved forward, one man among all the forces brought to this place to release their King.

  In his mind John saw Paul’s face, the happy, smiling companion whom he had loved closer than a brother. And he saw again that same Paul, choking as he drowned in blood.

  This King, this Edward, would raise a host of men to march on his son to take back his authority. His host would attack the castles owned by Sir Roger Mortimer, and slaughter all those inside. The desire for revenge would be all-consuming. After the last civil war, six years ago, the King’s rage had resulted in his cousin being executed, and then hundreds of knights up and down the country had been ritually slain, their bodies carved up and tarred to hang from hooks outside the city walls of the realm. Two years later they were still there.

  How many more. How many more must die?

  He looked up and saw Sir Edward in front of him.

  ‘Edgar!’ Baldwin exclaimed. ‘That man there – it’s John of Shulton, isn’t it? What’s he doing?’

  Edgar looked down at the men below and spotted the fellow in question pushing through the crowds towards Sir Edward. Edgar ran to the crossbows. One was spanned and loaded still. He took it up.

  John saw the face smile. Sir Edward – King Edward – was smiling at him with gratitude.

  The irony was appalling, he thought. He had his sword in his hand still, and he glanced down at it. When he returned his gaze to Sir Edward, he saw that the King’s eyes too were fixed on the sword – but not with terror nor even surprise, just a kind of acceptance. He did not try to hide or cower, nor plead to save his life. He merely stood, waiting for the blow.

  John mouthed, ‘I am sorry!’ before moving to plunge the sword into Sir Edward’s body.

  But before he could do so there was an explosion of pain that ran from his shoulder all the way down to his bowels. He went down, his left knee slamming into the ground, as though he had been punched by someone behind him. There was a searing heat through the whole of his body, and as he turned his head, his chin hit something. The object was red and raw, like a bone freshly butchered – and then he realised it was a bone – his bone. And then the knives and swords came battering and butchering him, and he fell again, staring up at the sky as his heart stopped beating.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  Friday after the Nativity of St John the Baptist76

  Berkeley Castle

  Sir Richard de Welles sat at the table with a grunt of satisfaction. The maid was there already, a hunk of bread ready and waiting for him, and he smiled at her a little wearily as he took it and bit off a piece.

  Baldwin walked in a short while later, and Sir Richard said nothing, merely pushed his jug of ale towards him.

  ‘Thank you, Sir Richard,’ Baldwin said as he sat.

  ‘How are you?’ the other man asked.

  ‘Sore, mainly,’ Baldwin answered with a grin. ‘My arms are aching. It reminds me that I am no longer as young as I once was.’

  ‘Simon?’

  ‘He’ll recover. He has a hard pate,’ Baldwin said unsympathetically. ‘There are many others who will not wake this morning.’

  ‘It was a fierce battle,’ Sir Richard said quietly.

  He could see those men again, staring at him as he prepared himself for death before Sir Edward’s chamber. In truth, he felt as though he had endured it. Strange, but it was an uplifting experience, not a shameful one, as though passing so near to dying was almost the same as dying in reality.

  ‘We lost a lot of the garrison,’ Baldwin said.

  ‘Aye – and Sir Edward.’ Sir Ralph was morosely sipping at a mazer of wine.

  ‘The posse of the county must search for him,’ Baldwin said.

  ‘You yourself will not?’

  ‘No. I never wanted to be his gaoler and I would not see him imprisoned again. Let him find what peace he may, while he may.’

  ‘Aye. I can understand that,’ Sir Richard said. He was still unnaturally pensive. ‘Your man – a good shot, that.’

  ‘I was just sorry that John had to die. I rather liked him.’ Baldwin shook
his head. ‘He appeared to be with those who wanted to free Sir Edward. I was astonished to see him try to stab him.’

  ‘We’ll never know why,’ Sir Richard said.

  Gradually people began to enter to break their fast after yesterday’s efforts.

  Baldwin walked outside. The yard was a mess still. The fires started by the men in the assault were more or less out now, but all about the ward was a fine layer of ash and some thick clots of soot. Baldwin and Sir Richard had caused the bodies to be taken to one side of the yard near the chapel. There were more than thirty men lying there, Baldwin counted. It was enough to spoil his appetite, and he threw his crust away. Wolf snatched it up and bolted it in a moment, and Baldwin put his hand on his dog’s head and ruffled his coat, taking comfort from the animal.

  There was no telling, he thought, just what the outcome of this attack would be. Perhaps the old King would fight for his throne again and oust his own son.

  But even as he wondered, he saw again the look on the man’s face as John stood before him with his sword unsheathed. Sir Edward had looked almost as though he welcomed the killing blow. To feel like that, Baldwin thought, a man must have travelled through Hell already. Sir Edward had lost wife, friends, throne, authority, wealth – everything. Would it be a surprise if he would be glad of an end to his suffering?

  He had survived because of Edgar’s crossbow bolt . . .

  Baldwin wondered now whether he was, or was not, grateful for that shot.

  Willersey

  Father Luke smiled at Jen as she swept out his church.

  What a year this had been! He was glad to be away from the castle. Berkeley had only miserable memories for him, which all merged in Luke’s mind to form a mosaic of horror.

  Not that it was all that much better here, he thought. There were too many memories of Agatha and Ham for his entire comfort. Still, he must forget that in the interests of Jen. She needed all the help she could get.