30 - King's Gold (13 page)

It was the most imposing castle he had ever seen. All about it lay the water, an enormous lake of a hundred acres, maybe three quarters of a mile long, with one great loop to the west of the castle and second, smaller one to the south. Attack was all but impossible. The last siege here took nine months, and then it was only illness and starvation that caused the inmates to beg for terms. The best machines in the land could not harm the walls, and no one could mine them, not so close to the lakes. Miners would have drowned.

At the far side of the bridge as he rode onto the timbers, the wood echoing hollowly beneath him, he could see the Norman keep, a massive fortress in its own right built from the reddish stone of the area. It was here to subdue as well as defend, and the square, rugged outline against the sky was fearful.

Two sentries were there at the gates, and they crossed their polearms before he could pass, but he didn’t get the impression that they were serious. ‘I have food,’ he gasped, jerking his thumb behind him to point at the cart. ‘I’m purveyor – special foods for your—’

‘Get in, then. Gate’s to be shut soon,’ one of the men said, and hawked and spat.

‘Will you leave the gates until they arrive, then?’ he asked, and received a noncommittal grunt in response.

‘These your friends?’

There, behind him, he saw John and Paul riding at a trot towards the gate. It was enough to make him grit his teeth. ‘Yes.’

‘They’re bloody late!’

Stephen turned, his hooves clattering over the stone cobbles, and trotted on, reining in a little beyond the gatehouse, peering about him. Here he was in the outer ward, a wide area that narrowed to his left. There before him were soaring walls. Inside them, he knew, lay his target, on the left, at the nearer side of the ward, near the great hall in the rooms he had heard called the White Hall. Out here there were still piles of rubble about the place, and areas of wall which had been extensively patched with new stone, and he was surprised that the castle was still being renovated after the siege. That had been forty or fifty years ago, after all. From the look of the place, the catapults had done their work, even if the castle had held. After nine months, the garrison must have been starving.

A man was striding across the court towards him, a moderately tall fellow with clean-shaven face and military haircut. ‘You have food, the porter said?’

Stephen nodded as he sprang lightly from his mount. He saw a black habit behind the man’s shoulder, and breathed a sigh of relief, just as the bell began to ring for curfew.

‘Yes, the cart will be here soon.’

‘Too late. It’ll have to return tomorrow.’ Squire Bernard shouted and waved at the sentries at the entranceway.

‘But he’s on the bridge already!’

‘Then he won’t have far to come tomorrow.’

‘Why not let him in now?’ Stephen demanded.

‘We have rules, and as porter of the gates, I will abide by them. He can come back tomorrow.’ He turned and bellowed a command.

The men came in from the gates, and there was a deep rumbling as the gates were closed, a rattling as the drawbridge chains were pulled in on the windlass, and men moved about in a desultory fashion before making their way to the bar to find ale.

‘Well?’ the porter said. ‘What are you waiting for?’

The cart rattled abominably. Father Luke walked alongside, his mind whirling, while the two warriors rode easily behind.

‘Keep your eyes on the road ahead,’ John said with an encouraging chuckle.

His voice made Father Luke’s stomach lurch. The humour and attractiveness he had seen earlier was gone now. This man was nothing more than a killer, he was sure, and the idea that he was here, with the cart loaded full of weapons, was alarming. What on earth was the man intending to do with them?

They passed under a little spinney of young saplings, around a series of strip fields, and then confronted the enormous lake.

‘Dear God!’ Father Luke drew to a halt with his mouth gaping wide.

It was easily the largest lake he had ever seen. Acres were inundated, and it made the priest marvel to see the result of so much labour. Only after he had absorbed the sight did he turn his gaze upward and gasp again. That was indeed a wonderful castle! He wondered how old it was. From an early age he had been dedicated to his studies in the Church, and he had little knowledge or understanding of castles and their history, but Kenilworth was one of those of which even he had heard as a child. It was a fortress extended and strengthened by King John, added to by the local baron. And it had been attacked years ago in a great siege.

The cart continued on, the horse patiently clopping forwards, and the priest hurried to catch up again, studying the walls, the keep, the bridge. They were passing into a little stand of trees when there came, clear in the evening air, the slow clanging of a bell. For an instant he did not realise what it portended, but then he heard Ham swear under his breath.

‘You will have to come to confess that, Ham,’ Father Luke said sternly.

‘Sorry, Father.’

John trotted up, and this time there was no humour in his eyes as he said tersely, ‘Paul, if we don’t hurry we’re going to miss the gates.’

‘I know, but . . .’ Paul said nothing more, but it was clear that he was thinking of Luke and Ham.

‘They’ll be all right, won’t you, Father?’ John said. Father Luke nodded, and John continued, ‘You come as quickly as you can, Ham. They may ignore the purveyor, but they won’t ignore me. And if Father Luke can hurry, so much the better: a priest in God’s service? They won’t lock him out. I’ll make sure they keep the gates open until you both arrive!’

And then he and Paul were off, cantering up the road to the causeway.

Father Luke was unhappy. He didn’t understand what was happening. All he wanted to do was get inside the castle and divest himself of Despenser’s gold, but he was anxious about the weapons and what they portended. He didn’t think that the garrison of the castle would need so many more. There were swords, axes, maces, and even a crossbow, he thought – not that he’d had much time to stare. He had caught Paul’s eye on him as he peered over, and looked away hurriedly. Paul was a fearsome man.

Too fearsome to ignore.

The bell was tolling again. Luke sighed and threw a fretful glance back the way he had come. It was tempting to make a run for it.

‘Best keep on,’ Ham grunted.

Luke nodded reluctantly. They could never hope to escape. If they turned, John and Paul would only have to trot to catch them within a mile. They were still some distance from the causeway, and he gave a short ‘Tchah!’ of disgust at his irresolution. His decision was made: night was coming on. He would have to stay in the castle, no matter what the possible danger from John. It was safer in there than out here in the wilds.

‘I’ll run on ahead, Ham. They won’t keep the gates shut if they see me, I’m sure. You hurry on as you may!’

He picked up the skirts of his robe, winked at Ham, and then began to trot up the road. The last days had been tedious, rather than tiring, and he was not tired. Soon he felt his muscles begin to ease, and he could pick up the pace a little, and actually run. It felt marvellous! The air was cool in his lungs, like a draught of clear water, and he felt his legs come alive. At the gates, he could see Paul and John arguing, demanding that the bridge be lowered, and the gates opened . . . and then, as he reached the wooden causeway himself, he heard a hideous shriek that turned his blood to ice.

The shriek was followed by shouts of alarm, bellowed orders . . . and then he heard the unmistakable clamour of battle: the rattle and clatter of steel on steel, the clash of blade against blade, the
whoosh
of arrows, like a formation of geese close overhead.

‘No!
No!
’ he shouted, and forgetting his own safety, he ran all the faster, making his way to the gates.

Kenilworth

There was a loud shout from outside the gate as John saw the entrance closing. ‘Hoi! Hoi! Wait for us, you slugs!’

‘Keep back!’ one of the sentries at the gate bellowed.

‘What is going on?’ Squire Bernard the porter demanded. ‘I won’t have that gate kept open any longer than I need to, damn your souls!’ He was staring at the gates, and then, as John and Paul began expostulating from outside, and the porter gesticulated wildly to have the gates shut, Stephen saw the other men from his group. Fifteen of them, all looking to him for guidance. Two up near the main hall, another sidling nearer from the stables, others dotted all about the yard, expectantly watching, waiting for their weapons.

Their weapons that were in the cart.

A second man appeared, clad in a pale cream tunic. ‘Squire, your gate is still open,’ he called. ‘What is the reason for this?’

‘Sir Jevan, these men want to keep it open until their cart is inside.’

‘Do they look like messengers, then?
Or spies?
Close the gates!’

Stephen met his brother’s eyes, and then, muttering, ‘Oh,
God’s ballocks
!’ grabbed at his dagger’s hilt, shoving it deep into the squire’s back.

Squire Bernard span on his heel and stared at Stephen, his hand scrabbling for his own dagger, then reaching up to scratch at Stephen’s eyes. Stephen stabbed again, twisting the dagger in the porter’s breast, the man’s blood running freely, hot and revolting on his hand, along his wrist to the elbow. He pulled the blade free and stabbed twice more, remembering the old lesson:
Never let a man loose, who could still have life and strength to attack you.

His brother Thomas Dunheved smiled. ‘I am glad to see you. We wondered whether you would be here in time.’

And then there was a shout, the bell began to ring in earnest, and arrows began to slam into the ground all about them.

Luke saw the drawbridge fall, and he could make out figures struggling in the courtyard beyond in a hideous scene of slaughter.

John and Paul were hacking with their swords, trying to enter, but a lance was thrust out, and Paul gave a hoarse cry, all but toppling from his horse. John went to him, but then he too roared in pain, put his hand to his flank, and moved away, stabbing down with his sword. Another man appeared with a bill, and swung it at John, who only just managed to evade it, before he and Paul wheeled and began to ride away. As they passed Luke, he saw that Paul had a great spreading rose of blood on the front of his tunic beneath his throat, and his eyes were already half-closed. He was dying. John had his hand at his side, and there was more blood there, and then they were past him, and Luke felt sick. He stopped, fighting for breath, as another man staggered towards him on the bridge, his mouth wide in a soundless scream, and fell to his knees as though in supplication.

Luke heard that hideous bird’s feather flight, and saw the two barbed heads spring from the man’s breast. Two arrows, each a good yard long, and the man’s mouth closed slowly as blood trickled from the corners, and he fell to his side even as Luke ran forward to give him the
viaticum
and hear his final confession, if he were able.

Behind him, Luke heard the cart approach, and he turned and gestured wildly. ‘No, Ham – get away, you fool! Get away!’

Stephen gave a grunt of pain. The arrow had glanced off his belt, by a miracle, but then slid in under his skin at his hip and remained there, quivering.

The two were in the narrow gap between a storeroom and the outer curtain wall of the castle, a nasty, piss-ridden little space that had only one benefit: it was hard for the guards to see them to shoot them. It was the merest bad fortune that had led the arrow to strike Stephen here.

Thomas saw his brother’s pain and darted to his side, breaking off the fletchings, and tugging the arrow through quickly. He glanced at the wound. ‘You’ll live,’ he grinned.

Stephen gritted his teeth and tried to smile in return, but the suddenness of the attack had made his belly roil. He hadn’t expected this. ‘Our first battle together, eh, little brother?’

‘Let us hope it will not be our last, Stephen.’

‘Shit!’ Arrows were hissing through the air and clattering on the cobbles of the ward. ‘Thomas, this is madness. We cannot hope to make it to the hall’s doors, let alone inside.’

‘I will not leave without my lord.’

‘What good will it do him to see you slain?’

Thomas turned to him. ‘Do not jest. Brother, I have served him for many years, and I will not see him kept gaoled like a common felon.’

Stephen gave a harsh laugh as he clapped a hand to his wound, which was stinging badly. ‘You think that this is a common gaol?’

‘Enough! We must storm the hall,’ the friar said. He had a sword in his hand already, and the desperate look in his eye reminded Stephen of the days when they used to poach venison from the game park.

They had been born at Dunchurch, a small manor fifteen or twenty miles from here. It had been a good life. John, their father, as was a stolid, hard-working yeoman, and his reputation ensured that his sons were favoured.

First Stephen was taken into the household of a baron and taught how to fight and ride; then Thomas demonstrated his quick intelligence, and was soon learning his letters and advancing himself. Now he was a papal chaplain. It still struck Stephen as odd to think that his little brother could have risen so far, so swiftly. Of their two other brothers, John was often in trouble, guilty even of rape and murder, and had been declared an outlaw. Only Oliver was likely to die in comfort in his own bed.

Stephen seriously doubted that the same would be true for him and Thomas.

‘Ballocks to this,’ he grated. ‘We have to get out of here, Tom.’

‘I will not leave without . . .’

‘. . . seeing us both dead. Not I, little brother. Nay, you remain here if you want, but I am riding away while I can. The others are not here. It is only you, me, and some peasants over there who dare not run over the ward to reach us. What is the point of our dying here? Eh? We must escape while we may.’

Thomas shook his head grimly. His fist clenched about the sword hilt, and he rose on the balls of his feet, a hand steadying him on the storeroom’s wall, and then he glanced back at his brother, his lower lip held between his teeth. ‘Are you coming?’