30 - King's Gold (15 page)

Now he rolled over and studied his injured thumb.

Recently he had been one of the most important men in the country. When there was a need for a cool head and diplomatic manner, King Edward II would send for Frere Thomas. Whether it concerned messages for the Pope, negotiations to assess the possibility of a marriage annulment – anything – it was to Frere Thomas that the King would turn. Sir Hugh le Despenser had been the King’s best friend, yet he had the guile and subtlety of a hog cleaver, in Christ’s name. He could hack, but when it was a silent assassin’s stab that was needed, Despenser failed.

Well, the fool had paid for his manifold crimes. Hauled to a gallows fifty feet from the ground until almost dead, then dropped to a table where he had his genitals cut off and thrown into a fire before he was ritually disembowelled, the entrails also thrown into the flames, and his beating heart hacked from his breast. If it was still beating. Frere Thomas had his doubts about that. He believed that a man tended to expire a short time after his belly was opened.

He had no liking for Sir Hugh le Despenser, but he could sympathise with the man for his fate. It was difficult to think of any creature who deserved such a barbaric death.

Putting the ball of his thumb to his mouth, Frere Thomas bit into the broken-off stub of blackthorn that had stabbed him. It was a tough little imp, but he managed to tug it loose and spit it away, studying the marble of blood that formed, growing to a nugget of almost a half-inch diameter before running quickly down his wrist.

Frere Thomas sighed. As the fresh drops of rain began to clatter among the holly leaves, he closed his eyes, then cast a long suffering look upwards.

‘Thank you, Lord,’ he said, but then rose and made his way to the road. Here in this part of Warwickshire the land was flat, and in places very wet, and there was no jauntiness in his spirit as he stared off into the south, and began to trudge.

He wouldn’t look back. That way lay defeat and misery. That way lay Kenilworth, where the man to whom he still owed his allegiance was held.

John wept as he pulled the hood over Paul’s face, then stood stiffly, the wound in his flank hurting as he moved.

His friend was already cold. He had died soon after they left the roads and entered among the trees, falling from his horse before John could catch him, and gagging as the blood from that awful wound seeped into his throat and lungs. He clung to life with the desperation of a badger in a trap, grasping John’s arms as though he could hold on to life the same way.

John closed his eyes again as tears moved down his cheeks. There was no shame in mourning the passing of an old friend, and there was no friend so close, so dear to his heart, as Paul.

That fight had been so sharp and swift, it took him a moment to comprehend that Paul was injured. Through the part-opened gates, he had seen the men falling, and realised his friend must be badly wounded in the same instant as he saw that face in the court: Sir Jevan de Bromfield.

It was enough. He slashed at his assailant, grabbed Paul’s bridle, and fled.

He would never forget that ride. They had pelted along through the bushes, and Paul had seemed all right at first. Until they stopped.

It was astonishing he made it so far. The blade had cut deep, not through the vein or artery at the side – that would have killed him in moments – but opening his gullet. When he attempted to speak, no sound came. A bloom of crimson spread from his neck down the front of his chemise, and his eyes were desperate, like those of a dog gripped by a bear.

Later, when John could still his sobbing for his friend of so many years, he swore that he would take the body to a place where Paul could be buried decently, with a priest to look over his soul.

Those who had survived would have to meet to discuss what to do, now that they had failed so magnificently in rescuing the King.

Kenilworth

Sir Edward of Caernarfon stared into the yard below. There was little to be seen now of the carnage that had reigned last night. Only black stains on the ground, where flies squatted. As a dog wandered past, the stain rose, leaving behind the rust-coloured mark of dried blood, but then the flies returned, gorging themselves on a man’s death.

The light had faded quickly behind the castle walls last night, but he had seen the bodies. Men dragged the dead to the wall, where they were left side-by-side. While he watched, two dogs trotted over, one to urinate, the other to lick and nudge, and he had wondered whether the latter was trying to waken its master, or whether it was testing the quality of the meat.

Sitting in a shaft of sunlight by the window with a goblet of wine, he was aware of a deep thrilling in his soul. He would soon be free. His subjects were coming to their senses. They
knew
they must honour their King: they had seen the error of their ways. Before long, Sir Roger Mortimer would be in chains in the Tower, and then he would die.

Isabella, his wife, who had committed adultery, would never know power again. It was incomprehensible how she could have rebelled against him – her husband, her lord, her King. Did she hate him?

She was a child when they married in the Year of Our Lord 1308, and he had been as kind to her as a brother to his sister. Happy days. But four years later his closest friend, Piers Gaveston, was murdered by a rabble of embittered barons jealous of their friendship. They slew Piers, and Edward was distraught. It was sweet Isabella who helped him then. He found in his Queen a woman of startling intelligence and compassion. In his hour of need, he discovered that this beautiful, talented, sympathetic woman understood his realm, his people, and him.

Strange to think that now, fifteen years later, she was flaunting her affair with his most deplored traitor.

She would be banished while he demanded a Papal Order annulling their marriage. She had made a cuckold of him, and betrayed his realm, and he could never forget or forgive. Just as he would not forget those who had joined in her invasion. All would pay.

Such were the satisfying reflections that engaged him as he sat in the window. When there came a knock at the door and his guard walked in, he could even smile thinly.

‘Sir Edward, I’m glad to see you well,’ Gilbert le Sadler said.

‘I am very safe. You guard me well,’ Edward said sarcastically. He raised his empty goblet, and his steward hurried to fill it for him. This man, Harold, was a good fellow. Not so attentive as his old steward, who had been with Edward for almost twelve years until he was cut down on the day Edward had been captured. One of so many who had died in his defence. Another pointless death.

Gilbert paid his words no heed. His brown eyes were strained as he studied his charge. ‘Sire, this was no group of silly men who hoped to make you free of this place. They were thoughtful fellows who knew what they were about. This time they failed, but next . . .’

‘So you are concerned that I could be released?’ Edward said, venom dripping from each word. ‘No doubt that is why you look so fearful. I would say you were
frit
, if I were to judge. Or is it fear for your own skin? You should be afraid, gaoler. You hold your King against his will.’

‘Some while ago I received a message from Sir Roger Mortimer—’

‘Do not speak that name in my presence!’ Edward hissed. ‘I will
not
hear it.’

‘However, I must tell you the import of his message.’

Edward averted his face as Gilbert haltingly continued. ‘I was warned, you see, that if at any time I felt you weren’t safe, I should remove you,’ Gilbert said. He chewed at his inner cheek. ‘After the attack last evening, I think that time has come.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Sir Roger suggested Berkeley Castle. It’s safer. It’s a pleasant place—’

Edward rasped, ‘It is a charmless hovel with views of bog and marsh. It has little to redeem it, most particularly as it is the seat of the Berkeley family.’

‘They’re honourable men.’

‘By their own lights. They are also allies of Mortimer. Lord de Berkeley is his son-in-law, and he is my sworn enemy.’

‘Sir Roger commands me to escort you there. I am sorry, these are my orders.’

‘What would the world be if a serf did not carry out his orders? Tell me: if you were ordered to kill me, would you obey that, too?’

‘My . . . Please, I—’

‘Would you feel happier to thrust a knife into my bowels here? Now?’ Edward said, holding his hand to his belly. ‘If your esteemed Sir Roger, the traitor, were to command it, would you do his bidding?’

The steward stepped forward as though to protect him, but Edward waved him back.

‘He is honourable,’ Gilbert said miserably. ‘Murder would be—’

‘You think Mortimer has not considered such a contingency? He has thought of transporting me from Kenilworth, in which there are few who bear me ill-will, and instead install me in the castle of his friend and ally. I like this not, master. I consider this a most ungenerous suggestion. If I could guess, I would say that Berkeley is likely where I shall die.’

He spoke the truth. In his mind’s eye the castle of the Berkeleys was draped in a perpetual twilight, a foul black outline against the sky like a tomb. His tomb.

A thought struck him. ‘How did he know of the attack? Is he here?’

‘No. He is a day’s ride away, in Wales. But a strange thing happened two days ago. A man masquerading as a messenger came to the castle. He escaped before I could catch him, but I deemed it necessary to let Sir Roger know.’

Edward could have cursed. So Dolwyn had been seen! He tried to sound off-hand, but only succeeded in peevishness. ‘So, a man tried to harm me, and you’ll send me to the man who wishes me dead?’

‘You’ll be better guarded there than here.’

‘By the son-in-law of Sir Roger Mortimer himself. Yes, I will be well guarded. To the death.’

‘I shall ride to Berkeley with you, if it would please you.’

‘So, my gaoler and those whom he selects shall take me to my death. How reassuring!’

‘My lord,’ Gilbert coughed, ‘if it would help, is there someone I could have join us to protect you on the way? A man or two whom you would trust?’

Edward of Caernarfon passed a hand over his eyes. ‘Someone from our kingdom to protect me? Whom should I ask, I wonder.’

He went silent. There
were
two men who had proved their valour to him, out on that pasturage in Wales just before his capture: he saw his steward fall, his body cloven by a sword, he saw the men pounding towards him on their great destriers, and he saw the two who strove to get between him and his enemies. Two knights, one with the black beard that followed the line of his chin, the other with the serious eyes that watched so carefully.

He gave the guard their names: Sir Baldwin de Furnshill and Sir Ralph of Evesham. ‘If you can win these two men for my party, I shall agree to go wheresoever you wish to take me,’ he said.

Wednesday before the Feast of the Annunciation
²⁰

Bubenall

Father Luke peered out from the little barn in which he had passed his second night up north of Kenilworth. It was a clear, cool dawn, and the grass was bejewelled with dew. Luke would normally have felt his heart lighten at the sight, but not any longer.

The battle two days ago had shocked him to his core. In the past he had imagined what a battle might look like, but never had he thought to witness one. It was hideous.

Luke had stood gaping, only dimly aware of his own danger, as other men were shot down. It was only when an arrow fell with a loud
thwock
into the ground near him, the clothyard quivering, that he too fled.

He was over the causeway when he heard the rumble of pursuing horses and knew that his ordeal was not yet over. In terror, he hurled himself into a muddy ditch, pulling his cowl over his head and praying with a desperation he had not known since he was a child. His urgent entreaties appeared to work. The posse of men-at-arms galloped past him, the men screaming their war cries.

As the terrible hoofbeats died away, Luke sat up cautiously, dripping, and watched with horror as the riders caught up with the small group of fleeing attackers. He saw weapons slashing, and then there came a great paean of fierce joy as they trampled the bodies with their hooves, making sure of all their victims. But they had not forgotten the two on horseback, and soon the party was off again.

He didn’t know whether they had caught up with the purveyor or not. In fact, Luke did not care. He knew that Stephen Dunheved had been associated with the attack, thereby placing Luke’s life, and Ham’s, in danger. He could not forgive that. Crawling along the ditch, shivering as the mud plastered his body and robes, he eventually rose and made his way across the fields safe from view.

At least this morning was dry. Luke left his barn in daylight, walking slowly along the road with the sun on his left shoulder as he went. He was fearfully hungry, but the effort of searching for a cottage where he could beg for a mess of pottage or crust of bread was too draining. He would remain on this road and hope to find somewhere as he walked.

He sighed deeply at the thought of getting back to Willersey. He had no idea where Ham was, and to have to explain what had happened to Agatha would be taxing in the extreme.

Poor Ham, he thought. That tired-out old beast of his would never be able to escape the men who hunted him and the purveyor. Ham must have been caught, and likely cut down. The Kenilworth posse would not have wanted to listen to explanations. Perhaps they paused to kill Ham and let the purveyor and the other man free? Those two could have escaped, the Dominican Frere Thomas and the purveyor Stephen Dunheved. What in God’s name were they doing in the castle? Why were they fighting the garrison?

And then the other thought returned to his mind. He stopped in the roadway, his mouth falling open with his dismay.

He had lost the King’s gold.

Kenilworth

Sir Edward of Caernarfon was deeply religious. Here, at the altar in the castle’s chapel, the chaplain mumbling his way through the service, he could almost forget the last year. Kneeling before God, he could sense a little of the peace that he had once felt at his chapel at Westminster.