King's Gold

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Wednesday before the Feast of the Annunciation

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.

He closed his eyes as a fragment of bread was placed in his mouth, and he sipped the wine with that tingle that he knew of old. It was still the same. Every time he took communion, it was there, sometimes stronger, sometimes weaker, but the sensation was there, a tickle in his spine that reached up to his scalp. The idea that this was the body and blood of another man like him, innocent of any crime, was strangely thrilling whenever he participated in the Mass.

Opening his eyes, he looked up at the crucifix. It seemed that Jesus was looking into his eyes, and Sir Edward of Caernarfon felt tears spring up at the thought that Christ was here right now, with him. No matter what the guards here said or did to him, he would show the fortitude expected of a King.

He thanked his chaplain with a nod as he rose, but in his chamber he sat staring into the distance as though he could see his own future, bleak and short. A black mood settled on him.

The door opened, and a laundrymaid entered with a heavy basket of clean clothing, but he scarcely noticed her.

He was fooling himself, thinking he could be protected. Mortimer wanted him dead so he couldn’t retake his throne. And escorts from Berkeley would consist of men who were devoted to Lord Berkeley and his father-in-law, Sir Roger Mortimer. Even with two knights to defend him, it would be easy for Mortimer to order Sir Edward’s death. A knife in the dark, a sudden knock on the head — almost anything could happen on such a journey.

He shivered. The assault on the castle which had promised so much now struck him as the precursor to his murder. Mortimer would say that the assault was proof of an attempt on his life, not his rescue. Perhaps it was: Mortimer could have arranged it, either to see to his death, or to give an excuse to have him pulled from Kenilworth to Berkeley. He might be despatched with ease on the way.

Yes. Mortimer would like to ensure that Edward was slain en route, because it would be embarrassing to have him killed while under the supervision of his son-in-law.

The laundress had set a pile of clean chemises and braies on the table now, and she looked at him. Something in her demeanour made him take notice. She was staring down at the pile in a way that was somehow meaningful. He had no idea what she might. . Then he saw the scrap of parchment.

Taking a few coins from his purse, he dropped them into her hand even as his right hand took the slip.