King's Gold

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.