King's Gold

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Near Kenilworth

Frere Thomas Dunheved shivered at the sound of thundering hooves approaching. He knew with a certainty that, were he to be captured, his life would not be worth a penny. They would kill him — once they had garnered all the information he held.

On hearing the horses, he had flung himself down into a thicket of brambles and holly, the only cover that lay about here. His black gown was all besmottered with mud, his hands, and no doubt his face, were smeared with it too, and he had a thorn in his thumb.

He could have sworn aloud at the disaster. All that planning and effort, gone to waste. God had not aided them, and Frere Thomas was once more on the run from the enemies of the true King.

How different things had been, once! The House of the Black Friars in London seemed a lifetime ago, a thousand leagues away. Was it truly only six months since his urgent flight with the King from London? It was difficult to believe.

But there were more pressing concerns. Where was Stephen? His older brother had pelted through the gate with him, the two of them thrilling with the sheer lunatic excitement while bolts and arrows fell all about them. Two others from their gang made it. The others. . well, all perished in the storm of clothyard arrows and crossbow quarrels in that deadly ward.

Once outside, their predicament had grown clear. There were too many men in the castle, too much open land in front of it, and too much damned water in the moat, apart from anything else. They had been lucky that Stephen’s horse was near to hand, another running wildly, crazed at the smell of blood, the shouting of fighting men. It was the action of a moment to snatch at the reins, leap into the saddle and, bending low over the horse’s neck, ride away as fast as possible.

Stephen had been in front, just, when they pelted over the bridge and causeway, past a goggling priest, and thence to the road. They were delayed by a terrified carter, who stood by his horse, tugging at the rein. Thomas and Stephen had flown past him like hawks past a pigeon, but soon afterwards, they had heard the pursuit.

There was nothing to be done out here in the open lands other than whip, spur, and pray. Stephen was drawing away, but Thomas’s brute was suddenly flagging. Stephen turned and would have stopped, but Thomas waved him on. No point in them both being caught. ‘Ride on!’

He had reached some woods, and there he slipped from his saddle and slapped the horse’s rump. Only then did he see the arrow protruding from the horse’s back, just behind the saddle. It sent a chill down his spine to think how close that had come to ending his life. Only a couple of feet higher, only a tiny additional angle from the archer’s perspective, and it would all have been over.

Then the horses were closer, and fear took hold. Thomas had run off, like a hare before the hounds, darting in and out among the thin tree boughs, hoping to deter any bowmen, but to be truthful, he doubted that they even noticed him. They certainly seemed to think they had better targets. He had heard one man scream in pain, but there was no telling who. Perhaps it was Stephen. He did not know.

He disliked admitting it, but there was no denying that if it were Stephen, it was more important that he, Frere Thomas, had survived. He was the strategist who had God’s approval.

Frere Thomas lifted his head, brought back to the present. He was sure he had heard another horse from the east. Could that be them again? His nerves were tight as bowstrings as he strained his ears to listen, but there was nothing, no one to be seen. It must be his imagination, or maybe a rider ambling along at the extreme edge of his hearing, and passing now into a wood or gulley where the sound of his hooves could not be heard.

He blew the air from his lungs, rolled over and closed his eyes a moment. Yes, all that was yesterday. Last night he had dozed fitfully with his back against an old oak after walking miles over muddy fields. The peasants here would have good reason to curse the Dominican for the coming year, he thought with a weary grin. His feet would have disturbed their crops.

Today he had risen with the sun, wondering where on earth he was. Although raised not far from Kenilworth, this land was unfamiliar, and he peered about him warily before setting off again, making for the nearest church, which stood on a small hill a mile or two to the south. The priest there was entirely unwelcoming. A hidebound old fool, who believed that friars were only in his parish to steal his tithes, he made it clear that if he heard the friar preaching, he would come and chastise Thomas with a stick.

Personally, Thomas did not think this very likely, since the man looked so frail, but he did not want to raise attention to himself. He managed to persuade the priest to give him bread in exchange for his departure, and a brook was adequate for his thirst.

In the brook he caught sight of his reflection, and it exasperated him. He was used to a good life, to courteous discussions with the King and with the Pope, not to this indignity. Dear Heaven, what would the Pope say if he saw Thomas in this condition? Probably nothing, Frere Thomas admitted to himself, since the Pope would not have been told of a scruffy churl asking to meet him. Guards would have prevented him from entering the presence.

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.