King's Gold

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Exeter

Margaret Puttock’s prediction was all too accurate, sadly.

Simon came awake very slowly. His eyes were gummy and sore, and when he finally opened them it felt as though sawdust was trapped beneath the lids.

‘Bloody knight,’ he muttered to himself as he sat on the edge of the bed and paused, legs on the floor. After dealing with Sir Richard de Welles over some years, Simon could quickly evaluate the level of his poisoning. This was not so bad as that time in Exeter when he had immediately been forced to spew on waking. . He winced at the taste of bile in his throat, and got up and walked to the window. On the floor beside it he had placed a little jug of ale the night before. It was soured now, but at least it took away the flavour from his mouth as he gargled and spat out of the window, and then swallowed a good mouthful.

He had first met Sir Richard in Dartmouth, where the man appeared to know everything about the town, pointing out where the best brothels and ale-houses had stood in his youth. The knight had always appeared to be in the most deplorably robust health — completely immune to the aftereffects of excess wine or ale. But for all that Simon would often regret the day they had met, Sir Richard was a truly kind, compassionate man who had, early on in life, married a woman whom he adored, and then been forced to see her die. Perhaps that was why he had such an iron constitution, Simon thought: he had learned to drink heavily on his own after his wife died.

‘How are you, Bailiff?’ Sir Richard asked now, marching into his chamber.

‘Please,’ Simon said with a pained look. He put his hand to where it felt as though his brain might explode, and was glad to see his Meg stand and fetch him a goblet of wine.

At breakfast, Sir Richard picked up a chicken thigh and slurped at the meat, sucking the bones dry and licking at his fingers as he went. He smiled at Simon, who essayed a weakly grin in return, before pulling apart a large slice of bread and shoving it into his mouth, easing its passage down his throat with a gulp of red wine. ‘Not bad, this,’ he said. ‘So, Simon, if you can have a bit of something to break your fast, we’d best be off.’

‘What?’

‘To Kenilworth. We have to get a move on, eh?’

Simon winced and burped carefully. ‘There’s no hurry, is there?’ he said queasily. ‘How about tomorrow?’

‘Hah! So your head is hurting then — eh, Bailiff? No, seriously, old friend, we should be on our way as soon as we can. Our path is a long one, so it’s best we get started now.’

‘But I’m not ready!’

‘You’ll soon be ready when you get some fresh air in your lungs, man. That and some food is all you need.’ The knight smiled with a demon’s amiability.

‘Yes,’ Simon whispered. He didn’t nod. His head hurt too much.

Near Broadway

John stopped his horse as soon as he was convinced he had lost his pursuers. The woods here were dangerous to ride in at speed. After spotting Sir Jevan de Bromfield, he had pelted through the trees at full gallop, bent so low over his mount’s neck that the saddle crupper had stuck in his belly. Behind him he knew that the other three were not gaining, but neither were they slackening. It was only when he saw ahead a low bank of holly bushes, that he hoped he might be able to lose one or two of them, and he had jerked the reins right at the last minute. In a moment he was flung almost from the saddle as the great beast hurtled off in a new direction, and he risked a quick glance behind him. He saw that one rider had been thrown by the suddenness of his manoeuvre, and gave a grin of savage delight to hear the scream of pain as the man fell into the thorny leaves.

Then he was facing forward again. Just then, his beast put a foot into a ditch. It could have snapped his leg like a dry twig, but somehow the magnificent animal recovered and set off along the road. Still, when John looked back, he saw that the first man was much closer, and it was Sir Jevan himself.

Sir Jevan de Bromfield: it was a name to make a man shiver. He was the dedicated servant of the last Earl of Lancaster, before King Edward II had him executed, and he hated all the followers of Despenser as much as his master had.

Sir Jevan had seen John at Kenilworth. And he would kill him if he caught him. It was as simple, and as deadly, as that.

Charlton Abbots

Dolwyn felt as though he was almost safe. There had been no sign of any pursuit since that first posse, and he wondered whether his pursuers had given up. After all, in these difficult and fearful times, there were many who deserved punishment more than him to seek.

He pulled the reins and the brute finally began to move again. The animal appeared to have made up his mind that he disliked Dolwyn and wished nothing so much as to leave the road and crop the grass. When Dolwyn pulled, the horse had taken to setting his ears flat back on his head and whinnying angrily. It took three firm cuffs about the head to make the animal obey him, and then only because he kept a firm hold of the reins.

It was a short while after this, still about the middle of the morning, when he heard a horse trotting towards him. Dolwyn was on a grassy track that was only just wide enough for the cart, and as soon as he heard the hooves approaching, he knew he would soon be in trouble.

‘You! Have you seen three men-at-arms here today?’

The man was younger than Dolwyn, and he was dressed in a pale green-coloured tunic with a red cloak at his shoulders. He was sitting astride a huge grey, who pranced and prodded at the ground as the man watched Dolwyn suspiciously. His side had been injured, Dolwyn could see. The material of his tunic was rent, and there was a stain about it, as though he had bled there profusely a little while ago.

‘Why?’ Dolwyn asked. He let his head drop, and spoke sullenly like a villein who resented being questioned.

‘Answer me, churl!’

‘No.’

The knight nodded, but absently. Now he was looking at the cart closely. ‘Where are you going?’

‘Goin’ ’ome,’ Dolwyn said. ‘Back to Gloucester.’

‘Where did you find this cart, fellow?’

Dolwyn scowled. ‘Why?’ he said again. ‘I’ve ’ad this for years.’

‘Years, eh? That is curious: this cart is like a friend’s whom. . I saw this only recently, at Kenilworth. Where did you get it?’

‘I said I’ve ’ad it years,’ Dolwyn repeatedly sullenly.

‘I heard you,’ the man said, drawing his sword. ‘But I don’t believe you. It is what all felons would say.’ He was staring at the bed of the cart. ‘What do you carry?’

‘Usual rubbish.’

‘Show me!’

Dolwyn looked up at him. The rider may have been injured, and did appear to be favouring his right side, but he was yet on a fleet horse, and Dolwyn could not hope to outrun that. Commonsense said he should be as gracious as the situation allowed. Accordingly he imitated a peasant with a grievance, but stood back and allowed the man to investigate the cart.

Still on his horse, the fellow poked about with his sword’s point, lifting the blankets and tapping the two perry barrels. ‘What else do you have in there?’

‘Perry.’

‘I didn’t mean the barrels, man. What else is there here?’

‘That is it, sir. I’m only a wanderin’ tranter,’ Dolwyn whined.

‘Really?’ The fellow stared hard at the cart and horse as though he knew them, and he was about to speak again, his eyes on the small chest that lay between the barrels, when he sighed and muttered like a man distracted, ‘I have too many troubles to worry myself about this. Move aside, you fool, and let me pass!’

Dolwyn did as he was instructed, and soon he was watching the man trot off up the roadway. But when he reached the bend in the lane, the man stopped, whirled his mount about and came hurtling back up the roadway towards Dolwyn. It was only by a miracle that Dolwyn wasn’t struck by the flailing hooves as the beast thundered past.

Then there was a bellow, and he turned to see three men with the badge of the Earl of Lancaster on their breasts, pounding down the roadway towards him. He rammed his back up against the cart, but the last man was almost thrown as his horse balked at the narrow gap. Snarling with rage, the man-at-arms raked his spurs along his mount’s flanks, screaming abuse in his frustration, and then he slashed down at Dolwyn with his sword.

Dolwyn felt the blow like a punch. He flinched and his horse, unnerved by the man’s fury, jerked onwards. The cart began to judder on sluggishly, and Dolwyn fell beneath it, rolling between the wheels, too surprised even to feel anger yet. The cart moved over him, and when he peered up, he saw that the rider was off.

‘I will remember you, master,’ he said through gritted teeth. In an instant it felt as if his entire flank was on fire, and he put a hand to his side, and met shredded cloth and blood. Lots of blood. He set his jaw and forced himself to his knees, then up to his feet, staring after the man riding off so swiftly.

A tall man, wearing the Earl of Lancaster’s badge, smooth-shaven, with dark brown hair and green eyes set in a square face. ‘Yes, I will remember you — and I’ll cut your ballocks off for what you’ve done to me!’ he swore, writhing as the pain burned at him.

Bishop’s Cleeve

Senchet was already tired out. The weather had been wet and filthy for several days, but yesterday, as though to add insult to their injury, it was suddenly bright sunshine, and while the warmth was welcome after the last days of chill, the sudden dryness made their clothing chafe their throats and armpits. Senchet’s rough hosen rubbed his inner thighs raw, and it was all he could do to forget the pain as he stumbled onwards.

His friend was in no better shape. Harry trudged, head hanging. He sorely missed his horse, especially now his old boots had given up the ghost. The left sole flapped pathetically with every step, and his foot was a mass of blisters. In the wet he had been more comfortable because wet mud was slick, but now dirt and stones cut and scratched his bare sole.

‘Harry, we must find somewhere to rest. And get food.’

‘And how do we buy food? We have no money, Senchet.’

They were in a long lane, with wheel tracks at either side forming a morass of mud with a narrow channel of grass struggling to grow in the middle. Hedges on either side with thick brambles deterred passage.

‘Harry, let us just take a rest.’

With a bad grace his companion agreed, and after another slow, painful hundred yards or so they managed to find a tree that had fallen, and both could at last sit and stretch their legs.

Senchet glanced back the way they had come, then up ahead, and was struck by the gloomy conviction that they had travelled scarcely two miles since their last halt. So far, they had slept out three nights in the last four, and the result, with the cold and the rain, was that Senchet himself felt certain that he was to win little but a fever from this long tramp.

‘My friend, I am thinking maybe we should have stayed back there in the town.’

‘They wouldn’t have let us,’ Harry grunted. ‘You think they’d want two men from the King’s host to be hanging about the town? Any of the garrison which remained would suffer the risk of a short rope and a long drop.’

‘Perhaps better that than this, eh?’ Senchet said with an emphatic gesture at the roadway. He rubbed his brow. ‘There must be a lord somewhere who needs men like us.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘You sound unconvinced.’

‘I am. Now the war is over, the lords will send their men home. What need have they of great forces? Men cost money,’ he added gloomily. ‘Even the lords who distrust their neighbours will seek to disband their feudal hosts. It’s spring. They want their men back in the fields, not standing in armour looking shiny.’

‘We are,’ Senchet observed, ‘not the most desirable of men, are we? Perhaps I should return to my homeland. There may be more work there.’

Harry nodded. He wanted to rest his head, but knew he would fall asleep instantly. They must keep on going, but it was hard, very hard. He was too old for all this. Too many fights had taken their toll and his back was giving him grief — a common complaint after the years of soldiering. There were injuries, too, on his ribs and thighs, but nothing compared with the throbbing misery that was his poor leg. He dared not remove his boot for the thought of what he might find.

‘Why bother,’ he muttered to himself.

‘It all comes down to money. I wish it grew on the trees that we might reach up and pluck what we needed.’

‘Only the rich would take it.’ Harry looked at his friend pityingly. ‘You dream about money, but me, I’ll dream about a solid meal, a warm chamber and a dry palliasse.’

‘With money, you could buy them all.’

Harry shook his head. A bite of food, that was all he needed, but both finished their meagre rations two days ago. ‘What I wouldn’t give for a loaf of bread,’ he said sadly.

‘What’s that?’ Senchet said, alert.

From the road ahead there came a rumbling of hooves. Mingled with the squeak of leather was the clatter and rattle of metal, as of pots and pans.

The two men exchanged a look.

‘Shit!’ Harry forced himself to his feet. ‘I can’t run like this, Sen. You get away while you can, and leave me to them.’

‘I will not leave you to the mercy of some vagabond of the roadway,’ Senchet said firmly. ‘Hah! You think I should give up my companionship with you so that we can both be cut down on our own? No, I prefer to make a stand together.’

Harry hissed with pain, teeth gritted, but set his hand to his sword’s hilt and tested the blade. ‘Come on then. Let’s see what these bastards are like in a fight,’ he said, and grinned weakly.