King's Gold

CHAPTER THREE

Fourth Friday after the Feast of St Michael

Newgate Prison

The mob had taken over the prison. All those accused of supporting the King or his friends were thrown in here, and as Dolwyn was servant to a banker, he too was incarcerated.

Another man had died in the night, Dolwyn saw, glancing at the men huddled in the filth below the long shaft of light. There was a window twenty, thirty feet above them, and the prisoners clung to each other beneath it as though it offered escape. It didn’t.

They had thrown the body to lie in the shadow towards the middle of the room, only a scrap of linen about his groin. All his other clothes were gone. Not that he had been dressed for a night here when he came. Dolwyn remembered thinking that his thin clothing would be no protection against the chill and the foul miasma that pervaded this place. Even those who squeezed together for warmth against the cold and damp suffered. That man wouldn’t be the last to die here.

They would all die soon enough.

The dank cell was fifteen feet square, with curved ceilings like an abbey’s undercroft. Blackened stone glistened in the darkness, running with moisture, and in the gloom the only sound was a constant, maddening dripping. It went on at the same slow rate all through the day and night. If water could tear at a man’s soul, this did.

There were plenty of other noises vying to drown it out, but without success: screams from those demented enough to think their voices could interest the gaoler; the low mumble of the utterly lunatic; the sudden shrieks of a man being beaten by his cell-mate; the sobbing; the pathetic wailing of the boy in a chamber farther along the passageway; the scurrying of rats’ paws. .

Dolwyn had been in gaol before and the thought of death did not frighten him: rather, it was the manner of death that concerned him.

Hunger and thirst were the two constants of his exixtence here in Newgate Prison, but at least he could slake his thirst with a sip at the brackish, water-soaked walls. It tasted foul from the urine of the men in the chamber above them — but he didn’t care; not now. The hunger was much worse.

Newgate Prison. It was hard to believe that he was in the foulest gaol in London because of a misunderstanding. He had escaped the rope before, only to come to London and be caught in the same predicament!

Only a few feet or yards up there was the sunlight. Out in the world, men lived, laughed, rutted on their women, ate, walked in the open air, free. How many would even give a thought to the poor devils incarcerated, justifiably or not, down here in the cells? All too few.

He could see the gate in his mind’s eye. The great age-blackened timbers, the square stone towers rising up on either side. And beyond the gate: life. A short roadway that gave out to the shacks and rough buildings thrown up towards Holeburnstrete⁷, where those who worked in the city but couldn’t afford a room congregated. These were no great mansions like the houses on the road to Westminster where he’d been caught: these were shabby hovels for workers and beggars, sprawling out on either side of the street all higgledy-piggledy, to the Fleet River and beyond.

And beyond were trees, he remembered. For a while he could almost taste the clean air, and his lungs seemed cleansed of the filth that encompassed this city of fools and fiends.

It was on La Straunde⁸ that he’d been taken, hard by St Clement Danes. The mob was sacking a rich man’s house — someone said it was the Bishop of Exeter’s, but Dolwyn couldn’t give a clipped farthing for that. All he knew was that there were bodies in the street, and behind them, men savaging the building. There were flames in the window, and three men came from the house’s main entrance dragging a huge tapestry. Behind them was a churl with a leather jug, from which he refreshed himself regularly. Catching sight of Dolwyn, he started to point and shout.

In a moment Dolwyn was surrounded by scruffy youths, the raggle-taggle of London’s streets, all of them armed with knives, cleavers and hatchets.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Dolwyn of Guildford.’

‘Well, “Dolwyn”, only spies and traitors come past here.’

‘I am travelling home to Guildford — nothing more.’

‘I think you’re a spy.’

‘No. I’ve nothing to do with this.’

‘You’re spying on us!’

Dolwyn looked at the place. ‘My master is richer than this. You’re welcome to it. I am with the Bardi. .’ And then he could have cursed his stupidity.

‘You are a Bardi man!’ one of them snarled. ‘A pox on you and your money-lenders!’

The crowd gave an approving growl and edged nearer.

He said, ‘I’m only a servant.’

‘Just a servant, eh? God’s faith! Those usurers helped the old King ’aginst our city,’ the leader said, and spat into the street. ‘King’s gone now, though, and the Bardi won’t be coming back. The city’s ours!’

‘You treat your property with care,’ Dolwyn said, gazing at pillars of smoke rising into the sky.

‘The King’s running like a hare before the dogs. Him and Despenser.’

‘He can rot in hell,’ a voice muttered.

‘I have no business with you, or the King,’ Dolwyn said. ‘I’m just a traveller.’

‘I don’t believe you!’

‘I piss on you,’ he snapped. ‘I tell the truth!’

His words enraged someone, because in a moment he was on his knees, being struck repeatedly over the back with a stick. He endured it for a while, but then seized the stick and thrashed his assailant twice, but before he could climb to his feet, he felt a boot slam into his chin, and then fists and feet kept him down.

And he woke up here in the gaol, along with others the mob disliked.

There was a new noise. He could just hear it over the sobbing of the boy up the way and the constant drip-drip of water: a rumbling and thundering from overhead. There was a shout, and the sound of a door slamming. Rattles of iron, a quick scream, and then a crashing roar, as of the sea breaking on the shore. But he recognised it. It was the steady pounding of many booted feet.

Dolwyn moved away from the door warily, like the deer he had once pursued, until he was concealed inside a hollow in the wall. The group about the shaft stayed still, faces tight with renewed fear.

A party of guards might mean they were to be taken on the short march to Tyburn to dance their last, or perhaps London was on the rampage again. It was common enough in this changing world: there might be a new King, new advisers, a new council — but the mob was the mob.

There was a short cry, then cheering. Suddenly the noise was all around, as men poured into the passage between the cells. Faces appeared at the grille, lit by the fitful orange glare of torches, eyes flashing with disgust and horror as they stared into the cell, some dulled with ale, and all the while there was a cry of some sort, demanding to know where a man was held.

It was ‘Bardi’, he realised. It was plain enough why. No one liked Italian bankers, and now the mob had power in London, they were seeking those whom they most detested. And then he realised: to them, he was the Bardi man! Someone must have told of his capture, and the mob was here to kill him.

In the shaft’s dusty sunlight one prisoner gibbered and drooled, begging piteously as each new face appeared. Another was portly, rich-looking. He stared back at the faces with contempt, sitting uncomfortably like one unused to a stone floor under his buttocks.

Dolwyn pressed himself against the wall, his mind working furiously. The Bardi were the richest bankers in London. And these fellows were after a Bardi. They would expect a wealthy merchant, not him. . and in an instant he saw a way to save himself. He pointed at the fat man staring resentfully at the door and yelled, ‘Here’s the bastard! He’s in here!’

As a torch was held to the grille, Dolwyn saw the poor soul start. His clothes held something of their past magnificence: rich scarlet woollens and emeralds showed beneath layers of muck. The fellow blenched and made the sign of the cross as keys rattled and bolts shot back, and then the door burst wide, slamming into the wall, and a ragged group rushed inside. Dolwyn had already hauled his cellmate to his feet. The fellow was shivering, but not from cold. He gazed into Dolwyn’s eyes, hoping for pity, his mouth mumbling, but then he was grabbed by a dozen hands and pulled out, appealing for mercy, for compassion.

His answer was laughter as men kicked and punched him, and then he was gone. Dolwyn heard his pleas fading into the distance along the passageway and up the stairs. The others in the cell needed no encouragement, and raced out after them. In moments he was alone.

Dolwyn stayed, listening intently, until he was certain they had all gone. Only then did he peer around the open doorway, trembling with excitement. There was nobody in the darkened hallway. Only a pale light at the far end of the corridor, where the door remained open. With his legs stiff and hunger gnawing his belly, he would find it difficult to escape if the gaoler appeared. Grabbing his victim had exhausted him. But up there, perhaps he could find some bread, a lump of cheese or something — and a gulp of clean water or ale. From the sight of the mob, he guessed it was unlikely that the gaoler was still in the prison. He had taken flight — or had been killed.

‘Take me with you!’

At the third door along the corridor, a pale face was staring through the grille at him. Two small fists gripped the bars. It was the boy who had cried so piteously for the last few nights. Dolwyn stood for a long moment, contemplating the lad. Then he went back to his cell and felt around the door. He was sure that the keys must still be here. A great steel ring hung from the lock, with keys strung along it, and he picked it up. The fourth key fitted the boy’s lock, and he turned it, pulling back the two bolts to open the door.

‘Thank you!’ the boy wept, falling through the door as soon as it was opened wide.

Dolwyn pushed the child before him, along the passage and out up the stairs, keeping him in front of all the way.

He had no other defence. If there was danger, this boy would be his shield.