30 - King's Gold (17 page)

Later he could find out.

For now, he reminded himself, he was a servant of God, and after the last days he should remember his duties. So rather than marching straight home and resting his sore feet, he first went to his church. Opening the door, he peered in, a little anxious in case a thief might have stolen the chalice or . . . But no, it looked the same as usual. When he opened his chest, all was there, safe and well. Thieves, drawlatches and outlaws had become commonplace in recent years, and they were daring enough to rip the very crucifixes from the walls if they could see a profit in it. Nothing was sacred to such men.

The floor was a disgrace, though. Someone had been in here with muddy boots, and Father Luke tutted to himself. Before anything else, he must sweep. He fetched a besom and began to clean his little church, sweeping the dirt away from the red and cream floor tiles of which he was so proud, until there was a fine mist of particles hanging about the whole place. The sun illuminated these dancing motes and created bright columns of light in the church that gave it a still more magnificent aspect. Leaning on his broom, Luke felt his tiredness leach away, and a calmness settle upon him.

He returned his broom to its corner, and walked the length of the nave to kneel before the altar, hands clasped together.

‘Lord, forgive me for my anger and black choler, and I praise You for this peace. It is surely true that a man must seek comfort in the little things, in prayer, work, and—’

Just then, the door was thrown wide, and Father Luke snapped his eyes open, turning to see the woman striding towards him.

‘Where is he?’ Agatha demanded. ‘Where’s that good-for-nothing churl of a husband of mine? I suppose you left him in some ale-house where he could watch the wenches with his tongue hanging out? We’ve work to do here, and the fool is hiding somewhere!’

‘Agatha, I was going to ask you the same question!’

‘Me? How would I know where the useless prickle was? He was away with you, Father.’

‘But I haven’t seen him in days. I thought he was already here,’ the priest protested.

‘Oh, yes, of course you did. That’s why you sidled into town like a cur expecting a boot up its backside, is it? I wasn’t born yesterday, Father. I know you men. You promised you wouldn’t tell me, eh? You can say this, though: when will he be back? I need to know that, at least.’

‘Mistress Carter, I do
not
know,’ Luke told her. ‘We reached the castle three days ago, but as we got there, a fight broke out, and many men were killed. I was sure that your husband escaped, and . . .’

Father Luke slowed and stopped. In his mind’s eye he saw again that furious posse hurtling along the road, falling upon the group of fleeing men and cutting them to pieces, before carrying on after the purveyor and the Dominican. If they had come across a lonely peasant with a cartload of money, Ham wouldn’t have stood a chance. The men-at-arms would have slain him before checking his cart. If they did check and saw the weapons . . .

No, surely not! They were riding after the other two, the blackfriar and the other. He had seen the arrows flying after them, and shortly afterwards the posse poured out of the gatehouse. They must have passed by the carter on their way after the two – if, indeed, they even noticed him.

‘Yes, he must have escaped them,’ Father Luke said reassuringly. ‘I am sure that he is fine, mistress – you will simply have to be patient. He will return.’

‘Aye, as soon as he’s used up all his pennies, I suppose,’ she declared. She tugged at her belt, hitching up her breasts as she did so. ‘Well, I hope you’re right, because if that niddicock isn’t back soon, I don’t know that I’ll be responsible for my actions!’

Balsall

The cart rattled along comfortably enough, while the carter strode beside it, and Dolwyn jolted and rolled on the thin plank that served as a seat. This cart was a goodly size. It gave Dolwyn a feeling that it could be useful somehow in releasing the King. Not that he had any idea how that might be achieved.

‘Where are you from?’ he asked conversationally.

The man was uncommunicative, as so many peasants were. Dolwyn had wandered into a small town on his way up here to Kenilworth where the grubby urchins in the street eyed him with unconcealed alarm. They were incapable of speaking with him, because he was foreign. He came from more than ten miles away. It was the sort of insular attitude which had always upset Dolwyn when he was at home.

He was about to press the man, when a grudging comment came: ‘Willersey. Small vill down southwest.’

‘What were you doing up there?’

‘Purveyor, he said he was. Came and told me to bring my cart. Said the castle wanted lampreys brought, and perry, and that I’d be well paid. Huh – never saw one penny. Then he set a load of swords and maces on my cart and there was that fight, and now I’m a hunted man, I think.’

‘You are,’ Dolwyn said with quiet conviction. ‘But so are a lot after that attack. What is your name, anyway?’

‘They call me Ham.’

‘So then, Ham Carter of Willersey, what will you do now?’

‘Go home, I suppose.’

‘That would be sensible. But when you get there, what then? If they can trace you – and the King and Mortimer have very good spies – will you have brought danger to your wife, children, friends?’

Ham plodded on, but his head sank in dejection. ‘What should I do?’

‘My friend, I am sure that you will be safe enough. I merely asked. Now, for me, I will strike out westwards, away from the castle, and then follow the River Severn for a while. That will take me away from any search, I think.’

‘How can you be sure of that, sir?’

‘Good Ham, you can call me by my name: I am Dolwyn of Guildford. I am sure enough because only a strong force would dare to attack the Earl of Lancaster’s castle at Kenilworth. Not only is it a mighty castle, it is owned by the second most powerful man in the realm.’

Ham’s face grew longer. ‘Master Dolwyn, what can I do? I am only a simple yeoman, when all is said and done, and I don’t want any part of this sort of nonsense.’

Dolwyn smiled. He felt for his dagger. ‘Look, friend, let’s take our rest, eh?’

Nodding, Ham led the cart off the road onto a patch of common land, and began to unhitch the pony as Dolwyn climbed down.

He wouldn’t feel a thing, Dolwyn told himself as Ham turned away to pull a pot from the cart for boiling water. He would make it quick, he thought, his hand on the knife . . . But then he changed his mind. Not yet – not today. For now, travelling with a second man was perfect, in case anyone was looking for him. On his own he would stick out like a priest in a brothel. Here, on a cart with a man who was almost local, he would be less noticeable.

And this fool was too scared of him to be dangerous.

Friday before the Feast of the Annunciation
²²

Willersey

Agatha felt the soreness in her tired eyes as she tried to concentrate. There was so much to be done: animals to feed, protecting the emerging crops from birds and mice in their strips of land in the communal fields . . . She needed her man back. Where was he?

It was shameful to think that Ham would be running about the place free and happy with the money in his purse from the job with the cart, and not sharing anything with her or Jen. They needed the money. God’s teeth, it was enough to make her weep!

The priest knew something, she was
sure
of it. She should watch him.

She held to her word through Mass that morning, her eyes fixed on Father Luke. He was calm and strong at first, but then, progressively, she became aware of his eyes moving towards her. He looked like a naughty boy consumed with guilt. Perhaps he had argued or fought with Ham, killed him and left the body . . . But that was a laughable idea. This pasty priest was no match for her husband. Ham, for all his faults, was a hale and hearty man.

It was difficult to hold her tongue through the service. Instead, she aimed an accusing stare at Father Luke.

He definitely knew more than he was saying.

Abergavenny

Alured had ensured that Matteo Bardi was safely deposited at the castle’s gates before seeing to the horses and finding a secure billet for himself and the other guards.

It had been a hard ride, but their reception was unfriendly. As soon as they entered the town, he felt the curious stares of the men and women. In fact, Alured got the impression that this town wasn’t part of England at all. The people spoke in some weird tongue. They weren’t like the folks of Kent or the men from the far north. These fellows actually spoke a whole different language, and it was disconcerting.

He felt out of place here. He was a London man. Those little alleys and streets were to him the essence of freedom. Without them, he felt lost.

His mood had not been improved by the way Matteo’s nervousness had increased, the closer they came to Wales. Alured had not wanted to come here in the first place, but it was not his choice. What did he want with a four- or five-hundred-mile journey?

Alured could at least appreciate Matteo’s alarm, having heard his suspicions about his brother Benedetto’s murderous plan to wrest power from others at the bank. Alured himself doubted that Matteo’s fears were justified, since Benedetto didn’t seem like a killer to him. Still, it explained his trepidation. That and the fact that he was here to see Sir Roger Mortimer. No one would meet that man without a sense of grave danger. Sir Roger had not achieved the most powerful position by affability.

Yes. If Matteo was correct, Alured would have to be careful in the presence of Benedetto Bardi, but for his money, the more dangerous man was the one in the castle, Sir Roger Mortimer, not Benedetto.

Hunilege

Ham smiled at the man’s jokes, but there was something about him that Ham didn’t like. Dolwyn’s smile, which appeared as easy and unforced as a taxman’s while demanding more money, it was enough to make any man suspicious, he reckoned. What’s more, as they travelled along, Ham noticed that his companion’s eyes were all over the countryside.

Dolwyn caught him staring and gave him one of those long looks of his.

‘What?’ Dolwyn said.

‘Nothin’,’ Ham protested feebly, feeling doubly foolish for blushing like a maid. ‘It’s just, you remind me of an old soldier I knew once. He always had his eyes on the hills about us when we were travellin’.’

‘A man with sense, then. For I tell you now, when I look around here, all I see is danger. It’s full of trees to hide a bowman, and old holes in which a thief could lie, and the hills themselves could hide a hundred outlaws.’

‘So you were a soldier?’

Dolwyn looked at him. ‘I have served the King. In peace and in war.’

‘But now you’re without a master?’

‘Seems like it,’ Dolwyn said. He saw no reason to mention the Bardi. ‘There are many of us in the same position.’

Ham nodded to himself. It was no surprise to him. ‘Are you married?’ he asked next.

He half-expected the man to laugh at him. The idea of a warrior for the King having a wife and children was ludicrous, somehow, but to his faint surprise, the man gave him a slow, considering stare. ‘Why?’

‘Just wondered. I have a daughter. Lovely girl – little Jen. She makes my life whole. I’d die for her.’

Dolwyn turned to look at the road ahead. ‘I did have a daughter once,’ he admitted. ‘But she died.’

‘Well, I am sorry to hear that. A child is a comfort.’

‘Yes. I . . . I envy you.’

They did not speak again. Ham walked alongside the cart, guessing how many days from the vill he had travelled, but occasionally throwing a look at Dolwyn, increasingly convinced that if he remained with this man for too long, he would pay dearly – possibly even with his life.

Dolwyn himself was back in the past: seeing his cottage lighted by the flames, the smoke billowing above the thatch, and hearing from inside the screams of Julia and Rose until at last they were stilled, and he was allowed to drop, weeping, to his knees.

Saturday before the Feast of the Annunciation
²³

Road south of Beausale

It had happened when they had stopped last night. Ham, the fool, had been setting about the horse as though to unlimber him from the cart, and Dolwyn had carefully clambered down, stiff and uncomfortable from the day’s journeying. He was still thinking of Julia and Rose, and his flight after the terrible fire . . . when Ham struck him hard on the back of the head with a branch.

He’d slumped to his knees instantly, and heard a muttered apology, before Ham clubbed him again – and suddenly he was lying in the grass, uncaring about Ham, his horse or his creaking eyesore of a cart, which was currently rattling and clunking into the distance.

He had eventually managed to climb to his feet, but weakness forced him to sit with his back to a tree and doze through the night. Collecting firewood was impossible; the thought of cooking made him want to vomit. And he had no food anyway. The carter had taken the lot.

However this morning, although his poor head felt like a dented kettle, he was still alive.

There was the sound of water, and he made his way to a brook that ran past the road, lying on his belly and sucking up his fill. The coolness ran down his throat with the promise of life renewing; the chill as it struck his belly was like the first wash of ale on a summer’s evening, and he was soon able to sit up and take more of an interest in his surroundings.

The land here was gentle, rolling farmland and pasture, with woods sprinkled here and there. He had no means of telling in which direction the carter had gone, but he recalled the man saying he came from a place called Willersey – and that, if Dolwyn was right, was down near Broadway. He could easily find his way there. There were tracks when he looked: and the cart was big enough that it would stand out.

Damn that bastard! He would find his way to Ham Carter’s town, and he’d teach the swyving scrote a lesson he’d not forget in a hurry! No one knocked Dolwyn of Guildford down and got away with it.