King's Gold

‘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.