King's Gold

‘Well it should be, man! What if he does capture me and I am put to the peine forte et dure? No one can survive that for long. I would be forced to give something away – and I don’t want to do that.’

William studied him for a moment. ‘You may be right,’ he said. He glanced over his shoulder at the door, and then, when he turned back, found himself staring down the blade of John’s sword. ‘What are you doing?’ he hissed.

‘You were going to draw steel, weren’t you?’ John whispered. ‘A look over your shoulder to see there were no witnesses, and then you planned to take my head off.’

William scowled. ‘You are a cretin, John. Just now I am your only true friend in the castle, and yet you threaten to kill me? I was looking to see that no one could overhear our conversation, nothing more.’

John slowly let his sword-point drop. ‘I am sorry. I am so aware of the dangers here at all times, especially with Sir Jevan. I . . . I do not know what I was thinking.’

‘Then start thinking again now! You need to escape here. That is clear enough. I suggest you pack, mount your horse and join Lord Berkeley’s men. Ride with him and leave this to me. It is too dangerous for you here, and your capture would make the whole plan fail. We cannot afford that.’

‘Very well.’ John sighed, and began to make his way out towards the stables.

‘Oh – and John?’ William called.

‘Yes?’

‘If you ever draw steel on me again, you had best use it. Next time I will not be so tolerant.’

Berkeley Castle

As Dolwyn came out from the buttery with Senchet and Harry, all carrying jugs of ale, he saw Sir Jevan and his heart sank. There was no safety here, not with that bastard staying behind. It was curious, from here, to see how his hair lit up with the sun’s kiss, as if he was a saint – supreme, sacred, safe. But then he passed beyond the gateway, and suddenly his hair was dark brown again.

Sir Jevan personified everything Dolwyn hated about so many knights. It was there in the impunity with which this knight had attacked him, as though he was irrelevant, like a fly in his way. A fly that could be squashed and destroyed.

On a whim, Dolwyn followed after Sir Jevan. He walked out through the gates, and stared out beyond. The knight was not there!

Dolwyn hurried forwards – and then there was a sudden jerk at his side as his arm was grabbed and he was pulled over – and then he realised that there was a white-hot mark where a dagger’s blade was set to his throat.

‘Peasant, you want to harm me, don’t you?’ Sir Jevan hissed. ‘Well, it will not happen. I am watching you all the time, and I am trained. Do you really think you can confuse me, or cause me to drop my guard for a single moment so that you can have your chance to kill me? It will not happen, I am warning you. You will die trying. And that is good. Because you know you deserve it, don’t you?’

‘Something wrong here, master?’

Dolwyn looked over his shoulder. There, a matter of a couple of feet away, was Alured. His sword was in its scabbard, but he stood on the balls of his feet in readiness.

‘This is nothing to do with you,’ Sir Jevan growled.

‘I am an officer of the law in London, and it’s my job always to prevent men fighting. Seems to me you’re trying to threaten this man, and I won’t have that.’

Sir Jevan was about to call for some of his men, but to start a fight within the castle’s grounds, was sheer folly.

‘Sir, you are holding a dagger to his throat,’ Alured went on. ‘I think you should take it away – now.’

Sir Jevan bit his lip, then withdrew the blade and marched off to the main gate once more, without giving either of them a backward glance.

‘You all right?’ Alured said, watching the knight.

‘Yes.’ Dolwyn swallowed, and wiped away the blood from his neck. ‘I am grateful to you, master.’

‘So you should be, Master Dolwyn. So you should be,’ Alured said, but his attention was on the knight still, because from beneath the long tunic that Sir Jevan wore, he had caught a flash of dark-red boots: boots of Cordovan leather. And he wondered suddenly if those boots had tassels . . .

Thursday after Easter

Berkeley Castle

Alured woke the next morning to the regular sound of snoring coming from a large, black-haired man with a beard and moustache that had not seen a barber’s knife for at least a month. Alured blinked and found himself gazing into the man’s open mouth. It was not a seductive sight.

The ale-house where he had spent the night was a scruffy peasant’s house in which the only chamber was used for both drinking and sleeping. The accommodation was sparse, the palliasses thin and rank, but the food was plentiful and the ale excellent.