King's Gold

Father Luke of St Peter’s Church, Willersey, was unaccustomed to shocks. His had been an exemplary life. He had lived here in Willersey for eleven happy years, and now, in his middle thirties, his paunch attested to the wealth of the area. The crow’s feet at his smiling blue eyes showed him for what he was, a contented, affable priest. His living was good, the tithes more than adequate for his limited needs, and the local peasants were willing to supplement his resources when he needed more food or wine. There was no doubt about it: since he had first arrived and seen the great church of St Peter’s with its tall spire, he had thought he was privileged to serve God here.

He was a man of learning, who had early discovered that there was a lot of sense in the stern injunctions against amatory adventures. All too often he had seen his peers humbled as their little misdemeanours came to light. For Father Luke, it was better by far to accept his position and enjoy serving the souls of his vill than to indulge his natural desires with the women of the area.

His was a round, ruddy-complexioned face, with full lips and heavy jowls – a face made for smiling, while slightly protuberant eyes viewed the world with an amiable fascination. He was that rare creature: a priest who genuinely liked his fellows. His slight pomposity made him human, in the eyes of the folks about him, and endeared him to them, while his irritation at their gambling in his churchyard on Sundays did not make them angry, only bemused when he railed at them for their ungodly behaviour. His was a figure designed to inspire jollity and companionship, rather than stern respect.

It had been an unexpected interruption when the horses arrived this morning – and a disturbing reminder of Despenser’s men’s appearance almost six weeks ago.

Earlier today, Father Luke had been at the base of the tower, idly studying the tympanum within the arch. The stone held a series of rich carvings: circles on either side with a flower inside them, a chequerboard strip beneath with a cross at either side, also set inside circles. In the middle, between the two flower shapes, was another circle, with four more set within, and a fifth as a hub between them all.

A strange design, this, which had always intrigued him. He wondered who the mason was, and what had urged him to make these patterns. Father Luke would have expected simpler devices, perhaps an angel’s face, rather than these long-forgotten symbols that had been here for perhaps two hundred years.

The sound of hooves pulled him back from his reverie, and he walked to his door and peered out, watching as two men reined in weary-looking beasts. The men were sodden, from their hoods and cowls to their booted feet. One wore a russet woollen cloak drawn about him, but the fabric was so soaked that the water dripped steadily from the dangling corner. The other had a leather cloak that had once been waxed, but this too had given up under the rain’s assault.

They wore no armour, but both had the stolid appearance of fighting men. Luke had to fight the compulsion to step away from them – there were too many stories of churches broken into and their priests knocked down for him to be entirely at his ease. For all that, he did not get the impression that they were dangerous, only desperate.

‘God be with you,’ he said firmly, making the sign of the cross.

‘Father, God bless you and your vill,’ said the taller one as they swung stiffly from their saddles.

‘You look exhausted, my sons. Would you stop a while and take a little refreshment? Wherever you are going, you will be more likely to reach it with a full belly and rested head.’

The two men exchanged a glance. In both faces there was a desire to ease tired limbs, if only for a short while.

‘Gentles, those brutes are as tired as you. They should be rested. Come, I have spiced cider and oatcakes.’

At the mention of hot cider both wavered, but oatcakes as well was too much temptation for men drenched by rain and mud. Before long they were sitting at Father Luke’s little fire, while the horses were rubbed down and fed by Peter, the smith’s son. Luke saw Jen, Ham and Agatha’s girl, and asked her to fetch her mother. Agatha often cooked for Luke. It got her out of her house and that was always a relief to her, Luke knew. She was unhappy in her marriage to Ham.

‘You’ve ridden far?’ Luke asked as Agatha bustled about preparing drinks and tearing at a plump, cooked pigeon.

The taller man nodded. He was named Paul of Bircheston, he said. He had a well-featured face, although his dark eyes met Father Luke’s unwillingly, as if he harboured a secret shame. The other, John of Shulton, was more confident, and more warlike, from the way that he settled and immediately drew his sword to dry it and smear grease over it to protect it from the rain.

He gave a grin and lifted an eyebrow as he glanced at the priest. ‘News is slow around here, eh? It must be good to see strangers ride past.’