King's Gold

He gave her a quick kiss. ‘Lock the door, little flower. I’ll be back in a while,’ he said, gently pushing her inside and closing the door. He waited until he had heard the bar fall into place at the other side, and gave it an experimental push to make sure it was secure, before descending the stairs, sucking the meat from the bones. His sword was still in his hand, and as he passed a pair of fighting men, he peered into their faces. One was recognisable, the other unfamiliar, so he waited until there was a suitable moment, and brought his gloved fist round to the man’s face. He felt bones snap and shatter, and looked down with wistful irritation at the mangled chicken in his fist. ‘Bugger.’

Continuing to the keep, he had to pause while three men passed in front of him, herded by the grinning Edgar. All were armed, but none dared confront the man-at-arms. It was apparent that Edgar needed no aid. He was happily slashing and thrusting with speed and agility. There was a shriek, then a whimper, and one fell. Edgar advanced on the other two with renewed vigour, and as Sir Richard watched, a second collapsed with a sigh as Edgar’s blade punctured his breast. The last man dropped to his knees and threw his sword away, and Edgar tutted then smashed his pommel into the man’s skull before going in search of fresh targets.

Sir Richard found a group of four at the keep’s door. They were all unknown to him, so he wandered over to them. ‘Tryin’ to get inside?’ he enquired.

There was no word from them. All turned to him and he found himself faced by three swords and a war-hammer. His sword was already up, and the third man to spin spitted himself on the point. Sir Richard pulled it free as the fellow tumbled, sobbing, hands to his belly, and knocked the second sword away, slashing back to cut off the man’s hand with the sword still gripped tightly in his fist. The man with the hammer sprang away, and Sir Richard lifted his brows enquiringly at the remaining swordsman. He looked at Sir Richard with the terror making his face clench, and then he dropped the sword and slid slowly to the ground.

Sir Richard stared down at him in bafflement. ‘Fellow’s fainted,’ he muttered, and pushed him aside with his boot. Then he lifted his fist and beat on the timbers. ‘Hoi! It’s me, Sir Richard de Welles. You all right in there? Eh? Speak up, man? Are you all right, I say?’

There was a muttered response, and Sir Richard glanced around. ‘Open up. There’s no danger for a while.’

He heard a thud or two as the heavy bolts were pulled aside, and then the door opened and he slipped inside. ‘Lock it again,’ he ordered. ‘How’s Sir Edward?’

The three men at the door gazed at him uncomprehendingly and he grunted to himself before striding off to see for himself.

Sir Edward of Caernarfon had heard the noise of battle from the first, and now he stood in his chamber with a feeling of panic. Sir Ralph was with him, and Gilbert, and the two stood resolutely at his side.

There was a loud rapping at the door, and he felt his heart leap into his throat, but then he heard the welcome bellow of Sir Richard. ‘Sir Edward, you all right in there?’

‘Yes,’ he cried. ‘Sir Richard, what is happening?’

‘A force come to break into the castle,’ Sir Richard shouted. ‘Don’t know why.’

Sir Edward felt a chill at those words. Sir Richard no fool, was reminding him that there was no guarantee that this attack was destined to save him. It could be for another reason entirely – to kill him. It was certainly not past Sir Roger Mortimer to arrange for his death by sending men to sack the castle. He would not care about the loss of life that ensued.

‘What should I do?’

‘Stay where you are,’ Sir Richard said. ‘With luck we’ll hold ’em off.’

When Sir Richard had finished speaking, he went to a window that gave a view of the courtyard, and the scene that met his eyes was a shock. The main gates were wide, and there was a rabble of men outside, some on horseback, milling about. He heard a crashing thunder, and knew that already some men were attacking the door to the keep. With all the masons’ tools, he knew it would not take too long before the door gave way.

He scowled at the thought, then strode to a door which led to the spiral staircase in the wall. Climbing quickly for a man of his build, he went to the topmost wall and stared about, trying to assess possible methods of concealment or escape, but could see nothing.

Baldwin, he saw, was still on the battlements. His companions had almost all fallen, and only two survived with him of all the garrison and labourers who had joined him. As he watched, three lunged forward, and Baldwin stepped back, feinted, and stabbed. One of the attackers gave a shrill scream, dropped his sword and clutched his throat.