King's Gold

Stephen cursed to himself under his breath, avoiding the eye of the damned priest. Luke had not been overly troublesome on the way here, but he had a habit of pursing his lips every time he heard even a mild curse that was intensely irritating to a man like Stephen. Since they had collected the weapons, he had pursed his lips more and more often, and he had a wild look in his eye; he could be a risk – he could give their plot away. Perhaps he ought to be left here, and not taken on. But the trouble was, Stephen daren’t leave him unguarded, and the mere fact of his presence at the gates would reduce suspicion, surely. That was how his brother had got inside – hopefully. The others were supposed to have infiltrated the castle with the stores over the day, and with luck were in there waiting even now for Stephen and the weapons to arrive.

Until today they had made good time. Damn his stupidity! He’d thought that they would be too early, so it had been his choice to rest a while at that inn, the decision that had left them so late. He had underestimated the amount of time it would take to get here after meeting John and Paul, and that complacency could mean disaster. The others would all be ready, waiting in position. While it would have been hazardous to arrive too early, to be too late could be catastrophic.

He fretted, chewing at his lip. The cart was rolling along at a steady pace, but up ahead there was the castle, a red, square keep with a fearsome glow about it now in the light of the sinking sun, and it was still too far. They wouldn’t make it in time.

Stephen felt the excitement and frustration growing at the same time, anxious that he might make another poor decision. Should he carry on here, hoping to make it in time, or . . .

‘The pox on them!’ he suddenly blurted out. ‘John, Paul, I’m going to ride on and make sure they don’t shut the gates. You stay with the cart!’

He set his face at the castle, then, taking his rein-end, he lashed hard at his beast’s rump while raking at the animal’s flanks with his spurs. Stung into action, the beast jolted, startled, and then sprang forward. Stephen urged it on, kicking and swearing at the brute, but the pony was already gaining speed. At a gallop, his mount bore him past the little cemetery of a chapel, past the fringes of a tiny village, and up to the bridge over the lakes. At the far end of this was the gatehouse to the castle itself, a great building in its own right, with a small tower at either side of the causeway.

It was the most imposing castle he had ever seen. All about it lay the water, an enormous lake of a hundred acres, maybe three quarters of a mile long, with one great loop to the west of the castle and second, smaller one to the south. Attack was all but impossible. The last siege here took nine months, and then it was only illness and starvation that caused the inmates to beg for terms. The best machines in the land could not harm the walls, and no one could mine them, not so close to the lakes. Miners would have drowned.

At the far side of the bridge as he rode onto the timbers, the wood echoing hollowly beneath him, he could see the Norman keep, a massive fortress in its own right built from the reddish stone of the area. It was here to subdue as well as defend, and the square, rugged outline against the sky was fearful.

Two sentries were there at the gates, and they crossed their polearms before he could pass, but he didn’t get the impression that they were serious. ‘I have food,’ he gasped, jerking his thumb behind him to point at the cart. ‘I’m purveyor – special foods for your-’

‘Get in, then. Gate’s to be shut soon,’ one of the men said, and hawked and spat.

‘Will you leave the gates until they arrive, then?’ he asked, and received a noncommittal grunt in response.

‘These your friends?’

There, behind him, he saw John and Paul riding at a trot towards the gate. It was enough to make him grit his teeth. ‘Yes.’

‘They’re bloody late!’

Stephen turned, his hooves clattering over the stone cobbles, and trotted on, reining in a little beyond the gatehouse, peering about him. Here he was in the outer ward, a wide area that narrowed to his left. There before him were soaring walls. Inside them, he knew, lay his target, on the left, at the nearer side of the ward, near the great hall in the rooms he had heard called the White Hall. Out here there were still piles of rubble about the place, and areas of wall which had been extensively patched with new stone, and he was surprised that the castle was still being renovated after the siege. That had been forty or fifty years ago, after all. From the look of the place, the catapults had done their work, even if the castle had held. After nine months, the garrison must have been starving.

A man was striding across the court towards him, a moderately tall fellow with clean-shaven face and military haircut. ‘You have food, the porter said?’