King's Gold

He drew his sword, the blade’s point unwavering, and allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction: they could take his crown, his throne, his realm, but they would not make him cower like a dog.

There was a bellow outside his door, and he stepped away as the latch was opened. Three men rushed in, and he lifted his sword, ready to fall upon them, until he realised that the three had no interest in him. Two pulled the door shut behind them and shoved the bolts over to lock it, while the third darted from one window to another, peering out into the court and cursing volubly.

‘What is happening?’ Edward demanded. ‘Is it assassins? Murderers?’

‘Sorry, Your Highness,’ the man at the window responded. He was still staring down at the inner ward. ‘There’s an attack on the castle.’

‘To kill me?’ Edward said.

‘What?’

And at the sight of his surprise, Edward felt his breath catch at the sudden realisation: the men attacking intended to rescue him! The man with the Bardi letter was not alone!

More shouting. There was a steady metallic clattering, then a rattle and hiss, and Edward glanced at the open windows. Arrows flew through the air, and he narrowed his eyes. Some of the men must have got into the castle, then, but having gained that inner space, they would find every door closed and barred, against them. They would be trapped.

A roared command, to ‘Fall back! To the gates!’ and Edward knew that the attempt to save him was doomed. Stumbling slightly, he made his way over to a seat at the window, from where he could see out.

There were four bodies lying in the court. Two were moving; one appeared to be trying to crawl to the gate, but then a guard hurried from a doorway with an axe, and hacked at his head until he was still.

Edward shuddered. To have gone from the conviction that he was in immediate danger, to the belief that someone was attempting his rescue, had left him drained. He did not acknowledge the men as they unbolted the door and left, allowing a page to enter. As the lad wandered about lighting candles, seeing to the fire and setting out the table for a small supper, Edward sat staring out.

But now he was not full of resentment.

He had rediscovered hope.

Dolwyn stood frozen to the spot as the last of the riders hurtled off into the distance. He was transfixed with horror, since from a simple situation in which he had anticipated being able to arrange the release of Sir Edward, he now felt as though he had been propelled into a nightmare.

Who in God’s name were those fools? Had they no brains? No one without at least two hundred men could hope to storm a castle like Kenilworth. No, make that two thousand. And these congeons¹⁸ had tried it with ten, perhaps twelve.

He wanted to roar his rage at the moon and vent some of the frustration he felt, as he realised that there was no possibility now that he could free Sir Edward of Caernarfon. The King would be secured tighter than a tick, and even with all his cleverness, Dolwyn would not be able to get close to him.

‘Aw, shite,’ he said with feeling.

Second Tuesday before the Feast of the Annunciation

Caerphilly

Senchet Garcie stood beyond the drawbridge at Caerphilly and drew in a deep breath. ‘It smells better out here, don’t you agree?’

‘Nah, it’s not that much different,’ Harry le Cur said grimly. ‘Inside there it smelled of shit and piss, and out here it’s the same.’

Senchet looked from his friend to the men all around. ‘So long as nobody tests his sword on me, I will persist in being happy.’

‘Aye, well,’ Harry said quietly. He too eyed the men about the castle. After a long siege, surrender was a dangerous time. ‘Hold! Here’s our welcoming party.’

It was impossible to be sad today, Senchet thought: they were out of the castle. There was a certain amount of tension in the air, in case the promises of safety had been lies, but he doubted it. They were being released with honour, and for that he was grateful. He would make a donation to a church . . . when he had some money.

The capitulation had taken an age to negotiate. All were to be freed without surrendering their weapons and had been promised full pardons. Even Hugh III, the son of Hugh le Despenser, was assured of his freedom.

Hugh III was bearing up well. His father and grandfather had both died hanged, drawn and quartered, and at only eighteen or nineteen years, Hugh III had shown courage that men double his age lacked.

The castle’s guards had held out, honourably defending the King’s last castle, as they had been commanded. Initially they had clung to the hope that relief would come, until news came of the execution of Sir Hugh le Despenser and the King’s abdication. After that, they held on in order to secure the best terms. And so they had.

Senchet scratched behind his ear where a flea had bitten. ‘No, the air out here definitely tastes better, my friend. Here, my soul feels free again.’