King's Gold

‘There’s a wind, true,’ Harry grunted, but as he spoke his attention was drawn to the rattle and thump of wagons making their way towards them. ‘What are they for?’ he asked suspiciously.

Senchet gave a chuckle. ‘The first thing any attacker would think of, naturally. They’re here to take any loot.’

Harry gave a relieved sigh. ‘To grab the King’s gold, then.’

‘And Sir Hugh le Despenser’s, eh?’

‘You can be assured of that, Senchet.’

‘All those barrels. Five hundred pounds in each of ’em.’

‘Aye,’ Harry said. They had both seen the rows of barrels in the undercroft. It was a sight to gladden a man’s heart.

‘Except the last one. Despenser’s contained a thousand pounds,’ Senchet recalled with a sigh. ‘Ah! It is sad to be a poor man, my friend. To think of that vast wealth in there. So desirable, so beautiful – and so far from us!’ He held his fingers to his mouth, kissing them with a look of such mournful longing that Harry laughed despite himself.

‘Senchet, such riches aren’t for the likes of you and me. We have to seek out a new lord and plead for his largesse.’

‘You have any thoughts about this new lord?’

‘There are some who may welcome us,’ Harry said. He took in the grey landscape about them. ‘They’re all a long way from here, though.’

‘If we had but a small part of the money from the barrels, travel would be easier,’ Senchet noted.

‘And if we had wings, we could fly.’

‘So we must walk.’

‘Yes. And hope to find a new master,’ Harry said.

He was not optimistic.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Near Kenilworth

Frere Thomas Dunheved shivered at the sound of thundering hooves approaching. He knew with a certainty that, were he to be captured, his life would not be worth a penny. They would kill him – once they had garnered all the information he held.

On hearing the horses, he had flung himself down into a thicket of brambles and holly, the only cover that lay about here. His black gown was all besmottered with mud, his hands, and no doubt his face, were smeared with it too, and he had a thorn in his thumb.

He could have sworn aloud at the disaster. All that planning and effort, gone to waste. God had not aided them, and Frere Thomas was once more on the run from the enemies of the true King.

How different things had been, once! The House of the Black Friars in London seemed a lifetime ago, a thousand leagues away. Was it truly only six months since his urgent flight with the King from London? It was difficult to believe.

But there were more pressing concerns. Where was Stephen? His older brother had pelted through the gate with him, the two of them thrilling with the sheer lunatic excitement while bolts and arrows fell all about them. Two others from their gang made it. The others . . . well, all perished in the storm of clothyard arrows and crossbow quarrels in that deadly ward.

Once outside, their predicament had grown clear. There were too many men in the castle, too much open land in front of it, and too much damned water in the moat, apart from anything else. They had been lucky that Stephen’s horse was near to hand, another running wildly, crazed at the smell of blood, the shouting of fighting men. It was the action of a moment to snatch at the reins, leap into the saddle and, bending low over the horse’s neck, ride away as fast as possible.

Stephen had been in front, just, when they pelted over the bridge and causeway, past a goggling priest, and thence to the road. They were delayed by a terrified carter, who stood by his horse, tugging at the rein. Thomas and Stephen had flown past him like hawks past a pigeon, but soon afterwards, they had heard the pursuit.

There was nothing to be done out here in the open lands other than whip, spur, and pray. Stephen was drawing away, but Thomas’s brute was suddenly flagging. Stephen turned and would have stopped, but Thomas waved him on. No point in them both being caught. ‘Ride on!’

He had reached some woods, and there he slipped from his saddle and slapped the horse’s rump. Only then did he see the arrow protruding from the horse’s back, just behind the saddle. It sent a chill down his spine to think how close that had come to ending his life. Only a couple of feet higher, only a tiny additional angle from the archer’s perspective, and it would all have been over.

Then the horses were closer, and fear took hold. Thomas had run off, like a hare before the hounds, darting in and out among the thin tree boughs, hoping to deter any bowmen, but to be truthful, he doubted that they even noticed him. They certainly seemed to think they had better targets. He had heard one man scream in pain, but there was no telling who. Perhaps it was Stephen. He did not know.

He disliked admitting it, but there was no denying that if it were Stephen, it was more important that he, Frere Thomas, had survived. He was the strategist who had God’s approval.