King's Gold

That fight had been so sharp and swift, it took him a moment to comprehend that Paul was injured. Through the part-opened gates, he had seen the men falling, and realised his friend must be badly wounded in the same instant as he saw that face in the court: Sir Jevan de Bromfield.

It was enough. He slashed at his assailant, grabbed Paul’s bridle, and fled.

He would never forget that ride. They had pelted along through the bushes, and Paul had seemed all right at first. Until they stopped.

It was astonishing he made it so far. The blade had cut deep, not through the vein or artery at the side – that would have killed him in moments – but opening his gullet. When he attempted to speak, no sound came. A bloom of crimson spread from his neck down the front of his chemise, and his eyes were desperate, like those of a dog gripped by a bear.

Later, when John could still his sobbing for his friend of so many years, he swore that he would take the body to a place where Paul could be buried decently, with a priest to look over his soul.

Those who had survived would have to meet to discuss what to do, now that they had failed so magnificently in rescuing the King.

Kenilworth

Sir Edward of Caernarfon stared into the yard below. There was little to be seen now of the carnage that had reigned last night. Only black stains on the ground, where flies squatted. As a dog wandered past, the stain rose, leaving behind the rust-coloured mark of dried blood, but then the flies returned, gorging themselves on a man’s death.

The light had faded quickly behind the castle walls last night, but he had seen the bodies. Men dragged the dead to the wall, where they were left side-by-side. While he watched, two dogs trotted over, one to urinate, the other to lick and nudge, and he had wondered whether the latter was trying to waken its master, or whether it was testing the quality of the meat.

Sitting in a shaft of sunlight by the window with a goblet of wine, he was aware of a deep thrilling in his soul. He would soon be free. His subjects were coming to their senses. They knew they must honour their King: they had seen the error of their ways. Before long, Sir Roger Mortimer would be in chains in the Tower, and then he would die.

Isabella, his wife, who had committed adultery, would never know power again. It was incomprehensible how she could have rebelled against him – her husband, her lord, her King. Did she hate him?

She was a child when they married in the Year of Our Lord 1308, and he had been as kind to her as a brother to his sister. Happy days. But four years later his closest friend, Piers Gaveston, was murdered by a rabble of embittered barons jealous of their friendship. They slew Piers, and Edward was distraught. It was sweet Isabella who helped him then. He found in his Queen a woman of startling intelligence and compassion. In his hour of need, he discovered that this beautiful, talented, sympathetic woman understood his realm, his people, and him.

Strange to think that now, fifteen years later, she was flaunting her affair with his most deplored traitor.

She would be banished while he demanded a Papal Order annulling their marriage. She had made a cuckold of him, and betrayed his realm, and he could never forget or forgive. Just as he would not forget those who had joined in her invasion. All would pay.

Such were the satisfying reflections that engaged him as he sat in the window. When there came a knock at the door and his guard walked in, he could even smile thinly.

‘Sir Edward, I’m glad to see you well,’ Gilbert le Sadler said.

‘I am very safe. You guard me well,’ Edward said sarcastically. He raised his empty goblet, and his steward hurried to fill it for him. This man, Harold, was a good fellow. Not so attentive as his old steward, who had been with Edward for almost twelve years until he was cut down on the day Edward had been captured. One of so many who had died in his defence. Another pointless death.

Gilbert paid his words no heed. His brown eyes were strained as he studied his charge. ‘Sire, this was no group of silly men who hoped to make you free of this place. They were thoughtful fellows who knew what they were about. This time they failed, but next . . .’

‘So you are concerned that I could be released?’ Edward said, venom dripping from each word. ‘No doubt that is why you look so fearful. I would say you were frit, if I were to judge. Or is it fear for your own skin? You should be afraid, gaoler. You hold your King against his will.’

‘Some while ago I received a message from Sir Roger Mortimer-’

‘Do not speak that name in my presence!’ Edward hissed. ‘I will not hear it.’

‘However, I must tell you the import of his message.’

Edward averted his face as Gilbert haltingly continued. ‘I was warned, you see, that if at any time I felt you weren’t safe, I should remove you,’ Gilbert said. He chewed at his inner cheek. ‘After the attack last evening, I think that time has come.’

‘What do you mean?’