King's Gold

‘May a man not offer help to a maid? Especially when she’s-’

‘If you want a whore, look elsewhere.’

‘No, maid, really, I-’

‘Master,’ she sneered, ‘don’t “maid” me. If you followed me from the castle, you’ll know I work there. I get all sorts of men offering me their “support”. I have no need of help of that sort.’

‘I wanted to offer you money for something else.’

She turned eyes on him in which the doubt was driven out by pure suspicion.

‘Mistress, all I ask is that you listen to me. Let me buy you a pot of wine and explain.’

And she had listened, and agreed. He wrote the note on a strip of parchment and gave it to her, explaining that the attempt to free Edward had made matters more difficult, that he would return, and that Edward must remain patient.

The castle had been in uproar. He had heard chatter on the streets that there were fewer than thirty men in the attack. Fools! And now the garrison was running around like a cat with a flaming torch tied to its tail: eyeing anyone from the town with suspicion, sending men into the town to search for any survivors, scurrying about the countryside to find two men on horseback – one a Dominican, in Christ’s name!

All they had achieved was to force Dolwyn to leave the town and seek anonymity on the road. He couldn’t remain here in the locality and risk having to answer unwelcome questions. It was too likely that he would be uncovered as the man who had been in the castle the day before the attack. Instead he found a grassy spot in the bend of the river, and spent his morning dozing, soaking up what sun there was.

Later he walked to meet the woman again, at a quiet stable which had an ale-house next door, and there the laundress told him the news: they were to take the King to Berkeley Castle, to instal him in a cell there from which it would be more difficult to release him.

It was enough to make a man curse. What had been a moderately easy task, to rescue Edward from Kenilworth, had now become impossible. Where was Berkeley anyway? The laundress had said it was somewhere to the south and west, and that the King would be taken there before long.

So here he was, walking along a grotty little lane in the middle of the day without any idea where he was going, except that he was heading south and west.

The main question in his mind was: if he made his way there, what could he achieve? He was one man. It would make more sense to try to spring Edward of Caernarfon from the party escorting him to the castle, than to dream up a plan to help him escape from Berkeley. That would be suicidal.

In the distance he saw a cart, and called out: ‘Hoi! You there!’

The carter gave him an unfriendly look. Dolwyn said politely, ‘Friend, would you have space to help a weary traveller rest his feet for a mile or so?’

‘Can’t do that,’ the carter said. He was a man of about Dolwyn’s age, with brown hair kept long. His eyes were dark, and they kept moving fretfully over the road, the fields, and Dolwyn himself.

‘Only a short ride, master,’ Dolwyn wheedled. ‘I’ve walked a long way.’

‘Where from?’

‘The castle at Kenilworth. It’s a lovely place, isn’t it?’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘I thought you must have come from that way, master, that’s all,’ Dolwyn said mildly. He smiled, and after a moment or two, the carter tried to return it, but his look was so fearful that it turned his face into a ghastly mask.

‘I have passed by the town, yes,’ he said.

Dolwyn nodded. ‘I am sure you have. It’s a long way from there, though. You must have rested for a day or two.’

‘Eh?’

‘There’s straw on top of the cart. I guess you had it hidden in a barn somewhere to have thrown all that hay over it.’

‘Why’d I do that?’

‘Anyone who’s been hiding would know the signs,’ Dolwyn said shortly.

The carter glared at him for a moment, and then Dolwyn drew his knife, and spoke quietly and calmly. ‘I know what you were doing, carter: you were supporting those boys at the castle, weren’t you? Your life’s worth nothing, because if the new King heard that you tried to free his father so he could take back his throne, I think he would have your ballocks for soup. And if he didn’t, Sir Roger Mortimer would. So how about we forget all the shite and agree that you’ll give me a ride. That’s all I ask. A ride.’

Ham stared at him, terrified, then nodded.

And that was the beginning of Ham’s nightmare.

Thursday before the Feast of the Annunciation

Willersey

Father Luke’s legs ached abominably as he limped into the village again after his long march. The way had not been too hard, but it had been quite hilly, as was normal in these parts.