King's Gold

Hugh made a small pile of twigs in readiness, then held a hand over the ashes of the night’s fire in the hearth. There was some heat in one corner, and when he blew gently on it, he saw a faint glimmer, but when he set a twig in it there was not enough heat to make it smoke.

Instead he took a little charred cloth and set it on his lap, preparing flint and steel, and then striking down sharply with the flint. The spark was so tiny, it might have been a mote of dust. He struck again, then four more times rapidly, until he saw the gleam of red on the black material.

Quickly picking it up, he blew to make it glow strongly and surrounded it with some wisps of old man’s beard and some fine twigs and birch bark. Soon smoke was rising, and he carefully set it down over the hottest part of the ashes, placing the handful of twigs overtop, and blowing soft but steady into it. There was a flicker of flame and he nodded, satisfied.

Hugh had been born not far from Drewsteignton, on a farm that was noted for its sheep. There, as a boy, he had grown wild with the animals. He had cared for few people, only his sheep and his dog, and it was not until Simon Puttock took him on that he discovered the pleasure of companionship. He had never regretted joining with Master Simon, although he wished that his own marriage has lasted longer. His wife and child had died in a fire, and many had been the times he had wished that he had died with them.

His own son would never have grown so bone idle as this, that much he knew.

There was a muttered curse, and the fellow appeared in the doorway, arms filled.

He wasn’t so bad, really, Hugh reminded himself. The lad had grown up in the port, son of a woman who gave herself in exchange for ale or wine. He had never known his father. The man was just one in a succession of sailors who had been entertained by his mother. It would have been a miracle for him to turn out any better. Most lads like him were dead before they were thirteen, and if not, they became sailors themselves. Fishermen or warriors for the King, it made little difference. Being employed by Simon had probably saved young Rob’s life.

‘Get the fire going, lad,’ Hugh said, having blown the little sparks into life, and rising from his knees, grunting to himself, he lumbered from the room.

This was his sanctuary, the small buttery at the farther side of the screens passage, in which the household’s ale and wine was stored. It was only a small chamber, but for Hugh, who had grown up without walls while he lived on the moors, it was as good as any man’s grand hall. He sat on a stool and drew a quart of ale into a leather jug, drinking deeply.

He was still there when he heard the rattle of hooves outside.

Near Mickleton

Dolwyn woke in the early light, head aching, bones sore and rubbed, and cursed the sun. Another hour of sleep would not have hurt him.

All the way here, he had hurried, desperate to catch up with Ham. He was used to it. In his time he’d been forced to hurry to battles, as well as away from them afterwards. He had bolted from homes when he learned that a posse sought him, he had joined posses in search of felons when told to, he had ridden at speed with the King’s messages from York to London and back. Once he had run from a woman’s husband, leaving his hosen, belt and knife behind somewhere on the bitch’s floor in the dark.

And in all those years he had never flagged, whether he was quarry or hunter.

He knew Willersey. Some years ago he had been to Gloucester, then was sent to Warwick, and on the way he passed through Broadway and Willersey. They had struck him then as ideal places for a man like himself. He could have taken the vills with very few men, and the rich land all about there would have fed and watered a goodly-sized force. Perhaps it was close to time for him to think again about such things. If he didn’t manage to free Edward of Caernarfon, he would have to think about another opportunity; perhaps he could raise a force in order to free him.

First, though, he wanted food, followed by revenge – the chance to silence a man who had seen him too close to the castle where Edward was being held. He also wanted that horse and cart.

He just wished his head didn’t hurt so much where that bastard had hit him.

Once up, his blanket rolled, he returned to the lane where the wide-set wheel-tracks stood out so strongly.

‘Right, you son of a pox-ridden whore!’ he muttered, and set off again, his bruised skull pounding with every step.

West Sandford

At the door, Hugh heard a familiar voice bellowing. It was almost enough to make him spill his ale. He walked to the hall, where the boy Rob was kneeling and blowing furiously in an attempt to keep the fire going, then along the screens passage to the open front door.

‘Sir Richard,’ he said.