King's Gold

‘That’s right, Sir Richard de Welles. Good God, man, you look like you swallowed a turd! Where’s your groom, eh? Someone needs to come and take me horse and see to it. Simon indoors, is he? I’ve a throat as parched as a wild dog’s in the Holy Land, and the idea of an ale is very welcome. If there’s a little cheese and bread, that would be good too. Or some cold meat. Anything, really. What, lost your tongue, man?’

‘Sir Richard, my master’s not here.’

Sir Richard de Welles stood with his legs spaced as though preparing to fight, his hands on his belt – a tall man, at least six feet and an inch in height, somewhat heavy in the paunch, and with bright, genial eyes set in an almost perfectly round face. His brow was broad and tall, and his beard was so thick and long it looked much like a gorget. He had a mass of wrinkles on his amiable features, most of which had been carved into his flesh by laughing.

Hugh knew the knight moderately well. Sir Richard had first met Hugh’s master Simon in Dartmouth some three years ago, when his skills as a coroner had helped Simon and Baldwin discover a murderer. Loud, apparently impervious to all types of drink, no matter what the quantity, with a head like an ox and a memory for foul jokes of all forms, he was an example of the sort of rough and crude, but honest and kindly, knight whom Hugh could respect.

Now Hugh frowned, his head low on his shoulders. ‘There’s some cold meat and ale. And bread.’

‘Excellent! Capital! You know, this reminds me of a manor I used to know a long way from here. Up towards Wiltshire,’ the knight said, staring out over the view. A happy smile spread across his features as he stood surveying the little plot of pasture, the field beyond, the small coppice and shaw, and the hill that rose steeply in the distance, thick with old trees. ‘A pleasant little farm, that was. And they brewed some fine ales there. Hah! I hope yours is as good, eh? Where’s the hall, then?’

Hugh called for a groom, cursorily throwing the horse’s reins over a tree’s limb, before hurrying inside.

The house was a simple one: the cross passage was screened from the hall, and two doors on the right led to the buttery and pantry, while beyond was the little dairy. Margaret had persuaded Simon to modernise, and now there was a chimney rising from the hall itself, a recent innovation that did little, to Hugh’s mind, to alleviate the thick smoke that always filled the room.

In fact, he could see Rob still blowing ineffectually at the fire, trying to force a glimmer from it, while Sir Richard strode inside. The knight was peering down at him with a frown on his face, watching intently.

‘GOOD GOD , BOY!’ he bellowed at last. ‘DO YOU HAVE NO IDEA?’ He pushed Rob aside, then went down on all fours, blowing steadily. In only a short time there was a strong crackling noise and Sir Richard sat back on his haunches, studying the burgeoning flames with satisfaction. ‘That’s how you get a fire going, boy! Now, off with you. I need bread, cheese, ale, some scraps of salad if you can find them, and if you have a meat coffin, so much the better. A little pasty always works a wonder on an empty stomach. Oh, and if the ale’s thin, a pint of wine too. I need to keep me strength up. Stop!’

Rob, who had been sulkily making his way to the door, paused and turned to look at the knight.

Sir Richard’s eyes narrowed and he subjected Rob to a short study. ‘You are the boy from Dartmouth, eh? The one the good Keeper of Dartmouth found?’

Rob gave a surly nod.

‘Ah. I had cause to chastise you there, I remember. You didn’t get up in the morning, did you? Don’t make me have to do so again, lad. Go on, be off! And look sharp, too!’

Sir Richard shook his head as the fellow darted into the buttery. ‘Master, that churl deserves the whip more than a number of the felons I see before me in my courts. He needs a firm hand, eh?’

Hugh said nothing. The boy needed discipline, it was true, but Hugh didn’t need help or advice from the knight. He had taught enough dogs to know how to raise animals.

The food arrived shortly, and Sir Richard looked at the wooden platter with an approving eye as he seated himself. Picking up the quart jug of ale that Rob placed at his hand and sniffing it with every sign of pleasure, he raised it to his mouth, closed his eyes, and sank a pint in three immense gulps. In a few more moments, the second pint was gone and the knight gave a belch of happiness as he passed the empty container back to Rob. ‘Refill it, boy.’

He then pulled a knife from his belt and began to cut his meats, shoving each piece into his mouth with gusto. Only when the bread was gone, and his trencher clear of all meats and leaves, did he lean back and take up the third quart of ale, a beatific smile spreading over his face.

‘There now, that feels much better,’ he said. ‘Where’s your master, Hugh? Did you say he was away? What about his wife, eh?’

‘They’re at Exeter. Seeing their daughter and grandson,’ Hugh said.