King's Gold

Men walking about at night were always liable to be slain, for only outlaws wandered the country in darkness. And Dolwyn did not want to be stabbed as he sought Ham.

He would find out what this creaking was, but then settle and have a sleep.

The crackle of twigs made Ham half-open his eyes for a moment, but the evening was chill, and although he was usually a light sleeper, tonight, after so many long journeys, he was too weary to get up and investigate. Besides, as he told himself, the sound was probably just the horse moving. He often raised one hoof, then set it down again, crunching the twigs beneath the shoe.

Another crackle. Then another.

The brute must be unsettled to keep shifting so. As he listened, caught in the twilight world between wakefulness and dreaming, it occurred to Ham that the noise was regular; it could be someone moving stealthily through the darkness, attempting to approach without alerting a dozing carter.

That last crunch was close, he thought. He opened his eyes and sat up, blearily staring about him, and saw the . . .

‘Hey!’ he called as he took in the scene: someone was at his cart. And then . . . he felt the blow on his head. ‘What are you doing?’ he demanded angrily, and would have climbed to his feet, were it not for the strange ponderousness of his legs. He rolled slightly, and felt the second blow strike, and this time he was stunned, falling back.

‘No!’ he said quietly, looking up. ‘Please, I-’

All he could see was that hideous axe, dripping with blood, and suddenly he realised that he was about to die. This was no dream, no mare sent to terrify, but the solid, terrible truth. His death was here.

He tried to open his mouth to plead, but there was no strength in his muscles or his voice. He tried to crawl away, but only succeeded in exposing his pate once more, and the axe slammed into the top of his skull, hammering his face into the twigs and dirt of the ground. He felt the teeth of his upper jaw snap on a pebble, the agony at the back of his jawbone as both hinges dislocated with the force of the blow, then the ripping horror of his skull’s bones as they opened out, exposing his brain to the cool night air – but that was all.

His soul was a shiver on the breeze as it left his body and drifted away.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Wednesday, Feast of the Annunciation

Exeter

The baby was crying again.

Every time Simon heard that sound, it pulled at his heart. It was so like the cry of his firstborn son, little Peterkin.

The baby boy had been a delight to Simon and his wife when he was born. Small but sturdy, he had been utterly different from their daughter Edith. She was tall, slim and fair, whereas both Simon and his wife Margaret felt sure that Peterkin would be short and dark.

Their dreams ended in disaster when Peterkin was struck down with a fever, and gradually over three days his crying became weaker and weaker as he succumbed. The little fellow’s death had profoundly affected Simon and Margaret, but it was Simon who felt the guilt, because by the end of the third day, he was desperate for the sound to end. It tore at his nerves to hear it, and when the noise ceased he felt a kind of horrible relief.

When their second son was born, it seemed only natural to name him Peter as well. But Simon always quailed at the sound of a child’s crying since it brought Peterkin’s death home to him once again.

This time, though, the crying was the natural demand of a child for his mother and milk. Incredible to think that this was his own grandchild.

Simon passed the little bundle to his daughter, and watched with pride as she untied the laces at the front of her chemise, releasing a breast for the baby.

‘He’s a good pair of lungs,’ Simon observed.

‘Henry is a strong little boy, aren’t you?’ Edith cooed. ‘Father! Get that look off your face.’

‘What look?’ he protested.

‘The one that makes you look like a lapdog staring at his mistress.’

‘Well, I’m happy,’ he objected. ‘How do you expect me to look?’

‘Are you going to stay at home now? Mother was very distressed about your absences last year.’

‘I know, but there was nothing I could do.’ Simon sighed. ‘Now that the kingdom is calm again, there is no more need for me to worry. I am just a farmer, whatever the great lords may think.’

‘You’re more than that, Father,’ Edith protested. ‘You were the Abbot of Tavistock’s man for years.’

‘But the good Abbot has been taken from us.’ Simon shrugged. ‘I know little about what happens at Tavistock now, and care less. I will not risk my family again by thrusting myself into politics. Not that I meant to before,’ he added.

There was a loud knock at the door, and Edith called to her maid, Jane, to go and answer it. Before long the maid was back, but before she could open her mouth, Simon grinned. ‘Bring him in.’

‘How did . . .?’