King's Gold

. . . And then time moved on and she saw the blood, the axe – still embedded – and then she was on her knees and there was a roaring sound in her ears as she reached out to her father to try to console him . . . and then the noise reached a peak and was stilled, as the girl toppled forwards and knew no more.

Tavern two miles west of Broadway

John of Shulton strode into the ale-house with every bone in his body telling him that it was likely to be a trap. Even the scab of his wound was burning as though in warning.

He had hated deserting Paul’s body. Paul and he had been together from the days when they had joined Despenser’s household. At least he had managed to find a priest. The man took his money and swore that Paul would receive a full Christian burial. It was enough for John.

The ale-house had one long chamber. A fire smouldered in the hearth in the middle of the room, and over to the far right was a little alcove in which a man stood and served cider from a barrel. About the fire was a big group of men huddled together. He saw a flash of metal, and felt his hackles rise, then a hood was cast back and relief swamped him as he recognised Stephen Dunheved, beside him Frere Thomas.

He nodded to the other men as he approached: William, son of William Aylmer, John Boteler, Sir Edmund Gascelin, and more – all men who had sworn to free the King.

‘Where is Paul?’ Frere Thomas asked.

‘Dead. I did all I . . . I did all I could,’ John said. He saw that gaping wound, the blood . . . and then he saw Sir Jevan’s face again. It sent a ripple of hatred through his body.

‘I am truly sorry,’ Thomas said softly. ‘I shall pray for him. It was a terrible slaughter in that castle.’

‘It was a disaster,’ Stephen corrected. ‘We were so close, but the failure was mine. All mine!’

‘Brother, we’ve been through this before,’ Thomas said.

‘And I’ll go over it all many times again, I expect. It was my fault: I was late. If only I had reached the castle sooner, the weapons would have been there and ready.’

John dragged up a stool and seated himself. ‘Perhaps. And perhaps not. We’ll never know.’

Stephen nodded, staring at the ground. ‘What can we do?’

Thomas leaned forward and slapped his face with his open hand, hissing, ‘Bestir yourself! This is not some game in which we can afford ourselves the luxury of defeat. We have a duty to complete our work!’

Stephen looked at his brother, then at the others, and the despair in his eyes was, to John, almost as shocking as Paul’s death. It was unlike Stephen Dunheved to admit to failure.

‘Stephen,’ he said firmly. ‘If you cannot help, it would be better that you leave now.’

‘You think I am a broken man?’

‘Sweet Mother of God!’ John cried, and leaned so close he could feel Stephen’s breath on his face. ‘We need resolution and determination, man! It’s not your courage I doubt, it’s your conviction. Do you have faith in yourself

‘You doubt me?’ Stephen growled. ‘When it was I who planned Kenilworth, I who determined how to free Sir Edward?’

‘He needs us to be strong, Stephen. Not flinching at shadows.’

‘I will not flinch.’

‘Good.’ Thomas leaned back. ‘Are we satisfied? My brother and I will perform our part.’

John was content with Stephen’s resolve, but now he glanced about him. ‘We need more men. Look at us – we are hardly enough to rob a child of a toy.’

‘We are dedicated,’ Sir Edmund said loftily.

‘Yes, but that doesn’t mean we can survive against a hundred men at once. Kenilworth will not be easy to break into a second time – not without surprise on our side,’ John pointed out.

‘This is true.’ Thomas was downcast, his voice quieter.

John set his jaw. ‘Come, fellows. Perhaps we should all take our leave and agree to meet again when we are likely to have more-’

He was cut off by Sir Edmund, who stared into the fire and prodded the logs with his dagger as he said, ‘According to rumour about Gloucester, Lord Thomas of Berkeley is gathering a force to fetch the King.’

‘You think he’ll have the King taken from Kenilworth?’ Thomas said.

‘I’ve heard Sir Roger Mortimer is in Wales, close to Berkeley. If you were he, would you want King Edward held at Kenilworth by your rival or held under the control of your own son-in-law?’

‘How quickly could we gather our forces?’ Stephen Dunheved asked his brother.

‘They are scattered, but we could bring fifty or more together,’ Thomas said, frowning. ‘It would not be enough.’

‘No,’ Sir Edmund said. ‘If we make an assault on Lord Thomas’s party, the King would be in danger.’

‘You think they’d kill him?’ Stephen said. He gave a short laugh. ‘Do you think they’d dare?’

Sir Edmund looked at him coolly. ‘If I held a hostage, and was attacked, I would kill the hostage. Certainly, Lord Thomas would kill the King and any companions with him as a matter of necessity. So if we don’t have enough men to ensure success, we should hold back until we do.’

‘Until they’re in Berkeley, you mean?’ Stephen spat. ‘Another castle? No, I say we attack while they are on the road.’