King's Gold

‘I am perfectly well now,’ she told him. ‘Now I know that Edith and Henry are fine – well, that eases my mind. As it should yours, too. You go and help Sir Richard. You don’t want to refuse to obey the new King, do you?’

‘This is truly a request from the new King?’

‘Yes.’ Sir Richard lowered his voice. ‘I think he suspects that his father could be in danger, were the party sent to guard him to be chosen by another. There are many who might seek to have Sir Edward permanently removed, if you see what I mean.’

‘Yes, I do.’ Simon stared at the floor, thinking it all through. Then he made his decision. ‘Very well. I’d best join you. Hugh, you will come with me. Since you’ve developed a taste for travelling, even when you’ve been told to stay at the house, you can join us on the ride to Kenilworth.’

Hugh said nothing. His dark glower spoke for him.

Morrow of the Feast of the Annunciation

Exeter

The next morning was one of those perfect March days in which the world appears a better, kinder place. Margaret woke in the chamber below her daughter’s solar to the sound of her grandchild demanding milk, beside a gently snoring Simon, and smiled at his relaxed face.

It was good to see him so at ease. In the last year he had been kept away from their home, and the vile Sir Hugh le Despenser had given both Simon and Margaret great heartache. He had cost them their new home in Lydford, he had almost cost them their daughter, and all for the sake of his ambitions.

When she thought of how close Simon had come to breaking down in Bristol, she shuddered. To have seen her strong, reliable husband nearly in tears, was shocking. She remembered his face as he stammered, his drawn features, his sudden, apparent old age. At the time it had scared her.

No longer. From the unglazed window she could hear birds singing merrily. The sunlight was already bright, and when she got up and walked to the window, she could see the sky was perfectly clear.

Simon snored again as she pulled on a tunic. She went to kiss him, and smelled the sour odour of stale wine. He and Sir Richard had sealed their compact last night when Simon finally gave in and agreed to join the knight. It was always an error, she knew, for Simon to drink with Sir Richard. The man had a stomach that might have been constructed by an armourer.

The baby was giving that sobbing cry that always sounded to her as though he was demanding ‘Mi-i-i-ilk’ over and over again. It had been a call she had adored with her own babes, because it meant she was needed. Those moments were all too fleeting.

Children grew so swiftly. It seemed only weeks since Edith was a gangly little girl of seven or eight, and yet here she was now, a woman of seventeen, with a husband and her own child. The time flew past, and before a woman knew it, her children were old enough to lead their own lives, and the task of the mother was done.

Margaret knew that at her age many other mothers would be dead already, many of them in childbirth. At almost thirty-six, she too could still be killed by another baby, but she considered the likelihood with equanimity. There was no point in becoming disturbed by death. All a woman could do was work for her family and place her faith in God.

Leaving the solar, she walked through to the parlour, and found a grim-faced Sir Richard poking the fire.

He looked up. ‘Morning, mistress. That wench is no good at lighting a fire. When I was a lad, it was the first thing you were taught: how to make a fire so your lord could have a hot drink. Now, the youngsters seem to think that all they need do is lay a few twigs and show them a spark, and the fire will take hold, just like that. Hah!’

‘How is your head?’

‘Me head?’ He looked up with such obvious bafflement that she had to laugh.

‘My husband is snoring still, and I doubt not that when he wakes he will be like a bear at the baiting. How much did you drink?’

Sir Richard blinked and set his head to one side as he calculated. ‘Oh, I don’t know . . . Perhaps a pair of quarts of wine, but then the maid told us that supplies were low and begged us to try her ale. It was good, too,’ he added reflectively. ‘I could do with some of that now. Oh, and there was some cider. A little harsh, that was. I needed another ale to take away the taste.’

‘You shared all that?’

‘Shared?’ he repeated, an expression of bemusement on his face. ‘No: each, me dear.’

She eyed him with renewed respect. For a man to drink so much and be able to wake the following morning was, she felt, rather admirable.

‘You needn’t worry about your husband, Madame Puttock,’ he said, and she was about to protest that she was not concerned, merely deciding to leave him to sleep off his hangover, when Sir Richard nodded seriously and continued, ‘I’ll look after him.’