King's Gold

It was one of the easiest ways to kill a man. A sword thrust in quickly would meet little resistance as it pierced the lungs, filling them with blood so the victim drowned; if fortunate, the blade might also strike the heart and stop it. A fast death, and a kind one.

Baldwin was wide awake in an instant. He was in a field near Paris, and the men standing about him were all men-at-arms for the French King. The sword blade was being pressed gently into his flesh, but for some reason it wouldn’t penetrate . . . He reached through the fog of sleep to find he was not in France but in his own bed, in Furnshill – and the hideous wet weapon was Wolf’s nose.

‘Get off, you stupid brute!’ he exclaimed, bringing his arm down to cover the soggy patch where the dog had nudged him. ‘Go and bother Edgar or Wat – they should feed you.’

He kissed Jeanne’s neck and rose from his bed. For all his disgust at being woken in such a manner, he was pleased to be up and about. The weather looked fine and dry as he pulled on a chemise and pair of hosen before taking up his new sword and walking down the stairs and out to the grassy area before his house.

While a Templar, he had learned the importance of weapon training and keeping fit. One of the keys to the Order’s fighting brilliance was the training that all the knights and sergeants underwent. Rather than being a loose accumulation of men gathered together for a fight in which few had any interest other than serving their liege lords, the Order provided a force of men who were used to fighting together in a compact unit, each seeing to the defence of the others, riding in tight formation, wheeling on the command, galloping in unison, and using specific martial skills that had proven themselves over time. The Templars were unbeatable under most conditions because of this emphasis on preparation.

Drawing the sword, Baldwin stood with his legs apart. And then began the mock-battle which he underwent every day. It was a series of simple routines, designed to test every muscle in his upper body, reminding him of all the possible attacks, and how to block, parry or avoid each. It was as much a part of him as his beard, this daily ritual, and soon he could feel the blood coursing faster through his veins.

However, today there was a problem which affected his movements and a strange dullness in his right ear, put his balance off: it reminded him of when he had been swimming, and occasionally water would enter his ear and remain there until he tipped his head to the side, when he would find his hearing restored. But today, although he pressed his little finger into the hole and tried to scrape out whatever might be causing the blockage, nothing could move it.

He shook his head and determined to continue with his training. When he’d finished, he went back to the house, feeling disquieted.

‘You look as though something is unsettling you, sir,’ his servant of almost thirty years observed. Edgar was a tall man, suave and elegant, and when the mood took him, as lethal as a viper.

‘It’s my ear. I can barely hear,’ Baldwin said pensively. ‘I feel as if I have gone deaf overnight.’

‘Perhaps you have, sir.’

‘Why should I suddenly lose my hearing?’ Baldwin scoffed. ‘There is no reason for it.’

‘How often did you fight in the lists? In how many battles did you get belaboured about the head with a sword or mace? The ringing of an axe on a helmet could deaden your hearing.’

‘But no one has hit me in recent years,’ Baldwin pointed out. ‘No, it must just be something stuck in there.’

Edgar agreed to investigate for him, and spent some while with a candle held dangerously close to Baldwin’s ear, peering into it, but when the knight heard the crackle of hair singeing, he quickly decided to halt that form of enquiry.

‘When do you leave, Sir Baldwin?’ Edgar asked.

‘As soon as I may,’ Baldwin replied. ‘The old King will not wish to have matters delayed any longer than necessary, in case they choose to move him without us there.’

‘Would they dare? If he has expressed a desire to have you with him . . .’

‘They do not treat him with any respect,’ Baldwin said shortly. ‘And there is an urgency now because of the attack on the castle. Mortimer will be terrified that the next attack might succeed.’

‘It is a terrible place, Kenilworth Castle,’ Edgar mused. ‘I’m astonished that a raid managed to storm it.’

‘I doubt they reached far inside the place,’ Baldwin said. ‘From what I have heard, the party broke into the main gate, but did not succeed in getting further. No, that is not what concerns me. It is the idea of taking the King from Kenilworth to Berkeley. On that long road, it would be a great deal easier for a group of men to break through a circle of guards and get to him.’

‘And then what?’