King's Gold

‘That is what I wonder. Were they there to rescue him, as so many reckon? Or were they there to kill him. Mortimer might well like to remove this constitutional embarrassment. When else has there been a King and that King’s father, both alive? The usual route to kingship is for the son to inherit his realm, but this poor father was forced to surrender his crown.’

‘What of it?’

‘Simply this, Edgar,’ Baldwin said with feeling. ‘I do not know the law, but I daresay that it will prove to be a very fine point, as to whether a King who was forced to relinquish his crown can do so. If God installed him and saw him anointed with oil in the manner that He has decreed, which man has the right or authority to gainsay God?’

‘And so?’

‘Sir Roger Mortimer is not a man who likes to have loose threads lying about ready to be picked at,’ Baldwin said. ‘The old King is one such thread, and an impediment to the new King.’

‘So you will go?’

‘I must. I still hold my vow to the King to be in force. I made that oath before God, and I will not be forsworn.’

Edgar nodded. ‘In that case, I will come too.’

‘No, old friend,’ Baldwin smiled. ‘I must have you here to protect Jeanne and the family while I am gone. And in any case, you have your own family to consider.’

‘Sir Baldwin, for one thing my family is safe enough. I remained here against my better judgement when you rode off last year, and a poor show it was. If I had been with you, you would not have been struck down and almost killed.’

‘I doubt whether-’

‘I shall not make the same error again.’

‘What of my wife, Edgar? I need you here to see to her safety.’

‘I think that is unnecessary.’

'I will decide what is needful in my own house,’ Baldwin stated.

His wife’s voice cut across his words as she walked towards him. ‘No, Baldwin. This time it is my choice. And I will not be gainsaid.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Exeter

Margaret Puttock’s prediction was all too accurate, sadly.

Simon came awake very slowly. His eyes were gummy and sore, and when he finally opened them it felt as though sawdust was trapped beneath the lids.

‘Bloody knight,’ he muttered to himself as he sat on the edge of the bed and paused, legs on the floor. After dealing with Sir Richard de Welles over some years, Simon could quickly evaluate the level of his poisoning. This was not so bad as that time in Exeter when he had immediately been forced to spew on waking . . . He winced at the taste of bile in his throat, and got up and walked to the window. On the floor beside it he had placed a little jug of ale the night before. It was soured now, but at least it took away the flavour from his mouth as he gargled and spat out of the window, and then swallowed a good mouthful.

He had first met Sir Richard in Dartmouth, where the man appeared to know everything about the town, pointing out where the best brothels and ale-houses had stood in his youth. The knight had always appeared to be in the most deplorably robust health – completely immune to the aftereffects of excess wine or ale. But for all that Simon would often regret the day they had met, Sir Richard was a truly kind, compassionate man who had, early on in life, married a woman whom he adored, and then been forced to see her die. Perhaps that was why he had such an iron constitution, Simon thought: he had learned to drink heavily on his own after his wife died.

‘How are you, Bailiff?’ Sir Richard asked now, marching into his chamber.

‘Please,’ Simon said with a pained look. He put his hand to where it felt as though his brain might explode, and was glad to see his Meg stand and fetch him a goblet of wine.

At breakfast, Sir Richard picked up a chicken thigh and slurped at the meat, sucking the bones dry and licking at his fingers as he went. He smiled at Simon, who essayed a weakly grin in return, before pulling apart a large slice of bread and shoving it into his mouth, easing its passage down his throat with a gulp of red wine. ‘Not bad, this,’ he said. ‘So, Simon, if you can have a bit of something to break your fast, we’d best be off.’

‘What?’

‘To Kenilworth. We have to get a move on, eh?’

Simon winced and burped carefully. ‘There’s no hurry, is there?’ he said queasily. ‘How about tomorrow?’

‘Hah! So your head is hurting then – eh, Bailiff? No, seriously, old friend, we should be on our way as soon as we can. Our path is a long one, so it’s best we get started now.’

‘But I’m not ready!’

‘You’ll soon be ready when you get some fresh air in your lungs, man. That and some food is all you need.’ The knight smiled with a demon’s amiability.

‘Yes,’ Simon whispered. He didn’t nod. His head hurt too much.

Near Broadway