King's Gold

John stopped his horse as soon as he was convinced he had lost his pursuers. The woods here were dangerous to ride in at speed. After spotting Sir Jevan de Bromfield, he had pelted through the trees at full gallop, bent so low over his mount’s neck that the saddle crupper had stuck in his belly. Behind him he knew that the other three were not gaining, but neither were they slackening. It was only when he saw ahead a low bank of holly bushes, that he hoped he might be able to lose one or two of them, and he had jerked the reins right at the last minute. In a moment he was flung almost from the saddle as the great beast hurtled off in a new direction, and he risked a quick glance behind him. He saw that one rider had been thrown by the suddenness of his manoeuvre, and gave a grin of savage delight to hear the scream of pain as the man fell into the thorny leaves.

Then he was facing forward again. Just then, his beast put a foot into a ditch. It could have snapped his leg like a dry twig, but somehow the magnificent animal recovered and set off along the road. Still, when John looked back, he saw that the first man was much closer, and it was Sir Jevan himself.

Sir Jevan de Bromfield: it was a name to make a man shiver. He was the dedicated servant of the last Earl of Lancaster, before King Edward II had him executed, and he hated all the followers of Despenser as much as his master had.

Sir Jevan had seen John at Kenilworth. And he would kill him if he caught him. It was as simple, and as deadly, as that.

Charlton Abbots

Dolwyn felt as though he was almost safe. There had been no sign of any pursuit since that first posse, and he wondered whether his pursuers had given up. After all, in these difficult and fearful times, there were many who deserved punishment more than him to seek.

He pulled the reins and the brute finally began to move again. The animal appeared to have made up his mind that he disliked Dolwyn and wished nothing so much as to leave the road and crop the grass. When Dolwyn pulled, the horse had taken to setting his ears flat back on his head and whinnying angrily. It took three firm cuffs about the head to make the animal obey him, and then only because he kept a firm hold of the reins.

It was a short while after this, still about the middle of the morning, when he heard a horse trotting towards him. Dolwyn was on a grassy track that was only just wide enough for the cart, and as soon as he heard the hooves approaching, he knew he would soon be in trouble.

‘You! Have you seen three men-at-arms here today?’

The man was younger than Dolwyn, and he was dressed in a pale green-coloured tunic with a red cloak at his shoulders. He was sitting astride a huge grey, who pranced and prodded at the ground as the man watched Dolwyn suspiciously. His side had been injured, Dolwyn could see. The material of his tunic was rent, and there was a stain about it, as though he had bled there profusely a little while ago.

‘Why?’ Dolwyn asked. He let his head drop, and spoke sullenly like a villein who resented being questioned.

‘Answer me, churl!’

‘No.’

The knight nodded, but absently. Now he was looking at the cart closely. ‘Where are you going?’

‘Goin’ ’ome,’ Dolwyn said. ‘Back to Gloucester.’

‘Where did you find this cart, fellow?’

Dolwyn scowled. ‘Why?’ he said again. ‘I’ve ’ad this for years.’

‘Years, eh? That is curious: this cart is like a friend’s whom . . . I saw this only recently, at Kenilworth. Where did you get it?’

‘I said I’ve ’ad it years,’ Dolwyn repeatedly sullenly.

‘I heard you,’ the man said, drawing his sword. ‘But I don’t believe you. It is what all felons would say.’ He was staring at the bed of the cart. ‘What do you carry?’

‘Usual rubbish.’

‘Show me!’

Dolwyn looked up at him. The rider may have been injured, and did appear to be favouring his right side, but he was yet on a fleet horse, and Dolwyn could not hope to outrun that. Commonsense said he should be as gracious as the situation allowed. Accordingly he imitated a peasant with a grievance, but stood back and allowed the man to investigate the cart.

Still on his horse, the fellow poked about with his sword’s point, lifting the blankets and tapping the two perry barrels. ‘What else do you have in there?’

‘Perry.’

‘I didn’t mean the barrels, man. What else is there here?’

‘That is it, sir. I’m only a wanderin’ tranter,’ Dolwyn whined.

‘Really?’ The fellow stared hard at the cart and horse as though he knew them, and he was about to speak again, his eyes on the small chest that lay between the barrels, when he sighed and muttered like a man distracted, ‘I have too many troubles to worry myself about this. Move aside, you fool, and let me pass!’