King's Gold

Dolwyn did as he was instructed, and soon he was watching the man trot off up the roadway. But when he reached the bend in the lane, the man stopped, whirled his mount about and came hurtling back up the roadway towards Dolwyn. It was only by a miracle that Dolwyn wasn’t struck by the flailing hooves as the beast thundered past.

Then there was a bellow, and he turned to see three men with the badge of the Earl of Lancaster on their breasts, pounding down the roadway towards him. He rammed his back up against the cart, but the last man was almost thrown as his horse balked at the narrow gap. Snarling with rage, the man-at-arms raked his spurs along his mount’s flanks, screaming abuse in his frustration, and then he slashed down at Dolwyn with his sword.

Dolwyn felt the blow like a punch. He flinched and his horse, unnerved by the man’s fury, jerked onwards. The cart began to judder on sluggishly, and Dolwyn fell beneath it, rolling between the wheels, too surprised even to feel anger yet. The cart moved over him, and when he peered up, he saw that the rider was off.

‘I will remember you, master,’ he said through gritted teeth. In an instant it felt as if his entire flank was on fire, and he put a hand to his side, and met shredded cloth and blood. Lots of blood. He set his jaw and forced himself to his knees, then up to his feet, staring after the man riding off so swiftly.

A tall man, wearing the Earl of Lancaster’s badge, smooth-shaven, with dark brown hair and green eyes set in a square face. ‘Yes, I will remember you – and I’ll cut your ballocks off for what you’ve done to me!’ he swore, writhing as the pain burned at him.

Bishop’s Cleeve

Senchet was already tired out. The weather had been wet and filthy for several days, but yesterday, as though to add insult to their injury, it was suddenly bright sunshine, and while the warmth was welcome after the last days of chill, the sudden dryness made their clothing chafe their throats and armpits. Senchet’s rough hosen rubbed his inner thighs raw, and it was all he could do to forget the pain as he stumbled onwards.

His friend was in no better shape. Harry trudged, head hanging. He sorely missed his horse, especially now his old boots had given up the ghost. The left sole flapped pathetically with every step, and his foot was a mass of blisters. In the wet he had been more comfortable because wet mud was slick, but now dirt and stones cut and scratched his bare sole.

‘Harry, we must find somewhere to rest. And get food.’

‘And how do we buy food? We have no money, Senchet.’

They were in a long lane, with wheel tracks at either side forming a morass of mud with a narrow channel of grass struggling to grow in the middle. Hedges on either side with thick brambles deterred passage.

‘Harry, let us just take a rest.’

With a bad grace his companion agreed, and after another slow, painful hundred yards or so they managed to find a tree that had fallen, and both could at last sit and stretch their legs.

Senchet glanced back the way they had come, then up ahead, and was struck by the gloomy conviction that they had travelled scarcely two miles since their last halt. So far, they had slept out three nights in the last four, and the result, with the cold and the rain, was that Senchet himself felt certain that he was to win little but a fever from this long tramp.

‘My friend, I am thinking maybe we should have stayed back there in the town.’

‘They wouldn’t have let us,’ Harry grunted. ‘You think they’d want two men from the King’s host to be hanging about the town? Any of the garrison which remained would suffer the risk of a short rope and a long drop.’

‘Perhaps better that than this, eh?’ Senchet said with an emphatic gesture at the roadway. He rubbed his brow. ‘There must be a lord somewhere who needs men like us.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘You sound unconvinced.’

‘I am. Now the war is over, the lords will send their men home. What need have they of great forces? Men cost money,’ he added gloomily. ‘Even the lords who distrust their neighbours will seek to disband their feudal hosts. It’s spring. They want their men back in the fields, not standing in armour looking shiny.’

‘We are,’ Senchet observed, ‘not the most desirable of men, are we? Perhaps I should return to my homeland. There may be more work there.’

Harry nodded. He wanted to rest his head, but knew he would fall asleep instantly. They must keep on going, but it was hard, very hard. He was too old for all this. Too many fights had taken their toll and his back was giving him grief – a common complaint after the years of soldiering. There were injuries, too, on his ribs and thighs, but nothing compared with the throbbing misery that was his poor leg. He dared not remove his boot for the thought of what he might find.

‘Why bother,’ he muttered to himself.

‘It all comes down to money. I wish it grew on the trees that we might reach up and pluck what we needed.’