King's Gold

‘Only the rich would take it.’ Harry looked at his friend pityingly. ‘You dream about money, but me, I’ll dream about a solid meal, a warm chamber and a dry palliasse.’

‘With money, you could buy them all.’

Harry shook his head. A bite of food, that was all he needed, but both finished their meagre rations two days ago. ‘What I wouldn’t give for a loaf of bread,’ he said sadly.

‘What’s that?’ Senchet said, alert.

From the road ahead there came a rumbling of hooves. Mingled with the squeak of leather was the clatter and rattle of metal, as of pots and pans.

The two men exchanged a look.

‘Shit!’ Harry forced himself to his feet. ‘I can’t run like this, Sen. You get away while you can, and leave me to them.’

‘I will not leave you to the mercy of some vagabond of the roadway,’ Senchet said firmly. ‘Hah! You think I should give up my companionship with you so that we can both be cut down on our own? No, I prefer to make a stand together.’

Harry hissed with pain, teeth gritted, but set his hand to his sword’s hilt and tested the blade. ‘Come on then. Let’s see what these bastards are like in a fight,’ he said, and grinned weakly.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

North of Exeter

They had left by the east gate of the city on the Sidwell Road, riding out into the broad, flat expanse of farmland, and immediately turning north on the Longbrook Street, past the rows of cheap hovels scattered about, the roadside dotted with trees and little strips of fields in which the peasants were bending and working. Some stopped and watched as they rode by. Simon knew that as they passed out of the environs of Exeter, and began to ride along roads where they were strangers, there would be danger not only from outlaws but from suspicious locals as well. Many a traveller had been attacked by crowds wielding stones because his face made someone fearful. There were many primitive little vills on the way from here to Bristol.

The weather was at least clement, but although the sun shone, it meant that before long Simon was feeling the sweat soaking into the collar of his tunic. His hat was intolerably warm, and he was forced to remove it after a while, holding it in his left hand, occasionally lifting it to shield his eyes from the blazing sun as he peered ahead at the road.

It was the duty of the Keepers of the King’s Peace to see to it that the verges of roadways were kept clear of all brambles, trees and shrubs, so that there should be less risk of ambushes. These roads had recently been surveyed, but it did not help Simon. He felt foul, from the soles of his sweating feet to the stickiness under his armpits. His mouth was disgusting and dry, his tongue felt woollen and revolting.

By contrast, Sir Richard was enjoying his ride. ‘Magnificent weather, eh?’ he trumpeted. ‘What more could a man ask for in this beautiful kingdom of ours than an open road, sunshine, and the promise of a pleasant journey.’

‘A bed,’ Simon said, and belched acid.

Behind him, Hugh said grumpily, ‘And a pot of ale.’

‘Come now, Simon, Hugh. The sun has been up for an age. Only a child would wish to sleep through a day such as this. Or a poxy monk sitting in his scriptorium. No, Simon,’ he said, warming to his theme, ‘this is the way to live. Not hiding away in a warm room, but out in the open air.’

On any other morning, Simon would have agreed – but this day he was not inclined to support the knight. ‘How far is it?’ he mumbled.

‘To Kenilworth? Oh, less than seventy leagues. Up to Bristol, thence to Gloucester, Evesham, and on up to the castle.’

‘Seventy leagues?’ Hugh asked. He had never enjoyed riding, although some years ago he had grown accustomed enough to the distances that he must cover with his master. But in recent weeks he had not travelled so widely, and it was plain from his expression that he would have been happy not to have to renew his acquaintance with this saddle.

‘Two hundred and ten miles,’ Sir Richard said. He lolled back against the cantle and sighed happily. ‘And if it’s all as pleasant as this, we shall have a wonderful time. Tell me, Simon, did I ever tell you the joke about the man who borrowed a horse? Eh? He-’

‘Yes, I think you did tell me.’

‘Ah, well, then, Hugh, you will like this: the man spoke to the stableowner and paid for a beast, and the stableman said, “You are a very clever man to pick that fellow. It’s the best in my stable. You must be like Ben Bakere”.

‘ “Who?” asked the man.

‘ “Ben Bakere. If he went to a stable, he always picked the best mount. He had an infallible eye, that man.”

‘ “Oh,” said the man.

‘ “Yes, and if he went to the wine merchants, he always got the best wine. A perfect nose.”

‘ “Oh,” said the man.

‘ “If he negotiated to buy hay, he always got the best deal. If he needed harnesses, he could find the best quality at the finest price. He was clever, was Ben Bakere. The cleverest man who ever lived in jolly old England. The wisest, shrewdest, kindest and pleasantest.”

‘ “You said ‘was’ – has he moved away?”