King's Gold

Walking back to the vill yesterday, with her husband’s body pushed in a handcart by two farmers, all Agatha could think of was the injustice. Ham had been so late coming back, yet there was no money. If only there had been a little to help her and Jen. Just the coins promised by the purveyor would have helped, let alone those the priest had mentioned. She had no choice now: she would have to depend on the charity of the Church. While there were alms, she and Jen should not starve. And given time, a man would be found for her. She could not expect to depend upon the others in the vill for the remainder of her days. When a local man lost his wife, Agatha would be prevailed upon to make an arrangement with him, and marry. Any widow who refused would find herself without friends. Men needed women, and to fight against the natural way of things was a certain way to make enemies.

Yesterday they had undressed Ham, she and Jen, and washed away the worst of the blood about his face. His jaw was broken, and when she saw his teeth had snapped off, it made her stomach lurch. The axe-wounds were less horrific; they were merely broad cuts in his flesh, but the sight of what had happened to his face was appalling. It was a relief to be able to wrap him in muslin and cover his sad eyes.

Jen was pale, slightly greenish, as she helped her mother. She worked methodically, concentrating on the wounds she was cleaning. It made Agatha’s belly knot to see her so distraught.

Agatha sat up all night with his body, Jen beside her. Ham wasn’t there: this corpse wasn’t him. The man she had known was gone, his soul flown, and there was nothing of him left behind, only a husk. After the cleaning and washing, even his odours were gone. She could scarcely believe this was him. All her life was in turmoil, and she knew only utter emptiness.

But even as she sat beside him, she railed inwardly. It was so unfair! Where were Ham’s horse and cart? The man who stole them had stolen Jen’s future. He was the focus for her bile and rage.

If she met him, she would kill him.

Close to Warwick

The carter’s wound was at least clean. Senchet and Harry were trained in dealing with injuries of many types.

‘It must have been a sword wound,’ Harry guessed. A bad cut, but not septic. Last night he had washed it and placed some linen over it, but this morning, when he saw it in daylight, the man’s flank was bloody again. Harry frowned. The carter was losing too much blood.

‘We must place him in his cart and take him to the nearest vill,’ Senchet said.

Harry shivered. His belly was better after he and Senchet had eaten some of this man’s food yesterday, but he was still suffering from the after-effects of their enforced starvation. ‘We can’t leave him here,’ he agreed.

‘He needs hot food, or I’m a Saxon,’ Senchet said.

Harry was already gathering more sticks and pieces of wood for a fire. The two men worked together quickly, collecting enough to make a small pile, and Senchet struck sparks from his flint until his tinder caught. Before long the two men were setting a pot over the flames to heat some water. In the man’s pack they had found some dried sticks of meat, and they placed these in the pot with some herbs and leaves they found about the area.

Harry broke bread into a bowl, and then they spooned the gravy over it. The watery pottage thickened well, and both had a little before they tried to feed some to the injured man. He moved his head as they attempted to pour a little of it into his mouth, but then he started to swallow, and soon his eyes flickered and opened.

Senchet held up the spoon so he could see it. ‘You need this, my friend. Can you open your mouth?’

The man nodded, and soon he was eating hungrily. Only when the last of the gravy had been wiped away did he settle back again, eyes closed.

‘Are you well?’ Harry asked, and received a nod in return. ‘Are you from near here? Is there somewhere we can take you?’

‘My name is Dolwyn,’ he said weakly. ‘I don’t know this area at all.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Passion Sunday

Berkeley Castle

It was miserable that day. Benedetto had joined Lord Berkeley in the small, cramped chapel for Mass, and the chill had eaten into his bones. How he longed for the warm climate of Florence!

The service must have left the chaplain feeling as cold as the congregation, because he hurried through the last parts and completed it in what seemed like indecent haste.

Benedetto left the chapel, trailing out behind the lord and members of the garrison, and was momentarily blinded by the brightness. The sun was concealed behind a series of clouds that ranged over the sky, but for all that her glow was apparent, especially after the comparative gloom of the chapel.