King's Gold

The thought was almost enough to make Simon spew again. He had already had to stick his head out of the window when he woke, and after trying to eat a little breakfast, he had resorted to running for the midden, where he had brought it all up again. It was outrageous to suggest that he should take more ale when his head was entirely due to the knight’s carousing the night before!

‘No,’ he said weakly.

‘Well, if you don’t want a solid cure for your head, man, you only have yourself to blame, eh?’

Simon gave him a sour look and walked over to the horses. His own beast was looking well enough after almost a day of rest, and he was glad to see that a patch where the saddle had rubbed on its withers appeared to have healed, after the groom had spread some goose fat over the area.

‘There he is,’ the groom said with a nod of his head towards the inner ward’s gates.

Simon turned to see Sir Edward of Caernarfon walking past.

‘He looks sad,’ Simon said quietly.

‘He is, I expect,’ said Sir Jevan, who had been patting his own horse a short way away. He joined Simon. ‘Hard to imagine how he must feel, eh? His children won’t see him, his wife hates him, and his subjects have forgotten him. What a disaster it must seem, to see all his works set aside.’

Simon shrugged. Perhaps the King was experiencing a little of the horror that had been visited upon the people of his realm. In his opinion, the King did not deserve any more sympathy than Despenser.

And yet Simon still found himself feeling sorry for the man.

There was a goodly number of men around the King as he trotted to the outer ward. Beside him was a squire, whom Simon recognised from the King’s household in Westminster, although he could not remember the fellow’s name. At the other side was the King’s Gaoler, a Sergeant called Gilbert. Then came more servants and a contingent of guards. None of them terribly prepossessing, he thought.

Mostly they were scruffy-looking fellows with long knives, leather jerkins and toughened leather caps on their heads. Welsh, from the look of them, he thought. Mortimer had many Welsh friends, and was trusted by the Welsh, as was Sir Edward of Caernarfon himself. It made for confusion among the peoples of the Principality when Mortimer decided to rebel.

‘Ho! Looks like we should mount,’ Sir Richard said. He left Simon and swung himself onto his beast, settling instantly like a man born in a saddle. Simon took a little longer, and when he was seated, he saw Hugh scowling ferociously while two grooms tried to curb their amusement, holding his pony still for him while he attempted to get his foot in the stirrup.

Watching Hugh, Simon did not pay attention to the others, and he was surprised to find that a man had ridden up close. He looked across – and felt a little of his sore head dissipate at the gladsome sight.

‘Baldwin! What in God’s great name are you doing here?’

‘Old friend, I was about to ask you the same question,’ Baldwin said, gripping Simon’s arm.

There was a shout at the gate, a slow rumble as the great baulks of timber swung open on their huge hinges, and then amid a loud trumpet blast, Gilbert gave the order for the unruly mob to ride off. Soon all fifty men were moving, Gilbert in the lead, while the old King was surrounded by the majority of the men-at-arms behind him.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Kenilworth

John climbed into the saddle with a sigh of thankfulness. He had no desire to be on horseback again so soon, but anything was better than remaining here in the castle. He constantly felt the need to keep his head down. It was a relief that he had been billeted outside the castle itself, along with many of the Berkeley men. There was not room for all inside.

It was impossible not to be worried. No matter where he looked, he saw men against whom only a few days before, he had fought. That fellow there, to the left of the main gates, he was one of those who had stood in John and Paul’s way as they tried to rush the gates; that fellow by the windlass, he was one of those John had seen in the yard. All about him were men who would be sure to recognise him at any moment. His nerves were in tatters.

A shiver ran through his frame at the thought that this was the place where Paul had died. It was here that John himself had killed the guard at the gate. More blood, he thought, more unnecessary death.