King's Gold

Llantony-next-Gloucester was a simple Augustinian abbey. Ahead was the church and cloisters, while to his left were the stables and farm area. He could see the fishpond over to the right, two lay brothers standing with their robes rolled up and bound about their knees, holding a net.

He left his horse in the hands of a groom, and took his saddle-bags, throwing them over his shoulder with his blanket and cloak, before walking off to the open pasture outside the cloisters. There were already forty or more men-at-arms and servants milling about, preparing tents and lighting their cook fires. John dumped his belongings before wandering off to find a drink.

His legs were stiff and his backside felt as though it had been pummelled by a stave of wood. It seemed to be one enormous bruise. More concerning to him was his flank, which was still sore and painful, and he put his hand to it as he walked, wincing.

‘My friend, are you in pain?’

The man who asked was a tall, thin monk, who eyed him slightly askance.

‘Are you Brother Anselm?’

‘No, my name is Michael. And you are with the King’s men.’

‘I am for the King,’ John said, and felt the relief flood his body at hearing the passwords confirmed.

Brother Michael glanced at him. ‘Your side, it is giving you pain?’

John nodded.

‘Come with me. Let us see if we can give you some comfort.’ The monk led the way along the side of the cloisters to a small room.

‘I am glad to meet you,’ John said.

Michael held a finger to his lips and walked about the chamber, looking under the tables and peering through the shutters on the window. He beckoned John to the back of the chamber, and spoke in a hushed voice.

‘There are many places here where a man could listen. You must speak very quietly.’

‘Do you know when the attack will come?’ John whispered.

‘It has taken time to gather the men, especially since Kenilworth, as they are spread all over the shires. But they are gathering.’

‘That is good,’ John said.

‘You sound unconvinced?’

John pulled a grimace. ‘The men at Berkeley will be waiting. They have already foiled one attack at Kenilworth. They’ll expect us to try again.’

‘There will be news soon that will distract them,’ Michael said knowingly.

‘Will there be many with us?’

‘As many as the Dunheveds can gather,’ the monk said. ‘It is not an easy task, for since Mortimer captured the King, many went into hiding.’

John nodded. He knew most of his own companions had themselves disappeared. There were too many among Sir Roger Mortimer’s forces who had grievances against those from the old regime. He tried to put aside a vision of men scaling ladders, arrows, war-hammers cracking skulls. Men dying, heaped at the foot of the walls . . .

‘That is good,’ he said, trying to smile. ‘The sooner we can release him, the better for all.’

There came a tap at the door, and Brother Michael put a finger to his lips again, and then walked to the door. He opened it, and a slim, dark, sallow-faced man slipped in quickly.

John gazed from one to the other, and then he grabbed for his sword. The monk shook his head, but the other man stood with his arms held high, palms towards John.

‘I’m no enemy. I’m with you!’ he said.

The sun had been dreadfully hot today, and Matteo was relieved to ride within the cool shadow of the priory’s gatehouse. On their journey here the heat had been overwhelming, but he didn’t care. Even the thick dust that rose and clogged his throat was a cause for a prayer of thanks.

Since delivering the note to Lord Berkeley, he had felt an increasing sense of joy. He was aware of the weather and the little delights that greeted him every day – the sight of flowers, of tall trees, of rolling green hills.

He had heard that others who had come close to death often described it as a meaningful, almost religious event. They spoke of falling into a pit, and then being pulled back. One man said he had felt that he was being drawn upwards to the sun, to a land that flowed with milk and honey, in which angels flew and sang, and where a multitude waited to greet him. And then he was made to understand that he was not to come here yet, and returned to earth and life with a reluctance that now coloured all his remaining days. He could not wait to go back to that heavenly land, he said.

It had not been so for Matteo. He had limped homewards from the brink without any memory of a glorious light or singing. All he had was a terrible headache that made him sick, and a ferocious pain in his back. The fever had nearly carried him off. And then, he had been so riven by doubts and fears that his miraculous survival had not struck him.

It must be this ride. Perhaps it was the sheer act of journeying that had helped clear his mind. If so, he could see the merit in pilgrimage. Because in truth, he felt as though he was entirely renewed.

Alured was still at his side. He was the only man whom Matteo entirely trusted. After all, Alured had saved his life. Benedetto must have tried to bribe him, but Alured had not accepted.