Michael Jecks - King's Gold

The sound of hooves pulled him back from his reverie, and he walked to his door and peered out, watching as two men reined in weary-looking beasts. The men were sodden, from their hoods and cowls to their booted feet. One wore a russet woollen cloak drawn about him, but the fabric was so soaked that the water dripped steadily from the dangling corner. The other had a leather cloak that had once been waxed, but this too had given up under the rain’s assault.

They wore no armour, but both had the stolid appearance of fighting men. Luke had to fight the compulsion to step away from them — there were too many stories of churches broken into and their priests knocked down for him to be entirely at his ease. For all that, he did not get the impression that they were dangerous, only desperate.

‘God be with you,’ he said firmly, making the sign of the cross.

‘Father, God bless you and your vill,’ said the taller one as they swung stiffly from their saddles.

‘You look exhausted, my sons. Would you stop a while and take a little refreshment? Wherever you are going, you will be more likely to reach it with a full belly and rested head.’

The two men exchanged a glance. In both faces there was a desire to ease tired limbs, if only for a short while.

‘Gentles, those brutes are as tired as you. They should be rested. Come, I have spiced cider and oatcakes.’

At the mention of hot cider both wavered, but oatcakes as well was too much temptation for men drenched by rain and mud. Before long they were sitting at Father Luke’s little fire, while the horses were rubbed down and fed by Peter, the smith’s son. Luke saw Jen, Ham and Agatha’s girl, and asked her to fetch her mother. Agatha often cooked for Luke. It got her out of her house and that was always a relief to her, Luke knew. She was unhappy in her marriage to Ham.

‘You’ve ridden far?’ Luke asked as Agatha bustled about preparing drinks and tearing at a plump, cooked pigeon.

The taller man nodded. He was named Paul of Bircheston, he said. He had a well-featured face, although his dark eyes met Father Luke’s unwillingly, as if he harboured a secret shame. The other, John of Shulton, was more confident, and more warlike, from the way that he settled and immediately drew his sword to dry it and smear grease over it to protect it from the rain.

He gave a grin and lifted an eyebrow as he glanced at the priest. ‘News is slow around here, eh? It must be good to see strangers ride past.’

‘Better to see them stop and talk,’ Father Luke chuckled, leaning aside to allow Agatha to reach the fire.

Aye, we’ve ridden far. And there are evil tidings and to spare,’ Paul said, staring into the fire gloomily.

‘Why, my friend?’

‘The King is captured. That whining cur Lancaster has him, and is taking King Edward to Kenilworth.’

‘Good God!’ Father Luke exclaimed, clutching at the cross about his neck. ‘But how? There was no news. . Are you sure, my friend? Surely God would not see His crowned King brought so low?’

‘We were there,’ Paul stated baldly. ‘The King was captured near Caerphilly with all those who remained loyal to him. There were few enough of them.’

‘What will become of him?’

‘He’ll be at the mercy of Mortimer and the Queen. What they will do. .’ He broke off, clenching his jaw.

‘Come, Paul,’ John said. ‘There’s no need to torment yourself. We’ve done our duty.’

‘You shock me,’ Father Luke muttered. ‘This is dreadful news. If a man raises his hand against God’s anointed, He must punish the kingdom, surely.’

‘Our King must be freed.’

It was John of Shulton who spoke, stroking a hone along his sword’s edge. There was a faraway look in his eyes, but Father Luke saw the glitter in them, and the sight made him shudder.

Agatha sat beside Luke’s fire and took up his old stone, setting it on the fire while she mixed the oatmeal. Luke had done this when he was young, when he was a boy near Durham. Oat was a staple still in the north, as it was here, but many considered it suitable only for horses and cattle. More fool them — for it made a good, solid base in the belly for a cold man, Father Luke reckoned. The action of mixing it and forming a paste with a little milk and water had always been enough to distract him. Now, he saw that Agatha was listening, open-mouthed to their tale, the cakes forgotten. Luke gave a click of his tongue, and she renewed her mixing.

The men drank deeply of their cider, and while their cloaks and jacks dripped on the floor, they watched Agatha dropping rounds onto the hot stone, moving them deftly with her fingers before they could stick. Soon there were fifteen little cakes, and while they cooled on the priest’s single wooden trencher, Luke himself fetched a little cheese and some leaves from his garden. They had been badly attacked by slugs, and this late in the year they were tough, but any salad was good.

‘Are you well, Father?’ John of Shulton said, sucking a pigeon bone.

‘I suppose I am. . distracted by this news.’

Paul said, ‘We were servants of Sir Hugh le Despenser. To think our lord could be. . But while I have breath in my body and strength in my arm, I won’t accept my King being held.’

‘Paul,’ John said warningly.

‘I will do all in my power to release the King,’ Paul said firmly. ‘I don’t care who hears it.’

‘Oh?’ Luke said.

It was then that he had the thought: if these two were Despenser’s men, then perhaps they could take his chest with them. But dare he entrust it to two such desperate men? No, he decided reluctantly. Whatever was inside must be valuable. Maybe he should open it and take a look inside.

By early afternoon they were gone, and he was beneath the tower staring with terror at the money.

‘Despenser’s dead,’ he muttered.

‘What, Father?’

‘Nothing, Agatha,’ he said.

She had returned after the evening service to bring him some bread. Now she set her mouth into a prim line, as she turned to leave.

‘I know,’ Luke said. ‘It is shocking to think that our King-’

‘It was his wife saw to it,’ she said grimly, ‘That’s treason of the worst sort.’

‘Er, well, yes,’ he agreed, watching as she made her way from his house. Women were beyond him, but he thought he could detect a hint of jealousy. Perhaps she was thinking of her own marriage.

He walked along the grassy path to his church, and crossed himself with a little water from the stoup, before kneeling on the hard tiles before the altar.

He could not keep it. That was certain. Those coins would be a magnet for every outlaw and drawlatch in Gloucestershire.

He took a deep sigh and gazed at the cross, seeking answers. Yes, he must send the money away. . but to whom? The owner was dead, his heir held with his father’s remaining retainers in a Welsh castle from which he might never escape. There must be someone who could take it, but at least it was safe here for now. No one knew of it but him.

He wished he had asked those two for advice, at least. They might have known what to do with it.

CHAPTER SIX

Dunchurch Manor, Warwickshire

Frere Thomas rose to his feet in the little chapel and crossed himself fervently. In the last days he had managed to avoid capture, largely because he had been aided by his brothers, but also God was preserving him too, naturally.

Ever since the Pope had made him a papal chaplain some years ago, this assurance of God’s protection had given him the peace he needed to reflect on the actions he had taken, the actions of others, and to contemplate how he could have acted otherwise. However, no inspiration came. He had done all he ought. The King had been captured despite his best efforts, and that was surely a sign that God intended the disaster. Nothing could happen without His approval. It was merely infuriating that he, Thomas, one of the most senior Dominicans in his Order, could not understand His scheme. But that was, so often, the way of God’s mystery. It was not for humans to comprehend the Almighty’s intentions.