Michael Jecks - King's Gold

‘Why would he be taking food so far?’ Luke wondered. ‘Surely there are suppliers nearer the castle?’

Agatha shrugged. ‘The purveyor said there was a guest who had a liking for lampreys and good perry, so I suppose it’s for him.’

‘So your husband will be taking his cart to Kenilworth?’ Father Luke said, and suddenly he had an idea so brilliant it took his breath away.

‘Yes. The useless prickle will have a week’s holiday, while Jen and me have to work double. Not that it’ll make much difference — he’s so idle. We usually have to feed the beasts and all, while he lays on the mattress snoring. He’d best bring back some coin for his effort, that’s all I can say,’ Agatha grumbled as she swept.

Father Luke paid her no heed. He was busy thinking. The money was Despenser’s, and the person who should receive it was his heir; however, the Despenser family was from the Welsh Marches, which was a terrible long way away. But at Kenilworth, as everyone knew, was the old King, Sir Edward of Caernarfon.

If he were to take the money there, Luke would have fulfilled his responsibility by passing the money on to the correct person, and no one could complain. The priest was delighted at the thought of disposing of the money at long last. It was such a burden on his soul. And it would be up to Sir Edward, what he did with it.

Willersey

It was dry, and that was good, Stephen Dunheved thought to himself as he waited at the inn. It was a relief to see so much clear blue sky. Not that you could depend on it. In his experience, the weather in these parts could change too quickly for comfort.

Seeing the woman and her child approaching, he nodded courteously enough. That Agatha was a vicious witch, he reckoned. Fair, blue-eyed, but with the tongue of a snake. Stephen himself would not have married her for all the gold in the Tower — but then, when she was younger and less twisted by fate, perhaps she had been more comely. Trouble was, like everyone else in the kingdom, she had suffered: wars, disease and famine had all taken their toll.

It was enough to make a man weep, to think of the devastation which had been visited upon the realm in the last decade. The King had done all he might for his impoverished little kingdom, but there was never enough treasure for so many people. And with that oafish stupidity so common to the peasant, the people of the country blamed him — as though it was his fault that the crops couldn’t grow!

The barons were more culpable than their King. Their avarice and jealousy of each other meant that they were forever battling for personal advantage. Men stole their neighbours’ cattle and flocks, they bickered, and rode out with their retainers to fight over the smallest dispute. Such matters were better suited to lawyers. At least in court, these disputes rarely led to bloodshed.

He watched the woman and her daughter pass by. She did look better when viewed in a more kindly spirit, he told himself, as he enquired, ‘Mistress, is your man ready yet?’

‘What do you think?’ Agatha said rudely. ‘Do you see him with me?’

Stephen’s opinion of her returned to simple contempt. ‘Where do you think he may be?’

‘At home.’

Jen called out, ‘Seeing to the pigs.’

‘Thank you, maid.’

It was already an hour past daybreak, and Stephen was keen to be off. There were many long miles to cover. Ten leagues or more, in fact. With a cart, that would take at least two days, what with rivers to cross and the poor state of the roads. A cart would rarely manage ten miles in a day. Still, he was paying for fifteen miles a day, and he would make it, come what may.

A shiver ran through his frame, and he gave a little grin, thinking that his brother Thomas would have said it was someone walking over his grave. Stephen reckoned that was being overly optimistic. The prospect of his dying naturally and being placed in a coffin with weeping maids and children all about was nice to dream of, but highly unlikely.

He gave the sky another look, and tipped the drinking horn upwards, emptying it, before crossing to the wall where his horse was tethered to a large ring. Pulling the reins free, he led his pony along the road towards Ham’s house.

Time to go.

‘My friend, please!’ called Father Luke. He had seen the man rise and walk from the inn even as he himself hurried towards Ham’s house.

‘Father?’ The man stopped and waited for the priest.

The fellow had the clear features and open, bright eyes of a man in his prime — but as Luke drew nearer, he saw that he had the wrinkles of someone ten years older. What’s more, his dark eyes were watchful, as though he did not entirely trust even a priest.

‘My son, I have heard that you are a purveyor, and that you have asked our Ham to accompany you to Kenilworth?’

‘What of it?’

‘Nothing, except I have a chest I need to take there and wondered if I could join you.’

‘Why would you want to join me?’

Father Luke blinked. ‘I would not wish to travel so far alone, that is all. It is a great distance to Kenilworth, and such journeys can prove hazardous.’

‘That’s true enough.’

To Father Luke’s dismay, the man demonstrated little enthusiasm. It was discourteous in the extreme, the way that he was frowning at his priestly robes. ‘Very well. If you do not want company-’ he began, hurt.

‘No, Father, I would be happy with your companionship for the journey. I was only wondering whether you would not prefer to find a more comfortable means of travelling.’

‘I am perfectly capable of walking that distance!’

‘Then I should be most glad to have your company,’ Stephen said.

‘How many carts are there?’

‘Only the one.’

‘All that way, and there’s only one cart?’

Stephen said nothing, but merely stood with a thin smile on his face.

‘Oh,’ Father Luke said.

‘We leave shortly. You need to bring food and drink for the journey.’

‘Not only that. I have a chest, as I said. Ham will need to come to my church to collect it. It is very heavy,’ Father Luke fretted.

‘Then get him to go with you to fetch it,’ the purveyor said. ‘ And hurry .’

Exeter

Many miles to the south, Sir Baldwin de Furnshill walked amidst the din and smoke of the local smithies.

Sir Baldwin was a tall knight, strong in the arm, with a neck thick and muscled from long years of wearing a heavy steel helmet. The neat beard that traced the edge of his jaw had less black in it now, and was thickly salted with white, while the hair on his head was turning grey all over.

His was a face marked by experience. At his cheek was a long scar from the Siege of Acre in the Holy Land, but that was less prominent than the creases that passed over his brow and down at either side of his mouth, showing the pain he had endured in his long life.

He was tired. The last year had seen such unrivalled madness that he was weary to remember it. From the invasion of the Queen and her lover, their swift progress across the kingdom, snapping up towns as they went, the revolt in London, the slaughter of Bishop Walter II of Blessed Memory, the King’s capture, the executions. . All had happened in so short a space of time it was a miracle the realm had not collapsed.

To have forced the King to resign was a deplorable act. Baldwin had done his duty: he had remained at the King’s side through those long weeks when Edward was forced to ride from Bristol ever farther into the Welsh countryside. Not until the day that the King’s party was captured did Baldwin leave him. It was a matter of honour.