Michael Jecks - King's Gold

Here, though, it was very unlikely that someone might try to assault them. The kingdom was more or less at peace now, and this was one of the quieter backwaters of the nation. After the past turbulent years and the constant threat of war, everyone was subdued. The fear had been so overwhelming, its removal was startling. Luke thought it was like a man about to dive into a dangerous lake, who took a deep breath in preparation, only to be commanded to turn away from the water.

However, it was good to find that they were approaching a small tavern. After walking all of yesterday, until it was dark and difficult to gather firewood, Luke’s legs were weary by noon, and the purveyor — who had a high opinion of his own importance which Father Luke considered unwarranted — had refused to allow them to pause in Warwick. He did not want them to be delayed. That was enough to make Father Luke protest bitterly. The carter and he must walk almost all the way, for the horse could not manage any speed whilst bearing a man as well as hauling the cart.

Ham’s beast was large, with a splash of white like a fist on his breast, and a star of white on his rump, while on the left foreleg he had a white band about his ankle. In his youth, Ham said, he had been a spirited beast, but now, after many years of hauling loads up and down hills, the poor fellow was no longer at his best. It was a miracle, Luke thought, that the animal had survived this long. And it would be a miracle indeed, if he made it all the way to Kenilworth.

Instead of halting here, Dunheved proposed to allow them to rest when they reached the little village of Lecwotten 16, a few miles north of Warwick. Ham and Luke exchanged a glance. Picking a fight with a senior official was foolish when the delay would be but a matter of an hour or so. What’s more ale in a small place like Lecwotten would be considerably cheaper than in a town like Warwick.

So they agreed to continue and soon reached the inn, which was little more than a tatty ale-house designed to service the small local community.

The purveyor and Ham went inside, Dunheved loudly demanding drink and food, but Luke chose to wait outside, to keep an eye on the cart and his metal-bound chest.

He detested the very sight of that box, and could not wait for the moment when he could pass it on to someone else. At times, he had thought to give it to this purveyor, but at the last moment he had always resisted the temptation. Dunheved seemed a hard man, and Luke would not be surprised if he didn’t just take the money for himself. Purveyors had a reputation for theft and shameless rapacity, often fleecing the populace and selling the excess goods at a profit. There were regular stories of such men being arrested for their corruption. This man was almost certainly formed from that mould. The only reason Luke was safe was due to the presence of Ham. The fellow might have the brain of an ox, but an ox can intimidate, and Ham was loyal to his priest.

Luke wandered over to the cart. In the bed were the sacks of provisions which the purveyor had bought, and Luke had carefully installed the chest in the middle, between two small barrels of perry, and behind the sack of lampreys, to stop it moving about too much. Now he pulled the sack aside, separated the folds of some blankets, and reached in to touch his chest. It was there, but very well wedged, and he must tug hard until he felt it move. Soon it was at the edge of the cart, and he raised the lid and peered inside. All was well. The coins were in little sacks of soft leather, and he counted them: none was missing. He would not put it past the purveyor to open it and steal a purse, but so far as Luke had seen, the man had shown no interest in it. He had other things on his mind.

Taking a purse, Father Luke opened it and marvelled again. The coins were gold, with a lily on one side, the image of St John on the other. He knew it was called a ‘Florin’. The Florentines minted them, and they were worth some shillings each. If they were valued at three shillings, he thought, with twenty purses of fifty coins in each, there were one thousand gold coins here: that must mean at least three thousand shillings — a hundred and fifty pounds! It made him weak to think of such wealth. He was about to shove the chest back into the gap, when he heard a cheerful voice calling to him.

‘Father Luke? You’re far from home!’

Luke spun on his heel and found himself staring into the face of John of Shulton, the man who had told him of Despenser’s death. ‘Why, good day to you, sir! And what are you doing here?’

‘Riding to Kenilworth. What of you?’

After days with the sullen purveyor, Luke felt something akin to affection for this man. He forgot how nervous he had been when he first met John.

‘Isn’t that the mark of my lord Despenser?’ John added, peering at the chest.

‘Yes. It is his,’ Luke whispered with a glance at the inn. ‘He gave it to me for safekeeping, and I am taking it to Kenilworth for the King.’

‘You mean Sir Edward,’ John corrected. He eyed the chest with some interest. ‘They call him Sir Edward of Caernarfon now, you know, Father.’

‘Hey! Who are you, and what are you gawping at?’ Dunheved shouted from the door. He was walking from the ale-house with a pair of jugs in his hands, and passed one to Luke. ‘This load is all for the garrison at Kenilworth.’

‘It is no matter to me,’ said John, and nodded his head to Luke. ‘I would have joined you on your journey, Father, but I think your grumpy friend here has no wish for company. Godspeed you on your way!’

Luke muttered his own farewell, but the man was already riding away at a smart trot.

The purveyor said nothing, but his eyes were on the man, and he wore a strange expression, almost a smile, as John disappeared into the distance. And then he shook himself and said bluntly, ‘Food is on the way.’

Luke could not help but notice that the man’s eyes turned now to the cart, and suddenly he squinted. And when Luke turned, he saw the edge of the chest protruding from the blankets, which he had inadequately arranged to cover it.

Lecwotton

Stephen Dunheved was eager for a drink. As soon as he had finished his first quart of ale, staring thoughtfully up the road in the direction John had taken, he went back inside the ale-house for another.

It was one thing to be assured of acting for the general good, but when it came to a situation like this, knowing that men would soon die, and that he himself could be one of them, that was a different matter. Not that he was scared, just tense, because he knew what lay ahead. A fight, certainly, and possibly the release of their rightful king, along with the glory that would ensue. It was a wonderful ambition — and yet he felt weary and fretful, and couldn’t shake off a sense of impending doom.

He had been in difficult situations before, of course. Six years ago he had been forced to abjure the realm for killing a man, and didn’t return until the King pardoned him. Within the year he was Valet of the King’s Chamber, and soon afterwards, Edward made him custodian of Lyonshall Castle, then appointed him to hold an inquisition. Stephen’s future had seemed assured. He had not conceived of the King losing his throne.

This wretched tavern seemed to emphasise just how far he had fallen. Once, he had moved in the best circles — not that you would think it, to look at him now. To all he was a scruffy acquirer of goods, little better than a churl, and everyone knew that purveyors had a bad reputation.

He grimaced. The fire was smoking profusely in the middle of the room, and there was a loud hissing as moisture bubbled from the ends of the green logs. It was typical of the landlord that he hadn’t the foresight to cut wood earlier in the year so it could dry.