Michael Jecks - King's Gold

‘Excellent idea!’ Sir Richard agreed before bellowing for a servant to fetch wine.

Tuesday after Whit Sunday

Chester

The group rode into the city over the great bridge, the mass of the old castle rising up on their left as they passed under the sandstone gatehouse at the northern bank.

Stephen Dunheved whistled as he took in the city. ‘This is richer than London.’

‘Perhaps so,’ Thomas said. He was casting about him as he jogged along on his horse. ‘They say it’s the richest port in the west after Bristol. But their money comes from their access to Wales, I think.’

‘What of the castle?’

‘The main forces have already marched to York,’ the Dominican said smugly. ‘The few that are left won’t dare come to trade blows with us. They’ll stay put and hope we soon go away.’

‘And so we shall.’ Stephen grinned at his brother. ‘Are you ready?’

In answer Thomas glanced over his shoulder and waved to the men on the bridge and at the bridge gates, before laughing aloud for the joy of action, and clapping spurs to his horse.

They rode up the bridge street, all the way to St Olave’s, and then on, past St Bridget’s and St Michael’s, and up to the old market. There, by the pillories, Stephen stopped and gazed about him. ‘This will do,’ he said.

Thomas dropped from his horse and reached for his sword. The ringing slither of steel seemed unduly harsh here in the street, but before anyone could remonstrate with the Dominican for drawing a blade, the streets were loud with the bellowing of men and the clatter of their horses’ iron-shod hooves. A group of men was being gathered up to the north, and herded by the Dunheved men towards the market square, and at the same time more men were being brought from about the great abbey.

‘Men of Chester, are you sick of being farmed like sheep, and shorn for your money?’ Thomas bellowed. ‘The abbot here is a thief. He would have the clothes from your backs! Look at him over there, his belly gross from the food he steals from you, his purse enormous from the tithes he squeezes from you, his mind as full of evil, greed and wantonness as the worst whore! Do you want this man to rule your lives? Do you want him to continue to take lands from you, to demand ever more money from you? I say he is a thief, and thieves should be forced to pay for their crimes!’

He held his sword aloft.

‘Men of Chester, come with me. Let us break down the gates and take back what is yours!’

The mass of the crowd was unimpressed by his demand, but in amongst the people were some of the Dunheved men. Seeing the sword raised high, these began to cheer and bellow. Thin and unimpressive they sounded, but then a few more took up their call, for the abbot was unpopular here in the city, and in a short space, the majority of the mob realised that there could be possibilities for rich plunder if they helped, and began to bay for the abbot on their own.

‘Come! Follow me!’ Thomas roared again, and he began to push through the crowds. Soon he was in the midst of a tide of men that ebbed from the marketplace and washed up at the abbey’s great gatehouse.

Foolishly, the gatekeeper had not thought to shut and lock his gates in time. He was attempting to do so now, but it was too late. Men were pouring in, and a fellow with a long knife saw to the gatekeeper. He slumped to the ground, blood staining his robes, as a pair of lay-brothers came running. These too were soon despatched, and then the mob moved into the abbey itself, pillaging in an orgy of destruction and thievery.

Stephen and the rest of the men were with them as the mob roved over the close. Stephen it was who battered the monk at the door to the abbot’s chambers; Stephen it was who pulled the confessor from the hall where he had been hiding, and who slammed his war-axe into the man’s face, striking him to the ground. It was a miracle that he did not die, but the wound marked him hideously for the rest of his life.

The abbot’s lodging was torn apart as the men snatched at hallings, tapestries, his clothes, knives, spoons, his boots — everything. All his belongings were strewn about the floor or stolen. Nothing of any value was left behind.

‘Brother, I think we are done,’ Stephen said with a broad smile. He wiped his cheek and brow with a sleeve, smearing a little of the blood.

‘Yes, we must return now.’ Thomas was standing gazing with a small smile of approval at the rampaging crowds. ‘This is glorious work, Stephen. Glorious.’

Monday before Corpus Christi

Berkeley Castle

Since the capture of Matteo Bardi, the castle had lost much of the febrile atmosphere that had so characterised the last weeks. The resolution of the murders of Sir Jevan and the others had brought a cloak of calmness over the whole of the castle. Simon found himself whistling as he walked about the yard, that morning. There appeared no reason to think that the place was under threat any more. The garrison certainly appeared to believe that any risk posed by the rioting in Cirencester was long since dissipated.

Under Baldwin’s incessant demands, however, the majority of the rebuilding works had been completed. The labourers and masons were working with less urgency now that the main weaknesses were restored to their earlier strength.

‘Look at it,’ Baldwin had said to Simon the day before. ‘I would almost wish that they would try to storm the castle now. Never was a fortress so quickly renewed to its former power. Those masons deserve a good portion of the money held here for their efforts.’

Simon could not dispute his words. The men had worked really hard. Even those who were unused to stone workings, such as the four who had arrived from the vill to the north, had slaved with the rest.

He saw Senchet and Harry over towards the keep’s main entrance, and was idly wondering about going to talk to them, when he heard hoofbeats outside. They were galloping wildly, and now a guard on the ramparts was calling down to the gatekeeper, and the three men with polearms at the gate walked out to intercept the rider. There was still a strict control on any new people coming into the castle.

Soon there was an excited babbling at the gate, and Simon hurried over to learn what he could.

There was a young man of perhaps four-and-twenty, lolling in his saddle with exhaustion. His horse was all but blown, and it was clear that they had ridden for miles.

‘What is it?’ Simon demanded, looking up at the fellow.

‘This man says that the Dunheved brothers and their gang have been causing more riots,’ the gatekeeper explained, ‘but this time in Chester!’

Simon, who had at best only a rudimentary understanding of the realm, asked, ‘Where is that?’

‘Sir, it must be fifty leagues from here. About a hundred and fifty miles.’

‘Yes?’

His incomprehension only served to delight the happy gatekeeper. ‘Sir, if the gang is raising Cain a hundred and fifty miles away, they aren’t down here readying themselves to attack us, are they?’

The Feast of Corpus Christi

Berkeley Castle

It was happy, that feast day. Father Luke joined in the festivities, Simon was glad to see, and even the grim-faced Benedetto unbent a little and managed to smile as the minstrels entered and began to play for the company’s pleasure.

‘It does me heart good to hear music,’ Sir Richard said, leaning back in his seat with a contented sigh. The little maid was a short distance away, and she moved nearer to serve him with more wine whenever he held his mazer out. Simon shook his head once more in honest bemusement at the effect the hoary old warrior had upon even the prettiest young maids. It was, as other members of the garrison were fond of repeating, ‘Not fair.’