King's Gold

‘A thin man, pale,’ Dolwyn said, and went on to describe his master, including the clothes he had been wearing on the last day Dolwyn saw him.

‘I think you may be in luck,’ Alured said. He had tested the man, and it seemed that he was genuine. ‘Here, help me with this door and we can stop any more pillagers.’

With Dolwyn’s help, they managed to lift the door, the remaining hinge protesting loudly, and lean it against the frame.

‘It will take a good blacksmith to mend those hinges,’ Alured panted. ‘I know a man not far from here can do it.’

‘You said I may be in luck?’ Dolwyn asked cautiously. He had no liking for bailiffs and constables, and feared recapture.

Alured looked him up and down, then nodded to himself. ‘Come with me, friend,’ he said.

Dolwyn did as he was bid, trailing after Alured as the man led him along narrow alleyways and streets until they came to a small house near St Stephen, almost beside the River Walbrook. Here Alured glanced at him again. ‘Seemed safer to bring your master here to my own home than leave him behind,’ he said, half-apologetically, and threw the door wide.

On a low palliasse on the floor near a hearth in the middle of the room lay a pallid, unhealthful figure.

‘Master Matteo!’ Dolwyn exclaimed.

Monday after the Feast of St Martin

Woods near Caerphilly Castle

He had run as soon as it happened, and by a miracle none had seen him.

Thomas Dunheved panted wildly, his eyes staring back the way he had come. There were still occasional screams, the rattle of weapons beating on shields or armour, panicked neighing and whinnying from injured horses as the battle continued elsewhere.

He fell to his knees, a black-clad figure clutching his hands together, and bowed his tonsured head, his words tumbling out like water thundering over rocks, the tears falling and tracking through the grime on his cheeks, until he could speak no more, and instead his throat was clogged with sobs.

Frere Thomas Dunheved, Dominican Friar and Confessor to the King, could not beg for help from God. God Himself had betrayed King Edward. He had allowed His anointed King to be captured by his enemies – how could He have permitted that to happen?

The blackfriar rose to his feet, still weeping. After so many years working to protect and serve his King, reconciling him with the Pope, doing all he might to aid the King’s projects in the hope that by so doing His purpose would be supported, now all was in vain. The King was captured by his enemies.

There was nothing more for him here. If he was found, he could be slain out of hand by those who despised him. No, rather than wait and be caught, he would make his way home. Perhaps there he could find some peace.

For others there would be little enough of that, now that the King was taken.

Second Tuesday after the Feast of St Martin

Approaching Worcester

The prisoner rode like a man who had drunk mandrake, almost in a stupor.

Sergeant Gilbert le Sadler, a cheerful, large-bellied man with the red face of a committed ale-drinker, was worried about him. On this journey, while his lord the Earl of Lancaster saw to business of his own, it fell to Gilbert to take charge of his valuable captive. The sergeant had never been given such an awesome task before. To be responsible for King Edward II of England!

They had many more miles to ride, but from the appearance of the King, he would not manage half the distance. He lolled, swaying with every lurch of the beast beneath him, and several times Gilbert had been convinced that the King would topple from his horse.

‘My lord,’ he said again, ‘would you like to stop and rest a little? I have wine, food . . . Come now, wouldn’t a break do you good?’

The King made no sign that he had heard him. He was still handsome, a tall, strongly-built man with long fair hair that framed his face perfectly. With his prowess in the lists and with his sword, it was easy to see how so many had fallen under his spell.

‘My lord?’ Gilbert tried again.

There was no response. The King was prisoner in his own country, and his manner was pitiable. After the shocks and disasters of the last year it was no surprise he had lost his mind. He had lost everything else.

Gilbert shook his head. He was only a sergeant, when all was said and done. This was the sort of job that should have been given to a lord, not to him. He had his own score of men, but today he was in command of a further hundred, just to guard this King.

‘My lord, soon we shall rest – at the next village where there is an inn suitable for a man of your status,’ he promised.