They were all weapons.
Near Kenilworth Castle
Dolwyn did not dare to stay in the town that night. Instead he left the castle, and then set off in an easterly direction until he came to a small farming hamlet, where he bought some ale and eggs fried with a spot of grease from a pot of bacon fat. It was delicious, and when he asked, he was permitted to make use of their little hayloft, where he slept the night in warm comfort, unworried by the rats and beetles that scurried about him.
All was well; better than well. He had seen the contents of the letter — and had hoped for some small reward for delivering it to Sir Edward. How naïve he had been! For now he saw how much more he could make by helping the man. While Edward’s position was not as good as once it had been, at least Dolwyn had won his confidence. And if the grateful Sir Edward of Caernarfon was ever brought back to power, Dolwyn knew that he would personally be granted a good posting himself. Perhaps become a sergeant in a royal castle, or land some cushy job in the Tower of London — something like that, something without hard work. Ideally in a place like Barnard Castle, where there wouldn’t be too many others to keep an eye on him. Then he could copy Jack the Irishman, and cream as much money as he liked off the local peasants. As a King’s official, they would have no way to refuse any demands he made.
Life, he reflected, could be sweet.
Now that Edward knew that he had the support of the Bardi, he had said he must think about how to effect his escape from this prison. It was terrible, to think that all Dolwyn’s future dreams depended upon the former King’s escape, but better that than for Edward to remain in gaol and for Dolwyn never to see the fruits of his efforts.
He would help Edward escape, he swore to himself now, and as a result, he would be elevated to a position of importance.
All that remained was to work out how this escape could be effected. That, he knew, would take some thought.
Kenilworth
They were close now. Stephen Dunheved could feel his excitement growing as they passed up the road near to Kenilworth, his eyes roving about the trees that lay at either side of the road watching for any signs of ambush — a half-concealed figure, a glint of steel.
He was riding his own sturdy pony, but his urgency to reach the castle was such that even his mount was behaving like a destrier, prancing skittishly as they proceeded over the rough roadway.
This was not the first time he had set out on a journey that would end in danger. In the last months he and his companions had forged a reputation for ruthless determination. Only two weeks ago, he and others with Sir Edmund Gascelin had stolen horses, oxen and cows, as well as a thousand sheep, from villages in Gloucester, and then they had gone on to Shilton near Coventry and taken more. The beasts were good for barter, but also for food, and the men needed food, God knew.
At the castle approached, he offered up a short prayer for success. They would need all God’s help if they were to succeed. It was a fool’s errand, this. They could only summon a tiny number of their men at such short notice, and the plan depended upon their arrival as the gates were being closed. That was when the whole castle would be thinking of rest and not the possibility of attack. He prayed again that he was not too late. The light would be fading soon, and he knew that the gates would be closed as soon as the bells rang for the curfew. He wouldn’t want to be stuck out here in the dark, easy prey, while the others all remained inside.
‘Can’t you hurry the beast?’ he shot at Ham.
Ham threw him an anxious look. ‘I’m sorry, master. The poor old nag can’t go any faster, not with this load.’ He was worried by Stephen’s snappishness, and by John and Paul riding along behind them all.
Stephen cursed to himself under his breath, avoiding the eye of the damned priest. Luke had not been overly troublesome on the way here, but he had a habit of pursing his lips every time he heard even a mild curse that was intensely irritating to a man like Stephen. Since they had collected the weapons, he had pursed his lips more and more often, and he had a wild look in his eye; he could be a risk — he could give their plot away. Perhaps he ought to be left here, and not taken on. But the trouble was, Stephen daren’t leave him unguarded, and the mere fact of his presence at the gates would reduce suspicion, surely. That was how his brother had got inside — hopefully. The others were supposed to have infiltrated the castle with the stores over the day, and with luck were in there waiting even now for Stephen and the weapons to arrive.
Until today they had made good time. Damn his stupidity! He’d thought that they would be too early, so it had been his choice to rest a while at that inn, the decision that had left them so late. He had underestimated the amount of time it would take to get here after meeting John and Paul, and that complacency could mean disaster. The others would all be ready, waiting in position. While it would have been hazardous to arrive too early, to be too late could be catastrophic.
He fretted, chewing at his lip. The cart was rolling along at a steady pace, but up ahead there was the castle, a red, square keep with a fearsome glow about it now in the light of the sinking sun, and it was still too far. They wouldn’t make it in time.
Stephen felt the excitement and frustration growing at the same time, anxious that he might make another poor decision. Should he carry on here, hoping to make it in time, or. .
‘The pox on them!’ he suddenly blurted out. ‘John, Paul, I’m going to ride on and make sure they don’t shut the gates. You stay with the cart!’
He set his face at the castle, then, taking his rein-end, he lashed hard at his beast’s rump while raking at the animal’s flanks with his spurs. Stung into action, the beast jolted, startled, and then sprang forward. Stephen urged it on, kicking and swearing at the brute, but the pony was already gaining speed. At a gallop, his mount bore him past the little cemetery of a chapel, past the fringes of a tiny village, and up to the bridge over the lakes. At the far end of this was the gatehouse to the castle itself, a great building in its own right, with a small tower at either side of the causeway.
It was the most imposing castle he had ever seen. All about it lay the water, an enormous lake of a hundred acres, maybe three quarters of a mile long, with one great loop to the west of the castle and second, smaller one to the south. Attack was all but impossible. The last siege here took nine months, and then it was only illness and starvation that caused the inmates to beg for terms. The best machines in the land could not harm the walls, and no one could mine them, not so close to the lakes. Miners would have drowned.
At the far side of the bridge as he rode onto the timbers, the wood echoing hollowly beneath him, he could see the Norman keep, a massive fortress in its own right built from the reddish stone of the area. It was here to subdue as well as defend, and the square, rugged outline against the sky was fearful.
Two sentries were there at the gates, and they crossed their polearms before he could pass, but he didn’t get the impression that they were serious. ‘I have food,’ he gasped, jerking his thumb behind him to point at the cart. ‘I’m purveyor — special foods for your-’
‘Get in, then. Gate’s to be shut soon,’ one of the men said, and hawked and spat.
‘Will you leave the gates until they arrive, then?’ he asked, and received a noncommittal grunt in response.
‘These your friends?’
There, behind him, he saw John and Paul riding at a trot towards the gate. It was enough to make him grit his teeth. ‘Yes.’