‘What is happening?’ Edward demanded. ‘Is it assassins? Murderers?’
‘Sorry, Your Highness,’ the man at the window responded. He was still staring down at the inner ward. ‘There’s an attack on the castle.’
‘To kill me?’ Edward said.
‘What?’
And at the sight of his surprise, Edward felt his breath catch at the sudden realisation: the men attacking intended to rescue him! The man with the Bardi letter was not alone!
More shouting. There was a steady metallic clattering, then a rattle and hiss, and Edward glanced at the open windows. Arrows flew through the air, and he narrowed his eyes. Some of the men must have got into the castle, then, but having gained that inner space, they would find every door closed and barred, against them. They would be trapped.
A roared command, to ‘Fall back! To the gates!’ and Edward knew that the attempt to save him was doomed. Stumbling slightly, he made his way over to a seat at the window, from where he could see out.
There were four bodies lying in the court. Two were moving; one appeared to be trying to crawl to the gate, but then a guard hurried from a doorway with an axe, and hacked at his head until he was still.
Edward shuddered. To have gone from the conviction that he was in immediate danger, to the belief that someone was attempting his rescue, had left him drained. He did not acknowledge the men as they unbolted the door and left, allowing a page to enter. As the lad wandered about lighting candles, seeing to the fire and setting out the table for a small supper, Edward sat staring out.
But now he was not full of resentment.
He had rediscovered hope.
Dolwyn stood frozen to the spot as the last of the riders hurtled off into the distance. He was transfixed with horror, since from a simple situation in which he had anticipated being able to arrange the release of Sir Edward, he now felt as though he had been propelled into a nightmare.
Who in God’s name were those fools? Had they no brains? No one without at least two hundred men could hope to storm a castle like Kenilworth. No, make that two thousand. And these congeons18 had tried it with ten, perhaps twelve.
He wanted to roar his rage at the moon and vent some of the frustration he felt, as he realised that there was no possibility now that he could free Sir Edward of Caernarfon. The King would be secured tighter than a tick, and even with all his cleverness, Dolwyn would not be able to get close to him.
‘Aw, shite,’ he said with feeling.
Second Tuesday before the Feast of the Annunciation
Caerphilly
Senchet Garcie stood beyond the drawbridge at Caerphilly and drew in a deep breath. ‘It smells better out here, don’t you agree?’
‘Nah, it’s not that much different,’ Harry le Cur said grimly. ‘Inside there it smelled of shit and piss, and out here it’s the same.’
Senchet looked from his friend to the men all around. ‘So long as nobody tests his sword on me, I will persist in being happy.’
‘Aye, well,’ Harry said quietly. He too eyed the men about the castle. After a long siege, surrender was a dangerous time. ‘Hold! Here’s our welcoming party.’
It was impossible to be sad today, Senchet thought: they were out of the castle. There was a certain amount of tension in the air, in case the promises of safety had been lies, but he doubted it. They were being released with honour, and for that he was grateful. He would make a donation to a church. . when he had some money.
The capitulation had taken an age to negotiate. All were to be freed without surrendering their weapons and had been promised full pardons. Even Hugh III, the son of Hugh le Despenser, was assured of his freedom.
Hugh III was bearing up well. His father and grandfather had both died hanged, drawn and quartered, and at only eighteen or nineteen years, Hugh III had shown courage that men double his age lacked.
The castle’s guards had held out, honourably defending the King’s last castle, as they had been commanded. Initially they had clung to the hope that relief would come, until news came of the execution of Sir Hugh le Despenser and the King’s abdication. After that, they held on in order to secure the best terms. And so they had.
Senchet scratched behind his ear where a flea had bitten. ‘No, the air out here definitely tastes better, my friend. Here, my soul feels free again.’
‘There’s a wind, true,’ Harry grunted, but as he spoke his attention was drawn to the rattle and thump of wagons making their way towards them. ‘What are they for?’ he asked suspiciously.
Senchet gave a chuckle. ‘The first thing any attacker would think of, naturally. They’re here to take any loot.’
Harry gave a relieved sigh. ‘To grab the King’s gold, then.’
‘And Sir Hugh le Despenser’s, eh?’
‘You can be assured of that, Senchet.’
‘All those barrels. Five hundred pounds in each of ’em.’
‘Aye,’ Harry said. They had both seen the rows of barrels in the undercroft. It was a sight to gladden a man’s heart.
‘Except the last one. Despenser’s contained a thousand pounds,’ Senchet recalled with a sigh. ‘Ah! It is sad to be a poor man, my friend. To think of that vast wealth in there. So desirable, so beautiful — and so far from us!’ He held his fingers to his mouth, kissing them with a look of such mournful longing that Harry laughed despite himself.
‘Senchet, such riches aren’t for the likes of you and me. We have to seek out a new lord and plead for his largesse.’
‘You have any thoughts about this new lord?’
‘There are some who may welcome us,’ Harry said. He took in the grey landscape about them. ‘They’re all a long way from here, though.’
‘If we had but a small part of the money from the barrels, travel would be easier,’ Senchet noted.
‘And if we had wings, we could fly.’
‘So we must walk.’
‘Yes. And hope to find a new master,’ Harry said.
He was not optimistic.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Near Kenilworth
Frere Thomas Dunheved shivered at the sound of thundering hooves approaching. He knew with a certainty that, were he to be captured, his life would not be worth a penny. They would kill him — once they had garnered all the information he held.
On hearing the horses, he had flung himself down into a thicket of brambles and holly, the only cover that lay about here. His black gown was all besmottered with mud, his hands, and no doubt his face, were smeared with it too, and he had a thorn in his thumb.
He could have sworn aloud at the disaster. All that planning and effort, gone to waste. God had not aided them, and Frere Thomas was once more on the run from the enemies of the true King.
How different things had been, once! The House of the Black Friars in London seemed a lifetime ago, a thousand leagues away. Was it truly only six months since his urgent flight with the King from London? It was difficult to believe.
But there were more pressing concerns. Where was Stephen? His older brother had pelted through the gate with him, the two of them thrilling with the sheer lunatic excitement while bolts and arrows fell all about them. Two others from their gang made it. The others. . well, all perished in the storm of clothyard arrows and crossbow quarrels in that deadly ward.
Once outside, their predicament had grown clear. There were too many men in the castle, too much open land in front of it, and too much damned water in the moat, apart from anything else. They had been lucky that Stephen’s horse was near to hand, another running wildly, crazed at the smell of blood, the shouting of fighting men. It was the action of a moment to snatch at the reins, leap into the saddle and, bending low over the horse’s neck, ride away as fast as possible.