The light had faded quickly behind the castle walls last night, but he had seen the bodies. Men dragged the dead to the wall, where they were left side-by-side. While he watched, two dogs trotted over, one to urinate, the other to lick and nudge, and he had wondered whether the latter was trying to waken its master, or whether it was testing the quality of the meat.
Sitting in a shaft of sunlight by the window with a goblet of wine, he was aware of a deep thrilling in his soul. He would soon be free. His subjects were coming to their senses. They knew they must honour their King: they had seen the error of their ways. Before long, Sir Roger Mortimer would be in chains in the Tower, and then he would die.
Isabella, his wife, who had committed adultery, would never know power again. It was incomprehensible how she could have rebelled against him — her husband, her lord, her King. Did she hate him?
She was a child when they married in the Year of Our Lord 1308, and he had been as kind to her as a brother to his sister. Happy days. But four years later his closest friend, Piers Gaveston, was murdered by a rabble of embittered barons jealous of their friendship. They slew Piers, and Edward was distraught. It was sweet Isabella who helped him then. He found in his Queen a woman of startling intelligence and compassion. In his hour of need, he discovered that this beautiful, talented, sympathetic woman understood his realm, his people, and him.
Strange to think that now, fifteen years later, she was flaunting her affair with his most deplored traitor.
She would be banished while he demanded a Papal Order annulling their marriage. She had made a cuckold of him, and betrayed his realm, and he could never forget or forgive. Just as he would not forget those who had joined in her invasion. All would pay.
Such were the satisfying reflections that engaged him as he sat in the window. When there came a knock at the door and his guard walked in, he could even smile thinly.
‘Sir Edward, I’m glad to see you well,’ Gilbert le Sadler said.
‘I am very safe. You guard me well,’ Edward said sarcastically. He raised his empty goblet, and his steward hurried to fill it for him. This man, Harold, was a good fellow. Not so attentive as his old steward, who had been with Edward for almost twelve years until he was cut down on the day Edward had been captured. One of so many who had died in his defence. Another pointless death.
Gilbert paid his words no heed. His brown eyes were strained as he studied his charge. ‘Sire, this was no group of silly men who hoped to make you free of this place. They were thoughtful fellows who knew what they were about. This time they failed, but next. .’
‘So you are concerned that I could be released?’ Edward said, venom dripping from each word. ‘No doubt that is why you look so fearful. I would say you were frit, if I were to judge. Or is it fear for your own skin? You should be afraid, gaoler. You hold your King against his will.’
‘Some while ago I received a message from Sir Roger Mortimer-’
‘Do not speak that name in my presence!’ Edward hissed. ‘I will not hear it.’
‘However, I must tell you the import of his message.’
Edward averted his face as Gilbert haltingly continued. ‘I was warned, you see, that if at any time I felt you weren’t safe, I should remove you,’ Gilbert said. He chewed at his inner cheek. ‘After the attack last evening, I think that time has come.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Sir Roger suggested Berkeley Castle. It’s safer. It’s a pleasant place-’
Edward rasped, ‘It is a charmless hovel with views of bog and marsh. It has little to redeem it, most particularly as it is the seat of the Berkeley family.’
‘They’re honourable men.’
‘By their own lights. They are also allies of Mortimer. Lord de Berkeley is his son-in-law, and he is my sworn enemy.’
‘Sir Roger commands me to escort you there. I am sorry, these are my orders.’
‘What would the world be if a serf did not carry out his orders? Tell me: if you were ordered to kill me, would you obey that, too?’
‘My. . Please, I-’
‘Would you feel happier to thrust a knife into my bowels here? Now?’ Edward said, holding his hand to his belly. ‘If your esteemed Sir Roger, the traitor, were to command it, would you do his bidding?’
The steward stepped forward as though to protect him, but Edward waved him back.
‘He is honourable,’ Gilbert said miserably. ‘Murder would be-’
‘You think Mortimer has not considered such a contingency? He has thought of transporting me from Kenilworth, in which there are few who bear me ill-will, and instead install me in the castle of his friend and ally. I like this not, master. I consider this a most ungenerous suggestion. If I could guess, I would say that Berkeley is likely where I shall die.’
He spoke the truth. In his mind’s eye the castle of the Berkeleys was draped in a perpetual twilight, a foul black outline against the sky like a tomb. His tomb.
A thought struck him. ‘How did he know of the attack? Is he here?’
‘No. He is a day’s ride away, in Wales. But a strange thing happened two days ago. A man masquerading as a messenger came to the castle. He escaped before I could catch him, but I deemed it necessary to let Sir Roger know.’
Edward could have cursed. So Dolwyn had been seen! He tried to sound off-hand, but only succeeded in peevishness. ‘So, a man tried to harm me, and you’ll send me to the man who wishes me dead?’
‘You’ll be better guarded there than here.’
‘By the son-in-law of Sir Roger Mortimer himself. Yes, I will be well guarded. To the death.’
‘I shall ride to Berkeley with you, if it would please you.’
‘So, my gaoler and those whom he selects shall take me to my death. How reassuring!’
‘My lord,’ Gilbert coughed, ‘if it would help, is there someone I could have join us to protect you on the way? A man or two whom you would trust?’
Edward of Caernarfon passed a hand over his eyes. ‘Someone from our kingdom to protect me? Whom should I ask, I wonder.’
He went silent. There were two men who had proved their valour to him, out on that pasturage in Wales just before his capture: he saw his steward fall, his body cloven by a sword, he saw the men pounding towards him on their great destriers, and he saw the two who strove to get between him and his enemies. Two knights, one with the black beard that followed the line of his chin, the other with the serious eyes that watched so carefully.
He gave the guard their names: Sir Baldwin de Furnshill and Sir Ralph of Evesham. ‘If you can win these two men for my party, I shall agree to go wheresoever you wish to take me,’ he said.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Wednesday before the Feast of the Annunciation
Bubenall
Father Luke peered out from the little barn in which he had passed his second night up north of Kenilworth. It was a clear, cool dawn, and the grass was bejewelled with dew. Luke would normally have felt his heart lighten at the sight, but not any longer.
The battle two days ago had shocked him to his core. In the past he had imagined what a battle might look like, but never had he thought to witness one. It was hideous.
Luke had stood gaping, only dimly aware of his own danger, as other men were shot down. It was only when an arrow fell with a loud thwock into the ground near him, the clothyard quivering, that he too fled.
He was over the causeway when he heard the rumble of pursuing horses and knew that his ordeal was not yet over. In terror, he hurled himself into a muddy ditch, pulling his cowl over his head and praying with a desperation he had not known since he was a child. His urgent entreaties appeared to work. The posse of men-at-arms galloped past him, the men screaming their war cries.