He had no weapon. The only tool he had in the chamber was a large steel poker. Perhaps with that he could break through the door? It was worth trying, he thought, and he took it up — but just as he was about to begin, he heard voices outside.
‘Help me! Help!’ he shouted, and to his relief he heard the key turn in the lock. As the door was thrown wide, he dashed forward to thank his rescuers.
It was his misfortune that the three men outside had reason to fear all those held in the castle. They knew that this was not their King, for he was already saved. But seeing a man armed, so they thought, with a sword, rush at them, they all took the precaution of cutting at him before he could hurt any of them.
Matteo fell screaming at the agony of the blows, and was still shrieking as he died.
Up on the battlements, for a moment Baldwin thought that there might have been a victory in the keep, but then he saw the men cheering, lifting their hats and waving them as the slim, elegant, fair-haired figure stood in the doorway at the top of the stairs.
‘What was it all for, Edgar?’ he said tiredly.
‘I think we may be heading for another war, Sir Baldwin.’
‘Sweet Mother of God, preserve us from that,’ the knight breathed. He set his blue sword blade against a fold of his tunic and wiped it clean. The blood, mingled with the oil used to preserve it, stained the material, but he was past caring. Looking about him, he could see the bodies of four men he had killed, and seven more lay dead or squirming. One man had crawled to the corner and lay there now, shivering with shock and cold as his lifeblood drained and drenched his clothes.
Baldwin shoved his sword into its scabbard and leaned against the battlements. All these dead. . and if Sir Edward were to escape, more would die in the continual struggle for power. This time the battles could range over the whole nation, if the King were to gather enough support.
But there was nothing he could do to stop it. He had done his best.
John stood in the court looking on while all around him men cheered and shouted as the King appeared at the top of the stairs, a hand raised tentatively, as though not quite sure whether these men actually planned to support him or kill him. He had the look of a man who receives a pardon while standing on the ladder, the noose already about his neck, unsure whether the ladder will be taken away before he can have the rope removed.
John moved forward, one man among all the forces brought to this place to release their King.
In his mind John saw Paul’s face, the happy, smiling companion whom he had loved closer than a brother. And he saw again that same Paul, choking as he drowned in blood.
This King, this Edward, would raise a host of men to march on his son to take back his authority. His host would attack the castles owned by Sir Roger Mortimer, and slaughter all those inside. The desire for revenge would be all-consuming. After the last civil war, six years ago, the King’s rage had resulted in his cousin being executed, and then hundreds of knights up and down the country had been ritually slain, their bodies carved up and tarred to hang from hooks outside the city walls of the realm. Two years later they were still there.
How many more. How many more must die?
He looked up and saw Sir Edward in front of him.
‘Edgar!’ Baldwin exclaimed. ‘That man there — it’s John of Shulton, isn’t it? What’s he doing?’
Edgar looked down at the men below and spotted the fellow in question pushing through the crowds towards Sir Edward. Edgar ran to the crossbows. One was spanned and loaded still. He took it up.
John saw the face smile. Sir Edward — King Edward — was smiling at him with gratitude.
The irony was appalling, he thought. He had his sword in his hand still, and he glanced down at it. When he returned his gaze to Sir Edward, he saw that the King’s eyes too were fixed on the sword — but not with terror nor even surprise, just a kind of acceptance. He did not try to hide or cower, nor plead to save his life. He merely stood, waiting for the blow.
John mouthed, ‘I am sorry!’ before moving to plunge the sword into Sir Edward’s body.
But before he could do so there was an explosion of pain that ran from his shoulder all the way down to his bowels. He went down, his left knee slamming into the ground, as though he had been punched by someone behind him. There was a searing heat through the whole of his body, and as he turned his head, his chin hit something. The object was red and raw, like a bone freshly butchered — and then he realised it was a bone — his bone. And then the knives and swords came battering and butchering him, and he fell again, staring up at the sky as his heart stopped beating.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
Friday after the Nativity of St John the Baptist
Berkeley Castle
Sir Richard de Welles sat at the table with a grunt of satisfaction. The maid was there already, a hunk of bread ready and waiting for him, and he smiled at her a little wearily as he took it and bit off a piece.
Baldwin walked in a short while later, and Sir Richard said nothing, merely pushed his jug of ale towards him.
‘Thank you, Sir Richard,’ Baldwin said as he sat.
‘How are you?’ the other man asked.
‘Sore, mainly,’ Baldwin answered with a grin. ‘My arms are aching. It reminds me that I am no longer as young as I once was.’
‘Simon?’
‘He’ll recover. He has a hard pate,’ Baldwin said unsympathetically. ‘There are many others who will not wake this morning.’
‘It was a fierce battle,’ Sir Richard said quietly.
He could see those men again, staring at him as he prepared himself for death before Sir Edward’s chamber. In truth, he felt as though he had endured it. Strange, but it was an uplifting experience, not a shameful one, as though passing so near to dying was almost the same as dying in reality.
‘We lost a lot of the garrison,’ Baldwin said.
‘Aye — and Sir Edward.’ Sir Ralph was morosely sipping at a mazer of wine.
‘The posse of the county must search for him,’ Baldwin said.
‘You yourself will not?’
‘No. I never wanted to be his gaoler and I would not see him imprisoned again. Let him find what peace he may, while he may.’
‘Aye. I can understand that,’ Sir Richard said. He was still unnaturally pensive. ‘Your man — a good shot, that.’
‘I was just sorry that John had to die. I rather liked him.’ Baldwin shook his head. ‘He appeared to be with those who wanted to free Sir Edward. I was astonished to see him try to stab him.’
‘We’ll never know why,’ Sir Richard said.
Gradually people began to enter to break their fast after yesterday’s efforts.
Baldwin walked outside. The yard was a mess still. The fires started by the men in the assault were more or less out now, but all about the ward was a fine layer of ash and some thick clots of soot. Baldwin and Sir Richard had caused the bodies to be taken to one side of the yard near the chapel. There were more than thirty men lying there, Baldwin counted. It was enough to spoil his appetite, and he threw his crust away. Wolf snatched it up and bolted it in a moment, and Baldwin put his hand on his dog’s head and ruffled his coat, taking comfort from the animal.
There was no telling, he thought, just what the outcome of this attack would be. Perhaps the old King would fight for his throne again and oust his own son.
But even as he wondered, he saw again the look on the man’s face as John stood before him with his sword unsheathed. Sir Edward had looked almost as though he welcomed the killing blow. To feel like that, Baldwin thought, a man must have travelled through Hell already. Sir Edward had lost wife, friends, throne, authority, wealth — everything. Would it be a surprise if he would be glad of an end to his suffering?