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.
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,
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 –
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.
