Senchet and Harry watched the cart being taken away to the stables. Senchet wanted to keep close to all that lovely money in the chest, but even as he watched, two men lifted it down. There was a low stone building near the entrance of the castle, and the men hauled the chest over to it between them. There a man with keys, presumably the keeper, opened the door. The two carried the box inside, and a moment later they were out and the door was again locked.
Senchet felt utter despair at the thought of that lost fortune.
Matteo could smell the smoke, he could hear the screams and shouts, see his brother’s horse rearing, Manuele flailing about him with his riding crop, while the mob attempted to pull him down, some with knives and hatchets, a butcher with his two-handed cleaver. Matteo tried to run towards him, but the throng was too thick, and his legs moved as if through treacle . . . and then he felt the grip of men’s hands on his arms, tugging him away, back from the mob and their bonfire, backwards to safety.
And then he heard the shouts, the sudden pattering of feet, the bellow from old Andrew, his bodyguard, followed by the thud of stones landing all about him. And he felt the stone that clubbed him on the back of the head, slamming him to the ground, seeing the cobblestones rise up to meet his face – and his men running to save their own skins, leaving him to die in the dust.
He felt the single, quick stab in his back, and he screamed . . .
. . . and woke, sweating, the wound inflamed once more. He rolled over on to his belly, knowing it was only a dream, that the mares would bring the same visions to him night after night, that he would never be free of this horror.
It was a long time before he dared close his eyes again.
John had slept moderately well, and woke hoping that his growing beard would protect him from recognition.
The castle was stirring as he rose from his blanket near the wall in the main hall. He walked outside with his blankets and set the bundle on his saddle where he had left it, before studying the yard without enthusiasm. The land around was boggy. It would be astonishingly difficult for any party to storm the place. Still more so to achieve that and reach Edward.
‘You are worried, my friend?’ William atte Hull was at his side already, and he smiled to see John’s startled expression. ‘Don’t panic. It is a skill, walking quietly, which poachers round my home learn when they are young.’
John whispered earnestly, ‘The Dunheveds will not be able to take this place. It is too well protected.’
‘You mean men?’
‘Men, yes. There are too many here. If there were only a small garrison perhaps it could be attempted, but with
‘Perhaps not usually,’ William atte Hull said. ‘But with men inside the castle to ensure that the gate opened, and then helping us from within, then it would be different.’
‘Not with so many guards,’ John said bleakly. He looked about him at the men up on the walls, more men down in the yard, and even as he watched, a party of men rode in through the gates. ‘And even without them, the land about here is too marshy for a force to reach the place. They would have to come along the road, and that would make them too obvious.’
‘There may be another way,’ his companion said. ‘And we shall discover it.’
‘If you say so. But I am doubtful, friend.’
‘There is always hope.’
There was a loud shout from the gate, and John turned to stare as a pair of shabby peasants approached from the mists.
‘Who are they?’ John asked.
William atte Hull looked up without interest. ‘Beggars, perhaps? Either that or a priest and woman petitioning the Lord de Berkeley for some slight, real or imagined.’
John nodded. He felt as though he was in great danger all the time that he remained here in the castle. ‘Sir Jevan saw me, you know, at the gate at Kenilworth.’
‘If he sees you here, tell me,’ William said. His gaze moved back to the two bedraggled figures at the gate. ‘We may have to do something about him.’
Agatha felt the weight of the place as she stepped under the gatehouse. This castle was built, it seemed to her, of men’s dreams and ambitions. And they were crushing.
‘We are here to speak to the Lord de Berkeley,’ Father Luke said to the porter at the gate.
The man looked the Father up and down, and kept his hand on his sword. Giving a whistle over his shoulder, he kept half an eye on the priest and Agatha, while peering out towards the roadway beyond them. Soon a small group of men-at-arms was gathered about them, and the porter could devote his entire attention to them. ‘Where you from?’
‘Willersey. It is-’
‘I know where it is. Why’re you here?’
‘I said, to speak with-’
‘Yeah. You said.’ The man scratched at his armpit, gazing at Agatha. ‘What’s she want?’
‘To speak with-’
‘My Lord de Berkeley, yeah. Why?’
