had other things on his mind.
Taking a purse, Father Luke opened it and marvelled again. The coins were gold, with a lily on one side, the image of St John on the other. He knew it was called a ‘Florin’. The Florentines minted them, and they were worth some shillings each. If they were valued at three shillings, he thought, with twenty purses of fifty coins in each, there were one thousand gold coins here: that must mean at least three thousand shillings – a hundred and fifty pounds! It made him weak to think of such wealth. He was about to shove the chest back into the gap, when he heard a cheerful voice calling to him.
‘Father Luke? You’re far from home!’
Luke spun on his heel and found himself staring into the face of John of Shulton, the man who had told him of Despenser’s death. ‘Why, good day to you, sir! And what are you doing here?’
‘Riding to Kenilworth. What of you?’
After days with the sullen purveyor, Luke felt something akin to affection for this man. He forgot how nervous he had been when he first met John.
‘Isn’t that the mark of my lord Despenser?’ John added, peering at the chest.
‘Yes. It is his,’ Luke whispered with a glance at the inn. ‘He gave it to me for safekeeping, and I am taking it to Kenilworth for the King.’
‘You mean Sir Edward,’ John corrected. He eyed the chest with some interest. ‘They call him Sir Edward of Caernarfon now, you know, Father.’
‘Hey! Who are you, and what are you gawping at?’ Dunheved shouted from the door. He was walking from the ale-house with a pair of jugs in his hands, and passed one to Luke. ‘This load is all for the garrison at Kenilworth.’
‘It is no matter to me,’ said John, and nodded his head to Luke. ‘I would have joined you on your journey, Father, but I think your grumpy friend here has no wish for company. Godspeed you on your way!’
Luke muttered his own farewell, but the man was already riding away at a smart trot.
The purveyor said nothing, but his eyes were on the man, and he wore a strange expression, almost a smile, as John disappeared into the distance. And then he shook himself and said bluntly, ‘Food is on the way.’
Luke could not help but notice that the man’s eyes turned now to the cart, and suddenly he squinted. And when Luke turned, he saw the edge of the chest protruding from the blankets, which he had inadequately arranged to cover it.
Lecwotton
Stephen Dunheved was eager for a drink. As soon as he had finished his first quart of ale, staring thoughtfully up the road in the direction John had taken, he went back inside the ale-house for another.
It was one thing to be assured of acting for the general good, but when it came to a situation like this, knowing that men would soon die, and that he himself could be one of them, that was a different matter. Not that he was scared, just tense, because he knew what lay ahead. A fight, certainly, and possibly the release of their rightful king, along with the glory that would ensue. It was a wonderful ambition – and yet he felt weary and fretful, and couldn’t shake off a sense of impending doom.
He had been in difficult situations before, of course. Six years ago he had been forced to abjure the realm for killing a man, and didn’t return until the King pardoned him. Within the year he was Valet of the King’s Chamber, and soon afterwards, Edward made him custodian of Lyonshall Castle, then appointed him to hold an inquisition. Stephen’s future had seemed assured. He had not conceived of the King losing his throne.
This wretched tavern seemed to emphasise just how far he had fallen. Once, he had moved in the best circles – not that you would think it, to look at him now. To all he was a scruffy acquirer of goods, little better than a churl, and everyone knew that purveyors had a bad reputation.
He grimaced. The fire was smoking profusely in the middle of the room, and there was a loud hissing as moisture bubbled from
Taking a purse, Father Luke opened it and marvelled again. The coins were gold, with a lily on one side, the image of St John on the other. He knew it was called a ‘Florin’. The Florentines minted them, and they were worth some shillings each. If they were valued at three shillings, he thought, with twenty purses of fifty coins in each, there were one thousand gold coins here: that must mean at least three thousand shillings – a hundred and fifty pounds! It made him weak to think of such wealth. He was about to shove the chest back into the gap, when he heard a cheerful voice calling to him.
‘Father Luke? You’re far from home!’
Luke spun on his heel and found himself staring into the face of John of Shulton, the man who had told him of Despenser’s death. ‘Why, good day to you, sir! And what are you doing here?’
‘Riding to Kenilworth. What of you?’
After days with the sullen purveyor, Luke felt something akin to affection for this man. He forgot how nervous he had been when he first met John.
‘Isn’t that the mark of my lord Despenser?’ John added, peering at the chest.
‘Yes. It is his,’ Luke whispered with a glance at the inn. ‘He gave it to me for safekeeping, and I am taking it to Kenilworth for the King.’
‘You mean Sir Edward,’ John corrected. He eyed the chest with some interest. ‘They call him Sir Edward of Caernarfon now, you know, Father.’
‘Hey! Who are you, and what are you gawping at?’ Dunheved shouted from the door. He was walking from the ale-house with a pair of jugs in his hands, and passed one to Luke. ‘This load is all for the garrison at Kenilworth.’
‘It is no matter to me,’ said John, and nodded his head to Luke. ‘I would have joined you on your journey, Father, but I think your grumpy friend here has no wish for company. Godspeed you on your way!’
Luke muttered his own farewell, but the man was already riding away at a smart trot.
The purveyor said nothing, but his eyes were on the man, and he wore a strange expression, almost a smile, as John disappeared into the distance. And then he shook himself and said bluntly, ‘Food is on the way.’
Luke could not help but notice that the man’s eyes turned now to the cart, and suddenly he squinted. And when Luke turned, he saw the edge of the chest protruding from the blankets, which he had inadequately arranged to cover it.
Lecwotton
Stephen Dunheved was eager for a drink. As soon as he had finished his first quart of ale, staring thoughtfully up the road in the direction John had taken, he went back inside the ale-house for another.
It was one thing to be assured of acting for the general good, but when it came to a situation like this, knowing that men would soon die, and that he himself could be one of them, that was a different matter. Not that he was scared, just tense, because he knew what lay ahead. A fight, certainly, and possibly the release of their rightful king, along with the glory that would ensue. It was a wonderful ambition – and yet he felt weary and fretful, and couldn’t shake off a sense of impending doom.
He had been in difficult situations before, of course. Six years ago he had been forced to abjure the realm for killing a man, and didn’t return until the King pardoned him. Within the year he was Valet of the King’s Chamber, and soon afterwards, Edward made him custodian of Lyonshall Castle, then appointed him to hold an inquisition. Stephen’s future had seemed assured. He had not conceived of the King losing his throne.
This wretched tavern seemed to emphasise just how far he had fallen. Once, he had moved in the best circles – not that you would think it, to look at him now. To all he was a scruffy acquirer of goods, little better than a churl, and everyone knew that purveyors had a bad reputation.
He grimaced. The fire was smoking profusely in the middle of the room, and there was a loud hissing as moisture bubbled from
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