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‘Better to see them stop and talk,’ Father Luke chuckled, leaning aside to allow Agatha to reach the fire.

Aye, we’ve ridden far. And there are evil tidings and to spare,’ Paul said, staring into the fire gloomily.

‘Why, my friend?’

‘The King is captured. That whining cur Lancaster has him, and is taking King Edward to Kenilworth.’

‘Good God!’ Father Luke exclaimed, clutching at the cross about his neck. ‘But how? There was no news . . . Are you sure, my friend? Surely God would not see His crowned King brought so low?’

‘We were there,’ Paul stated baldly. ‘The King was captured near Caerphilly with all those who remained loyal to him. There were few enough of them.’

‘What will become of him?’

‘He’ll be at the mercy of Mortimer and the Queen. What they will do . . .’ He broke off, clenching his jaw.

‘Come, Paul,’ John said. ‘There’s no need to torment yourself. We’ve done our duty.’

‘You shock me,’ Father Luke muttered. ‘This is dreadful news. If a man raises his hand against God’s anointed, He must punish the kingdom, surely.’

‘Our King must be freed.’

It was John of Shulton who spoke, stroking a hone along his sword’s edge. There was a faraway look in his eyes, but Father Luke saw the glitter in them, and the sight made him shudder.

Agatha sat beside Luke’s fire and took up his old stone, setting it on the fire while she mixed the oatmeal. Luke had done this when he was young, when he was a boy near Durham. Oat was a staple still in the north, as it was here, but many considered it suitable only for horses and cattle. More fool them – for it made a good, solid base in the belly for a cold man, Father Luke reckoned. The action of mixing it and forming a paste with a little milk and water had always been enough to distract him. Now, he saw that Agatha was listening, open-mouthed to their tale, the cakes forgotten. Luke gave a click of his tongue, and she renewed her mixing.

The men drank deeply of their cider, and while their cloaks and jacks dripped on the floor, they watched Agatha dropping rounds onto the hot stone, moving them deftly with her fingers before they could stick. Soon there were fifteen little cakes, and while they cooled on the priest’s single wooden trencher, Luke himself fetched a little cheese and some leaves from his garden. They had been badly attacked by slugs, and this late in the year they were tough, but any salad was good.

‘Are you well, Father?’ John of Shulton said, sucking a pigeon bone.

‘I suppose I am . . . distracted by this news.’

Paul said, ‘We were servants of Sir Hugh le Despenser. To think our lord could be . . . But while I have breath in my body and strength in my arm, I won’t accept my King being held.’

‘Paul,’ John said warningly.

‘I will do all in my power to release the King,’ Paul said firmly. ‘I don’t care who hears it.’

‘Oh?’ Luke said.

It was then that he had the thought: if these two were Despenser’s men, then perhaps they could take his chest with them. But dare he entrust it to two such desperate men? No, he decided reluctantly. Whatever was inside must be valuable. Maybe he should open it and take a look inside.

By early afternoon they were gone, and he was beneath the tower staring with terror at the money.

‘Despenser’s dead,’ he muttered.

‘What, Father?’

‘Nothing, Agatha,’ he said.

She had returned after the evening service to bring him some bread. Now she set her mouth into a prim line, as she turned to leave.

‘I know,’ Luke said. ‘It is shocking to think that our King-’

‘It was his wife saw to it,’ she said grimly, ‘That’s treason of the worst sort.’

‘Er, well, yes,’ he agreed, watching as she made her way from his house. Women were beyond him, but he thought he could detect a hint of jealousy. Perhaps she was thinking of her own marriage.

He walked along the grassy path to his church, and crossed himself with a little water from the stoup, before kneeling on the hard tiles before the altar.

He could not keep it. That was certain. Those coins would be a magnet for every outlaw and drawlatch in Gloucestershire.

He took a deep sigh and gazed at the cross, seeking answers. Yes, he must send the money away . . . but to whom? The owner was dead, his heir held with his father’s remaining retainers in a Welsh castle from which he might never escape. There must be someone who could take it, but at least it was safe here for now. No one knew of it but him.

He wished he had asked those two for advice, at least. They might have known what to do with it.

CHAPTER SIX

Dunchurch Manor, Warwickshire

Frere Thomas rose to his feet in the little chapel and crossed himself fervently. In the last days he had managed to avoid capture, largely because he had been aided by his brothers, but also God was preserving him too, naturally.