Read 30 - King's Gold for Free Online Page A

misunderstanding. He had escaped the rope before, only to come to London and be caught in the same predicament!
    Only a few feet or yards up there was the sunlight. Out in the world, men lived, laughed, rutted on their women, ate, walked in the open air, free. How many would even give a thought to the poor devils incarcerated, justifiably or not, down here in the cells? All too few.
    He could see the gate in his mind’s eye. The great age-blackened timbers, the square stone towers rising up on either side. And beyond the gate: life. A short roadway that gave out to the shacks and rough buildings thrown up towards Holeburnstrete 7 , where those who worked in the city but couldn’t afford a room congregated. These were no great mansions like the houses on the road to Westminster where he’d been caught: these were shabby hovels for workers and beggars, sprawling out on either side of the street all higgledy-piggledy, to the Fleet River and beyond.
    And beyond were trees, he remembered. For a while he could almost taste the clean air, and his lungs seemed cleansed of the filth that encompassed this city of fools and fiends.
    It was on La Straunde 8 that he’d been taken, hard by St Clement Danes. The mob was sacking a rich man’s house – someone said it was the Bishop of Exeter’s, but Dolwyn couldn’t give a clipped farthing for that. All he knew was that there were bodies in the street, and behind them, men savaging the building. There were flames in the window, and three men came from the house’s main entrance dragging a huge tapestry. Behind them was a churl with a leather jug, from which he refreshed himself regularly. Catching sight of Dolwyn, he started to point and shout.
    In a moment Dolwyn was surrounded by scruffy youths, the raggle-taggle of London’s streets, all of them armed with knives, cleavers and hatchets.
    ‘What’s your name?’
    ‘Dolwyn of Guildford.’
    ‘Well, “Dolwyn”, only spies and traitors come past here.’
    ‘I am travelling home to Guildford – nothing more.’
    ‘I think you’re a spy.’
    ‘No. I’ve nothing to do with this.’
    ‘You’re spying on us!’
    Dolwyn looked at the place. ‘My master is richer than this. You’re welcome to it. I am with the Bardi . . .’ And then he could have cursed his stupidity.
    ‘You are a Bardi man!’ one of them snarled. ‘A pox on you and your money–lenders!’
    The crowd gave an approving growl and edged nearer.
    He said, ‘I’m only a servant.’
    ‘Just a servant, eh? God’s faith! Those usurers helped the old King ’aginst our city,’ the leader said, and spat into the street. ‘King’s gone now, though, and the Bardi won’t be coming back. The city’s ours!’
    ‘You treat your property with care,’ Dolwyn said, gazing at pillars of smoke rising into the sky.
    ‘The King’s running like a hare before the dogs. Him and Despenser.’
    ‘He can rot in hell,’ a voice muttered.
    ‘I have no business with you, or the King,’ Dolwyn said. ‘I’m just a traveller.’
    ‘I don’t believe you!’
    ‘I piss on you,’ he snapped. ‘I tell the truth!’
    His words enraged someone, because in a moment he was on his knees, being struck repeatedly over the back with a stick. He endured it for a while, but then seized the stick and thrashed his assailant twice, but before he could climb to his feet, he felt a boot slam into his chin, and then fists and feet kept him down.
    And he woke up here in the gaol, along with others the mob disliked.
    There was a new noise. He could just hear it over the sobbing of the boy up the way and the constant drip-drip of water: a rumbling and thundering from overhead. There was a shout, and the sound of a door slamming. Rattles of iron, a quick scream, and then a crashing roar, as of the sea breaking on the shore. But he recognised it. It was the steady pounding of many booted feet.
    Dolwyn moved away from the door warily, like the deer he had once pursued, until he was