King's Gold

KING’S GOLD A MOST DANGEROUS TREASURE HUNTS NOVEL SIMON Q ELLIOTT DECLINING MAJESTY 1216. The Wash, Eastern England. King John’s caravan stretched over a quarter of a mile. The troops, carts and wagons were on a boggy path, trudging into a strong wind. Heavy rain blurred the vision of hundreds of men. The king was absent. Gone to Bedmundesham for a cure to his fevered sickness. Some men noted it gave him a less trying route around the flat salt marshes of the Wash to Swineshead. For the main caravan, there was only hard going on treacherous tidal causeways. Flashes of lightning were close. Claps of thunder spooked the horses and darkened an already inky mood among the retinue. Their loyalty to a king known as ‘Mollegladium’, or ‘Softsword’, seemed ill-advised now the rebellious barons had invited the French king to sit on England’s throne. John’s defeats – military, political and religious – assailed their minds as the heavy carts and wagons of the royal caravan clanked slowly along a causeway on the barren East Anglian coast. At the front, Elfric, the Abbott of Sleaford, guided them. He led the way with a white painted cross held high so all could see his direction. Elfric was old, but not yet elderly. The hair and beard stuck down on his skull by the rain had occasional touches of darkness among the gray. Years in the fields of the monastery’s farms had weathered his skin. Elfric’s devotion to the Lord was hard, but his faith sustained him. Sir Peter De Stell, Commander of the King’s Troop, rode towards Elfric. The tall, powerful man responsible for escorting the baggage caravan to safety towered high on his dark brown war horse. Underneath his robes he wore chain mail and had weapons at hand. Elfric knew that in easier times De Stell might have dressed to ride, not fight, but England was a country at war. Sir Peter’s harbinger had recruited Elfric as a guide across the dangerous acres of the Wash. It was a place where pathways turned to quicksand in a single step. All travelers of means had someone to see them to safety. Elfric had presented what he knew De Stell’s arrogant, noble breeding expected in a guide. An old man who knew his place. A monk who knew that refusing to guide the king, or even a noble, would have made him liable to punishment at the hands of his betters. The hooves of Sir Peter’s horse were making a deeper sucking noise every time it lifted them. ‘Priest. Are you certain of our path?’ ‘Your Lordship’s concern is natural, but we who know these paths rely on the knowledge for our lives. We will have hours to spare in our passage.’ He smiled at the king’s man as the mud gripped his feet. De Stell nodded, his disquiet apparent as he turned and rode part of the way back along the line of carts, men and horses. The caravan crawled forward for a few more minutes. Elfric’s pace was in keeping with that of a royal train. He didn’t hurry them along. He had known he had them from the moment they stepped onto the causeway. The sea would make every step treacherous within a few moments. The signs of rising seawater made themselves clear. Elfric’s bare feet became nearly impossible to lift away from the ground. Snorts and heavier breathing rose from the horses at the effort of raising their hooves. The sucking of the sodden, quickening sand was louder at every step. The heavy carts were the first to slow. Whips cracked heavier on the horses’ backs, as sandy mud gripped the wheels of the king’s baggage train. At the same moment the drivers realised they were becoming stuck, Elfric saw a thin smear of water cover the sandy earth of the causeway. The largest of the carts carried the king’s tent near the front of the retinue. Directly behind was a peculiar cart. Where most had slatted sides and open tops with a canvas to cover them, this wagon had solid wooden sides and a thick oak roof. The weight of its cargo made it the first to become stuck. The extra guards at its side could do nothing as the driver whipped his horses hard to get it moving again. It did not move. In moments, none of the carts did. The shouts of the drivers and the pathetic braying of the frightened horses made a rising chorus of anger and panic. The caravan was in the middle of the Wash, two miles from the safety of Sutton Bridge. Sir Peter struggled towards the front of the train. Elfric heard him coming and knew the moment had arrived. He thought of the king’s schism with the Pope, which had seen all of England excommunicated for six years. No weddings, no baptisms, the dead buried in unconsecrated ground, and no tithes for the Lord. John had made England godless. Elfric was at peace as De Stell’s horse reared in front of him. Incredulity shot through the noble’s voice. ‘Are you incapable, priest, or have you betrayed your king?’ Elfric raised his white staff high as he met the nobleman’s eyes. ‘The king blasphemed against the Lord when he broke with the Holy Roman Church. He has humbled God in England, and God is vengeful.’ * * * The blow from De Stell’s sword was swift and precise. Elfric’s head came clean off. The lips still moving and the eyes blinking as it rolled on the wet sand. The body remained upright for a moment longer than De Stell expected. Superstitious fear sent a shiver across his shoulders and down his back. As the corpse collapsed into the rising water, the noble knew Elfric would haunt him. The soldier’s instinct took hold in De Stell. He shook himself free of the moment and began shouting orders. The king’s men tried to salvage what they could from the chaos