All the Gold in Abbotsford Read online

  There was a ringing of steel as Stephen managed to block the blow, but the sound was slight compared to the cry of rage that streamed from his lungs. He struggled against his attacker until the highlander fell. Then he stood panting and disoriented. Scottish warriors continued to surge toward him. The destruction thus far had only been wreaked by half their entire company, yet they’d fought with the fierceness of a battalion thrice their size. The English lines had fallen. Two-thirds were lost or wounded. The survivors were fleeing.

  Stephen had feared it from the beginning—there was no way out. The small causeway they’d used to cross into the Dryfield that morning was too thin for a retreat as massive as theirs. Many flung themselves into the river, hoping to swim to safety, but faces and limbs already piled up in the water. In the fields beyond, an earl was leading King Edward II away on his horse. The lords had left their men to die, but by Christ, Stephen would not be one of them.

  You turn your back on all of them and you run.

  The words echoed in his mind as his eyes searched the field one last time, scanning the bodies until he found the only one that mattered. There, several rods away, lay his father—not yet trampled, not yet desecrated. Impossible as it seemed, he looked almost peaceful. This was how he’d remember his father for all time. Clever, strong, righteous, and brave. Dying the only death he could—dying as a warrior.

  Somehow, he tore his gaze away and dove into the river, swimming with all the strength he possessed. Bodies bobbed around him, some dead from drowning, others pierced by spears or arrows as they fled. Mercifully, he made it across and scrambled up the far bank. Once he reached the marshy grass on the other side, he broke into a run, shedding his helmet, his armor, everything, so that he might reach the shelter of the trees faster.

  The Torwood Forest already crawled with men, but once the Scottish army crossed the river, they’d tear through the trees to root out anyone who lingered. He must make it through the forest—and then? He had not the strength to think of what would come after.

  He dragged his body onward, stumbling through the brush as his lungs begged for air and his legs cried out in suffering. The river had soaked his clothes. The branches of the trees grabbed and ripped at the fabric as he went. Blood streamed from his jaw, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. His limbs burned from his exertions on the battlefield.

  I cannot go on.

  He stumbled to a halt in the third clearing. There was nothing for it. He sat beside a boulder, clutching at his chest and praying for air, the vision of his father’s face rippling before his eyes. He couldn’t think, breathe, or move. Then a sudden stream of unrecognizable words startled him to his feet.

  He drew his dagger—the only weapon he still carried—and faced the brush, crouching low and ready to spring.

  “Show yourself,” he demanded. If it was a highlander, come to capture him, he had no strength left with which to run. He must make a stand or perish. Mayhap they’d choose not to kill; mayhap they’d only take him prisoner. He hardly knew which fate would be worse.

  But then a short man with golden hair poked his face out from behind the tree. He wore no plaid and donned no war paint. Two others popped out behind him.

  “Who are you?” Stephen demanded again, sinking back onto the boulder.

  They answered in a string of gibberish before another man, taller and broader than the others, pushed his way forward.

  “You are English,” he stated, though his accent was thick. He jerked his head toward the trees. “You come with us and hurry.”

  “Where?”

  “Anywhere. Away from these places. They come for us. We must pass their borders before they make their presence here.”

  Stephen wiped another stream of blood from his face. “You’re Welsh,” he said thickly. His wits were failing him, but he recalled enough to know King Edward II had paid for several companies of Welsh archers when some of his English lords had failed to back him.

  The man ignored him, craning his neck to search the trees. But surely the Scottish army hadn’t come so quickly? A shudder wracked Stephen’s body, imagining the strength it’d take to reach the English border. The distance would take an entire day and night’s journey on foot, at the least. He didn’t know these men. He’d be a fool to join them in their exodus.

  Run hard, as far as you can. And wait not for anyone. Not even me.

  “Come with us. We go now, with you or without.”

  The short man with the golden hair tugged Stephen to his feet, surprising him with the strength of one so small. He shoved a skein into Stephen’s hands as he ushered him through the trees, and Stephen blindly followed. They were taking him with them. Why? He knew not. But blindly, foolishly, he stumbled after them all the same.

  They moved at a good clip until the trees thinned and Stephen could see the sun setting in the distance. But they were moving directly towards it, and that couldn’t be right.

  “Wait!” He grabbed the taller man by the shoulder. “We’re going west?”

  “Aye, west. To the sea.” At Stephen’s disbelief, the Welshman shook him and said, “To cross to England takes twice the time. The sea is closer. They not look for us west. We sail to Caernarfon, and then on to Merioneth by foot.”

  It took a moment for Stephen to make sense of this. Once he had, he couldn’t help but agree with their logic. To sail would be slow-going, but at least the Scots couldn’t reach them on the water as easily.

  A thought struck him then. It had no place in his current setting, but it consumed him with such urgency he wouldn’t budge until he’d asked the question. “Do you know a man by the name of Rogan FitzJoan? He would be half your age in years. An Englishman raised in Wales.”

  It took a moment for the leader to translate this question to the others, but alas he answered, “No, no English by that name.”

  Of course, such details were irrelevant to Stephen’s plight. Outside of a name, a past, and a region, he knew nothing of his half-brother, and yet—

  He dismissed the thought at once. Rogan’s presence in Wales meant nothing. They had never met, and now, with their father’s death, they had little reason to change that.

  “Alright,” he said, sucking in another breath of air. After all, why not? He had nothing to go home to. Nothing that awaited him. Only grief. “We go west.”

  “Aye,” said the leader. He nodded at the short man with the golden hair. “Follow Hudor then.” And they turned in unison and resumed their march towards the sea.

  After that ill-fated day at Bannockburn, Stephen Warde remained in the care of his new companions for many years, and during that time he saw much.

  He was there for the Welsh revolt of 1316. He was there when Hugh Despenser was appointed lord of Glamorgan, which meant the Despensers were granted the right to rule those marcher lands by their own law. He was there when Llewelyn Bren, the last of the Princes of Powys, launched his final revolt against King Edward II. He heard the keening in the castles when word reached them that the prince had been unlawfully executed by Hugh Despenser for his transgressions against that superior English family in the region.

  He was there as the greatest barons of England argued over whether or not to mobilize a force to march on the Despensers, whose authority was fast growing out of control. Then Stephen watched as Hugh Despenser used his Welsh lands as a shield against those English neighbors, laying waste to the lands and people so long as they created a buffer for the Despensers’ own safety.

  Stephen watched these events from the forests, mountains, valleys, and rivers of Wales. Though he did not act, he was there for it, and he saw all. And in the spring of 1322, eight years after he marched north with his father against the Scots in King Edward II’s army, Stephen turned once more to the east, and made his way home to Abbotsford at last.

  CHAPTER 1

  August 1326, Abbotsford

  There were many men throughout history who’d harbored noble ambitions yet weren’t willing to risk God’s wrath to achieve them. Stephen Warde was no such man, and after all he’d seen over the past decade, anyone who assumed otherwise was a fool. And if God would hold no others answerable for their crimes, why should Stephen flinch at what he now planned to do? The comparison between evils was paltry, and in the end, his actions would be warranted. He would make sure of it.

  From atop his horse, Stephen stared out over the barrows and saw that the town of Abbotsford remained unchanged. All was as it had been when he’d left one month earlier to visit some of his old companions in Wales, and though he’d expected nothing of import to happen in his absence, he was relieved. As he examined the heavy stone walls that bordered the town of Abbotsford, he rubbed his thumb down the long, jagged scar on his jawbone and sighed. The next month would be a living hell for himself and the townspeople. But one must sometimes endure purgatory before proving themselves worthy of heaven, and this would be no different. He’d made the decision; the sparks were already alight. Now his task was to control the fire, or else it would scorch them all. With this dire thought in mind, Stephen kicked his horse forward and crossed himself, praying he had the strength to carry out what must be done.

  Abbotsford lay in the heart of England. Over time, its precincts had formed around the Abbey of St. Barnabas, though the townsfolk referred to it simply as the Good Abbey. The design of the monastery grounds had been strategic, embedding the northern wall into the cliffs so that the church was only accessible from one side. Yet rather than sitting isolated, this monastery on the hilltop gave life to the surrounding town, acting as both a source and a destination for all the great roadways. With the cliffs and the church towering over the town from the north, and the Good River jutting up against the precincts from the south, a massive wall enclosed the rest, allowin
g only three entrances in or out. The first and smallest entry-point sat in the southwest corner. The people called it Bridge Gate since it was only accessible by a wide bridge that stretched across the deepest point of the river. The second entrance was Barge Gate, centered upon the river’s ford and facing straight south. The third entrance was East Gate, and it was this one that Stephen now rode toward at a brisk trot.

  It was not yet midday by the time he reached the gatehouse, but the town teemed with activity inside, making it impossible for Stephen to enter unremarked. One of his soldiers noticed him first, alerting the other townsfolk to his presence. Soon, a great clamor of bodies surrounded him, begging for news from the outside world.

  “Have patience!” Stephen laughed as the stableboy led away his horse, but the questions rained down, unceasing, until another man, young and stern-faced, stepped into the circle.

  “Away with you all,” ordered Cassadan. “Let him breathe, aye? He’s only just returned.”

  “You can ask me your questions tomorrow,” Stephen added. “But right now, I’m weary, and I have business at the abbey.”

  The people grumbled as they dispersed, for as tucked away in the Midlands as they were, the people of Abbotsford were often delayed in learning about the latest events at court. Stephen would have to prepare some tidbits of news to share with them, but he would have to tread carefully in the doing of it. The problem was that they all believed he’d traveled south, for that was what he’d told them, when in truth, he’d ridden west to Wales. Not even Cassadan, his second in command at the garrison, knew the true particulars of his journey, which was why Stephen avoided his gaze as they walked, scanning their surroundings instead.

  The main thoroughfare of Abbotsford was lined with the shops and stalls of the local craftsmen, but farmers and peasants added their numbers to the crowds as they came and went from the fields, their voices mingling with those of the merchants. Various townsfolk stopped to welcome Stephen home, and in between these greetings, Cassadan updated him on all that had come to pass in his absence. This ranged from the activity at the garrison to the quality of crop the farmers would soon harvest from the south-facing fields. The overall report was favorable, but there was a furrowing to Cassadan’s brow that the young man had yet to explain.

  Stephen waited until they’d paused beneath the towering shadow of the church, which was far more isolated than the thoroughfare. “Well? Is there something else you wish to tell me? For I can see that something troubles you. What is it?”

  Cassadan bit his lip, gazing at the townhouses that lined the streets below. “It could be nothing. No one knows for certain, only—” He hesitated. Then, “The Dyer boy has gone missing. He departed for Hartshill not long after you left town. When he didn’t return after a few days, I journeyed to Hartshill to find him, but the merchants there said they’d seen no sign of him. In truth, they knew not that he’d even planned on visiting, so if he meant to barter with them, they had no forewarning. It seems he must’ve been waylaid somewhere on the road if it’s true he even meant to travel there at all.”

  Stephen frowned. “Who told you Hartshill was his destination— his mother?”

  “Aye.”

  “But the merchants didn’t expect him.” Stephen considered this for a moment. Then he lowered his voice and asked, “Has anyone searched the woods?”

  “Aye, I sent several men out over the last two weeks. They found nothing.”

  “Nothing,” Stephen repeated. “You mean no one?”

  No one meant a person. Nothing meant an object…a body.

  “Nothing, no one. Either way, he’s gone, and Merripen is beside himself. More-so, even, than his daughter, who was set to wed John by month’s end. I want to believe he’s not dead, that he’s only run off, but I know not what to think. There’s never been a happier lad in this town than he.”

  “We’ll continue the search, then. But for the sake of the town, let’s assume he’s alive. And if he is, we’ll find him.” It was the best Stephen could promise, considering the circumstances, but he hoped it would be enough.

  Cassadan shifted his balance from one foot to the other. “There’s something else you must know before I take my leave of you. The king has ordered an increase in our taxes. The herald arrived just yestermorn to inform the magistrate.”

  There was little reaction to this on Stephen’s part, at least outwardly.

  “We’re to give up a twelfth now, beginning next Quarter Day,” Cassadan pressed. “You can imagine the reactions of the townspeople when they found out, aye?”

  Aye, I can imagine it well, thought Stephen.

  Every Quarter Day, each household was required to pay the king ten percent of the total value of their possessions, in addition to the annual tithes already owed to the Good Abbey. On top of any other local taxes raised to fund projects or repairs upon the town, that meant almost half of a family’s income was taken away each year, so any increase, large or small, was devastating.

  “I imagine they went to Anselm with their complaints?” Stephen asked.

  “Aye, they criticized the injustice of it, naturally. Then they demanded the Church show mercy by lowering the tithes by two percent to balance out the king’s decree. The Good Abbot was ill-prepared for their fervor, as you might guess.”

  Aye, thought Stephen, seeing it unfold readily in his mind. Anselm, their abbot, was a decent soul who wanted to help the town. Unfortunately, he was a little lacking in solutions. He tended to act out of impulse rather than common sense, so the townspeople would’ve left the abbey more inflamed than soothed.

  Cassadan cocked his head. “You don’t seem very surprised by this.”

  “By the tax increase? Why should I be? The king does as he wills, whether or not it be right by the people. If he wishes to raise the taxes, we’ll pay them as we always have. What other choice is there?” It was a direct contradiction of the views Stephen typically shared with Cassadan, for the king wasn’t loved by either of them. For this reason, Stephen expected an argument or more questions at the very least.

  Cassadan merely shrugged. “I doubt we’ve heard the end of this. But the abbot awaits, and I have no desire to join you. He’s suffered my presence—and I, his—too much already these past weeks in your absence. I’ll find you tomorrow, aye?”

  “Aye, tomorrow.”

  With that, they parted ways.

  The familiar sight of the abbey grounds was both a comfort and a pain to Stephen and had been ever since his formal return to Abbotsford four years ago. After the eight years he’d spent in self-imposed exile, it had been a total of twelve years since he and his father had left to march on Scotland. To look upon the Abbey of St. Barnabas now, even after all that time, nearly brought him to his knees. Everything in the town—street, stall, and croft—reminded him of his father, but it was the abbey especially that flooded Stephen with longing. As he gazed at the solid structure of the church and its smooth symmetry, he craved its reassurance—not because he was a God-fearing man, but because his father had been. Somehow, this church maintained the connection between them, when all else had not. It gave him a silent strength, and he’d need it for the conversation to come.

  He strode through the doors, scrutinizing the state of the church.

  “You ceased the reconstruction. I am pleased.” His voice echoed around the nave as he assessed the heaps of rubble that lined the walls, broken up now and then by a stretch of scaffolding shoved haphazardly out of the main aisle. A thick layer of dust and plaster coated everything from the pillars to the altar to the window crevices, and tarps lay haphazardly across the framework.

  Anselm had risen to his feet in front of the high altar when he heard Stephen’s voice. Now he sighed. “It was no menial task, but I did as you asked. I told the Master Builder I had to suspend his pay for a fortnight, mayhap a month at most, and he packed his supplies and left.”

  “Aye, the builders make most of their profit in the summer months. It would’ve surprised me if they’d stayed when they could so easily find business elsewhere.”

  Stephen noted the way Anselm swayed gently on his feet as he came closer. The Good Abbot was tired, but their work was only just beginning. He would need to bear far more weight— and guilt—before all was over.