30 - King's Gold

by Michael Jecks

  ‘Where? In London?’

  ‘Yes, over towards the River,’ Dolwyn lied. ‘Why?’

  Alured looked away. ‘Nothing. There were so many murders that day, and afterwards.’

  ‘I wasn’t here,’ Dolwyn said firmly. He glanced about the ravaged hall. ‘They did this place well, didn’t they?’

  ‘This man you worked for,’ Alured said. ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘A thin man, pale,’ Dolwyn said, and went on to describe his master, including the clothes he had been wearing on the last day Dolwyn saw him.

  ‘I think you may be in luck,’ Alured said. He had tested the man, and it seemed that he was genuine. ‘Here, help me with this door and we can stop any more pillagers.’

  With Dolwyn’s help, they managed to lift the door, the remaining hinge protesting loudly, and lean it against the frame.

  ‘It will take a good blacksmith to mend those hinges,’ Alured panted. ‘I know a man not far from here can do it.’

  ‘You said I may be in luck?’ Dolwyn asked cautiously. He had no liking for bailiffs and constables, and feared recapture.

  Alured looked him up and down, then nodded to himself. ‘Come with me, friend,’ he said.

  Dolwyn did as he was bid, trailing after Alured as the man led him along narrow alleyways and streets until they came to a small house near St Stephen, almost beside the River Walbrook. Here Alured glanced at him again. ‘Seemed safer to bring your master here to my own home than leave him behind,’ he said, half-apologetically, and threw the door wide.

  On a low palliasse on the floor near a hearth in the middle of the room lay a pallid, unhealthful figure.

  ‘Master Matteo!’ Dolwyn exclaimed.

  Monday after the Feast of St Martin9

  Woods near Caerphilly Castle

  He had run as soon as it happened, and by a miracle none had seen him.

  Thomas Dunheved panted wildly, his eyes staring back the way he had come. There were still occasional screams, the rattle of weapons beating on shields or armour, panicked neighing and whinnying from injured horses as the battle continued elsewhere.

  He fell to his knees, a black-clad figure clutching his hands together, and bowed his tonsured head, his words tumbling out like water thundering over rocks, the tears falling and tracking through the grime on his cheeks, until he could speak no more, and instead his throat was clogged with sobs.

  Frere Thomas Dunheved, Dominican Friar and Confessor to the King, could not beg for help from God. God Himself had betrayed King Edward. He had allowed His anointed King to be captured by his enemies – how could He have permitted that to happen?

  The blackfriar rose to his feet, still weeping. After so many years working to protect and serve his King, reconciling him with the Pope, doing all he might to aid the King’s projects in the hope that by so doing His purpose would be supported, now all was in vain. The King was captured by his enemies.

  There was nothing more for him here. If he was found, he could be slain out of hand by those who despised him. No, rather than wait and be caught, he would make his way home. Perhaps there he could find some peace.

  For others there would be little enough of that, now that the King was taken.

  Second Tuesday after the Feast of St Martin10

  Approaching Worcester

  The prisoner rode like a man who had drunk mandrake, almost in a stupor.

  Sergeant Gilbert le Sadler, a cheerful, large–bellied man with the red face of a committed ale-drinker, was worried about him. On this journey, while his lord the Earl of Lancaster saw to business of his own, it fell to Gilbert to take charge of his valuable captive. The sergeant had never been given such an awesome task before. To be responsible for King Edward II of England!

  They had many more miles to ride, but from the appearance of the King, he would not manage half the distance. He lolled, swaying with every lurch of the beast beneath him, and several times Gilbert had been convinced that the King would topple from his horse.

  ‘My lord,’ he said again, ‘would you like to stop and rest a little? I have wine, food . . . Come now, wouldn’t a break do you good?’

  The King made no sign that he had heard him. He was still handsome, a tall, strongly-built man with long fair hair that framed his face perfectly. With his prowess in the lists and with his sword, it was easy to see how so many had fallen under his spell.

  ‘My lord?’ Gilbert tried again.

  There was no response. The King was prisoner in his own country, and his manner was pitiable. After the shocks and disasters of the last year it was no surprise he had lost his mind. He had lost everything else.

  Gilbert shook his head. He was only a sergeant, when all was said and done. This was the sort of job that should have been given to a lord, not to him. He had his own score of men, but today he was in command of a further hundred, just to guard this King.

  ‘My lord, soon we shall rest – at the next village where there is an inn suitable for a man of your status,’ he promised.

  There was no flicker of emotion on the King’s face. His hollow–eyed stare continued to study something far distant that obviously filled him with horror. Gilbert wondered: did he see his wife in the arms of her lover, Sir Roger Mortimer; or Sir Hugh Le Despenser, his closest companion, writhing and choking as he was hanged, then disembowelled . . . Or did he see his son, the figurehead of those who had come to humiliate him? Gilbert could not tell, but the expression on King Edward’s face was enough to tell him that the man was all too aware of his precarious position.

  No matter. Gilbert would safely convey this noble prisoner, to whom he still felt enormous loyalty, to Kenilworth, the Earl of Lancaster’s great stronghold. Once there, King Edward would be passed on to another from the Earl’s entourage, and Gilbert could relax.

  He looked at the King again, and his heart was clutched with pity. Gilbert remembered a man who had lost his wife and children in the floods eleven years ago. He had worn the same air of confused distress as this King.

  Gilbert had done all he could. Perhaps the kindest thing to do was to get the King to Kenilworth as quickly as possible.

  He would be glad for this task to come to an end.

  St Benet Fink

  The old church was quiet as Alured approached it from the little alley. He came along here often now, as though hoping that something might leap into his imagination as he walked; perhaps some little detail of the alley that might help him discover who had killed the young couple.

  It had been a simple task to learn who they were. The dead youth was apprentice to a leatherworker, while his girl was the daughter of a groom. Both families were happy for the two, and hoped that they would marry when they had a little money saved. The groom in particular was devastated to see his daughter killed. He had no other family, since the girl’s mother had died giving birth to her. When Alured saw him at the inquest, the man had fallen in a dead swoon, and it took three men to carry his body to a tavern to recover.

  The young couple were only two out of the many who had been killed that day, but there was something about their bodies that had wrenched at Alured’s heart. Others had been attacked by the mob, and their bodies slashed and hacked with abandon as though killed by raving demons; this couple was different, though. They had been slain with precision. One slash to the girl beheaded her, while the boy had two thrusts to his breast. It was as clean as an execution.

  The drunk had consumed too much to be able to recall anything in detail, but he was convinced that the murderer was a knight. A middling-years man, with dark hair and a white tunic. He had good Cordova boots, he remembered. From his angle, lying on the ground, that was the most definite thing he could see under the long tunic. Good Cordova leather boots with a red tassel at the top.

  That description would match half of the King’s two thousand knights. As for the boots, any man’s tunic would conceal them. Alured had little or no chance of finding the killer among the teaming thousands of London.<
br />
  He would have to forget the two dead lovers. There were other, more important matters to occupy him.

  Reluctantly he turned his steps homeward.

  Alured’s house, London

  Matteo Bardi woke when Alured returned.

  He was still as weak as a puppy. He had recovered from the terrible fever that had nearly killed him – a result of the stab wound in his back – and thanks to the constant care of Alured and his wife, he was feeling much improved. In recent days he had even begun to read one or two messages from other merchants and bankers.

  Matteo had become petrified of strangers. It was natural after being attacked by the mob, who hated those of his profession, and it made him want to return home to Florence by the swiftest means. He hated this cold, wet, miserable, uncouth land.

  Only one man could he entirely trust. ‘I am glad of your help,’ he said to Alured.

  ‘It was nothing. I hope someone would do the same for me,’ Alured said gruffly. ‘You were lucky I was near to hand.’

  ‘Very lucky,’ Dolwyn agreed. He brought a cup of watered wine to his master and passed it to him.

  ‘I just wish I’d been there earlier,’ Alured added. He told the banker and his henchman about the two youngsters murdered in the nearby alley. ‘Perhaps the same man stabbed you as killed them,’ he wondered, but it didn’t seem likely. They had been so efficiently slain, while Matteo was still alive.

  Matteo took a sip of his wine and peered at Dolwyn. ‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘did you see anything of a man near me on the day I was attacked?’

  ‘No, master. I was away from you, you remember?’

  ‘Yes. And I was running from that mob,’ Matteo said, feeling at his scalp. The hair had been clipped away. After prodding his skull and checking his urine, the physician declared he should live: his injuries were superficial. ‘You have a hard head, master,’ he had declared.

  The day was creeping on as Dolwyn looked down at him, and Matteo felt uneasy. The growing shadows gave him an oddly evil appearance.

  ‘There are messages for you,’ Alured said, stepping over to the bed. Then: ‘Are you well, master?’

  Matteo gestured irritably. ‘Just a little tired, no more.’

  It was a firm belief of Alured that work was a great healer. ‘These have all arrived in the last few days.’

  Matteo eyed the pile of sealed notes without enthusiasm. ‘So many?’

  ‘Your clerk brings more every day.’

  Matteo sighed and held out his hand. For the rest of the day, he lay back, absorbing snippets of information from the messages: one from the servant of Sir Roger Mortimer, one from the Abbot of Winchester, three from a merchant who traded between London and York, and then, after thirty or more notes of minor importance, he came across a little scrawled parchment. It was from a disreputable coroner in Bristol whom he had engaged some years before. He had never liked the man, but an intelligencer did not need to like his contacts. It was enough that they were reliable.

  A comment at the bottom took his attention. He sat up in his bed, frowning.

  ‘Something wrong, master?’ Alured enquired.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Matteo muttered.

  The note told him that the servants of the Queen were delighted to have had confirmation of the Bardi brothers’ support. It was still more gratifying, he read, that the Bardis had sworn not to have any dealings with the King – that in future, all their efforts would be concentrated on the Queen, her son the Duke of Aquitaine, and their supporters.

  Matteo stared at it. During the meeting with his brothers, they had agreed that they would make an offer of financial assistance to the Queen, but also send a similar letter to the King. This stated that the Bardis had sworn not to aid him. If news of this were to get out and the King heard, it would be impossible to recover, were Edward II to return to his throne.

  That fool Benedetto had over-reached himself! Matteo swore under his breath at the thought of his carefully nuanced work, all ruined by this one act. Unless he could somehow retrieve the situation . . .

  Then Matteo accepted that he had been here for a month now, lying in his bed, wracked by fever. Perhaps he was not so well-informed as Benedetto. The position could have changed.

  And then the memory of Benedetto’s shrewd face came to mind. Benedetto was schooled in Florentine politics and business, where it was desirable always to remove a competitor. Now that Manuele was dead, Matteo was Benedetto’s sole competitor for running the bank. And since his stabbing, Benedetto had been quick to take over the reins of power. Very quick.

  Almost like a man who had planned for the eventuality.

  ‘Dolwyn,’ he said, ‘I have a task for you. I need you to go to Bristol and learn what you may from this man. But you must be very careful that you are not followed. You understand me?’

  Matteo felt enormous thankfulness as Dolwyn nodded once, listened to his instructions, and then left.

  Staring down at the parchments before him, Matteo rose with a grunt of pain, and shuffled to the fire. There he took out the letter which Manuele had signed just before his death. He read it, and was about to hold it to the flames when he hesitated. This letter could still be useful. It could be shown to the King, if he ever did return to authority, to prove that the Bardi had been on his side. He may not have received this letter, but its existence demonstrated that the bank had been willing to help him.

  After a moment’s thought, he shoved the letter into his chemise, next to his flesh, before going back to the bed and lying down with a grunt.

  He fell asleep, hoping that Dolwyn would bring useful news from Bristol.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Third Wednesday after the Feast of St Martin11

  St Peter’s, Willersey

  Panic did not fully overwhelm him until later, when he heard of the death of Sir Hugh le Despenser, and went to open the chest hidden in his undercroft. Only then did he comprehend the full horror of his situation, and Father Luke cried out, gazing about him as though all the fiends of hell were encircling him, lurid in the gloomy light, watching to tempt him.

  Because inside the chest, gleaming in the candlelight, was more gold coin than he had ever seen before.

  Before the men appeared, that day had been much like any other. Calm, orderly, unexceptional.

  Father Luke of St Peter’s Church, Willersey, was unaccustomed to shocks. His had been an exemplary life. He had lived here in Willersey for eleven happy years, and now, in his middle thirties, his paunch attested to the wealth of the area. The crow’s feet at his smiling blue eyes showed him for what he was, a contented, affable priest. His living was good, the tithes more than adequate for his limited needs, and the local peasants were willing to supplement his resources when he needed more food or wine. There was no doubt about it: since he had first arrived and seen the great church of St Peter’s with its tall spire, he had thought he was privileged to serve God here.

  He was a man of learning, who had early discovered that there was a lot of sense in the stern injunctions against amatory adventures. All too often he had seen his peers humbled as their little misdemeanours came to light. For Father Luke, it was better by far to accept his position and enjoy serving the souls of his vill than to indulge his natural desires with the women of the area.

  His was a round, ruddy-complexioned face, with full lips and heavy jowls – a face made for smiling, while slightly protuberant eyes viewed the world with an amiable fascination. He was that rare creature: a priest who genuinely liked his fellows. His slight pomposity made him human, in the eyes of the folks about him, and endeared him to them, while his irritation at their gambling in his churchyard on Sundays did not make them angry, only bemused when he railed at them for their ungodly behaviour. His was a figure designed to inspire jollity and companionship, rather than stern respect.

  It had been an unexpected interruption when the horses arrived this morning – and a disturbing reminder of Despenser’s men’s appearance almost s
ix weeks ago.

  Earlier today, Father Luke had been at the base of the tower, idly studying the tympanum within the arch. The stone held a series of rich carvings: circles on either side with a flower inside them, a chequerboard strip beneath with a cross at either side, also set inside circles. In the middle, between the two flower shapes, was another circle, with four more set within, and a fifth as a hub between them all.

  A strange design, this, which had always intrigued him. He wondered who the mason was, and what had urged him to make these patterns. Father Luke would have expected simpler devices, perhaps an angel’s face, rather than these long-forgotten symbols that had been here for perhaps two hundred years.

  The sound of hooves pulled him back from his reverie, and he walked to his door and peered out, watching as two men reined in weary-looking beasts. The men were sodden, from their hoods and cowls to their booted feet. One wore a russet woollen cloak drawn about him, but the fabric was so soaked that the water dripped steadily from the dangling corner. The other had a leather cloak that had once been waxed, but this too had given up under the rain’s assault.

  They wore no armour, but both had the stolid appearance of fighting men. Luke had to fight the compulsion to step away from them – there were too many stories of churches broken into and their priests knocked down for him to be entirely at his ease. For all that, he did not get the impression that they were dangerous, only desperate.

  ‘God be with you,’ he said firmly, making the sign of the cross.

  ‘Father, God bless you and your vill,’ said the taller one as they swung stiffly from their saddles.

  ‘You look exhausted, my sons. Would you stop a while and take a little refreshment? Wherever you are going, you will be more likely to reach it with a full belly and rested head.’

  The two men exchanged a glance. In both faces there was a desire to ease tired limbs, if only for a short while.

  ‘Gentles, those brutes are as tired as you. They should be rested. Come, I have spiced cider and oatcakes.’

  At the mention of hot cider both wavered, but oatcakes as well was too much temptation for men drenched by rain and mud. Before long they were sitting at Father Luke’s little fire, while the horses were rubbed down and fed by Peter, the smith’s son. Luke saw Jen, Ham and Agatha’s girl, and asked her to fetch her mother. Agatha often cooked for Luke. It got her out of her house and that was always a relief to her, Luke knew. She was unhappy in her marriage to Ham.