30 - King's Gold

by Michael Jecks

  ‘The land should be calmer,’ he agreed. But as he left the smithy, he knew very well that the kingdom’s troubles were far from over.

  The King had been deposed and the Crown had passed on, but although many sought to uphold the succession, even if it was unorthodox, there were others who preferred to make as much profit as they could from the situation. Sir Roger Mortimer, his lover the Queen, and the under-age King Edward III ruling in a three-way council, was no recipe for peace. Baldwin suspected that the realm would suffer more dramatic shocks before long.

  He was determined to be prepared for them.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Two Sundays before the Feast of the Annunciation14

  Kenilworth

  It was the middle of his second day in the town before Dolwyn managed to enter the castle. He had not expected it to be so easy.

  The sun shone brightly, and without rain to wash away the ordure, the streets were becoming more noisome by the day.

  He sat outside an inn and enjoyed a strong ale while he watched passers-by: men-at-arms, women with baskets offering flowers or trinkets, urchins calling for coins, pestering any who looked wealthy until sent on their way with a cuff about the ear. It was hours until the scavengers would come to clean the street of dung, scraping up dog mess for the tanners, that of the horse and cattle for the dungheaps, sweeping away piles of shit where the butchers voided the bowels of their carcasses.

  It was the same in all vills and towns up and down the kingdom, he thought. Wherever men lived, there was filth to be cleaned. In a way, he was a scavenger too, tidying up the unpleasant little problems the Bardi family preferred to keep hidden. Once he had worked for Matteo alone, but now he was henchman to the bank itself.

  He couldn’t complain. His post was well paid, and he needed the job. Since losing his wife and daughter, working was the only thing that kept him moderately sane.

  In the yard behind the tavern, a cockfight was about to start, and the audience was gathering. At one side of the pit were men-at-arms from the castle, while a sprinkling of locals watched sullenly from the other side.

  ‘There is bad feeling,’ Dolwyn commented to a neighbour.

  ‘What do you expect? Those prickles take everything they can, even our women. Whatever we do, they elbow their way in.’

  ‘It must be difficult when they’re all over the town,’ Dolwyn said sympathetically.

  There was a bellow of laughter from the yard, and Dolwyn turned to see one of the castle’s men grabbing at a cockerel in the pit, and wringing its neck. The body he flung carelessly to one side, while another pair of birds were brought and armed with the vicious spurs, teased and tormented by their handlers to the point where they could not be held. Then, in a flash of feathers the two sprang into the air, trying to rake each other with spurs and talons.

  ‘See that squire? He’s porter of the castle, he is. A right devil. All he cares about is money.’ Dolwyn’s neighbour indicated the man who had killed the cock.

  Dolwyn studied the fellow. Thick-set, short in the neck, but with an impressive breadth of shoulder, he was dark-skinned, and wore a thin beard with plenty of ginger in it. His dark eyebrows almost met over his nose, and his equally dark eyes seemed very knowing. He looked across and met Dolwyn’s stare without interest, as a man might survey a slug, before returning to the contest.

  ‘What money?’ Dolwyn asked.

  ‘He’ll take anything he can,’ the man said.

  Dolwyn nodded, and finished his ale. He bought another and wandered back out to the yard, watching the men at the pit. He enjoyed cockfighting.

  Feathers were flying about, and one cockerel was weakening, his head hanging a little, while blood dripped from his comb and beak. An eye was gone, and his left wing was twisted and useless. Enfeebled, he watched from his good eye as his opponent circled closer, and waited for the final assault.

  There was a loud squawking. The fresher cock leaped up high, and it seemed impossible for the other to defend himself . . . but then he darted to the side, and as the other came down, in a somewhat ungainly manner, he jumped just high enough, and a barb caught the other cockerel in the back of the neck. There was a sudden spit of blood, and the one-eyed bird was the victor.

  Both birds were soon dead, their bodies thrown to a boy, who sat plucking them. The porter stood, wiping his hands on a cloth, but when he saw Dolwyn again, his eyes narrowed. Dolwyn was about to walk away when the porter accosted him.

  ‘Hey, you. You’re a stranger,’ he said.

  ‘Yes. I am a traveller.’

  ‘Where are you going, traveller?’

  ‘I am on my way to Warwick from Leeds for my lord, the Earl of Chester,’ Dolwyn said mildly. Earl of Chester was King Edward III’s first title, granted long before he was made Duke.

  The man studied him with his head on one side. ‘And what do you want at Warwick?’

  ‘The message I carry is secret,’ Dolwyn said. He did not make a move toward his sword, but was ready to defend himself. Although he had no idea what was in the message, he daren’t display it. He suspected that it would be dangerous.

  It appeared that his confidence was enough to convince. ‘So you say. That is good. Is there news from the north?’

  Dolwyn did not relax his posture, but nodded slightly. ‘That which all know. The Scots are attacking again, and their armies are ravaging the north. Lord Percy . . . I can tell you this: he has been negotiating with the Bruce for the last month or more, but the Scots won’t listen to reason. There will be war.’

  ‘I see.’ It was evident that the man was persuaded by Dolwyn’s story. ‘So, you have a safe conduct?’

  Dolwyn opened his purse and took out the parchment with its seal, but he did not pass it to the porter. ‘You are?’

  ‘I am Bernard of Oxford, Esquire. And you are?’

  Dolwyn pushed the note back into his purse. ‘Travelling without attracting attention, Squire. Now, I require food enough to last me to Warwick.’

  ‘If you have a safe conduct, I would see it.’ Squire Bernard snapped.

  ‘Then you will have to kill me. This document was given to me by Lord Percy’s own man.’

  ‘Oh.’ The squire looked askance at Dolwyn.

  ‘Yes. You know what happened to Andrew Harclay when his negotiations went awry with the Scottish. He was executed. I have secret communications here which I must take urgently, or our business with the Scots may fail. Delay me, and incur the King’s displeasure. So, will you aid me, or defy me?’

  In less time than it had taken for the second cock-fight to finish, Dolwyn was in the castle’s hall. He looked about him with interest as a page fetched meats and cheese and a loaf of bread. He was given a well-carved bread trencher, and a thickened stew was doled into a bowl. With the bread he soaked up as much of the gravy as possible, before attacking the meats on the trencher. The hard cheese he stuffed into his satchel, along with half the loaf.

  The room was all but deserted – the men would be arriving later for their second meal of the day – and he took advantage of the quiet to look about the place. It was a newer chamber, but the fire was still placed in the middle of the floor, to his relief. He did not like fires set at the wall. They never seemed as effective, and in any case he missed the smell of the smoke.

  ‘This is a quiet castle,’ he commented, ‘for so many men in the garrison.’

  ‘The knight doesn’t like noise,’ the page said.

  ‘What knight?’

  ‘There’s only one here we call that – Sir Edward of Caernarfon. The King’s father.’

  Dolwyn pretended astonishment. ‘Him? You say he is here?’

  ‘Aye, sir. And a more kindly gentleman you could never meet.’

  Dolwyn said nothing, but scraped at his trencher and sucked the juicy bread from his spoon. ‘I’ve heard he is that,’ he lied. He licked the back of his spoon clean before carefully stowing it away in his satchel. ‘It must be an honour to have him in the castle.’ />
  ‘It’s a lot of work,’ the boy said.

  ‘But he’s held in a room here, not a cell?’

  ‘We couldn’t keep the King’s father in gaol like some common churl!’ the boy scoffed.

  ‘I would hope not! A man of his estate should be treated with all respect,’ Dolwyn said fervently. ‘Tell me, boy, would you like a penny?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just to know where Sir Edward is held. Nothing more. I am carrying a message for his son, and I’m sure the young King would like to know his father was being held without discomfort.’

  ‘Twopence?’ the page demanded, and then, when Dolwyn nodded, he considered and then nodded. ‘Follow me.’

  They walked over to the door, and the boy pointed across the ward to a small block of rooms. Inside, said the page, the King had two chambers, one above the other and both well-appointed. ‘And he can ride and hunt whenever he wishes. You can tell the King we see to all his father desires – even the stranger foods he wishes. In fact, we have purveyors riding all over Warwickshire for his delight.’

  Dolwyn studied the building. He watched as a middle-aged woman left a chamber by the gates: from the baskets she bore on a yoke about her neck, and the steam that emanated from the room she had left, he guessed that this must be a laundress. There would be few women allowed in a castle, but she was one of the exceptions.

  His eyes took in the layout of the place, and when he was satisfied that he had committed the yard to memory, he passed two pennies to the page, before striding back to the hall and fetching his satchel. He must plan how to get the message to Sir Edward. After all, there might be a reward for making contact with the old King. With luck, just the act of taking messages from him could mean a purse of gold in gratitude.

  He walked outside, and stared once more at the building across the castle yard. Yes, there must be guards, but there was no obvious activity.

  It was worth a chance.

  He took a quick look about the court, and then marched firmly over the hard-packed earth to the room where Sir Edward was held.

  House of Bardi, London

  Matteo Bardi stood stiffly and stretched. The chamber was chilly today, and he wore a heavy coat against the cold. At his fireplace, he held out his hands to the flames, idly dreaming of Florence. At this time of year, all his friends would be starting to eat outside in the bright sunshine, not cowering indoors. This land truly was abominable.

  His back had healed. The scar would remain, proof of his part in the overthrow of King Edward II, and already a prostitute had commented upon it, as though he was a bold warrior, rather than a clever sifter of information. All he knew was, he was fortunate to be alive.

  He could not speak to anyone about Benedetto. The idea that his own brother could have given him that blow was appalling. Such ruthlessness was unforgivable, but his brother had spent so much time in Florence learning the ways of politics and banking, that a little of the more forthright methods there of ensuring mercantile success must have rubbed off on him.

  There was one thought uppermost in Matteo’s mind: whether Dolwyn could have been bought by Benedetto. It was possible. Dolwyn was willing to take a life for money, he knew, but his henchman had been too far away by the time Matteo was stabbed. And if Dolwyn had wished to kill him, Matteo knew he would be dead. If not in the road, then later at Alured’s home.

  No, surely Dolwyn was innocent of that crime. He would not kill his own master.

  At a knock on his door, Matteo turned, still holding his hands to the flames, and a messenger entered.

  ‘You want the summaries for Benedetto? I will have them shortly,’ Matteo told him.

  Benedetto had travelled west to discuss matters with Sir Roger Mortimer, who was presently near Bristol. It was hard to keep track of the man. He was always out and about on horseback, quelling opposition by his mere presence.

  ‘No, sir, it is a message for you.’

  ‘Me?’ Matteo said with surprise. He took the parchment and glanced at the seal briefly, feeling his face grow pale at the sight of Sir Roger Mortimer’s mark. Carefully he broke the seal.

  ‘He wants me to join him – why?’ he muttered. The thought of riding all that way across this accursed country to join the man, apparently now in Wales, was daunting.

  ‘You are a banker. Perhaps he needs money,’ the other man said curtly, secure in the protection of his King’s messenger’s uniform.

  Matteo dismissed him and slumped down in his chair. This was a most unwelcome development. He was needed here, at the heart of his network of men, where he was most valuable. To redirect all his messages would take an age, and there was no apparent reason . . .

  He took up the note once more, reading it carefully. There was no implied threat in it, but he was forced to wonder nonetheless.

  If the note Dolwyn had been instructed to deliver to Sir Edward of Caernarfon had been intercepted . . . But no. If it had been, Sir Roger would have demanded to see Benedetto, the head of the House of Bardi, not him. So this couldn’t be anything to do with that.

  He rang the bell that stood on his table and told his servants to prepare for a journey, and then asked a man to go and find Alured. If the latter could be prevailed upon to join him, Matteo would feel safer, since the local constable was strong and reliable. And if Alured was reluctant, Matteo could petition members of the Freedom of the City to prevail upon him.

  His commands given, he gave himself up to reading through the notes and compiling his report for Benedetto, but all the while his mind would keep returning to Sir Roger Mortimer.

  What was so urgent that it required Matteo's presence?

  CHAPTER TEN

  Kenilworth

  ‘What is it?’ Gilbert said. The chief guard of Sir Edward of Caernarfon had eaten his lunch, and was sitting with his legs up on the bench beside him as Squire Bernard strode in.

  Gilbert was in a foul mood, but there was nothing new in that. Since arriving here and being told that he was to remain with the King until he was relieved, he had been bitterly resentful. His duties should have ended four months ago when he deposited the King here in Kenilworth. That was what he had been promised. Yet here he was, still waiting, and with no one to relieve him. He would probably be stuck here until he died – or until the King did, he told himself gloomily.

  ‘There’s been a man here asking about Sir Edward and how well he’s guarded,’ Squire Bernard said. ‘He told me he was a messenger for the King.’

  ‘And?’ Gilbert snapped.

  ‘Well, I feel there was something wrong about him.’

  ‘ “Wrong”, eh?’ Gilbert snorted. ‘I know all about “wrong”. I’m still here, and that’s wrong! Four months – and here I am, still kicking my sodding heels!’ He hated this place. He hated being a gaoler, he hated waking every morning with a view of the land about here that was as different from London and his little estate near Eltham as it could be. In his opinion, this whole damned place was wrong!

  He glanced up at the man standing before him, looking bemused. The fool obviously expected him to do something.

  ‘So what is the problem?’ Gilbert demanded, shooting a look over his shoulder at the door to the King’s chamber. It was closed as usual.

  ‘He would not show me his letter of safe conduct.’

  ‘So you arrested him?’

  ‘He told me he had safe passage, but that he was on an urgent journey carrying information about negotiations with the Scots,’ Bernard said. ‘I couldn’t ignore him.’

  Gilbert grunted and swung his legs from the bench, rubbing his eyes. ‘Very well,’ he yawned. ‘But if this is all a noise about nothing, I’ll make you regret it. Right – you go to the gate and check it. I want the guards doubled, and when it’s curfew, the gate is to be locked no matter what, you understand?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And Squire?’

  Squire Bernard was surprised by the voice behind him. He turned to find himself staring into the sq
uare face of a tall man with green, brooding eyes. He had been leaning against the wall behind the door, but now he stepped forward. It was Sir Jevan de Bromfield, and Bernard’s heart sank. The man’s reputation for savagery was widely acknowledged.

  ‘If you find a stranger, Squire, don’t believe him when he tells you he’s a messenger. The King’s messengers go about in uniform. Spies are those who hide their loyalty.’

  Second Monday before the Feast of the Annunciation15

  Warwick

  The road which passed by Warwick was a heavily used path, and after some days of warm weather, the ruts had hardened and a mis-step threatened a strained or broken ankle. It seemed to Father Luke, as he stumbled along as best he could, that the purveyor, Stephen Dunheved, appeared to be on his guard, riding on his horse like a merchant fearful of attack.

  Father Luke assumed that this suspicion was a natural part of a purveyor’s life. No one liked a taxman, and a purveyor was not dissimilar: he would enforce the prices he chose, and no peasant had the option of arguing. There were many who might wish to take a shot at him with an arrow.

  Here, though, it was very unlikely that someone might try to assault them. The kingdom was more or less at peace now, and this was one of the quieter backwaters of the nation. After the past turbulent years and the constant threat of war, everyone was subdued. The fear had been so overwhelming, its removal was startling. Luke thought it was like a man about to dive into a dangerous lake, who took a deep breath in preparation, only to be commanded to turn away from the water.

  However, it was good to find that they were approaching a small tavern. After walking all of yesterday, until it was dark and difficult to gather firewood, Luke’s legs were weary by noon, and the purveyor – who had a high opinion of his own importance which Father Luke considered unwarranted – had refused to allow them to pause in Warwick. He did not want them to be delayed. That was enough to make Father Luke protest bitterly. The carter and he must walk almost all the way, for the horse could not manage any speed whilst bearing a man as well as hauling the cart.