Sitting in a shaft of sunlight by the window with a goblet of wine, he was aware of a deep thrilling in his soul. He would soon be free. His subjects were coming to their senses. They knew they must honour their King: they had seen the error of their ways. Before long, Sir Roger Mortimer would be in chains in the Tower, and then he would die.
Isabella, his wife, who had committed adultery, would never know power again. It was incomprehensible how she could have rebelled against him – her husband, her lord, her King. Did she hate him?
She was a child when they married in the Year of Our Lord 1308, and he had been as kind to her as a brother to his sister. Happy days. But four years later his closest friend, Piers Gaveston, was murdered by a rabble of embittered barons jealous of their friendship. They slew Piers, and Edward was distraught. It was sweet Isabella who helped him then. He found in his Queen a woman of startling intelligence and compassion. In his hour of need, he discovered that this beautiful, talented, sympathetic woman understood his realm, his people, and him.
Strange to think that now, fifteen years later, she was flaunting her affair with his most deplored traitor.
She would be banished while he demanded a Papal Order annulling their marriage. She had made a cuckold of him, and betrayed his realm, and he could never forget or forgive. Just as he would not forget those who had joined in her invasion. All would pay.
Such were the satisfying reflections that engaged him as he sat in the window. When there came a knock at the door and his guard walked in, he could even smile thinly.
‘Sir Edward, I’m glad to see you well,’ Gilbert le Sadler said.
‘I am very safe. You guard me well,’ Edward said sarcastically. He raised his empty goblet, and his steward hurried to fill it for him. This man, Harold, was a good fellow. Not so attentive as his old steward, who had been with Edward for almost twelve years until he was cut down on the day Edward had been captured. One of so many who had died in his defence. Another pointless death.
Gilbert paid his words no heed. His brown eyes were strained as he studied his charge. ‘Sire, this was no group of silly men who hoped to make you free of this place. They were thoughtful fellows who knew what they were about. This time they failed, but next . . .’
‘So you are concerned that I could be released?’ Edward said, venom dripping from each word. ‘No doubt that is why you look so fearful. I would say you were frit, if I were to judge. Or is it fear for your own skin? You should be afraid, gaoler. You hold your King against his will.’
‘Some while ago I received a message from Sir Roger Mortimer—’
‘Do not speak that name in my presence!’ Edward hissed. ‘I will not hear it.’
‘However, I must tell you the import of his message.’
Edward averted his face as Gilbert haltingly continued. ‘I was warned, you see, that if at any time I felt you weren’t safe, I should remove you,’ Gilbert said. He chewed at his inner cheek. ‘After the attack last evening, I think that time has come.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Sir Roger suggested Berkeley Castle. It’s safer. It’s a pleasant place—’
Edward rasped, ‘It is a charmless hovel with views of bog and marsh. It has little to redeem it, most particularly as it is the seat of the Berkeley family.’
‘They’re honourable men.’
‘By their own lights. They are also allies of Mortimer. Lord de Berkeley is his son-in-law, and he is my sworn enemy.’
‘Sir Roger commands me to escort you there. I am sorry, these are my orders.’
‘What would the world be if a serf did not carry out his orders? Tell me: if you were ordered to kill me, would you obey that, too?’
‘My . . . Please, I—’
‘Would you feel happier to thrust a knife into my bowels here? Now?’ Edward said, holding his hand to his belly. ‘If your esteemed Sir Roger, the traitor, were to command it, would you do his bidding?’
The steward stepped forward as though to protect him, but Edward waved him back.
‘He is honourable,’ Gilbert said miserably. ‘Murder would be—’
‘You think Mortimer has not considered such a contingency? He has thought of transporting me from Kenilworth, in which there are few who bear me ill-will, and instead install me in the castle of his friend and ally. I like this not, master. I consider this a most ungenerous suggestion. If I could guess, I would say that Berkeley is likely where I shall die.’
He spoke the truth. In his mind’s eye the castle of the Berkeleys was draped in a perpetual twilight, a foul black outline against the sky like a tomb. His tomb.
A thought struck him. ‘How did he know of the attack? Is he here?’
‘No. He is a day’s ride away, in Wales. But a strange thing happened two days ago. A man masquerading as a messenger came to the castle. He escaped before I could catch him, but I deemed it necessary to let Sir Roger know.’
Edward could have cursed. So Dolwyn had been seen! He tried to sound off-hand, but only succeeded in peevishness. ‘So, a man tried to harm me, and you’ll send me to the man who wishes me dead?’
‘You’ll be better guarded there than here.’
‘By the son-in-law of Sir Roger Mortimer himself. Yes, I will be well guarded. To the death.’
‘I shall ride to Berkeley with you, if it would please you.’
‘So, my gaoler and those whom he selects shall take me to my death. How reassuring!’
‘My lord,’ Gilbert coughed, ‘if it would help, is there someone I could have join us to protect you on the way? A man or two whom you would trust?’
Edward of Caernarfon passed a hand over his eyes. ‘Someone from our kingdom to protect me? Whom should I ask, I wonder.’
He went silent. There were two men who had proved their valour to him, out on that pasturage in Wales just before his capture: he saw his steward fall, his body cloven by a sword, he saw the men pounding towards him on their great destriers, and he saw the two who strove to get between him and his enemies. Two knights, one with the black beard that followed the line of his chin, the other with the serious eyes that watched so carefully.
He gave the guard their names: Sir Baldwin de Furnshill and Sir Ralph of Evesham. ‘If you can win these two men for my party, I shall agree to go wheresoever you wish to take me,’ he said.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Wednesday before the Feast of the Annunciation20
Bubenall
Father Luke peered out from the little barn in which he had passed his second night up north of Kenilworth. It was a clear, cool dawn, and the grass was bejewelled with dew. Luke would normally have felt his heart lighten at the sight, but not any longer.
The battle two days ago had shocked him to his core. In the past he had imagined what a battle might look like, but never had he thought to witness one. It was hideous.
Luke had stood gaping, only dimly aware of his own danger, as other men were shot down. It was only when an arrow fell with a loud thwock into the ground near him, the clothyard quivering, that he too fled.
He was over the causeway when he heard the rumble of pursuing horses and knew that his ordeal was not yet over. In terror, he hurled himself into a muddy ditch, pulling his cowl over his head and praying with a desperation he had not known since he was a child. His urgent entreaties appeared to work. The posse of men-at-arms galloped past him, the men screaming their war cries.
As the terrible hoofbeats died away, Luke sat up cautiously, dripping, and watched with horror as the riders caught up with the small group of fleeing attackers. He saw weapons slashing, and then there came a great paean of fierce joy as they trampled the bodies with their hooves, making sure of all their victims. But they had not forgotten the two on horseback, and soon the party was off again.
He didn’t know whether they had caught up with the purveyor or not. In fact, Luke did not care. He knew that Stephen Dunheved had been associated with the attack, thereby placing Luke’s life, and Ham’s, in
danger. He could not forgive that. Crawling along the ditch, shivering as the mud plastered his body and robes, he eventually rose and made his way across the fields safe from view.
At least this morning was dry. Luke left his barn in daylight, walking slowly along the road with the sun on his left shoulder as he went. He was fearfully hungry, but the effort of searching for a cottage where he could beg for a mess of pottage or crust of bread was too draining. He would remain on this road and hope to find somewhere as he walked.
He sighed deeply at the thought of getting back to Willersey. He had no idea where Ham was, and to have to explain what had happened to Agatha would be taxing in the extreme.
Poor Ham, he thought. That tired-out old beast of his would never be able to escape the men who hunted him and the purveyor. Ham must have been caught, and likely cut down. The Kenilworth posse would not have wanted to listen to explanations. Perhaps they paused to kill Ham and let the purveyor and the other man free? Those two could have escaped, the Dominican Frere Thomas and the purveyor Stephen Dunheved. What in God’s name were they doing in the castle? Why were they fighting the garrison?
And then the other thought returned to his mind. He stopped in the roadway, his mouth falling open with his dismay.
He had lost the King’s gold.
Kenilworth
Sir Edward of Caernarfon was deeply religious. Here, at the altar in the castle’s chapel, the chaplain mumbling his way through the service, he could almost forget the last year. Kneeling before God, he could sense a little of the peace that he had once felt at his chapel at Westminster.
He closed his eyes as a fragment of bread was placed in his mouth, and he sipped the wine with that tingle that he knew of old. It was still the same. Every time he took communion, it was there, sometimes stronger, sometimes weaker, but the sensation was there, a tickle in his spine that reached up to his scalp. The idea that this was the body and blood of another man like him, innocent of any crime, was strangely thrilling whenever he participated in the Mass.
Opening his eyes, he looked up at the crucifix. It seemed that Jesus was looking into his eyes, and Sir Edward of Caernarfon felt tears spring up at the thought that Christ was here right now, with him. No matter what the guards here said or did to him, he would show the fortitude expected of a King.
He thanked his chaplain with a nod as he rose, but in his chamber he sat staring into the distance as though he could see his own future, bleak and short. A black mood settled on him.
The door opened, and a laundrymaid entered with a heavy basket of clean clothing, but he scarcely noticed her.
He was fooling himself, thinking he could be protected. Mortimer wanted him dead so he couldn’t retake his throne. And escorts from Berkeley would consist of men who were devoted to Lord Berkeley and his father-in-law, Sir Roger Mortimer. Even with two knights to defend him, it would be easy for Mortimer to order Sir Edward’s death. A knife in the dark, a sudden knock on the head – almost anything could happen on such a journey.
He shivered. The assault on the castle which had promised so much now struck him as the precursor to his murder. Mortimer would say that the assault was proof of an attempt on his life, not his rescue. Perhaps it was: Mortimer could have arranged it, either to see to his death, or to give an excuse to have him pulled from Kenilworth to Berkeley. He might be despatched with ease on the way.
Yes. Mortimer would like to ensure that Edward was slain en route, because it would be embarrassing to have him killed while under the supervision of his son-in-law.
The laundress had set a pile of clean chemises and braies on the table now, and she looked at him. Something in her demeanour made him take notice. She was staring down at the pile in a way that was somehow meaningful. He had no idea what she might . . . Then he saw the scrap of parchment.
Taking a few coins from his purse, he dropped them into her hand even as his right hand took the slip.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Berkeley Castle
There was a rash of messengers, and in the midst of the men hurrying to and fro, Benedetto Bardi found it hard to make himself understood. He and the six men he had brought with him as bodyguards were forced to remain outside, a frustrating insult to the head of the House of Bardi.
‘You want my Lord Berkeley, you’ll have to wait here,’ the guard at the door grated uncompromisingly. ‘We’ve got better things to do than deal with merchants.’
Benedetto swallowed his anger. It was he who maintained the Queen Mother and King Edward III. Still, the guard wasn’t to know that.
Matteo was on his way to meet Sir Roger Mortimer, he knew. It made him wonder what Sir Roger’s motive was. Sir Roger had his own spies, and it was possible that he would try to use Matteo’s sources. He would not want a second network in the country that could find better information than his own.
The bank depended upon its sources for its profit. They could not compromise that. Matteo must resist any such demands.
He looked about him. Berkeley was a strange little castle. It stood on the edge of a marshland, but anyone gazing at it would think it was unprotected. The land was all green, and from a distance it looked as if stood in the midst of a pasture.
Thomas, Lord Berkeley was master here. Benedetto had met him a few times. He was a strong, thirty-four-year-old man, healthy and intelligent. For five years, since the Barons’ war, he had been held in gaol, not permitted to see his wife. His father had died in Wallingford Gaol, and all his lands and properties had been despoiled by Despenser. It was a miracle he was not bitter and resentful, but he appeared resigned to the fact that he had lost those years and was keen to renew his life and forget his intolerable imprisonment.
‘Ha! Signor Bardi.’
‘My lord.’
‘Why are you waiting out here?’
Benedetto glanced at the guard expressionlessly. The fellow did not meet his eyes, but waited tensely for the word that could cause him to be flogged, if his lord was displeased.
‘I wanted to remain here,’ he said, and saw the guard’s relief. ‘The air is so clear, away from London.’
‘Yes. I prefer this land to any other,’ Berkeley said, stalking onwards, up the short flight of stairs to the hall. He strode across the floor to the dais, where he took his seat on the great carved chair, before courteously waving Benedetto to the seat on his right. ‘Please.’
Benedetto dismissed his henchmen, took his seat with a thankful smile, and accepted the mazer of strong red wine. It was not so much to his taste as the Tuscan and Umbrian wines he enjoyed so much when he was in Florence, but it was not entirely bad.
‘Your health, my lord,’ he said, lifting the mazer in a toast.
Lord Berkeley reciprocated and then, speaking quietly, said, ‘You have messages?’
‘Yes, my lord. I saw your father-in-law only yesterday,’ Benedetto said, pulling the notes from his scrip. ‘He sends you his fondest regards and hopes you are well.’
Lord Thomas opened the wax seals, reading the notes quickly, his brows rising in surprise. Then, ‘Steward! Bring another jug of wine. I have cause to celebrate.’
‘What is that, my lord?’ Benedetto enquired.
‘I am to be Keeper of the King’s Peace for Gloucestershire, along with Sir William de Wauton. We are to maintain the peace throughout the county.’
‘There is another message, I think?’
‘This is curious,’ Lord Thomas said as he read. ‘There has been an attempt to release Sir Edward of Caernarfon from his retirement. ‘Sir Roger says he has received a warning from Kenilworth. He asks me to go there with as many men as I can muster, and bring Sir Edward here. Well, that will be no trouble,’ Lord Thomas said, frowningly. ‘But it will take time to organise. I have other responsibilities before I can depart . . .’
His steward brought more messages, and Lord Berkeley leafed through them. ‘Ah! This is from Kenilworth,’ he said, ripping the seal open. ‘Sir Edward of Caernarfon demands that Sir Baldwin de
Furnshill and Sir Ralph of Evesham should accompany us. Why we should need two more when I have my own guards . . . Well, at least it gives me more time to prepare.’
‘You will not leave at once?’
‘No, Master Bardi. I wait for Sir Baldwin. When he is here, I shall leave for Kenilworth,’ the man said. ‘No need to hurry unduly.’
‘No, naturally,’ Benedetto smiled. ‘No hurry at all.’
Stoneleigh
The chill had not affected Dolwyn so much overnight. He too had slept rough, because he had little money left. After spending a day kicking his heels trying to think of any means of getting to Edward of Caernarfon in safety, he had still no better idea than the one that had occurred to him before – the laundress. It was not the safest idea, but the only one that seemed even remotely possible.
He had lain in wait out near the entrance to the town that lay north of the castle until he saw the laundress leaving the main gate. It was unthinkable that she could have lived within the castle. It would be too much of a temptation to the men of the garrison. Bad for discipline. She would be allowed in for her duties, but would be expelled before curfew.
‘Maid, may I help you with that basket?’ he asked as he joined her.
She shot him a doubtful look. ‘Why?’
He had to smile. She was not quite such an ugly old crone as he had thought from a distance. Perhaps five-and-thirty years old, she still had a fresh complexion, and although she was painfully thin, there was a vivacity about her that was not unappealing. But her eyes were shrewd and held a feminine cunning, he thought. He must be cautious.
‘May a man not offer help to a maid? Especially when she’s—’
‘If you want a whore, look elsewhere.’
‘No, maid, really, I—’
‘Master,’ she sneered, ‘don’t “maid” me. If you followed me from the castle, you’ll know I work there. I get all sorts of men offering me their “support”. I have no need of help of that sort.’
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