30 - King's Gold

by Michael Jecks

  ‘Are you well?’ Harry asked, and received a nod in return. ‘Are you from near here? Is there somewhere we can take you?’

  ‘My name is Dolwyn,’ he said weakly. ‘I don’t know this area at all.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Passion Sunday31

  Berkeley Castle

  It was miserable that day. Benedetto had joined Lord Berkeley in the small, cramped chapel for Mass, and the chill had eaten into his bones. How he longed for the warm climate of Florence!

  The service must have left the chaplain feeling as cold as the congregation, because he hurried through the last parts and completed it in what seemed like indecent haste.

  Benedetto left the chapel, trailing out behind the lord and members of the garrison, and was momentarily blinded by the brightness. The sun was concealed behind a series of clouds that ranged over the sky, but for all that her glow was apparent, especially after the comparative gloom of the chapel.

  Benedetto sighed as he crossed the yard. Last night he had dreamed that Manuele was alive again – and the realisation as he awoke that his brother was still dead had coloured the rest of his day with a black melancholy. If truth be known, Manuele had been his favourite brother. Matteo was always a little reserved, as though he was still spying even when with his own family, whereas Manuele had been a pleasant, cheery fellow.

  It was noon when he saw a man ride under the gateway. A strong, tall knight, with a beard and piercing eyes, behind him a man on a good palfrey. Both men looked experienced fighters, and Benedetto was impressed by the manner in which the second dropped from his mount and looked carefully about him, before steadying his master’s beast. With them was a large, long-haired mastiff with tricolour markings. A handsome brute, Benedetto told himself, rather like the farm dogs of the Swiss rebels. He could have been tempted by the fellow.

  The knight pulled off his gloves as grooms rushed over to see to the horses, and asked for Lord de Berkeley.

  ‘Sir Knight,’ Benedetto said, ‘he is hunting. May I serve you? My name is Benedetto di Bardi.’

  ‘Signor Bardi, I am Sir Baldwin de Furnshill.’

  ‘I am honoured,’ Benedetto said, with a small bow.

  The knight gave a perfunctory bow in return, but his dark eyes ranged over Benedetto, enough to make the Florentine flush, as though he had reason to be ashamed.

  ‘You are one of the famous banking family?’ Sir Baldwin asked.

  Benedetto was not surprised that his fame should have reached all the way here, but he was confused by this knight’s cool response to his name. ‘Yes, we are bankers,’ he said.

  ‘I am very honoured to meet you too,’ the knight said, his voice stiff. ‘I know you were the banker to Sir Edward, the King’s father. And I suppose you support the new King now?’

  ‘Yes, we have assisted the new government,’ Benedetto agreed. ‘No modern government can survive without money.’

  ‘And when there are many foreign mercenaries to pay, I suppose the money is even more necessary,’ Baldwin said drily.

  ‘How the money is used is up to the King, of course,’ Benedetto said smoothly.

  ‘Of course,’ Baldwin said. ‘I apologise if you feel I insulted you. It was not my intention. However, to lend money at high rates does not seem to me to be Christian.’

  ‘How else would the government operate? And after the last year, anything that can ease the flow of money is to be applauded.’

  ‘And the profit you make on such loans?’

  ‘Is high, because the risks themselves are high. It could be that we lend, perhaps, tens of thousands of pounds – and then there is a change in government and we lose every penny.’

  Baldwin smiled thinly. ‘And that would be dreadful.’

  ‘For the House of Bardi, my friend, yes.’

  Willersey

  In the church, Agatha stood staring at the cross while Father Luke led the funeral service. The words flowed over and around her, but even when the priest spoke in English, she barely comprehended. She held her feather in her hand, the goose quill that Ham had given her, as if it was some sort of token, but it gave her no consolation.

  Jen was beside her, but the two did not touch; their grief separated them. Agatha was tormented by the feeling that she had failed Jen. Occasionally she felt the girl’s eyes upon her, but did not turn to meet them.

  She knew she was the topic of gossip in the vill, but she didn’t care. There was nothing anyone could say to her that would make her feel worse. Her guilt, her shame, her inner revulsion, all combined to convince her of her utter inadequacy.

  And then there was a flicker in her breast. A sudden thought that gave her a tingle of excitement. Someone had taken her husband’s cart and horse. There must be some means by which she could announce the theft and see them returned. Perhaps a word with the local officers, or . . .

  The priest was finished, and now they were going to carry Ham to his grave. She followed the wrapped body out into the sunshine, and found herself at the edge of his grave, staring down into it. It looked very narrow. The men carefully slid Ham into the hole, the sexton taking his feet. But his hips stuck. The men above were forced to heave him upwards again, and then move him further down the grave’s pit, the sexton tugging at him with many a muttered imprecation. No one cared for Agatha’s feelings as the body was shifted this way and that. In the end, it was firmly pressed down, and one shoulder was set higher than the other. Jen wept quietly.

  A couple of women were watching her and Jen, and partly in order to escape their gaze, Agatha put her arms around Jen and hugged her tightly so she wouldn’t see. She threw the feather in as the sexton clambered out of the grave and took up his shovel.

  ‘Father?’ she said to the priest.

  ‘Yes, daughter? A sombre occasion. How are you?’ Father Luke smiled at her, and at Jen, and Agatha took a deep breath.

  ‘Father, I need to find my cart,’ she said in a choked voice. ‘Will you help me?’

  Kenilworth

  Matteo reached the inner ward and sat on his horse, peering about him. Kenilworth was busy, and entering had been difficult. The portcullis was down when he and his men clattered over the drawbridge.

  ‘I am sorry, master,’ Gilbert said when he finally allowed them inside. ‘We have had an attack. We can’t be too careful.’

  ‘Of course,’ Matteo said, looking about him. The place showed no sign of violence, he thought. He clambered from the saddle, and stood on the ground with his hands on his back, rubbing the tightened muscles.

  ‘Where is the Earl of Lancaster?’ he asked.

  ‘He is travelling down from York,’ Gilbert informed him. ‘He will be here in a few days.’

  ‘Then we shall wait for him,’ Matteo said with a smile.

  Berkeley

  John watched as the knight spoke to the merchant with the rich clothing, his henchman nearby, and felt the relief wash through his blood.

  ‘Sir Baldwin, do you remember me?’ he called, and crossed the yard to the knight’s side. ‘I am right glad to see you again. It is some months since we last met.’

  ‘But of course. It is John, is it not?’

  ‘Yes. I was with you in the last days of my master, Sir Hugh le Despenser.’

  ‘You are now a servant of Lord Thomas?’

  ‘My Lord Berkeley has been good enough to allow me to join his household.’

  ‘You proved your loyalty to your lord. I hear Lord Berkeley is to travel to Kenilworth?’

  At this point, Benedetto bowed and excused himself.

  ‘Yes,’ John said, when the banker was gone. ‘Lord Berkeley will leave as soon as he may. I think he was waiting only for you to arrive.’

  ‘Our presence was commanded by Sir Edward of Caernarfon himself,’ Baldwin said.

  ‘I confess I still find it difficult to call my King by that name, as though he was merely a knight,’ John said, glancing around cautiously.

  ‘I think that after the last months h
e would be glad indeed to become an ordinary knight. But be careful who hears you speaking like that. There are those who would be glad to accuse you of disloyalty to your new King,’ said Baldwin.

  ‘Aye. Well, I cannot throw off my allegiances as easily as some,’ John said.

  ‘We ride soon?’ Baldwin asked, by way of changing the subject.

  ‘My Lord Berkeley has gathered together all the men he can for this escort,’ John said. ‘There has been an attempt upon Sir Edward already.’

  ‘So I heard,’ Baldwin said. ‘It is a curious thing that someone should have tried to attack a castle to free him. Surely they would know that the castle would be all but impregnable. How did they do it?’

  John hesitated a moment, and then answered. ‘I heard that they had men already inside the castle, and although those men were searched for weapons, they had a cartload on the way. If the weapons had been there, the attack might have succeeded. It was a bold plan.’

  ‘Was it to free Sir Edward – or harm him, though,’ Baldwin said thoughtfully.

  ‘What a question!’ John laughed. ‘Who would want to have him harmed?’

  Baldwin looked about him at the men thronging the court, preparing horses and harnesses for the journey. ‘I cannot imagine. But think of this: bankers need excellent communications. They control numbers of spies and messengers all over the countries in which they operate so that they can see what is happening – before the King himself in many cases.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘The Bardi is here for a reason, my friend. I do not know what that reason may be, but let us imagine the fellow has contact with Sir Roger Mortimer. Sir Roger holds on to power with his fingernails because of Queen Isabella, but if someone were to release Sir Edward of Caernarfon, Sir Roger’s authority would collapse. He would be exposed as a felon who stole the throne, stole the Queen, and imposed his will over the King’s heir. So if you ask me who could have a desire to kill the man you and I still consider our King, I would answer: Sir Roger. He would find it difficult to explain Sir Edward’s death to the Queen and her son; but better that than to have to try to explain himself to the King, were Sir Edward back on his legitimate throne.’

  John listened, his heart shrivelling in his breast. The idea that there could be more civil war, more unnecessary deaths, was utterly repugnant to him. In his mind’s eye, he saw Paul’s dead face again. It made him want to weep.

  Edgar walked up and was introduced. He gripped John’s hand, and John could not help but wince.

  ‘You have some pain?’

  ‘I have reached that age in life, where sometimes I twist or move foolishly, and as a result receive quite a painful injury,’ John lied, putting his misery to one side. ‘I pulled a muscle a few days ago. I fear I grow old.’

  ‘Then there can be little hope for me,’ Baldwin chuckled.

  John smiled politely. ‘Sir, you will be joining the good Lord Berkeley on his way to Kenilworth?’

  ‘Yes,’ Baldwin said. ‘We go to accompany the King back here.’

  ‘May I ride with you? The journey will be strange, with so many who are not devoted to Sir Edward.’

  Baldwin smiled. ‘I should be pleased to have your company.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Tuesday after the Feast of the Annunciation32

  Near Warwick

  It had been a long journey, and as Simon and Sir Richard rode along the main road towards Warwick, they were too tired to talk.

  Over the last day or two they had spent much of the time chatting quietly, sometimes even the normally taciturn Hugh joining in with a comment or two, but now, all fell quiet.

  For Simon, the peace was a relief. He did not dislike the knight – on the contrary, he was fond of the man – but Sir Richard’s taste in humour ran to quantity rather than quality, and so much delight from such a kindly, generous, but above all exceedingly loud companion, was very wearing. He had memories of travelling with Baldwin – long hot rides in the sun and torrential rain – yet, never was he so worn down as now, with Sir Richard.

  Hugh, he could see, was more resilient. The servant always complained about his poor riding skills, but for a man who was raised on a little farm in Dartmoor, who had spent his early days on the moors with the sheep, that was no surprise. Few peasants would ever be able to afford to ride a horse, whether their own or a borrowed one, because by and large, horses were for the wealthy. Men like Hugh were lucky to see anything more than an ox to work the farm, and perhaps a donkey for journeying. Not that the folks about Drewsteignton were likely to be a able to use donkey. The paths and tracks there were so poor that even packhorses found the going troublesome.

  It was as they reached a little crossroads that they met the men.

  Near Tidintune

  Senchet and Harry were glad to have found the cottage.

  The woman who lived there, Helen, had been very helpful, especially since there could have been few widows who would have welcomed three men to feed, but she told them that they were her guests, and if they needed food, she could provide them with some for one night.

  Dolwyn had been weak when they arrived, but the following morning, while Senchet was hitching the horse to the shafts and settling the reins along his back and up to the cart, he heard Harry bellow. He sprang from the cart’s bed and ran to the cottage. Inside, Helen stood wringing her hands beside Dolwyn’s prostrate body.

  ‘Help me, Sen,’ Harry called, and Senchet hurried to his side.

  ‘He tried to get up, and collapsed after two paces,’ Helen said. ‘He looked all right when he stood, a little rocky, perhaps, but now look at him. He is not well, gentles. Not at all well.’

  ‘Helen, I think we will need to impose upon your hospitality a little longer than we had hoped,’ Senchet said, his hand at Dolwyn’s forehead. ‘Ah, the poor fellow is burning up. Feel his brow – here, see? His body is afire.’

  Harry wrinkled his face. ‘Ach! He has a fever.’

  ‘That is bad,’ Senchet said. He glanced down at Dolwyn’s flank, where the knife had penetrated. ‘We should look at the wound.’

  Harry nodded, and reached out for the man’s tunic.

  ‘No,’ Helen said. ‘Leave me with him. I shall nurse him to health, God willing. You two must make yourselves useful. Fetch wood for the fire and fill my pot with water. You will have to make a pottage. There are plenty of leaves in my garden. Go and seek out what you may. And one of you, can you find some meat?’

  Senchet nodded and hurried out to the vegetable garden. It was difficult to know what to fetch for the best. He knew the physician’s favourites for an invalid: hot plants or cold, dry or wet, to suit the different humours. But he had no idea whether this man was choleric or phlegmatic, sanguine or melancholic. Without that most basic information, it was impossible to decide what would be the best remedy for his illness. Probably best just to fill the poor man’s belly, he decided, and took some handfuls of the leaves from the meagre vegetable garden.

  When he returned, Harry had already filled the pot from the well outside, and was lighting the fire. Soon the room was filled with the clean odour of scorched bark as Harry blew on his tinder.

  Senchet left him to it, wandering outside and looking for some means of capturing a bird or rabbit. There were nets in a small pile in an outside house, and he looked through them with a frown. Perhaps suitable for catching rabbits if he had a ferret, but nothing else. What he really needed was a bow to shoot a pigeon from a tree.

  He knew that there was some food still in the back of the cart. Rather than waste time now, he returned to it, hunting through the items on the bed while he searched for the bag with the food in it. When he had last seen it, it was just beneath the plank on which Dolwyn had sat, but when the horse was taken from the cart last night and the shafts rested on the ground, all the items in the cart had slid forward. Now he must pull the bags out of the way.

  It was the first time he had looked at all the stuff in the bed of the cart. He pu
lled one large blanket bound about something, and frowned as he felt the weight of it. As he dragged it free, he heard the rattle of steel inside. Opening it, he realised that the sack was full of weapons, and he whistled to see the swords, axes, maces and other devices designed to kill.

  Near Warwick

  The sight of the three men approaching was alarming, especially when they spread out like those who are used to fighting.

  Sir Jevan stiffened his back as he watched them approach. ‘Wait,’ he said to his two men-at-arms.

  ‘Sirs, are you bound for Kenilworth?’ he asked as Simon and Sir Richard de Welles were close enough.

  Sir Richard answered. ‘Yes. Perhaps we go there for the same reasons, hey?’

  Sir Jevan inclined his head, keeping his eyes on them. ‘I am with the garrison there.’

  ‘Aye? What are you doin’ here, then?’

  ‘There was an attack on the castle, and we have been scouring the lands for the men responsible.’

  ‘Thought you had been riding for a while. There’s a lot of mud on your tunic. You must have ridden out after the attempt to free Sir Edward—.’

  Sir Jevan smiled. ‘You are observant, my friend.’

  The older knight’s eyes wrinkled in delight. ‘Even an old fool like me can see when I bother to open my eyes, my friend. I am Sir Richard de Welles. Coroner to the King.’

  In a few moments the men had introduced themselves. Sir Jevan rode alongside Sir Richard as if equals alone should ride at the front of the party. He gave Simon a hard stare when he joined them. It was enough to make Simon begin to fall back, until Sir Richard said, ‘Hoi, where are you going, Bailiff? You think you’re too good to join me and Sir Jevan, eh?’

  ‘I thought you would want to have some privacy,’ Simon said coolly.

  ‘Well, ye thought wrong. Now, Sir Jevan, we’ve heard that some idiots tried to grab the Ki . . . Edward of Caernarfon, that is, from Kenilworth. Are they the men you were seeking?’