Matteo was out at the bench by the buttery wall when Baldwin, Simon and Sir Richard left Alured’s chamber. His pale features were warmed a little by a flush when he saw the men cross the yard towards him. ‘Sir Baldwin, Sir Richard. Have you any news?’
‘We have news, aye,’ said Sir Richard heavily. ‘We have discovered how Sir Jevan was murdered.’
‘I am glad to hear it. Have you arrested him yet?’
‘We are about to,’ Baldwin said. ‘Matteo Bardi, I accuse you of murdering Sir Jevan. Do you have anything you wish to say?’
‘Me?’ Matteo’s colour drained from his face. ‘But you know I couldn’t have. Alured was outside my door all the while.’
‘He was, yes. But he thinks that you were in the doorway when he woke, and you opened the door to throw your cloak inside. I suppose it was besmottered with blood after you hacked at Sir Jevan.’
‘I didn’t . . . No, it was Benedetto.’
‘Matteo, you killed him because you thought he had tried to kill you – and because you thought he had murdered Manuele, didn’t you?’ Baldwin challenged him.
‘No – it was Benedetto. It must have been him! He slipped out from his room and killed Sir Jevan. You should arrest him, have him put to the peine forte et dure and see how he squeals!’
‘You thought it was intolerable that Sir Jevan should live on after killing your brother and stabbing you.’
‘He didn’t kill Manuele!’
Baldwin leaned closer. ‘What was that?’
‘Nothing. No, it was the mob killed Manuele, I meant. Not Sir Jevan.’
‘What were you about to say about your brother’s death, Matteo?’ Baldwin demanded. ‘Did you kill him?’
‘I was nowhere near him,’ Matteo said with a sly look. ‘And then I was attacked. You cannot accuse me of any of those murders.’
‘I think you had him attacked too. In fact, I think you had your brother killed . . . that was what you were about to say,’ Baldwin said. He was a good manager of the bank, wasn’t he? ‘Why kill him?’
His words stung Matteo to a response. ‘He was pathetic, that’s why! You didn’t know him. He was a fool, with the brain of a servant. He couldn’t see the truth when it was sat on his lap! He wanted to carry on funding that buffoon up there in the chamber,’ he said, throwing an arm extravagantly towards Sir Edward of Caernarfon’s room in the keep behind them. ‘It was obvious to all that the old King must fail, but no, Manuele wanted to keep on paying him more and more, bleeding us dry. He refused to let us support the Queen when she was in France, and when she invaded, he was still determined to back King Edward against her. Well, I couldn’t allow that. I could not let him ruin us all. I would have been far better as the controller of the bank. I know how it works, how people look on us. I have all the information at my fingertips! I will be a better master of the business than Manuele or Benedetto could ever be.’
‘You will manage nothing. As a murderer, you will be hanged,’ Sir Richard said.
‘You think so?’ Matteo gave a hoarse chuckle. ‘You will hold me, perhaps, until Lord Berkeley returns to his castle. Perhaps you will even hold me until the Queen demands to speak with me. And then I will buy a pardon. I can, because I have the intelligence and the money to do what I need to. There is nothing you can do to stop me.’
Baldwin glanced at Simon. ‘Master Matteo Bardi, you will—’
‘Hold him – he has killed me too!’
Baldwin turned to see Benedetto, pale and stumbling, a hand to his chest through which the blood seeped, standing at the top of the steps to the hall. ‘Hold him before he can kill another,’ Benedetto choked out, and sank to his knees.
Matteo had reached for his dagger as soon as Benedetto began to speak, but Sir Richard’s hand flashed out and caught his wrist. When Benedetto was finished, Sir Richard reached down and gently removed Matteo’s dagger.
‘You won’t be needing this for a while, Signor Bardi.’
Benedetto was utterly crushed by his brother’s crimes. Baldwin and Sir Richard went to visit him in his room when his wound had been tended by a physician, an old nervous fellow with cold, shaking hands.
‘He said he had Manuele killed? How?’ he asked now, taking a sip of spiced wine.
‘I think the important thing is, he was trying to have you hanged for Sir Jevan’s death,’ Baldwin said. ‘He wanted you suspected, and then he was going to take over the bank and become the head of the House of Bardi. It is clear that in his mind, he thought he could run it more effectively.’
‘I see.’
‘You do not seem surprised,’ Sir Richard remarked.
‘I am not. It seems obvious that Matteo must be responsible for Sir Jevan’s death, but to think that he could arrange the killing of Manuele . . . Dear God, that is shocking.’
Baldwin said quietly, ‘I am sad to bring such news to you.’
‘What will you do?’
‘He will remain here as a prisoner until the Lord of the Manor returns and hears his case. And then, perhaps, a fine and a Royal Pardon may save him, if you deem it worthwhile. But if you do decide to have him released, bear in mind that your life will always be in danger. Matteo considers your job to be his by right.’
‘If I had guessed this, I would have given it to him and returned to Florence,’ Benedetto said. ‘I have no need of this job. There are many others things I can do. To think that he worked so unceasingly to destroy us all. His own blood . . .’
They left him dozing in his bed, and made their way down to the buttery.
‘I wonder how Matteo thought he had arranged for Manuele’s death,’ Baldwin said.
‘He must have paid someone,’ Simon considered. ‘Oh well, he may be released when the Regent or Queen hear of his imprisonment, but for now he can remain locked. up. In the meantime, I need a drink.’
‘Excellent idea!’ Sir Richard agreed before bellowing for a servant to fetch wine.
Tuesday after Whit Sunday71
Chester
The group rode into the city over the great bridge, the mass of the old castle rising up on their left as they passed under the sandstone gatehouse at the northern bank.
Stephen Dunheved whistled as he took in the city. ‘This is richer than London.’
‘Perhaps so,’ Thomas said. He was casting about him as he jogged along on his horse. ‘They say it’s the richest port in the west after Bristol. But their money comes from their access to Wales, I think.’
‘What of the castle?’
‘The main forces have already marched to York,’ the Dominican said smugly. ‘The few that are left won’t dare come to trade blows with us. They’ll stay put and hope we soon go away.’
‘And so we shall.’ Stephen grinned at his brother. ‘Are you ready?’
In answer Thomas glanced over his shoulder and waved to the men on the bridge and at the bridge gates, before laughing aloud for the joy of action, and clapping spurs to his horse.
They rode up the bridge street, all the way to St Olave’s, and then on, past St Bridget’s and St Michael’s, and up to the old market. There, by the pillories, Stephen stopped and gazed about him. ‘This will do,’ he said.
Thomas dropped from his horse and reached for his sword. The ringing slither of steel seemed unduly harsh here in the street, but before anyone could remonstrate with the Dominican for drawing a blade, the streets were loud with the bellowing of men and the clatter of their horses’ iron-shod hooves. A group of men was being gathered up to the north, and herded by the Dunheved men towards the market square, and at the same time more men were being brought from about the great abbey.
‘Men of Chester, are you sick of being farmed like sheep, and shorn for your money?’ Thomas bellowed. ‘The abbot here is a thief. He would have the clothes from your backs! Look at him over there, his belly gross from the food he steals from you, his purse enormous from the tithes he squeezes from you, his mind as full of evil, greed and wantonness as the worst whore! Do you w
ant this man to rule your lives? Do you want him to continue to take lands from you, to demand ever more money from you? I say he is a thief, and thieves should be forced to pay for their crimes!’
He held his sword aloft.
‘Men of Chester, come with me. Let us break down the gates and take back what is yours!’
The mass of the crowd was unimpressed by his demand, but in amongst the people were some of the Dunheved men. Seeing the sword raised high, these began to cheer and bellow. Thin and unimpressive they sounded, but then a few more took up their call, for the abbot was unpopular here in the city, and in a short space, the majority of the mob realised that there could be possibilities for rich plunder if they helped, and began to bay for the abbot on their own.
‘Come! Follow me!’ Thomas roared again, and he began to push through the crowds. Soon he was in the midst of a tide of men that ebbed from the marketplace and washed up at the abbey’s great gatehouse.
Foolishly, the gatekeeper had not thought to shut and lock his gates in time. He was attempting to do so now, but it was too late. Men were pouring in, and a fellow with a long knife saw to the gatekeeper. He slumped to the ground, blood staining his robes, as a pair of lay-brothers came running. These too were soon despatched, and then the mob moved into the abbey itself, pillaging in an orgy of destruction and thievery.
Stephen and the rest of the men were with them as the mob roved over the close. Stephen it was who battered the monk at the door to the abbot’s chambers; Stephen it was who pulled the confessor from the hall where he had been hiding, and who slammed his war-axe into the man’s face, striking him to the ground. It was a miracle that he did not die, but the wound marked him hideously for the rest of his life.
The abbot’s lodging was torn apart as the men snatched at hallings, tapestries, his clothes, knives, spoons, his boots – everything. All his belongings were strewn about the floor or stolen. Nothing of any value was left behind.
‘Brother, I think we are done,’ Stephen said with a broad smile. He wiped his cheek and brow with a sleeve, smearing a little of the blood.
‘Yes, we must return now.’ Thomas was standing gazing with a small smile of approval at the rampaging crowds. ‘This is glorious work, Stephen. Glorious.’
Monday before Corpus Christi72
Berkeley Castle
Since the capture of Matteo Bardi, the castle had lost much of the febrile atmosphere that had so characterised the last weeks. The resolution of the murders of Sir Jevan and the others had brought a cloak of calmness over the whole of the castle. Simon found himself whistling as he walked about the yard, that morning. There appeared no reason to think that the place was under threat any more. The garrison certainly appeared to believe that any risk posed by the rioting in Cirencester was long since dissipated.
Under Baldwin’s incessant demands, however, the majority of the rebuilding works had been completed. The labourers and masons were working with less urgency now that the main weaknesses were restored to their earlier strength.
‘Look at it,’ Baldwin had said to Simon the day before. ‘I would almost wish that they would try to storm the castle now. Never was a fortress so quickly renewed to its former power. Those masons deserve a good portion of the money held here for their efforts.’
Simon could not dispute his words. The men had worked really hard. Even those who were unused to stone workings, such as the four who had arrived from the vill to the north, had slaved with the rest.
He saw Senchet and Harry over towards the keep’s main entrance, and was idly wondering about going to talk to them, when he heard hoofbeats outside. They were galloping wildly, and now a guard on the ramparts was calling down to the gatekeeper, and the three men with polearms at the gate walked out to intercept the rider. There was still a strict control on any new people coming into the castle.
Soon there was an excited babbling at the gate, and Simon hurried over to learn what he could.
There was a young man of perhaps four-and-twenty, lolling in his saddle with exhaustion. His horse was all but blown, and it was clear that they had ridden for miles.
‘What is it?’ Simon demanded, looking up at the fellow.
‘This man says that the Dunheved brothers and their gang have been causing more riots,’ the gatekeeper explained, ‘but this time in Chester!’
Simon, who had at best only a rudimentary understanding of the realm, asked, ‘Where is that?’
‘Sir, it must be fifty leagues from here. About a hundred and fifty miles.’
‘Yes?’
His incomprehension only served to delight the happy gatekeeper. ‘Sir, if the gang is raising Cain a hundred and fifty miles away, they aren’t down here readying themselves to attack us, are they?’
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
The Feast of Corpus Christi73
Berkeley Castle
It was happy, that feast day. Father Luke joined in the festivities, Simon was glad to see, and even the grim-faced Benedetto unbent a little and managed to smile as the minstrels entered and began to play for the company’s pleasure.
‘It does me heart good to hear music,’ Sir Richard said, leaning back in his seat with a contented sigh. The little maid was a short distance away, and she moved nearer to serve him with more wine whenever he held his mazer out. Simon shook his head once more in honest bemusement at the effect the hoary old warrior had upon even the prettiest young maids. It was, as other members of the garrison were fond of repeating, ‘Not fair.’
But for now, no one cared. All had taken the feast day to heart, especially since the messengers Baldwin had sent to Gloucester, to Tewkesbury and farther afield, had started to return with the news that there was no longer any signs of the Dunheved brothers in the vicinity. Their murderous plundering appeared to have ceased, and all the lands about seemed empty. King’s Wood, Michael Wood, the Heath, and even Berkeley Vale were searched and the local villeins interrogated about any gangs of wild men in the area, but all the answers came back that the whole of the lands about Berkeley were clear. The gangs had disappeared as completely as a summer’s mist.
The men in the garrison were celebrating; even now they were close to cheerful rioting. It was best, Baldwin said, to allow them to let off a little steam after the last tense weeks. Now that there was no apparent danger, tonight the men-at-arms were permitted more licence than usual, and Sir Richard was keeping his maid close at hand to protect her from drunken fumblings or worse.
‘Master Puttock,’ Benedetto said, leaning towards Simon. It was fortunate that his wound was only shallow. Matteo’s blade had missed its target, and Benedetto’s rib had been scored, instead of his heart. Now, although sore and in some pain, he had begun to recover: his eye was clear and his manner sober, for all that he had drunk more than a pint of wine already. ‘Do you think it would be safe for me to leave the castle? Would I be able to make my way to Oxford and thence to London, do you think?’
‘I would think so, yes,’ Simon said. He looked further along the tables until he saw the man with the bandage about his face. ‘Why do you not take Alured with you? He is a loyal and resourceful fellow, from all I have heard. And Dolwyn, of course. Both would help you on your way.’
‘Perhaps so. Yes, I shall think of that. They are both good fighters, and that is what I need now.’
‘You should have less need of their fighting skills, but it is always best to plan for the worst,’ Simon agreed. ‘But you must wait here and rest. You cannot ride with that wound.’
‘It is little more than a scratch.’
‘A tiny scratch can kill if the pus grows,’ Simon said firmly. ‘You must wait until the scab is healed and the wound can be shown to be clean. That will take at least a week.’
‘I should leave soon,’ Benedetto fretted. The minstrels were playing a merry tune, but Simon saw that the music did not lift Benedetto’s mood. ‘I will have much to do to catch up after being here so long. But I confess, I find it difficult to go. Once I have
departed from Berkeley, I will have lost both brothers for ever. At least when I arrived here I had one still, but leaving here will mean Matteo will be irrevocably lost to me as well.’
‘Have you spoken to him since?’
‘He will not see me or talk to me.’
Simon could see how moved Benedetto was. He put his hand out and rested it on the Florentine’s wrist, gripping it with enough pressure to convey sympathy.
‘Why not wait until the Feast of Saint John,’ he suggested. ‘That will give you and Alured another two weeks to heal, but it will also give us time to ensure that the land all about here is safe, and that the men in the gangs are not merely hiding. There should be no need to worry if they remain quiet until then.’
Benedetto nodded. ‘Very well. Thank you, Bailiff. Let us pray for peace.’
Feast Day of St John the Baptist74
It was to be his last day here. Benedetto looked around his chamber in the castle. He had little idea what to do with Matteo. Part of him felt it would be best for his brother to remain here, incarcerated. But it was a shameful way to treat a brother. Better, perhaps, to have him taken to Florence and held there.
Matteo still refused to see him. There had been a day, almost a week ago now, when he had seemed eager to speak to Benedetto, but it was only to plead that he was actually innocent. When Benedetto reminded him that he had confessed while trying to kill him, Matteo had thrown a fit of rage so explosive, Benedetto feared his mind could actually break. Men could die of brain fever.
It was the castle chaplain, for Luke had left for Willersey some days before, who had explained to him that the cause of his illness was undoubtedly demon who had taken control of his mind. The only possible cure was to cast out the demon, but although the chaplain had done his best, there was no change in Matteo’s behaviour. He was grown quite violent.
Benedetto made the decision to leave him alone. He did not believe there was a demon in Matteo’s mind. It seemed more like jealousy of his older brothers and naked ambition, nothing more. Matteo would not hang, for certain, because he was not in his right mind. A King’s Pardon would be obtained – costly, but better that than the shame of seeing a Bardi hanged. There must be another route, he thought. But although he had racked his brains for two weeks, no remedy suggested itself.
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