30 - King's Gold (18 page)

Willersey

Father Luke went about the work in his church, scarcely conscious of his actions and incapable of concentrating for more than a couple of moments at a time.

Last night, in his dreams, he saw the posse riding at him, swords raised, and he felt one slash at him, shearing right through his arm and sending it flying away; then a lance pierced his breast, lifting him up, high over the head of his killer, and he rose, staring down the great hole torn in him – and that was when he woke.

The mare planted these thoughts in his heart, and Father Luke knew that, no matter what he did today – whether he worked in the fields until exhausted, or knelt and prayed for hours on end, or slumped in Widow Lizzy’s buttery and drank a gallon of her best ale – it would make no difference. Tonight he would still have that same dream and wake in a muck sweat.

Agatha had come to Mass this morning, and as he stood before the congregation, he could see her staring at him with those malevolent little eyes of hers. She had a suspicious nature and now she had a focus for all her bile in the man who had, she was sure, some idea where her good-for-nothing husband disappeared to.

No. He was being unfair. She was just a lonely woman, wondering where her husband had gone – and why shouldn’t she? It must be worrying for her.

Last night she had appeared at Vespers like a cog entering a harbour, her heavily-built frame slowly moving across the nave until she was standing close to the altar. From there she focused her gaze upon him, as if she could suck the truth from him by staring.

She had been hard to ignore, but still less so was Jen. The little girl stood at her mother’s side, and Luke felt certain that she was about to burst into tears at any moment. It made him feel as guilty as if he had actually killed her father. Because now, with still no sign of Ham, Father Luke was losing hope. Something must have happened to him. It shouldn’t have taken him this long to return.

Poor man! Poor woman! Poor daughter! All of them suffering because of the purveyor, Stephen Dunheved. No matter what the man’s reasons were, there was no excuse for coming here and taking Ham away and getting him involved in a fight in which many men died. It was unforgivable.

He went through the service, murmuring the Latin words that were so much a part of his life. Other priests, he knew, were happy to pretend. They had learned enough to become priests, but after that enjoyed lives of moderate peace without straining themselves to become more effectual at the cure of souls. That was not Luke’s way. He intended to make sure that all who lived within his parish would be well served.

Afterwards, the peasants filed out as Father Luke finished the last of the communion wine and wiped the cup with a cloth saved for the purpose. However, as he placed his vestments in the chest behind the altar, he knew that two remained.

‘Agatha,’ he sighed.

‘I want to know where he is, Father. You must have some idea.’

‘But I don’t. I am very sorry. Perhaps if we pray for him, God will bring him home again.’

‘Why wouldn’t he have come straight-away, like you?’

‘I told you of the fight. Perhaps he had to run in the wrong direction.’

‘Or you think these men caught him? But what if they did? He was only a poor carter passing by.’

‘Men suspect peasants with money,’ he said without thinking.

‘What money?’ she bridled. ‘You know how much he had in his purse? We manage on very little.’

‘True,’ he agreed hastily. ‘But posses can be unreasonable, especially after fighting.’

‘You know more than you’re saying.’

He felt his shoulders sag. ‘I wish I could tell you more.’

‘So there
is
more to tell?’

‘No! I mean I wish I knew more so I
could
tell you.’

From that moment, whenever he saw Agatha and Jen, the suspicion grew in his mind. It was not his secret to divulge if Ham had decided to run away. But it was a cruel thing to do, if that was what Ham had chosen, to disappear taking the King’s money with him.

Agatha would never forgive her husband, Father Luke knew. God save the poor fellow if she ever caught up with him!

Monday before the Feast of the Annunciation
²⁴

Furnshill, Devon

It had been a long, weary ride from Exeter, and Sir Baldwin de Furnshill felt every one of his four-and-fifty years as he rode up the incline towards his home.

As Keeper of the King’s Peace he must often attend courts, but today he had witnessed two hangings, and it had left him sad.

One, a fellow called John from Wefford, had stabbed a King’s verderer when he had been caught poaching, and for that there was no excuse. He was hanged. But Baldwin knew John and also knew that he was desperate to feed a growing family who would now suffer without him.

The second man, Piers Rookford, Baldwin suspected was innocent. Piers was accused of stealing plate and candles from the church at Coldridge, but the sole evidence was given by a watchman who stated that he had seen Piers leaving the church after dark. Since Piers was known for fighting, the jury had decided that the watchman was correct. Piers Rookford was hanged too.

At last he could see his home. There was the broad swathe of pasture before the house, the trees at either side and behind, and the smoke lazily drifting about it. The scene was, to him, one of unutterable beauty. Heaven, for him, would feel like this: a homecoming, knowing that his wife and children were waiting for him. The cares of his duties, his fears for the realm – all could be left here in the roadway.

He rode faster, eager to reach his hearth. The last few yards he covered at a gentle canter, the smile broadening on his face as he rode up the lane to his doorway, dropping from his beast and bellowing for his grooms.

It was then, as the door opened and the stranger appeared, that he felt the first premonition of disaster.

Abergavenny Castle

Matteo Bardi had been forced to wait – a pointless strategem to make a man realise his relative unimportance. As a tactic it failed, for Matteo was entirely confident of his own position. However, when he was called into the great hall, that confidence evaporated just a little.

Mortimer was seated on a large wooden chair on the dais, and studied Matteo with cool disdain which served only to increase the man’s nervousness.

The chamber was decorated with gorgeous hallings that portrayed glorious hunts and acts of remarkable chivalry. A man rescuing a maid from a dragon, raches and alaunts holding a pure white hart at bay, knights jousting – it was a heady vision. A fire sent sparks high into the air, and there must have been ten pounds of candles flickering and smoking from the sconces and candle-holders set about the floor and on the table.

Sir Roger inclined his head graciously as Matteo entered, and then, once the Florentine got over his stammering, proceeded to speak with great charm and wit, but Matteo knew that he was meant to feel overwhelmed. After all, Sir Roger was the man to whom all must look if they wished to see how the King would order his realm. Sir Roger held all power. What was curious was that such an esteemed individual should have asked Matteo here. It didn’t make sense.

‘You asked to see me?’ Matteo enquired when they had at last exhausted all the polite chitchat which was demanded of them.

‘What do you think of your brother, Benedetto?’

‘He is a very capable, sensible man,’ Matteo said.

‘I’ve heard you are the more powerful of the men in your bank.’

‘Sir Roger, I fear I am only a clerk. I listen to those who know what is happening, and then I pass on such information as I think will merit—’

‘Your brother is an intelligent fellow,’ Sir Roger continued as though Matteo had not spoken, ‘but he is less keen on change. I know your brother Manuele was reluctant to aid me and the Queen when we had all the trouble last year. Benedetto, I believe, is formed from the same mould. Those with little imagination can only see what is right in front of their noses. Those with intelligence can see one grain of sand and conceive a desert. You are like that, I think.’

‘I am honoured that you consider me so much more important than I truly am,’ Matteo said, bowing.

‘We both know your value. I wish to use you, because I appreciate it too.’ Sir Roger took up his goblet and sipped the strong wine. ‘You are wasted where you are.’

‘I do not know how I could assist you.’

‘You have your spies. It is your circle of friends that I need. Without you, it will not function. So I am prepared to offer you a bargain. Use your people to aid me and you will be rewarded. Your House will benefit from the money which the King will farm from his people.’

‘I see,’ Matteo said. He had to struggle to keep his voice calm. This was a glorious opportunity! To be spymaster to Sir Roger would give him and the House of Bardi more power than any other bank in the realm. It would put them on a higher footing than the Peruzzi or those Venetian
banditti
. . . and then he realised that Sir Roger was still speaking, and he had to concentrate hard to try to catch up with his words.

‘Yes, you see there has been an attempt to free Sir Edward of Caernarfon from Kenilworth. Astonishing, but these rebels thought they could do it.’

‘The K . . .’ Matteo cleared his throat. ‘Sir Edward is safe and well? He is not harmed?’

‘Ah, so you think as I do that this foul attack was to harm the King’s father? There are some who are not quick enough to see the danger which surrounds Sir Edward. But you and I, we appreciate it, I think.’

A short while after that, Sir Roger gave Matteo his instructions: he was to ride to Kenilworth and deliver a letter to Lord Berkeley. He would have left Berkeley Castle, so Matteo should meet him at Kenilworth.

‘What is it?’ Matteo asked.

‘An indenture to pass control of the King’s father from the Earl of Lancaster to the Lord Berkeley. He will now take over duties of protection and control.’

Furnshill

Sir Baldwin drew his sword in an instant. ‘Who are you?’

There was a low chuckle, and as he looked, the stranger was yanked away, and in his place appeared Sir Peregrine of Barnstaple. ‘Sir Baldwin, I don’t think you need trouble yourself about running me through. I am not your enemy.’

Baldwin thrust the sword home into the scabbard again. ‘Where is my wife?’ he demanded.

‘She is here, perfectly safe,’ Sir Peregrine said, standing aside.

In a moment, Jeanne walked from the doorway and stood decorously before him. ‘My lord, I am sorry I was not here to greet you,’ she said.

Baldwin felt his heart swell. Jeanne had red-gold hair, and the perfect pale skin to match it. Her eyes were the rich blue of cornflowers, but her nose was tip-tilted, and her upper lip was more full than the lower, giving her a stubborn appearance. He adored her. She was, to him, the picture of beauty, and never more so than at times like this, when she gave that slow smile he knew so well.

‘My lady, I have missed you,’ he said.

‘It has been only three nights,’ she pointed out.

‘To me, that feels a lifetime,’ he said.

He took her arm and walked with her into his hall. In the last year or two he had spent too much time away from home. In the King’s service, he had been sent to France as a guard to the Queen, he had returned with Bishop Walter in order to protect the King’s son, he had been sent to Thorney Island to serve as a Member of Parliament, and he had been called away to fight for the King.

‘So, Sir Peregrine, how can we serve you?’ he asked.

Sir Peregrine of Barnstaple was one of those rare men, a knight banneret with integrity. He had been an acquaintance of Baldwin’s for several years, and in all that time Baldwin had not learned to fully trust him. He was too devoted to the removal of the King’s advisers and replacing them with men better, as he felt, suited to the task.

Now that the King was gone and his son Edward III crowned in his turn, Sir Peregrine had seen all he had desired come to pass. He was a happy man. Especially since he had now married.

‘Your good lady has been kind enough to entertain us,’ Sir Peregrine said, bowing to Jeanne.

Jeanne beamed. She had always been more keen on Sir Peregrine than Baldwin was.

‘I am sure that will surprise neither you nor me,’ Baldwin smiled. ‘How is your own good lady?’

He spoke kindly. Sir Peregrine had almost married more than once, but he had been exceedingly unfortunate, and each woman had died. Now, he had been fortunate enough to meet with a widow, Isabella Crok, who was as fond of him as he was of her. They had married late the previous year.

‘My lady Isabella is contented, I hope. She has taken a cruel dislike of a soldier’s decorations, and seeks ever to improve my poor hall with her tapestries and hallings, but I remain convinced that it is easier to maintain a happy home by acquiescing in such matters than by debating.’

Jeanne’s grin broadened. ‘You would do well to remember such wise words, husband.’

‘I have no need, my wife. You will be sure to remind me regularly,’ Baldwin said drily.

He called for wine, and his servant Edgar was soon in the hall, carrying jugs. Baldwin cast a look up at him, and Edgar met it serenely, which was enough for Baldwin. His servant’s judgement was usually faultless, as was that of his great mastiff, Wolf, who was lying by the fireside, head nodding gently. There was no apparent need for concern here. Not that he would expect danger from Sir Peregrine.

‘There was a terrible shock last week,’ Sir Peregrine said. He lifted his mazer and drank half his wine in a draught. ‘Have you heard?’

Baldwin shrugged. ‘I have been in court. All I know is that a butcher had a half-lamb stolen, a pastry cook was kicked by his mule, and a drunken shepherd fell in the well at the Cock at Crediton and drowned. My interests have been, as you might say, rather parochial of late.’

He was utterly unprepared for the banneret’s next words.

‘A force stormed the castle at Kenilworth, Sir Baldwin,’ Sir Peregrine said sombrely. ‘They tried to free Sir Edward.’