30 - King's Gold (35 page)

‘What were you doing there?’ Simon demanded.

‘There was money on that cart.’ Father Luke went on to explain about the chest of gold which had been left in his care.

‘And you think this gold was on the cart when it was stolen?’ Baldwin frowned.

‘I don’t know where else it could have gone,’ Father Luke said.

‘Wherever it went, it probably went there a long time ago,’ Simon said. He leaned back in his chair. He had spent so many years dealing with the law and enforcing it on Dartmoor, that he had a solid understanding of the mind of a felon. ‘Whoever took your cart, mistress, has almost certainly sold it. If he had the brains to look in the chest, that money will be gone too. A man like that will not have gone far, though. If you look within a ten-mile radius of where you found your husband, I’d lay a wager that the thief will be there. Probably in a city with a bevy of whores about him, and reeking of cider or strong ale. He’ll have spent it rashly, not thinking that tomorrow he’ll hang for murder, because men like that never think.’

Baldwin was frowning. ‘Mistress Agatha, this cart – of what type was it? And the beast that pulled it, what manner of horse was this? You say old, but what colour, what markings?’

Agatha shrugged. ‘The cart was a good, sturdy one, with a plank to sit on. Two wheels, one either side. It was plain, but wider than most. As to the horse, well, he was a good height, with a broad chest, and a white flash on his breast like a fist. He had brown on his flanks and back and head, but there was a white ankle on his left foreleg, and above the right rear leg he had a star on his rump.’

Simon had not been close to the cart when it was captured the previous day, but he realised that something was going on, and he looked at his friends with interest. ‘What? What is it?’

Berkeley Castle Hall

This morning Matteo had woken tired and unrested amid the hubbub of the celebrations in the hall at the return of Lord Berkeley, as people demonstrated their joy at the fact that the lord’s most despised enemy, the man who had seen him incarcerated for years – Sir Edward of Caernarfon – was now his prisoner.

Even when he did manage to fall asleep, Matteo kept seeing the same vision: Benedetto, chasing after him with that wicked knife in his fist and a look of cold hatred in his eyes.

Three times Matteo fell into a heavy slumber, and each time he was woken by that horrible mare. The last occasion, he had woken himself with a scream. After he had reassured Alured that he was perfectly safe, he had lain awake, staring into the shadows of his room.

Rising long after dawn, Matteo dressed slowly, and went to the hall to eat. Inside it was filled with benches and long tables. There were no spaces that he could see, and he was about to ask a steward where he might sit, when the lord lifted the tapestry behind the dais and walked in.

All those in the hall stood, their benches scraping and screeching on the tiled floor. Until the lord had walked to his seat and taken it, all his guests of lower degree must remain on their feet. It was a matter of protocol and good manners.

Lord Berkeley was a happy man, and although last night he had celebrated in grand style, this morning he was still in a cheerful mood, from what Matteo could see. His laughter rang out over all the other noises of the hall, and Matteo was irritated to see how the man smiled and clapped his men on the back. His own head was sore from lack of sleep.

At last the lord stood in front of his seat, staring at the assembled men before sitting. This was the signal for a general scraping of benches and stools, until at last all the assembled men were seated. Benedetto, as the head of the House of Bardi, was granted the unusual privilege of a seat at the lord’s table, next to Sir John Maltravers, but Matteo was not given the same honour. He looked about him for a space at any of the messes, but there was none. Angry at being ignored, he strode from the room.

A kitchen maid took pity on him and offered him a crust or two of good white bread, along with a jug of strong ale, and he sat on a stool by the gate nursing his bitterness until he had finished his food. It soothed him, and soon he was engaged in conversation with the porter.

It was a useful chat. The porter was garrulous on the subject of the new prisoner.

There were several advantages to Lord Berkeley in taking on the role of Sir Edward’s gaoler, Matteo learned. First among them was the fact that he now had funds to support an increased garrison. Matteo heard Sir John Maltravers mention the fee on the ride here: five pounds each day, just to look after the King’s father. And it would not cost him that much, Matteo knew.

The chamber in which the sorry man had been installed was narrow and dank. It had a window that looked out over a little courtyard, and a smelly garderobe in the corner. It was a most deplorable lodging for a former King. From what Matteo heard, he felt it insulted not only Sir Edward, but the realm. Yet it provided the porter with great amusement.

Matteo chewed and listened carefully.

The money would be enormously useful for Lord Thomas because it was not merely for the upkeep of Sir Edward; it was to make sure that he remained in captivity without the opportunity of escape. Thus it would help with the cost of his rebuilding works, too.

Leaving the man, Matteo went to stand in the gateway, staring out over the landscape. Today the weather was almost warm enough for a Florentine, he thought. But too humid.

He could not leave the thought of Benedetto. How much longer could he maintain this pretence of civility to his would– be murderer without losing his mind?

He must force a conclusion somehow.

Sir Jevan eyed the men about him in the hall as he finished his meal. It had been a surprise to come across that churl who had held him up that day when he was pursuing the felon. Good to see that his sword had marked the man, but odd to find him so close to Berkeley. And then the fleeting glimpse of that other face: the man he had been chasing.

He had been so close to bellowing that the fellow there was one who had been with the attackers of Kenilworth – and yet as soon as he thought of it, the face vanished, and no matter how Sir Jevan sought him, he could not find him anywhere.

Oh well. He knew his eyesight was not of the best, so perhaps he had been mistaken. He would keep a close eye on all the fellows about the castle, just in case.

Matteo looked over towards the forebuilding, in which he knew Sir Edward of Caernarfon was being held. Irked by the thought of the horrible confinement of that once great King, Matteo set off in the opposite direction, around the main keep.

Matteo had good reason to wish to speak with the captive, but knowing
how
to was the problem.

There was a sudden shout behind him, and a young man hobbled towards him. ‘A message,’ he called.

Matteo recognised the lad. He was one of Benedetto’s messengers who had been left with the Queen and Sir Roger Mortimer. He nodded, and took the proffered note. He checked the seal: it had been signed by the Queen herself, he saw. He broke the wax and glanced down the roll, and then whistled.

‘Go and find yourself some food and drink,’ he said to the messenger. ‘You will need to rest, after riding all that way.’

The fellow gave him a grateful look, and followed his directions to the buttery, exhausted after his punishing ride.

‘So,’ Matteo said to himself. ‘The Queen thinks her son would have a war, does she?’ A war was good. There were endless opportunities for a bank to earn money during a conflict. As soon as he could, he would have to bring this to Benedetto’s attention, he thought – but then gave a frown. Benedetto was not the man that Manuele had been when it came to decision-making. He was always weighing one argument against another, considering this compared with that . . . never making up his mind.

Matteo was about to walk back to the hall, when he saw the knight Sir Baldwin de Furnshill and the other, Sir Richard de Welles, heading towards the stables. With them were a woman in black and a priest. There was something about the way they moved that intrigued him – and he decided to sneak along behind them, to find out what they were up to.

The cart was standing a short way from the rest of the wagons, carts and paraphernalia of transport in the large chamber close by the little stable.

As Baldwin knew, usually horses and equipment would be stored away from the castle. Lord Berkeley’s warhorses were kept at his great stables at Wotton-Under-Edge, and they would be sent for as required. Today the stables were still over-full from the arrival of so many men yesterday, but the old nag from the cart stood out even so.

Baldwin could see it from some distance away. The white fist was quite plain, and the star he remembered from the day before. It was exactly as the woman had described it.

Agatha glanced over all the beasts, but it was obvious when she spotted her own. A smile spread over her face, and she looked at the priest for confirmation. ‘That’s him.’

Father Luke nodded. ‘It certainly is. I remember that fellow from all those miles to Kenilworth. That star is imprinted upon my mind. Where are the goods from the cart?’

Baldwin looked at Sir Richard. ‘They are convincing, are they not?’

‘Aye, like enough. So, good Agatha, what was on the cart?’

‘I don’t know – it was whatever the purveyor wanted to take. Some perry, I think, and lampreys.’

‘And a small chest,’ Father Luke said. About this size,’ he added, gesturing with his hands.

‘That was where your money was held?’ Simon asked.

‘Yes.’

‘We shall need to speak with the fellows who brought this cart here,’ Baldwin said, ‘and the castle’s steward will know where the items from the back of the cart have gone.’

‘Where is the castle prison, do you think?’ Sir Richard said.

Simon had seen a man leaning negligently against a wall at the farther side of the courtyard. Gesturing at him, he said, ‘I would think if he isn’t the gaoler, he will know who is.’

Berkeley Castle

When Sir Jevan de Bromfield caught sight of Benedetto Bardi, he gave the short bow due to a man of wealth, even if he were a mere merchant.

‘Sir Jevan,’ Benedetto said, bowing lower.

The knight smiled at his politeness. It was natural that a banker should be somewhat obsequious when faced with a man of noble birth. ‘You have enjoyed your meal?’

‘His lordship was most courteous.’

Sir Jevan thought, Yes, he would be. He knows you could lend him enough money to rebuild his entire castle. ‘You are popular.’

‘I am fortunate to be able to help people in need,’ Benedetto said.

Sir Jevan detected smugness; it was enough to turn his stomach. ‘The Queen must be very grateful,’ he said.

‘She appreciates the good I can do for her,’ Benedetto said smoothly. ‘I was glad to help her and the King.’

Sir Jevan commented, ‘Your brother – he suffers from mares, I hear. He was very loud last night.’

Benedetto nodded; he had to step to one side as a man barged past on his way to the smiths’ forges. ‘Yes, Matteo was attacked by the mob in London. It was a terrible affair – I thought he would die.’

‘Death is never pleasant.’ Sir Jevan recalled for a moment the young woman’s face, the shock on her swain’s as his sword thrust into flesh. Those two deaths had been so long ago, he had all but forgotten them. But now there was something that brought them back to him. Benedetto – of course, he told himself. He had gone to meet Benedetto just after killing them both.

‘He is a different man since the attack,’ Benedetto said.

‘Near-death is bound to affect a man,’ Sir Jevan said, tiring of the conversation and the banker. He looked about him. ‘Is that him?’ He pointed to Matteo.

‘Yes,’ Benedetto said. ‘My poor brother. I sometimes fear he will not live long.’

‘Really?’ Sir Jevan said distractedly, observing the group with Sir Baldwin, the priest and the woman heading towards the gaol.

He wanted to speak with that carter too.

Berkeley Castle Gaol

Dolwyn squatted at the wall. He had spent a miserable night incarcerated here, but it was no worse than the nights at Newgate, and he could contemplate his future with some equanimity.

He had seen the two Bardi brothers. That was interesting. He had taken money from one in order to kill another: if that story was not to be betrayed, the man in question should hurry and secure his release. Dolwyn was not going to the gallows without ensuring that those who had hired him suffered the same fate.

And he still had a parchment in his purse. That was something that plenty of men would be interested to see. Yes, he felt that he had some protection.

The other two prisoners showed little interest in him. They were more concerned with their own situation, and clearly they had reason to be alarmed. In recent months, they had been enemies of Lord Berkeley and Sir Roger Mortimer, the King’s Regent, and could expect little in the way of sympathy from their captor.

There was no water to drink, other than a bucket of foul-smelling liquid that could have been dredged from the moat itself. It stank of mud and rancid weed. One other bucket was provided in the room, for which he was grateful. He had heard that many gaolers did not bother with such niceties. He only hoped that the two had not been mixed up.

It was just as he was beginning to think seriously about how long he could survive without some food, that the door’s lock moved. There was the sound of keys turning, and they all stood up. It was better to face whatever might happen while on their feet.

The door was pushed wide, and outside there was a series of faces staring in.

‘Father, do you recognise any of these?’ a man asked.

Father Luke peered inside, studying Harry, then Senchet, and then his eyes fell on Dolwyn, and he shook his head.

‘No, I know none of these.’

‘But I do,’ Sir Jevan said. ‘I would like to speak with this man now.’

He had seen them over there, Benedetto and that tall knight, pointing at him. Benedetto looked like a farmer, pointing to which sheep he wanted slaughtered, Matteo thought. Not that he would use a man like Sir Jevan as an assassin. Not when there were cheaper men to be bought, like Dolwyn.