30 - King's Gold (16 page)

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.

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.’

‘I wanted to offer you money for something else.’

She turned eyes on him in which the doubt was driven out by pure suspicion.

‘Mistress, all I ask is that you listen to me. Let me buy you a pot of wine and explain.’

And she had listened, and agreed. He wrote the note on a strip of parchment and gave it to her, explaining that the attempt to free Edward had made matters more difficult, that he would return, and that Edward must remain patient.

The castle had been in uproar. He had heard chatter on the streets that there were fewer than thirty men in the attack. Fools! And now the garrison was running around like a cat with a flaming torch tied to its tail: eyeing anyone from the town with suspicion, sending men into the town to search for any survivors, scurrying about the countryside to find two men on horseback – one a Dominican, in Christ’s name!

All they had achieved was to force Dolwyn to leave the town and seek anonymity on the road. He couldn’t remain here in the locality and risk having to answer unwelcome questions. It was too likely that he would be uncovered as the man who had been in the castle the day before the attack. Instead he found a grassy spot in the bend of the river, and spent his morning dozing, soaking up what sun there was.

Later he walked to meet the woman again, at a quiet stable which had an ale–house next door, and there the laundress told him the news: they were to take the King to Berkeley Castle, to instal him in a cell there from which it would be more difficult to release him.

It was enough to make a man curse. What had been a moderately easy task, to rescue Edward from Kenilworth, had now become impossible. Where
was
Berkeley anyway? The laundress had said it was somewhere to the south and west, and that the King would be taken there before long.

So here he was, walking along a grotty little lane in the middle of the day without any idea where he was going, except that he was heading south and west.

The main question in his mind was: if he made his way there, what could he achieve? He was one man. It would make more sense to try to spring Edward of Caernarfon from the party escorting him to the castle, than to dream up a plan to help him escape from Berkeley. That would be suicidal.

In the distance he saw a cart, and called out: ‘Hoi! You there!’

The carter gave him an unfriendly look. Dolwyn said politely, ‘Friend, would you have space to help a weary traveller rest his feet for a mile or so?’

‘Can’t do that,’ the carter said. He was a man of about Dolwyn’s age, with brown hair kept long. His eyes were dark, and they kept moving fretfully over the road, the fields, and Dolwyn himself.

‘Only a short ride, master,’ Dolwyn wheedled. ‘I’ve walked a long way.’

‘Where from?’

‘The castle at Kenilworth. It’s a lovely place, isn’t it?’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘I thought you must have come from that way, master, that’s all,’ Dolwyn said mildly. He smiled, and after a moment or two, the carter tried to return it, but his look was so fearful that it turned his face into a ghastly mask.

‘I have passed by the town, yes,’ he said.

Dolwyn nodded. ‘I am sure you have. It’s a long way from there, though. You must have rested for a day or two.’

‘Eh?’

‘There’s straw on top of the cart. I guess you had it hidden in a barn somewhere to have thrown all that hay over it.’

‘Why’d I do that?’

‘Anyone who’s been hiding would know the signs,’ Dolwyn said shortly.

The carter glared at him for a moment, and then Dolwyn drew his knife, and spoke quietly and calmly. ‘I know what you were doing, carter: you were supporting those boys at the castle, weren’t you? Your life’s worth nothing, because if the new King heard that you tried to free his father so he could take back his throne, I think he would have your ballocks for soup. And if he didn’t, Sir Roger Mortimer would. So how about we forget all the shite and agree that you’ll give me a ride. That’s all I ask.
A ride.’

Ham stared at him, terrified, then nodded.

And that was the beginning of Ham’s nightmare.

Thursday before the Feast of the Annunciation
²¹

Willersey

Father Luke’s legs ached abominably as he limped into the village again after his long march. The way had not been too hard, but it had been quite hilly, as was normal in these parts.

In the beginning, his only thought had been for the danger in which he had placed himself. The memory of those men-at-arms riding towards him at such a terrifying pace was enough even now to turn his bowels to water, and the worst of it was, he had no real idea what on earth the fight was about. Oh, certainly, when a force of men was gathered together and there was plenty of ale or wine, it was common enough that there would be bickering, and with an armed garrison, that would often mean a fight, but even though he was not experienced in the ways of warriors, the priest was fairly sure that they did not spontaneously erupt into open battle. There had to be a reason why they had started to draw their weapons, and he was sure that the purveyor Stephen Dunheved must have had something to do with it.

It was enough to persuade him that he never wanted to return to that castle. No: not to
any
castle.

He still had no idea what had happened to Ham or his money; all he knew was that the whole purpose of his journey had been to deliver the chest of gold, and he had failed quite spectacularly.

It put him in a foul temper, until he reflected that Ham could well have been caught by the posse that rushed past from the castle. That made his anger leave him in an instant. The idea that Ham was dead was awful. Luke would be happier to think that he had stolen the money and that the coins were going towards his family’s upkeep. At least Jen would have a dowry, if that was the case. He prayed that it might be so, and that Ham was even now in his house with the money.