30 - King's Gold (39 page)

Sir Richard’s mouth stopped moving as he absorbed that. ‘D’ye think the foreign bretheling
⁴²
would dare a trick like that? We’d have his ballocks if he did!’

‘If he
was discovered,’ Baldwin said.

‘It’s possible,’ Simon judged.

‘It is one possibility, in any case,’ Baldwin said. ‘Perhaps we should ensure that the gaol is watched? It would be a great shame were the Bardi to insinuate a weapon into the gaol. Or poison. His servant may well be the only witness to another crime, and I would not have him slain because his master sees him as an embarrassment.’

‘What will you do, then?’ Simon asked. ‘Go and question him?’

Baldwin sipped wine from the mazer before him, pulling a face at the flavour. ‘Not today. I will pay the gaoler to stop men visiting the prisoner, and plan on seeing him tomorrow. If there is an attempt upon his life, we may catch the culprit. In any case, he will have spent four days in prison by then. Time for him to have realised how unpleasant his life could become, were he to remain there. Yes, tomorrow I shall speak with him.’

Matteo had seen the knights talking at their table, and felt a certain quivering in his belly at the sight. It would be better if Dolwyn was dead. The man was a danger to the bank, and to him personally. And Matteo had no idea how to deal with him.

He walked about the yard, musing over his servant, and thinking too about his brother. There was so much danger it was hard to isolate the greatest threat. But as he walked, he saw Benedetto, and he felt certain that this was the time to seek to resolve one issue, if he could.

Benedetto had taken power so quickly after Manuele’s death, he reminded himself. Now he bent his steps towards his brother.

‘Benedetto, I would have a moment,’ he said.

‘Of course,’ his brother answered, waving away the two guards who were always behind him. ‘This is a magnificent castle, is it not? Who could wish for a more comfortable and congenial home? And the lord keeps it in such splendid condition, especially with all the reworkings. They will enhance it, I have no doubt. I think . . .’ He noticed at last the expression on his brother’s face. ‘Why, what is it, Matteo?’

He had grown more confident in his position, Matteo saw. From a young age, Matteo had lived in two worlds. One was that of the business, in which he knew he was a crucial part of the entire structure; but in the family, in which he was the youngest member, he had a constant battle to remind himself that he was now a grown man. But it wasn’t him alone, he knew. His brother Benedetto was also aware of the disparity in their ages. Benedetto was the older and would for ever have the increased maturity that age conferred. In the family, Matteo would always submit to Benedetto’s whims. A part of him was still the little boy who could be bullied.

It should not be so. Matteo was an adult now. Such foolishness hampered his clarity of thought.

‘Benedetto. I am worried.’

‘Yes? And by what?’

‘You.’

Benedetto stopped and eyed him with surprise. ‘What do you mean, little brother?’

For Matteo, that term was confirmation of the contempt in which he was held by his brother. He said sharply, ‘I may be younger than you but without my efforts, our bank would be out of business. You would have joined Manuele in supporting the old King, and the House of Bardi would have collapsed, as did his reign. So don’t call me “little brother”, like some idiot child. I am the head intelligencer for the bank. Treat me as such.’

‘Of course, Matteo,’ his brother said with a touch of injured aloofness.

‘What I mean is, I have had a lot of time to think since my injury.’ Matteo said, ‘and I must know. Did you send a man to kill me that day?’

‘Me!’ Benedetto cried. There was no mistaking his hurt.

‘You disappeared so quickly. I was stabbed a moment or two after seeing our brother die. It was almost as though someone paid the mob to kill us both. That would have left you with total control of the business.’

‘Matteo, listen to yourself,’ Benedetto said pleadingly. ‘I had to return to my house because I was due to meet a man. I was gone from the bank in great haste. I did not see Manuele’s death because I was already halfway home. How can you think that I would do such a thing? I am your brother, Matteo, and that means as much to me as it does to you! I couldn’t plot your death. I couldn’t.’

‘Whom did you have to see? Someone from the King’s household?’

‘No. It was Sir Jevan. He wished to confirm that the money needed by the Queen would be sent to her. It was as we had discussed in the meeting.’

‘You had already decided?’ Matteo said, eyes narrowing. ‘You had plotted with her before we had the meeting?’

Benedetto grimaced. ‘You know how things were that day. It was clear to all that the Queen was going to win, and that the King’s power was on the wane. What would you have expected – that I should have waited for Manuele to agree before guaranteeing the security of the bank? The only thing I could do was ensure that we were safe by speaking with the Queen’s agents. I am not ashamed of it. I would do it again.’

‘Sir Jevan?’ Matteo muttered.
‘He
was an agent of the Queen?’

‘You are our best intelligencer, and didn’t know?’ Benedetto chuckled. ‘Yes, Sir Jevan was there that day. I agreed that we should support the Queen above all others. It did lead to our being involved right from the first . . . You look worried, brother. What is it?’ His face suddenly fell. ‘You think that because you were discussing your letter to Sir Edward, I sent a man to kill you? Matteo, we are brothers. If a man may not trust his own blood, how can he trust any man? I could not hurt you any more than you could hurt me.’

Matteo nodded, and when Benedetto threw his arms about him, he did not even flinch.

Saturday before Easter Sunday
⁴³

Berkeley Gaol

Dolwyn squatted on the floor, waiting with a patience that was close to madness. He was alone in this dark, dingy chamber. There was one little sewer that ran along the length of it, a mere trench cut in the rock, which fed into a small pit at the farther end. From there the moisture sank somehow into the soil beneath the castle, he assumed. This cold, befouled prison was the most noisome and repugnant he had ever seen.

He had no idea what would happen to him. They had not dragged him out to die, since that knight’s words. The coroner had postponed his death, thank God! Otherwise he would have been taken out and pulled up by the neck until he was strangled, as that block-headed ribald
⁴⁴
of a lord had wanted.

The Bardis wouldn’t want him to talk, so they had better be careful. Very careful.

The door creaked open at the top of the staircase, and he felt his breath catch in his throat. The footsteps coming down the stairs must be those of a pair of guards, and he instantly began to shake, as though these men were going to take him up to the fresh air and the light and slip a rope over his head in an instant.

And then he heard a voice . . .

‘Come with me, my friend,’ Baldwin said. ‘You will not wish to be questioned down here. Let us go together and enjoy some food and drink.’

Within a few minutes, Dolwyn found himself seated on a bench, and before him was set fresh, warm bread, a block of cheese, a bowl of thin stew, and a pot of ale. He touched the food with a restraint that was torture. ‘What do you want?’

‘The truth. Perhaps to save your life?’ Baldwin took his seat opposite Dolwyn. ‘Eat.’

Dolwyn took a little bread and chewed it slowly, savouring the flavour, and then he picked up the pot of ale and drained it in one long draught. Sighing with pleasure, he put it down again and set about the cheese and bread with gusto.

‘There is a reckoning, of course,’ Baldwin said. ‘It comes to men no matter what they think of the justice. But if you were truly innocent of the murder of Ham Carter, I would not see you punished for that crime.’

Dolwyn eyed him. It would be all too easy to admit to a past offence and be hanged for that, he guessed. He must be cautious. At least he could be honest about Ham.

‘I quite liked the carter. He was a fellow as I was once. More than a little hen-pecked. He reminded me how I was before my wife’s death.’

‘How did that happen?’

A convulsive shiver ran through Dolwyn’s frame. ‘I killed her – and my daughter. But I had not meant to hurt either of them. I could never have harmed my little girl. She was all the sweetness in life to me.’

Baldwin could see that the man was affected, unless he was an excellent actor. ‘Go on.’

‘My woman was always over-willing to chastise me. That was why I used to go and drink, sometimes too much. That night I returned and we had a row, as usual. The vill heard and some of the men came to demand that we keep the peace and stop our wrangling, but she berated them in insulting terms. I could see that they were horrified to be addressed in such a way. So, after they left, I determined I would try to correct her behaviour. I took up a stick, and threatened her.’

As he spoke, he saw again the cramped room that was their home, little Emily terrified in her bed, the glow from the rushlights throwing a fitful orange light over everything. Maggie stood with her hands on her hips, her face turned sharper, more like a ferret’s. He had been standing beside his barrel of burned cider
⁴⁵
with a cup in his hand. A stiffener before bed, he had thought. Something to strengthen his resolve before his wife started to lay into him with her tongue. And then she began.

She had taunted him, telling him he was less of a man because he couldn’t hold his drink. ‘You used to be someone I could admire, but look at you now,’ she jeered. ‘A pathetic dog is what you’ve become, with the sense and courage of a rabbit. Once our Emily looked up to you, but these days she would be happier with Saul Archer as her father. You’re nothing but a drunken wastrel.’

‘What about Saul?’

‘I should have married him after he swyved me before you,’ she said spitefully. ‘He is worth ten of you.’

He could recall throwing aside the cup of spirit, and screaming at her to shut up, to just leave him alone, and then he lashed out with his stick and saw it catch her cheek, and he remembered throwing his stick aside and trying to catch her to hug her, but then she had drawn her knife, and the blade caught his forearm. The sting of it stirred his rage. He punched her, with all the malice and fury that seven years of marriage had given him, and saw her fly to the ground.

He left the house. Saul’s was only a few hundred yards away, and he remembered staggering dangerously up towards it, the anger sparkling and fizzing in his blood like acid. But before he could get close to Saul’s, he stumbled. It was only by a miracle that he managed to throw himself to one side before he tumbled into the narrow well at the roadside, and he lay there, on his back, panting, before throwing up. He had the presence of mind to turn away from the well, so he did not pollute the water, but even as he was vomiting, he felt the waves of self-disgust rising and washing through him.

She was right – he
was
weak. How could she or Emily respect him, when he was a miserable brethel without prospects or skills to create them? He stood up, determined to show her he could be worthy of her. It was true – she did deserve better than him. And if she had rolled in the hay with Saul, what of it? That was more than seven years ago, if it was before they had wed. He would not hold that against her.

That was when he had heard the screaming. Emily must have been screaming for a while before that, he assumed, because Peter and John were there with buckets, and others were, bellowing to the girl and her mother to escape.

Completely sober now, he ran for his door. The flames were already leaping up and the thatch had caught a spark. Smoke rose in black clouds, and then there was a hollow roaring noise, and a warm flame lazily rolled from the door, throwing aside the thin oiled screen at the window, and a strange thudding detonation came to his ears, and he knew instinctively that it was his burned cider.

The barrel-staves were found later near the fire in the middle of the hearth, and gradually he pieced together what must have happened. His wife had decided to destroy that spirit that had taken him so long to make, and rolled the barrel to the drain-hole at the rear of the cottage, opening the taps to let the drink run away. But some had reached the flames, and the liquid caught fire. The barrels themselves exploded like flour in a mill.

He had tried to make his way inside to save them. God knew, he had tried – but John and others held his arms and pulled him away as the flames licked about the doorframe and the window. If he had gone in, he would have died, there was no doubt.

Baldwin listened carefully. The man’s sorrow was plain enough. ‘So afterwards, you said you were pardoned?’

‘I was accused, but it was agreed that I had not killed them. I was outside when my little girl screamed. And I tried to get in to save them. I wasn’t actually pardoned. There were discussions about my having tried to harm them, and the coroner recorded them, and the facts of our shouting at each other, but the court agreed I was innocent. That was that.’ He gave a long, shuddering sigh.

‘I see.’

‘Sir, I know how this must look,’ Dolwyn said, ‘but I had nothing to do with Ham’s death. He was a sad little man, who inspired sympathy in me because he reminded me of how I once had been.’

‘A pathetic churl. But one with a chest of gold and an array of weapons that might be sold,’ Baldwin said.

‘I knew nothing of gold. That was hidden from me. Like his axe.’

‘So you say you did not know where his axe was?’

‘I didn’t know he had one. I did find the weapons, but not his axe.’

‘You still state that you did not slay him?’

‘Sir, I state that I did not even see him. Alive or dead, I did not see him that night. I found the horse and cart and bethought me that they gave me more chance of evading capture in the days following the attack on Kenilworth.’

‘I see.’

‘Sir, is it true that you are loyal to the memory of our last King? I had heard the gaoler say that you were called here by Sir Edward to help guard him.’