30 - King's Gold (11 page)

At a knock on his door, Matteo turned, still holding his hands to the flames, and a messenger entered.

‘You want the summaries for Benedetto? I will have them shortly,’ Matteo told him.

Benedetto had travelled west to discuss matters with Sir Roger Mortimer, who was presently near Bristol. It was hard to keep track of the man. He was always out and about on horseback, quelling opposition by his mere presence.

‘No, sir, it is a message for you.’

‘Me?’ Matteo said with surprise. He took the parchment and glanced at the seal briefly, feeling his face grow pale at the sight of Sir Roger Mortimer’s mark. Carefully he broke the seal.

‘He wants me to join him – why?’ he muttered. The thought of riding all that way across this accursed country to join the man, apparently now in Wales, was daunting.

‘You are a banker. Perhaps he needs money,’ the other man said curtly, secure in the protection of his King’s messenger’s uniform.

Matteo dismissed him and slumped down in his chair. This was a most unwelcome development. He was needed here, at the heart of his network of men, where he was most valuable. To redirect all his messages would take an age, and there was no apparent reason . . .

He took up the note once more, reading it carefully. There was no implied threat in it, but he was forced to wonder nonetheless.

If the note Dolwyn had been instructed to deliver to Sir Edward of Caernarfon had been intercepted . . . But no. If it had been, Sir Roger would have demanded to see Benedetto, the head of the House of Bardi, not him. So this couldn’t be anything to do with that.

He rang the bell that stood on his table and told his servants to prepare for a journey, and then asked a man to go and find Alured. If the latter could be prevailed upon to join him, Matteo would feel safer, since the local constable was strong and reliable. And if Alured was reluctant, Matteo could petition members of the Freedom of the City to prevail upon him.

His commands given, he gave himself up to reading through the notes and compiling his report for Benedetto, but all the while his mind would keep returning to Sir Roger Mortimer.

What was so urgent that it required Matteo's presence?

Kenilworth

‘What is it?’ Gilbert said. The chief guard of Sir Edward of Caernarfon had eaten his lunch, and was sitting with his legs up on the bench beside him as Squire Bernard strode in.

Gilbert was in a foul mood, but there was nothing new in that. Since arriving here and being told that he was to remain with the King until he was relieved, he had been bitterly resentful. His duties should have ended four months ago when he deposited the King here in Kenilworth. That was what he had been promised. Yet here he was, still waiting, and with no one to relieve him. He would probably be stuck here until he died – or until the King did, he told himself gloomily.

‘There’s been a man here asking about Sir Edward and how well he’s guarded,’ Squire Bernard said. ‘He told me he was a messenger for the King.’

‘And?’ Gilbert snapped.

‘Well, I feel there was something wrong about him.’

‘ “
Wrong
”, eh?’ Gilbert snorted. ‘I know all about “wrong”. I’m still here, and that’s wrong! Four months – and here I am, still kicking my sodding heels!’ He hated this place. He hated being a gaoler, he hated waking every morning with a view of the land about here that was as different from London and his little estate near Eltham as it could be. In his opinion, this whole damned place was
wrong
!

He glanced up at the man standing before him, looking bemused. The fool obviously expected him to do something.

‘So what is the problem?’ Gilbert demanded, shooting a look over his shoulder at the door to the King’s chamber. It was closed as usual.

‘He would not show me his letter of safe conduct.’

‘So you arrested him?’

‘He told me he had safe passage, but that he was on an urgent journey carrying information about negotiations with the Scots,’ Bernard said. ‘I couldn’t ignore him.’

Gilbert grunted and swung his legs from the bench, rubbing his eyes. ‘Very well,’ he yawned. ‘But if this is all a noise about nothing, I’ll make you regret it. Right – you go to the gate and check it. I want the guards doubled, and when it’s curfew, the gate is to be locked no matter what, you understand?’

‘Yes.’

‘And Squire?’

Squire Bernard was surprised by the voice behind him. He turned to find himself staring into the square face of a tall man with green, brooding eyes. He had been leaning against the wall behind the door, but now he stepped forward. It was Sir Jevan de Bromfield, and Bernard’s heart sank. The man’s reputation for savagery was widely acknowledged.

‘If you find a stranger, Squire, don’t believe him when he tells you he’s a messenger. The King’s messengers go about in uniform. Spies are those who hide their loyalty.’

Second Monday before the Feast of the Annunciation
¹⁵

Warwick

The road which passed by Warwick was a heavily used path, and after some days of warm weather, the ruts had hardened and a mis-step threatened a strained or broken ankle. It seemed to Father Luke, as he stumbled along as best he could, that the purveyor, Stephen Dunheved, appeared to be on his guard, riding on his horse like a merchant fearful of attack.

Father Luke assumed that this suspicion was a natural part of a purveyor’s life. No one liked a taxman, and a purveyor was not dissimilar: he would enforce the prices he chose, and no peasant had the option of arguing. There were many who might wish to take a shot at him with an arrow.

Here, though, it was very unlikely that someone might try to assault them. The kingdom was more or less at peace now, and this was one of the quieter backwaters of the nation. After the past turbulent years and the constant threat of war, everyone was subdued. The fear had been so overwhelming, its removal was startling. Luke thought it was like a man about to dive into a dangerous lake, who took a deep breath in preparation, only to be commanded to turn away from the water.

However, it was good to find that they were approaching a small tavern. After walking all of yesterday, until it was dark and difficult to gather firewood, Luke’s legs were weary by noon, and the purveyor – who had a high opinion of his own importance which Father Luke considered unwarranted – had refused to allow them to pause in Warwick. He did not want them to be delayed. That was enough to make Father Luke protest bitterly. The carter and he must walk almost all the way, for the horse could not manage any speed whilst bearing a man as well as hauling the cart.

Ham’s beast was large, with a splash of white like a fist on his breast, and a star of white on his rump, while on the left foreleg he had a white band about his ankle. In his youth, Ham said, he had been a spirited beast, but now, after many years of hauling loads up and down hills, the poor fellow was no longer at his best. It was a miracle, Luke thought, that the animal had survived this long. And it would be a miracle indeed, if he made it all the way to Kenilworth.

Instead of halting here, Dunheved proposed to allow them to rest when they reached the little village of Lecwotten
¹⁶
, a few miles north of Warwick. Ham and Luke exchanged a glance. Picking a fight with a senior official was foolish when the delay would be but a matter of an hour or so. What’s more ale in a small place like Lecwotten would be considerably cheaper than in a town like Warwick.

So they agreed to continue and soon reached the inn, which was little more than a tatty ale-house designed to service the small local community.

The purveyor and Ham went inside, Dunheved loudly demanding drink and food, but Luke chose to wait outside, to keep an eye on the cart and his metal-bound chest.

He detested the very sight of that box, and could not wait for the moment when he could pass it on to someone else. At times, he had thought to give it to this purveyor, but at the last moment he had always resisted the temptation. Dunheved seemed a hard man, and Luke would not be surprised if he didn’t just take the money for himself. Purveyors had a reputation for theft and shameless rapacity, often fleecing the populace and selling the excess goods at a profit. There were regular stories of such men being arrested for their corruption. This man was almost certainly formed from that mould. The only reason Luke was safe was due to the presence of Ham. The fellow might have the brain of an ox, but an ox can intimidate, and Ham was loyal to his priest.

Luke wandered over to the cart. In the bed were the sacks of provisions which the purveyor had bought, and Luke had carefully installed the chest in the middle, between two small barrels of perry, and behind the sack of lampreys, to stop it moving about too much. Now he pulled the sack aside, separated the folds of some blankets, and reached in to touch his chest. It was there, but very well wedged, and he must tug hard until he felt it move. Soon it was at the edge of the cart, and he raised the lid and peered inside. All was well. The coins were in little sacks of soft leather, and he counted them: none was missing. He would not put it past the purveyor to open it and steal a purse, but so far as Luke had seen, the man had shown no interest in it. He had other things on his mind.

Taking a purse, Father Luke opened it and marvelled again. The coins were gold, with a lily on one side, the image of St John on the other. He knew it was called a ‘Florin’. The Florentines minted them, and they were worth some shillings each. If they were valued at three shillings, he thought, with twenty purses of fifty coins in each, there were one thousand gold coins here: that must mean at least three thousand shillings – a hundred and fifty pounds! It made him weak to think of such wealth. He was about to shove the chest back into the gap, when he heard a cheerful voice calling to him.

‘Father Luke? You’re far from home!’

Luke spun on his heel and found himself staring into the face of John of Shulton, the man who had told him of Despenser’s death. ‘Why, good day to you, sir! And what are you doing here?’

‘Riding to Kenilworth. What of you?’

After days with the sullen purveyor, Luke felt something akin to affection for this man. He forgot how nervous he had been when he first met John.

‘Isn’t that the mark of my lord Despenser?’ John added, peering at the chest.

‘Yes. It is his,’ Luke whispered with a glance at the inn. ‘He gave it to me for safekeeping, and I am taking it to Kenilworth for the King.’

‘You mean Sir Edward,’ John corrected. He eyed the chest with some interest. ‘They call him Sir Edward of Caernarfon now, you know, Father.’

‘Hey! Who are you, and what are you gawping at?’ Dunheved shouted from the door. He was walking from the ale-house with a pair of jugs in his hands, and passed one to Luke. ‘This load is all for the garrison at Kenilworth.’

‘It is no matter to me,’ said John, and nodded his head to Luke. ‘I would have joined you on your journey, Father, but I think your grumpy friend here has no wish for company. Godspeed you on your way!’

Luke muttered his own farewell, but the man was already riding away at a smart trot.

The purveyor said nothing, but his eyes were on the man, and he wore a strange expression, almost a smile, as John disappeared into the distance. And then he shook himself and said bluntly, ‘Food is on the way.’

Luke could not help but notice that the man’s eyes turned now to the cart, and suddenly he squinted. And when Luke turned, he saw the edge of the chest protruding from the blankets, which he had inadequately arranged to cover it.

Lecwotton

Stephen Dunheved was eager for a drink. As soon as he had finished his first quart of ale, staring thoughtfully up the road in the direction John had taken, he went back inside the ale-house for another.

It was one thing to be assured of acting for the general good, but when it came to a situation like this, knowing that men would soon die, and that he himself could be one of them, that was a different matter. Not that he was scared, just tense, because he knew what lay ahead. A fight, certainly, and possibly the release of their rightful king, along with the glory that would ensue. It was a wonderful ambition – and yet he felt weary and fretful, and couldn’t shake off a sense of impending doom.

He had been in difficult situations before, of course. Six years ago he had been forced to abjure the realm for killing a man, and didn’t return until the King pardoned him. Within the year he was Valet of the King’s Chamber, and soon afterwards, Edward made him custodian of Lyonshall Castle, then appointed him to hold an inquisition. Stephen’s future had seemed assured. He had not conceived of the King losing his throne.

This wretched tavern seemed to emphasise just how far he had fallen. Once, he had moved in the best circles – not that you would think it, to look at him now. To all he was a scruffy acquirer of goods, little better than a churl, and everyone knew that purveyors had a bad reputation.

He grimaced. The fire was smoking profusely in the middle of the room, and there was a loud hissing as moisture bubbled from the ends of the green logs. It was typical of the landlord that he hadn’t the foresight to cut wood earlier in the year so it could dry.

Going outside, he sat on a log near the door. Soon a wench came out with a tray on which there was a large round loaf and a lump of cheese, as well as two more jugs of ale.

‘Thank you, maid,’ he said, eyeing the loaf hungrily.

She set it on the ground, and wiped her hands before leaving them to their meal.

‘Ham, come and eat,’ Luke called.

Stephen was already cutting into the bread with his knife. He took a quarter of the loaf and studied the lump of grit-infested, blackened crust. He, who had eaten the best paindemaigne with the King’s household, forced now to subsist on this! It was enough to make a man weep, he thought, washing a piece down with a mouthful of ale. At least the liquid made it soften.

The carter joined them at the table, sitting and reaching over for the cheese. ‘I don’t know that the horse’ll make it much further today.’