King's Gold

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Vigil of the Feast of the Annunciation

Willersey

It was no good, she couldn’t sleep. Agatha surrendered herself to the fact that she would remain awake throughout the night, and rolled from her palliasse to her feet, then shuffled in the dark towards the table. She sat on the stool and leaned her elbows on the table, chin resting on her fists.

That prickle!

It was the only thought that kept running through her mind. She wanted to scream and lash out at anyone who came near. But in truth, deep down, all she felt was despair at the thought that the man with whom she had expected to spend the rest of her life had deserted her.

Her man must have told Father Luke, since the latter was so certain. Perhaps Ham had confessed in church, or when he got drunk. Ham may have found some accommodating bitch who tempted him. Perhaps that was it — not money, just a draggletail, and he was off after her like a dog. All men were the same. Even Ham.

‘Why now?’ she groaned.

She could have made something of her life if he’d died years ago. When she was in her twenties, there were men who’d shown an interest in her and she could have made a good match. Instead, here she was — a raddled old wench, her face lined, her body sagging and worn. No man would want her now. She took her hands from her face and studied them: the calluses and warts, the horny skin. Once she had been pretty enough, and if she had been saved from this life of endless effort, maybe she would still be comely.

In time, she hoped she would accept the idea that he had left her. It was terrible to think she might not. A life full of bitterness was no life at all.

She looked over at Jen sleeping on her palliasse, her mouth dropped open, faint snores ensuing, and felt another surge of sadness, tinged with determination.

They would survive, even if Ham had left them. They would survive.

Ross-on-Wye

Matteo de Bardi rode stiffly still, the pain in his back a reminder of his vulnerability. It did not matter whether a fellow was a lord or a king — if the mob decided to remove him, it would do so. A word in the right ear and a crowd would stab him to death without a moment’s hesitation.

The thought brought another twinge of pain.

Death had not left his mind in the last days. At Abergavenny Castle, danger had felt so close; on leaving, he felt as if he had sloughed off a heavy cloak — and with the cloak went all his fears and troubles. Outside the town’s gates he felt like a man renewed.

‘Are you well, master?’ Alured asked at his side.

‘Yes,’ Matteo smiled.

Matteo Bardi knew he was little known outside the bank, and yet it was he who wielded much of the real control. It was the information he gathered which led to the new directions being taken by the bank. Especially since the others rarely realised that they had been manipulated.

In recent years he had never once been in error. His informants were competent, from an Earl all the way down to a lay brother in a small priory. All knew their duties, and all were proficient if not prolific. It was the most arduous task, Matteo knew, to sift through the distraction of base rocks to search out the twinkling motes of pure gold. Other banks, even Florentine ones, were put to great effort to decide which information was accurate, which was guesswork, which was spurious or intended to cause confusion.

Matteo was happy that all that work had been done already. He paid well, and his sources knew that even if they had no information, he would still pay them. And because he did pay monthly in gold, his men continued to give him important tidbits when they had them. They trusted him.

And they were right to do so. He would support and protect them. Until they became dangerous, in which case he would instantly remove them.

It must have been something of this reputation which had helped recommend him to Sir Roger Mortimer. And now the latter had asked him to deliver the indenture to move Sir Edward of Caernarfon from Kenilworth. Matteo had considered it an honour, and had been happy to wait for a day while the parchment was drawn up by Mortimer’s clerks.

However now, sitting astride his horse, he was assailed by doubts.

Matteo knew that Earl Henry of Lancaster and Sir Roger were vying for power. Earl Henry had better contacts in Parliament and could count on winning debates there, but Sir Roger was the Queen’s lover. If Sir Roger wanted to take the old King from Kenilworth and place him in Berkeley Castle under the control of his son-in-law Lord Thomas de Berkeley, that must give Sir Roger the edge. While Earl Henry had him at Kenilworth, he could threaten to return Edward to his throne and oust Sir Roger. Without Sir Edward, his position was greatly weakened.

At least he would be safe enough, Matteo told himself. He was a mere messenger, one who was impartial in this matter.

Thank the Good Lord that Dolwyn had not been discovered, nor the Bardi letter found, he thought.

West Sandford

There were times when he hated that lazy prickle. Gurt hoddypeak

Hugh scowled at the boy and aimed a kick at his backside. ‘You know ’tis not what I meant, you boinard,’ he snarled.

‘How’m I to know what you mean? You never explain anything to me!’

Rob was a whining, idle, ferret-like boy whom Hugh’s master Simon Puttock had somehow collected when he was living as Keeper of the Port of Dartmouth some while ago. The post had been intended as a reward to Master Simon, because he had served his lord, the Abbot of Tavistock, well — but the good abbot had had no notion of how devastating his kindness had been. Removed from his beloved moors, Simon had been like a fish out of water. His wife was reluctant to move to Dartmouth, because their daughter Edith was the sort of girl who’d fall for the first fellow to come along, and the idea of her being exposed to a bunch of rough sailors was not to be borne. So the family had separated, Simon going to the coast while his family remained in Lydford.

This little wretch had been his servant there in Dartmouth. And he still couldn’t wake up in time to make the morning’s fire.

‘More logs, I said,’ Hugh hissed.

‘Oh, “more logs, more tinder, more wine, more everything, Rob. Just do as I say, and don’t argue”!’ the lad said bitterly, mimicking Hugh’s voice. ‘You just don’t know what I-’

He broke off as Hugh hurled a short stick at him. ‘I said, more logs. I want a fire for the master when he returns.’

‘You need a slave, that’s what you need,’ Rob grumbled.

‘Shut your noise, boy, and fetch the logs,’ Hugh rasped, and watched from black brows as the lad sulkily dragged his feet out through the doorway.

Hugh made a small pile of twigs in readiness, then held a hand over the ashes of the night’s fire in the hearth. There was some heat in one corner, and when he blew gently on it, he saw a faint glimmer, but when he set a twig in it there was not enough heat to make it smoke.

Instead he took a little charred cloth and set it on his lap, preparing flint and steel, and then striking down sharply with the flint. The spark was so tiny, it might have been a mote of dust. He struck again, then four more times rapidly, until he saw the gleam of red on the black material.

Quickly picking it up, he blew to make it glow strongly and surrounded it with some wisps of old man’s beard and some fine twigs and birch bark. Soon smoke was rising, and he carefully set it down over the hottest part of the ashes, placing the handful of twigs overtop, and blowing soft but steady into it. There was a flicker of flame and he nodded, satisfied.

Hugh had been born not far from Drewsteignton, on a farm that was noted for its sheep. There, as a boy, he had grown wild with the animals. He had cared for few people, only his sheep and his dog, and it was not until Simon Puttock took him on that he discovered the pleasure of companionship. He had never regretted joining with Master Simon, although he wished that his own marriage has lasted longer. His wife and child had died in a fire, and many had been the times he had wished that he had died with them.

His own son would never have grown so bone idle as this, that much he knew.

There was a muttered curse, and the fellow appeared in the doorway, arms filled.

He wasn’t so bad, really, Hugh reminded himself. The lad had grown up in the port, son of a woman who gave herself in exchange for ale or wine. He had never known his father. The man was just one in a succession of sailors who had been entertained by his mother. It would have been a miracle for him to turn out any better. Most lads like him were dead before they were thirteen, and if not, they became sailors themselves. Fishermen or warriors for the King, it made little difference. Being employed by Simon had probably saved young Rob’s life.

‘Get the fire going, lad,’ Hugh said, having blown the little sparks into life, and rising from his knees, grunting to himself, he lumbered from the room.

This was his sanctuary, the small buttery at the farther side of the screens passage, in which the household’s ale and wine was stored. It was only a small chamber, but for Hugh, who had grown up without walls while he lived on the moors, it was as good as any man’s grand hall. He sat on a stool and drew a quart of ale into a leather jug, drinking deeply.

He was still there when he heard the rattle of hooves outside.

Near Mickleton

Dolwyn woke in the early light, head aching, bones sore and rubbed, and cursed the sun. Another hour of sleep would not have hurt him.

All the way here, he had hurried, desperate to catch up with Ham. He was used to it. In his time he’d been forced to hurry to battles, as well as away from them afterwards. He had bolted from homes when he learned that a posse sought him, he had joined posses in search of felons when told to, he had ridden at speed with the King’s messages from York to London and back. Once he had run from a woman’s husband, leaving his hosen, belt and knife behind somewhere on the bitch’s floor in the dark.

And in all those years he had never flagged, whether he was quarry or hunter.

He knew Willersey. Some years ago he had been to Gloucester, then was sent to Warwick, and on the way he passed through Broadway and Willersey. They had struck him then as ideal places for a man like himself. He could have taken the vills with very few men, and the rich land all about there would have fed and watered a goodly-sized force. Perhaps it was close to time for him to think again about such things. If he didn’t manage to free Edward of Caernarfon, he would have to think about another opportunity; perhaps he could raise a force in order to free him.

First, though, he wanted food, followed by revenge — the chance to silence a man who had seen him too close to the castle where Edward was being held. He also wanted that horse and cart.

He just wished his head didn’t hurt so much where that bastard had hit him.

Once up, his blanket rolled, he returned to the lane where the wide-set wheel-tracks stood out so strongly.

‘Right, you son of a pox-ridden whore!’ he muttered, and set off again, his bruised skull pounding with every step.

West Sandford

At the door, Hugh heard a familiar voice bellowing. It was almost enough to make him spill his ale. He walked to the hall, where the boy Rob was kneeling and blowing furiously in an attempt to keep the fire going, then along the screens passage to the open front door.

‘Sir Richard,’ he said.

‘That’s right, Sir Richard de Welles. Good God, man, you look like you swallowed a turd! Where’s your groom, eh? Someone needs to come and take me horse and see to it. Simon indoors, is he? I’ve a throat as parched as a wild dog’s in the Holy Land, and the idea of an ale is very welcome. If there’s a little cheese and bread, that would be good too. Or some cold meat. Anything, really. What, lost your tongue, man?’

‘Sir Richard, my master’s not here.’

Sir Richard de Welles stood with his legs spaced as though preparing to fight, his hands on his belt — a tall man, at least six feet and an inch in height, somewhat heavy in the paunch, and with bright, genial eyes set in an almost perfectly round face. His brow was broad and tall, and his beard was so thick and long it looked much like a gorget. He had a mass of wrinkles on his amiable features, most of which had been carved into his flesh by laughing.

Hugh knew the knight moderately well. Sir Richard had first met Hugh’s master Simon in Dartmouth some three years ago, when his skills as a coroner had helped Simon and Baldwin discover a murderer. Loud, apparently impervious to all types of drink, no matter what the quantity, with a head like an ox and a memory for foul jokes of all forms, he was an example of the sort of rough and crude, but honest and kindly, knight whom Hugh could respect.

Now Hugh frowned, his head low on his shoulders. ‘There’s some cold meat and ale. And bread.’

‘Excellent! Capital! You know, this reminds me of a manor I used to know a long way from here. Up towards Wiltshire,’ the knight said, staring out over the view. A happy smile spread across his features as he stood surveying the little plot of pasture, the field beyond, the small coppice and shaw, and the hill that rose steeply in the distance, thick with old trees. ‘A pleasant little farm, that was. And they brewed some fine ales there. Hah! I hope yours is as good, eh? Where’s the hall, then?’

Hugh called for a groom, cursorily throwing the horse’s reins over a tree’s limb, before hurrying inside.

The house was a simple one: the cross passage was screened from the hall, and two doors on the right led to the buttery and pantry, while beyond was the little dairy. Margaret had persuaded Simon to modernise, and now there was a chimney rising from the hall itself, a recent innovation that did little, to Hugh’s mind, to alleviate the thick smoke that always filled the room.

In fact, he could see Rob still blowing ineffectually at the fire, trying to force a glimmer from it, while Sir Richard strode inside. The knight was peering down at him with a frown on his face, watching intently.

‘GOOD GOD, BOY!’ he bellowed at last. ‘DO YOU HAVE NO IDEA?’ He pushed Rob aside, then went down on all fours, blowing steadily. In only a short time there was a strong crackling noise and Sir Richard sat back on his haunches, studying the burgeoning flames with satisfaction. ‘That’s how you get a fire going, boy! Now, off with you. I need bread, cheese, ale, some scraps of salad if you can find them, and if you have a meat coffin, so much the better. A little pasty always works a wonder on an empty stomach. Oh, and if the ale’s thin, a pint of wine too. I need to keep me strength up. Stop!’

Rob, who had been sulkily making his way to the door, paused and turned to look at the knight.

Sir Richard’s eyes narrowed and he subjected Rob to a short study. ‘You are the boy from Dartmouth, eh? The one the good Keeper of Dartmouth found?’

Rob gave a surly nod.

‘Ah. I had cause to chastise you there, I remember. You didn’t get up in the morning, did you? Don’t make me have to do so again, lad. Go on, be off! And look sharp, too!’

Sir Richard shook his head as the fellow darted into the buttery. ‘Master, that churl deserves the whip more than a number of the felons I see before me in my courts. He needs a firm hand, eh?’

Hugh said nothing. The boy needed discipline, it was true, but Hugh didn’t need help or advice from the knight. He had taught enough dogs to know how to raise animals.

The food arrived shortly, and Sir Richard looked at the wooden platter with an approving eye as he seated himself. Picking up the quart jug of ale that Rob placed at his hand and sniffing it with every sign of pleasure, he raised it to his mouth, closed his eyes, and sank a pint in three immense gulps. In a few more moments, the second pint was gone and the knight gave a belch of happiness as he passed the empty container back to Rob. ‘Refill it, boy.’

He then pulled a knife from his belt and began to cut his meats, shoving each piece into his mouth with gusto. Only when the bread was gone, and his trencher clear of all meats and leaves, did he lean back and take up the third quart of ale, a beatific smile spreading over his face.

‘There now, that feels much better,’ he said. ‘Where’s your master, Hugh? Did you say he was away? What about his wife, eh?’

‘They’re at Exeter. Seeing their daughter and grandson,’ Hugh said.

‘That so, eh? Right. I’ve urgent messages for him. You’d best tell me how to reach him there.’ Sir Richard glanced out through the open window. The sky to the south was darkening, with pink and red and orange clouds standing still as the sun sank to the west, out of sight. ‘Can’t go tonight, though. We’ll have to go in the morning.’

‘I can’t leave here,’ Hugh objected. ‘My master told me to stay and look after the place.’

‘He’ll want you with him, when he hears my news,’ the knight said with certainty.