King's Gold

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Passion Sunday

Berkeley Castle

It was miserable that day. Benedetto had joined Lord Berkeley in the small, cramped chapel for Mass, and the chill had eaten into his bones. How he longed for the warm climate of Florence!

The service must have left the chaplain feeling as cold as the congregation, because he hurried through the last parts and completed it in what seemed like indecent haste.

Benedetto left the chapel, trailing out behind the lord and members of the garrison, and was momentarily blinded by the brightness. The sun was concealed behind a series of clouds that ranged over the sky, but for all that her glow was apparent, especially after the comparative gloom of the chapel.

Benedetto sighed as he crossed the yard. Last night he had dreamed that Manuele was alive again — and the realisation as he awoke that his brother was still dead had coloured the rest of his day with a black melancholy. If truth be known, Manuele had been his favourite brother. Matteo was always a little reserved, as though he was still spying even when with his own family, whereas Manuele had been a pleasant, cheery fellow.

It was noon when he saw a man ride under the gateway. A strong, tall knight, with a beard and piercing eyes, behind him a man on a good palfrey. Both men looked experienced fighters, and Benedetto was impressed by the manner in which the second dropped from his mount and looked carefully about him, before steadying his master’s beast. With them was a large, long-haired mastiff with tricolour markings. A handsome brute, Benedetto told himself, rather like the farm dogs of the Swiss rebels. He could have been tempted by the fellow.

The knight pulled off his gloves as grooms rushed over to see to the horses, and asked for Lord de Berkeley.

‘Sir Knight,’ Benedetto said, ‘he is hunting. May I serve you? My name is Benedetto di Bardi.’

‘Signor Bardi, I am Sir Baldwin de Furnshill.’

‘I am honoured,’ Benedetto said, with a small bow.

The knight gave a perfunctory bow in return, but his dark eyes ranged over Benedetto, enough to make the Florentine flush, as though he had reason to be ashamed.

‘You are one of the famous banking family?’ Sir Baldwin asked.

Benedetto was not surprised that his fame should have reached all the way here, but he was confused by this knight’s cool response to his name. ‘Yes, we are bankers,’ he said.

‘I am very honoured to meet you too,’ the knight said, his voice stiff. ‘I know you were the banker to Sir Edward, the King’s father. And I suppose you support the new King now?’

‘Yes, we have assisted the new government,’ Benedetto agreed. ‘No modern government can survive without money.’

‘And when there are many foreign mercenaries to pay, I suppose the money is even more necessary,’ Baldwin said drily.

‘How the money is used is up to the King, of course,’ Benedetto said smoothly.

‘Of course,’ Baldwin said. ‘I apologise if you feel I insulted you. It was not my intention. However, to lend money at high rates does not seem to me to be Christian.’

‘How else would the government operate? And after the last year, anything that can ease the flow of money is to be applauded.’

‘And the profit you make on such loans?’

‘Is high, because the risks themselves are high. It could be that we lend, perhaps, tens of thousands of pounds — and then there is a change in government and we lose every penny.’

Baldwin smiled thinly. ‘And that would be dreadful.’

‘For the House of Bardi, my friend, yes.’

Willersey

In the church, Agatha stood staring at the cross while Father Luke led the funeral service. The words flowed over and around her, but even when the priest spoke in English, she barely comprehended. She held her feather in her hand, the goose quill that Ham had given her, as if it was some sort of token, but it gave her no consolation.

Jen was beside her, but the two did not touch; their grief separated them. Agatha was tormented by the feeling that she had failed Jen. Occasionally she felt the girl’s eyes upon her, but did not turn to meet them.

She knew she was the topic of gossip in the vill, but she didn’t care. There was nothing anyone could say to her that would make her feel worse. Her guilt, her shame, her inner revulsion, all combined to convince her of her utter inadequacy.

And then there was a flicker in her breast. A sudden thought that gave her a tingle of excitement. Someone had taken her husband’s cart and horse. There must be some means by which she could announce the theft and see them returned. Perhaps a word with the local officers, or. .

The priest was finished, and now they were going to carry Ham to his grave. She followed the wrapped body out into the sunshine, and found herself at the edge of his grave, staring down into it. It looked very narrow. The men carefully slid Ham into the hole, the sexton taking his feet. But his hips stuck. The men above were forced to heave him upwards again, and then move him further down the grave’s pit, the sexton tugging at him with many a muttered imprecation. No one cared for Agatha’s feelings as the body was shifted this way and that. In the end, it was firmly pressed down, and one shoulder was set higher than the other. Jen wept quietly.

A couple of women were watching her and Jen, and partly in order to escape their gaze, Agatha put her arms around Jen and hugged her tightly so she wouldn’t see. She threw the feather in as the sexton clambered out of the grave and took up his shovel.

‘Father?’ she said to the priest.

‘Yes, daughter? A sombre occasion. How are you?’ Father Luke smiled at her, and at Jen, and Agatha took a deep breath.

‘Father, I need to find my cart,’ she said in a choked voice. ‘Will you help me?’

Kenilworth

Matteo reached the inner ward and sat on his horse, peering about him. Kenilworth was busy, and entering had been difficult. The portcullis was down when he and his men clattered over the drawbridge.

‘I am sorry, master,’ Gilbert said when he finally allowed them inside. ‘We have had an attack. We can’t be too careful.’

‘Of course,’ Matteo said, looking about him. The place showed no sign of violence, he thought. He clambered from the saddle, and stood on the ground with his hands on his back, rubbing the tightened muscles.

‘Where is the Earl of Lancaster?’ he asked.

‘He is travelling down from York,’ Gilbert informed him. ‘He will be here in a few days.’

‘Then we shall wait for him,’ Matteo said with a smile.

Berkeley

John watched as the knight spoke to the merchant with the rich clothing, his henchman nearby, and felt the relief wash through his blood.

‘Sir Baldwin, do you remember me?’ he called, and crossed the yard to the knight’s side. ‘I am right glad to see you again. It is some months since we last met.’

‘But of course. It is John, is it not?’

‘Yes. I was with you in the last days of my master, Sir Hugh le Despenser.’

‘You are now a servant of Lord Thomas?’

‘My Lord Berkeley has been good enough to allow me to join his household.’

‘You proved your loyalty to your lord. I hear Lord Berkeley is to travel to Kenilworth?’

At this point, Benedetto bowed and excused himself.

‘Yes,’ John said, when the banker was gone. ‘Lord Berkeley will leave as soon as he may. I think he was waiting only for you to arrive.’

‘Our presence was commanded by Sir Edward of Caernarfon himself,’ Baldwin said.

‘I confess I still find it difficult to call my King by that name, as though he was merely a knight,’ John said, glancing around cautiously.

‘I think that after the last months he would be glad indeed to become an ordinary knight. But be careful who hears you speaking like that. There are those who would be glad to accuse you of disloyalty to your new King,’ said Baldwin.

‘Aye. Well, I cannot throw off my allegiances as easily as some,’ John said.

‘We ride soon?’ Baldwin asked, by way of changing the subject.

‘My Lord Berkeley has gathered together all the men he can for this escort,’ John said. ‘There has been an attempt upon Sir Edward already.’

‘So I heard,’ Baldwin said. ‘It is a curious thing that someone should have tried to attack a castle to free him. Surely they would know that the castle would be all but impregnable. How did they do it?’

John hesitated a moment, and then answered. ‘I heard that they had men already inside the castle, and although those men were searched for weapons, they had a cartload on the way. If the weapons had been there, the attack might have succeeded. It was a bold plan.’

‘Was it to free Sir Edward — or harm him, though,’ Baldwin said thoughtfully.

‘What a question!’ John laughed. ‘Who would want to have him harmed?’

Baldwin looked about him at the men thronging the court, preparing horses and harnesses for the journey. ‘I cannot imagine. But think of this: bankers need excellent communications. They control numbers of spies and messengers all over the countries in which they operate so that they can see what is happening — before the King himself in many cases.’

‘So?’

‘The Bardi is here for a reason, my friend. I do not know what that reason may be, but let us imagine the fellow has contact with Sir Roger Mortimer. Sir Roger holds on to power with his fingernails because of Queen Isabella, but if someone were to release Sir Edward of Caernarfon, Sir Roger’s authority would collapse. He would be exposed as a felon who stole the throne, stole the Queen, and imposed his will over the King’s heir. So if you ask me who could have a desire to kill the man you and I still consider our King, I would answer: Sir Roger. He would find it difficult to explain Sir Edward’s death to the Queen and her son; but better that than to have to try to explain himself to the King, were Sir Edward back on his legitimate throne.’

John listened, his heart shrivelling in his breast. The idea that there could be more civil war, more unnecessary deaths, was utterly repugnant to him. In his mind’s eye, he saw Paul’s dead face again. It made him want to weep.

Edgar walked up and was introduced. He gripped John’s hand, and John could not help but wince.

‘You have some pain?’

‘I have reached that age in life, where sometimes I twist or move foolishly, and as a result receive quite a painful injury,’ John lied, putting his misery to one side. ‘I pulled a muscle a few days ago. I fear I grow old.’

‘Then there can be little hope for me,’ Baldwin chuckled.

John smiled politely. ‘Sir, you will be joining the good Lord Berkeley on his way to Kenilworth?’

‘Yes,’ Baldwin said. ‘We go to accompany the King back here.’

‘May I ride with you? The journey will be strange, with so many who are not devoted to Sir Edward.’

Baldwin smiled. ‘I should be pleased to have your company.’