King's Gold

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

The Feast of Corpus Christi

Berkeley Castle

It was happy, that feast day. Father Luke joined in the festivities, Simon was glad to see, and even the grim-faced Benedetto unbent a little and managed to smile as the minstrels entered and began to play for the company’s pleasure.

‘It does me heart good to hear music,’ Sir Richard said, leaning back in his seat with a contented sigh. The little maid was a short distance away, and she moved nearer to serve him with more wine whenever he held his mazer out. Simon shook his head once more in honest bemusement at the effect the hoary old warrior had upon even the prettiest young maids. It was, as other members of the garrison were fond of repeating, ‘Not fair.’

But for now, no one cared. All had taken the feast day to heart, especially since the messengers Baldwin had sent to Gloucester, to Tewkesbury and farther afield, had started to return with the news that there was no longer any signs of the Dunheved brothers in the vicinity. Their murderous plundering appeared to have ceased, and all the lands about seemed empty. King’s Wood, Michael Wood, the Heath, and even Berkeley Vale were searched and the local villeins interrogated about any gangs of wild men in the area, but all the answers came back that the whole of the lands about Berkeley were clear. The gangs had disappeared as completely as a summer’s mist.

The men in the garrison were celebrating; even now they were close to cheerful rioting. It was best, Baldwin said, to allow them to let off a little steam after the last tense weeks. Now that there was no apparent danger, tonight the men-at-arms were permitted more licence than usual, and Sir Richard was keeping his maid close at hand to protect her from drunken fumblings or worse.

‘Master Puttock,’ Benedetto said, leaning towards Simon. It was fortunate that his wound was only shallow. Matteo’s blade had missed its target, and Benedetto’s rib had been scored, instead of his heart. Now, although sore and in some pain, he had begun to recover: his eye was clear and his manner sober, for all that he had drunk more than a pint of wine already. ‘Do you think it would be safe for me to leave the castle? Would I be able to make my way to Oxford and thence to London, do you think?’

‘I would think so, yes,’ Simon said. He looked further along the tables until he saw the man with the bandage about his face. ‘Why do you not take Alured with you? He is a loyal and resourceful fellow, from all I have heard. And Dolwyn, of course. Both would help you on your way.’

‘Perhaps so. Yes, I shall think of that. They are both good fighters, and that is what I need now.’

‘You should have less need of their fighting skills, but it is always best to plan for the worst,’ Simon agreed. ‘But you must wait here and rest. You cannot ride with that wound.’

‘It is little more than a scratch.’

‘A tiny scratch can kill if the pus grows,’ Simon said firmly. ‘You must wait until the scab is healed and the wound can be shown to be clean. That will take at least a week.’

‘I should leave soon,’ Benedetto fretted. The minstrels were playing a merry tune, but Simon saw that the music did not lift Benedetto’s mood. ‘I will have much to do to catch up after being here so long. But I confess, I find it difficult to go. Once I have departed from Berkeley, I will have lost both brothers for ever. At least when I arrived here I had one still, but leaving here will mean Matteo will be irrevocably lost to me as well.’

‘Have you spoken to him since?’

‘He will not see me or talk to me.’

Simon could see how moved Benedetto was. He put his hand out and rested it on the Florentine’s wrist, gripping it with enough pressure to convey sympathy.

‘Why not wait until the Feast of Saint John,’ he suggested. ‘That will give you and Alured another two weeks to heal, but it will also give us time to ensure that the land all about here is safe, and that the men in the gangs are not merely hiding. There should be no need to worry if they remain quiet until then.’

Benedetto nodded. ‘Very well. Thank you, Bailiff. Let us pray for peace.’

Feast Day of St John the Baptist

It was to be his last day here. Benedetto looked around his chamber in the castle. He had little idea what to do with Matteo. Part of him felt it would be best for his brother to remain here, incarcerated. But it was a shameful way to treat a brother. Better, perhaps, to have him taken to Florence and held there.

Matteo still refused to see him. There had been a day, almost a week ago now, when he had seemed eager to speak to Benedetto, but it was only to plead that he was actually innocent. When Benedetto reminded him that he had confessed while trying to kill him, Matteo had thrown a fit of rage so explosive, Benedetto feared his mind could actually break. Men could die of brain fever.

It was the castle chaplain, for Luke had left for Willersey some days before, who had explained to him that the cause of his illness was undoubtedly demon who had taken control of his mind. The only possible cure was to cast out the demon, but although the chaplain had done his best, there was no change in Matteo’s behaviour. He was grown quite violent.

Benedetto made the decision to leave him alone. He did not believe there was a demon in Matteo’s mind. It seemed more like jealousy of his older brothers and naked ambition, nothing more. Matteo would not hang, for certain, because he was not in his right mind. A King’s Pardon would be obtained — costly, but better that than the shame of seeing a Bardi hanged. There must be another route, he thought. But although he had racked his brains for two weeks, no remedy suggested itself.

He made his way to the great hall, and sat at the massive table on the dais with the other guests. Sir Baldwin looked disappointed at the procession of colourful dishes being paraded: he was always happier with simpler fare, Benedetto had noticed. Not so the Bailiff and Sir Richard. They were hearty eaters, content to feed on anything and everything.

Benedetto picked at the dish before him, missing the food of his natural home. In fact, just now he missed everything about Florence. The sunshine on the flat fields, the tall trees, the sights and sounds, the wines. . all of them called him home.

Thanks be to God, his wound was recovered cleanly. Alured too had healed, although he still held his head at a curious angle, and his nose and cheek were badly scarred. Dolwyn would be there as a bodyguard — so his journeying should be secure.

Senchet was in no mood to enjoy the festivities. He wandered disconsolately about the upper battlements on the walkways, brooding. He did not like this castle.

However, if he and Harry awaited the return of Lord Berkeley, he might hire them and pay them well. A man-at-arms was not expensive in comparison with a knight, but men with the skills and abilities of Senchet and Harry did not come cheap. He had already asked that Florentine if he could join his party, but the banker had looked askance at him, as though he was some kind of felon trying to inveigle his way into an easy gull’s party so he could rob him.

While he was on the battlements, he saw a man surreptitiously cross the yard, and head towards a little low building near a tower. Senchet himself had developed an interest in that particular building, because the little chest from the back of the cart had been stored there. It was a small building, but constructed all of stone, and the roof was strong, too. He had considered, and rejected, the idea of breaking in as impractical. There were too many men here who would come running to investigate — and it was but a short step from being investigated to hanging from a tree.

This man, however, slipped past the door to the building, and disappeared in the shadows. That was interesting to Senchet, and he stepped silently down the staircase to the yard, leaned against a dark wall, and waited.

Sure enough, a few minutes later the same figure returned. He stood in the shadows, his head moving from side to side, and then he hurried away back to the feast.

Senchet watched him go, and then went the same way. He wondered if that other man might have essayed a hole in the building’s wall, in order to get in and filch the chest of coins. Not that he could do anything with it: he could hardly take the chest to his sleeping chamber and conceal it as a pillow!

But there was no hole in the wall. When Senchet walked along the way, he found only a postern door set into the wall. He touched the lock and felt the coolness of fresh oil, but that was all.

Why was the man coming here and making sure that the lock was oiled? Senchet wondered to himself. He frowned at it, trying to think of any reason other than the obvious one.

None occurred to him.

‘Who was he?’ Harry asked as Senchet spoke of the man at the postern gate.

Senchet had gone to the hall and attracted Harry’s attention by the simple expedient of pulling him from his seat.

‘One of the labourers, I think.’

‘A labourer going to oil the locks on a postern. .’

‘At night. When all others are in the hall feasting.’

‘It does seem a little odd.’

Senchet sighed with extravagant emphasis. ‘Odd, you think? Why should a man do such a thing?’

All locks need oiling,’ Harry protested.

‘In the dark?’

‘Yes, that was curious. But perhaps he was supposed to do it during the day, and this was the first opportunity.’

Senchet looked at him.

‘Oh, all right. Come on.’

Sir Richard saw the two approaching. ‘Hey, Sir Baldwin, what d’you think of those fellows? Coming to beg alms or more ale?’

Baldwin glanced towards them, still smiling at a jocular comment from Benedetto, but his smile froze when he had heard what Senchet and Harry had to say.

A short time later, he and Simon had joined Sir Richard at the postern. All three studied it with interest. Baldwin touched the oil, feeling it slick between thumb and forefinger. ‘It is good that the gate’s lock is eased.’

‘Not the time o’ day for doin’ that sort of work,’ Sir Richard commented.

‘No. I agree,’ Baldwin said. ‘But the fellow did not unlock or unbolt the postern. It is still secure, so it is not the work of a man who is set upon allowing strangers in immediately.’

‘But could be sometime soon, was what we thought,’ Harry said. ‘If you’re seeing parties leaving the castle, the garrison will be reduced. And now it’ll take little time for a man to open the gate.’

‘Very true,’ Sir Richard said. ‘What d’you think, Simon? You have a good mind for subterfuge.’

‘I think we should mount a permanent guard here,’ Simon said. ‘Whoever did this could be opening the castle.’

‘Would you recognise the man again?’ Sir Richard demanded.

‘Yes. Without a doubt,’ Senchet said.

Sir Richard looked at Baldwin. ‘I think we ought to have all the masons and labourers stand in front of this good fellow and see if he can identify him.’

‘Absolutely,’ Baldwin agreed. ‘Let us go to their camp and do that straight away.’

The labourers had moved from directly below the tower in the north-east corner of the yard, and were a little further towards the southern wall because the tower had been one of the last sections to be completed and the tents were blocking the area the masons needed for their workings.

In the chill evening air, all the labourers and workers were made to stand and Senchet viewed each carefully before shaking his head. ‘No, it is not one of these here.’

Baldwin thanked the master mason responsible for the works and asked, ‘Is there any man missing?’

‘How would I know?’ he snapped. ‘I’m not responsible for them. My own fellows are here, and that’s all I care about.’

Baldwin and the others left him still fuming, and returned to the hall and their food. But at the doorway, Baldwin looked back. ‘I want a guard on the wall over the postern and another down by the gate itself. They will be relieved, but I want men there all through the night.’

‘Yes,’ Sir Richard said, and belched. ‘Damn nuisance.’

It was a tight fit in here, but William atte Hull was glad that he had spent time constructing this little hideaway.

The fact that the knights had gone to check where he had oiled the locks on the postern showed that someone had seen him. It was Art who saw the man walk in after William had left the dark alley. Art was a good, loyal servant of the King, and as soon as he saw Senchet down there, he had gone to warn William. And now here he was, hidden in what appeared to be a loose pile of rocks beside the southern wall. But it was not solid. He had carefully built a chamber in the heart of this pile, and now he lay in the makeshift shelter and considered what he could do to facilitate the attack.

One thing was certain, if he was seen by that foreign scrote, he would be captured as a traitor.