Michael Jecks - King's Gold

When he was free he would have Mortimer tortured. He would have the churl put to the peine forte et dure to plead his guilt, and then see him executed in the same manner in which the bastard had tortured poor Hugh to death. Damn Mortimer to hell for eternity!

Yes, he owed the Duke little. Adam, his illegitimate son, would never have dreamed of such disloyalty. He, God bless him, was too kind, too gentle and grateful for anything his father offered.

But Adam had died five years ago during the campaign against the Scots. The lad had joined the host as a page, but died of fever on that horrible return march, as had so many others. He would never know what it was to be a grown man. He died so young — only fourteen years old.

Duke Edward was also fourteen, the King realised with a jolt. It sent a shiver down his spine to think that his oldest son was as old as his firstborn had been when he died. The two boys were so very different, it had never occurred to him before.

Edward wondered whether the Duke realised the danger he was in. He was under-age to be King. Mortimer would control him ruthlessly, and the kingdom. To agree to abdication would mean that the Duke would inherit his kingdom. Did he deserve it? Edward set his jaw. He would not willingly deprive his second son. His firstborn was already dead because he had followed him. He could not condemn his first legitimate son too.

He looked at the men in silence. But even then, back in January, Sir Edward of Caernarfon knew that the decision had already been made for him.

House of Bardi, London

Matteo had five messengers arrive that morning. The pile of different-sized parchments was daunting to him as he sat sipping wine, eyeing them.

It had taken time and a great deal of money to have the house tidied once more, but he did not begrudge Benedetto’s expenditure. This house was a symbol and a statement of the Bardis’ position at the pinnacle of English society.

Since Christmas, when they had advanced loans to the Queen and Sir Roger Mortimer, the bank had shifted to the centre of political authority and the House of Bardi was as secure as it had been throughout King Edward II’s late, unlamented reign.

It meant stability, and that made Matteo reconsider his plan to leave the country. There was money to be made here.

Matteo was still wary of his brother. Every time they met, he felt a crawling sensation. He never turned his back on Benedetto. Instead he had spies watch him. Matteo also abandoned all outward manifestations of ambition. He wanted others to believe that his brush with death had scared him.

But he was not scared. He was hungry for more: more money, more control, more information with which to achieve what he wanted.

There was a knock, then the door opened and Dolwyn walked in.

‘You have news?’ Matteo demanded.

‘Some. I met your informant,’ Dolwyn said. ‘He is dead now.’

‘What?’

‘He was hanged for murder.’

Matteo shook his head. ‘A shame — he was useful. I shall have to find another man in that area. Did you learn anything from him before he died?’

‘That Sir Edward of Caernarfon is not so weak as some would believe.’

‘He has been deprived of his crown,’ Matteo observed.

‘But many would see him return to his throne. Plots are already being formed to bring him back.’

Matteo studied the man. Dolwyn was a useful henchman, certainly, mostly because of his brawn, not his brains. His skills lay with knives and daggers, not with the tools Matteo was happier to employ: words and information. The attack had made Matteo appreciate how different were their two worlds. ‘Who?’

‘All about Bristol and South Wales I heard the same: everywhere the people had relied on the Despensers, there is a clamour for the return of Edward of Caernarfon.’

Matteo considered. There was merit in telling Mortimer this news, but the latter had his own spies so it would not be news to him. No, the only man who might not be aware of this, secluded as he was, was Sir Edward of Caernarfon himself. In the event of a coup, he would be very grateful to those who had aided him. .

Matteo glanced at his reeds and inks, thinking that he could write to Sir Edward himself, offering the same as the letter from Manuele. The man would surely appreciate that. But if the letter were discovered, after the King’s abdication from the throne, the author could rightly be suspected of treason against the new King and be sentenced to die a painful death. It was a shame that the original had not been sent.

And then he had an inspiration. ‘I have a letter,’ he informed Dolwyn. ‘I need you to take it to Sir Edward of Caernarfon and deliver it to him, and him alone.’

It was perfect, he thought. The letter had been written and signed by Manuele before his death. The delay in sending it was explicable by the kingdom’s upset in recent months, and if it was discovered, it was clear that the man who wrote it was now dead and could not be punished — and nor could those who had arranged for it to be sent on to the recipient in good faith.

In short, if Sir Edward received it, he would be assured of the bank’s efforts to aid him, but if it was found by Mortimer’s men, Matteo could explain the mistake.

Two Saturdays before the Feast of the Annunciation, first year of the reign of King Edward III

Willersey

Matins was over for another day. Father Luke smiled at young Jen and her mother Agatha as he wiped the chalice clean and began to tidy away the silver.

It was easy to smile at Jen. Small, like so many of the children after the winter, she had the fair hair and blue eyes of her mother, and the quick alertness of a hawk. The way that she set her head to one side and considered the priest while he spoke was utterly entrancing. If he had not taken the vow of chastity, he could have wished for no more appealing child as his own.

‘I didn’t see your husband here today,’ he remarked to Agatha.

‘The fool took a job delivering ale and food to the castle,’ she said. ‘A purveyor arrived last night demanding a cart, and Ham agreed a good price for his time.’

‘Warwick Castle?’

‘No. The farther one: Kenilworth.’

‘Ouch!’ Father Luke said. Warwick itself was more than twenty miles, and Kenilworth must be a deal further. ‘That is a long way. I have never been that far since I came to the parish myself. Has he already left?’

‘Fat chance of that!’ Agatha sneered. ‘You think my Ham would be up at this time of day and out on the road?’

‘Father is seeing to the animals,’ Jen said.

‘There is always much for a man to do,’ Father Luke agreed. ‘Who will look after the beasts when he is gone?’

‘I think I will,’ said Jen. For all that she was a child of only seven summers, she sometimes had the manner of a mature woman. The effect of living with her parents, Luke told himself sadly. She shot a look at her mother now, he saw, as though nervous of a buffet about the head for speaking out of turn.

Father Luke gave her a reassuring smile as he set all the church valuables inside the chest and locked it. Agatha was already sweeping the floor while Jen watched.

The priest knew Ham quite well. Ham was a happy-go-lucky fellow who enjoyed his ale and cider, as did Father Luke. However, he did suffer from his wife’s nagging. She was convinced he could improve their lot by working harder, although he was already up before the dawn to feed his animals, weeding and toiling at his garden, and generally keeping out from under his wife’s feet.

In her opinion, she should have married a man with better prospects. One of her friends, so Luke had heard, had wed a man from Warwick who went on to become one of the richest merchants in that great city. Whereas Ham remained a farmer. The idea that she should be stuck here in this vill, while her friend led the life of a wealthy burgess, had soured her. She was peevish, no matter how often Luke tried to show her she had plenty to be grateful for.