Michael Jecks - King's Gold

His eyes took in the layout of the place, and when he was satisfied that he had committed the yard to memory, he passed two pennies to the page, before striding back to the hall and fetching his satchel. He must plan how to get the message to Sir Edward. After all, there might be a reward for making contact with the old King. With luck, just the act of taking messages from him could mean a purse of gold in gratitude.

He walked outside, and stared once more at the building across the castle yard. Yes, there must be guards, but there was no obvious activity.

It was worth a chance.

He took a quick look about the court, and then marched firmly over the hard-packed earth to the room where Sir Edward was held.

House of Bardi, London

Matteo Bardi stood stiffly and stretched. The chamber was chilly today, and he wore a heavy coat against the cold. At his fireplace, he held out his hands to the flames, idly dreaming of Florence. At this time of year, all his friends would be starting to eat outside in the bright sunshine, not cowering indoors. This land truly was abominable.

His back had healed. The scar would remain, proof of his part in the overthrow of King Edward II, and already a prostitute had commented upon it, as though he was a bold warrior, rather than a clever sifter of information. All he knew was, he was fortunate to be alive.

He could not speak to anyone about Benedetto. The idea that his own brother could have given him that blow was appalling. Such ruthlessness was unforgivable, but his brother had spent so much time in Florence learning the ways of politics and banking, that a little of the more forthright methods there of ensuring mercantile success must have rubbed off on him.

There was one thought uppermost in Matteo’s mind: whether Dolwyn could have been bought by Benedetto. It was possible. Dolwyn was willing to take a life for money, he knew, but his henchman had been too far away by the time Matteo was stabbed. And if Dolwyn had wished to kill him, Matteo knew he would be dead. If not in the road, then later at Alured’s home.

No, surely Dolwyn was innocent of that crime. He would not kill his own master.

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

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.