Michael Jecks - King's Gold

It was ‘Bardi’, he realised. It was plain enough why. No one liked Italian bankers, and now the mob had power in London, they were seeking those whom they most detested. And then he realised: to them, he was the Bardi man! Someone must have told of his capture, and the mob was here to kill him.

In the shaft’s dusty sunlight one prisoner gibbered and drooled, begging piteously as each new face appeared. Another was portly, rich-looking. He stared back at the faces with contempt, sitting uncomfortably like one unused to a stone floor under his buttocks.

Dolwyn pressed himself against the wall, his mind working furiously. The Bardi were the richest bankers in London. And these fellows were after a Bardi. They would expect a wealthy merchant, not him. . and in an instant he saw a way to save himself. He pointed at the fat man staring resentfully at the door and yelled, ‘Here’s the bastard! He’s in here!’

As a torch was held to the grille, Dolwyn saw the poor soul start. His clothes held something of their past magnificence: rich scarlet woollens and emeralds showed beneath layers of muck. The fellow blenched and made the sign of the cross as keys rattled and bolts shot back, and then the door burst wide, slamming into the wall, and a ragged group rushed inside. Dolwyn had already hauled his cellmate to his feet. The fellow was shivering, but not from cold. He gazed into Dolwyn’s eyes, hoping for pity, his mouth mumbling, but then he was grabbed by a dozen hands and pulled out, appealing for mercy, for compassion.

His answer was laughter as men kicked and punched him, and then he was gone. Dolwyn heard his pleas fading into the distance along the passageway and up the stairs. The others in the cell needed no encouragement, and raced out after them. In moments he was alone.

Dolwyn stayed, listening intently, until he was certain they had all gone. Only then did he peer around the open doorway, trembling with excitement. There was nobody in the darkened hallway. Only a pale light at the far end of the corridor, where the door remained open. With his legs stiff and hunger gnawing his belly, he would find it difficult to escape if the gaoler appeared. Grabbing his victim had exhausted him. But up there, perhaps he could find some bread, a lump of cheese or something — and a gulp of clean water or ale. From the sight of the mob, he guessed it was unlikely that the gaoler was still in the prison. He had taken flight — or had been killed.

‘Take me with you!’

At the third door along the corridor, a pale face was staring through the grille at him. Two small fists gripped the bars. It was the boy who had cried so piteously for the last few nights. Dolwyn stood for a long moment, contemplating the lad. Then he went back to his cell and felt around the door. He was sure that the keys must still be here. A great steel ring hung from the lock, with keys strung along it, and he picked it up. The fourth key fitted the boy’s lock, and he turned it, pulling back the two bolts to open the door.

‘Thank you!’ the boy wept, falling through the door as soon as it was opened wide.

Dolwyn pushed the child before him, along the passage and out up the stairs, keeping him in front of all the way.

He had no other defence. If there was danger, this boy would be his shield.

House of Bardi, London

Alured had returned here two days ago to see how bad the damage was, and the sight was chilling.

The door had been broken in, and hung from the lower hinge only. Shards of pottery and splinters of wood lay underfoot. Some were from goblets and mazers, and when he sifted a handful, he saw the gleam of gold. The wood about it was marked with a knife’s blade, and he assumed that here a decorative band of gold had been hacked from a mazer.

It was enough to make a man weep, he thought. This had been a great house, filled with glorious items of beauty, and now the rifflers had been through it like rats through a larder, destroying all they couldn’t eat or carry away.

He entered, carefully stepping over the leaning door. In the passageway was a mess of broken barrels and pottery. Staves poked up like the breastbones of some strange beast, and there was a thick blanket of tapestry that had been dropped in a foul heap. He would have opened it out to view the pictures, but a warning odour of faeces deterred him. Instead he walked into the hall itself. It was a scene of destruction. The rifflers had not known the value of the items they carelessly tossed aside to smash on the ground. Glass crunched beneath his boots as he made his way to the middle of the room and stared about him.

A huge table had been overturned, and one leg wrenched from it, probably to build a fire to destroy the building, but for some reason the rest of the table was intact. Alured assumed that the strength of the timbers had deterred the rifflers. They had gone in search of easier fuel. Chairs had been thrown over, their legs snapped away. Cushions had been disembowelled, while men had pissed and vomited everywhere as a sign of their contempt for those who lived here.

All the doors had been tested, and those that were locked, broken open. If there had been money or gold here, it was gone, he saw as he investigated further into the house. They had enjoyed their time here, obviously, from the smell of sour ale and wine about the place. It was a relief that there were no bodies. By now, they would have grown smelly, he reckoned.

Alured walked from the house and stared at the door. He would have liked to shut up the house before leaving. He tried to lift it, but it was heavy oak and would not budge. He was standing, scratching at his head, his hat in his hand, when he heard steps.

‘What has happened here?’ Dolwyn asked, staring about him with horror in his eyes.

‘The rifflers came to visit,’ Alured said shortly. This fellow had the look of a felon himself, from his filthy clothes and lack of a weapon. He could well be another draw latch come here to try his fortune at a despoiled house. ‘Do you know who used to live here?’

‘I worked for them — the Bardi. My master was the youngest brother, a man called Matteo. But I left him here some days ago. . Were they all killed?’

‘No, not all.’ Alured eyed Dolwyn with a speculative eye. ‘Where were you?’

‘I was sent away with a message.’

‘Where? In London?’

‘Yes, over towards the River,’ Dolwyn lied. ‘Why?’

Alured looked away. ‘Nothing. There were so many murders that day, and afterwards.’

‘I wasn’t here,’ Dolwyn said firmly. He glanced about the ravaged hall. ‘They did this place well, didn’t they?’

‘This man you worked for,’ Alured said. ‘What did he look like?’

‘A thin man, pale,’ Dolwyn said, and went on to describe his master, including the clothes he had been wearing on the last day Dolwyn saw him.

‘I think you may be in luck,’ Alured said. He had tested the man, and it seemed that he was genuine. ‘Here, help me with this door and we can stop any more pillagers.’

With Dolwyn’s help, they managed to lift the door, the remaining hinge protesting loudly, and lean it against the frame.

‘It will take a good blacksmith to mend those hinges,’ Alured panted. ‘I know a man not far from here can do it.’

‘You said I may be in luck?’ Dolwyn asked cautiously. He had no liking for bailiffs and constables, and feared recapture.

Alured looked him up and down, then nodded to himself. ‘Come with me, friend,’ he said.

Dolwyn did as he was bid, trailing after Alured as the man led him along narrow alleyways and streets until they came to a small house near St Stephen, almost beside the River Walbrook. Here Alured glanced at him again. ‘Seemed safer to bring your master here to my own home than leave him behind,’ he said, half-apologetically, and threw the door wide.