King's Gold

‘We ain’t askin’ all this for the fun of it,’ Sir Richard boomed. ‘It’s our duty, and yours, to learn what we can about the murder of a knight.’

Alured looked at him, but he knew better than to pick a fight with Sir Richard.

‘I think you one of the least likely killers in the castle,’ Simon said. ‘But we could hardly ignore the fact that you have been seeking the man for months. If not you, who else?’

‘You know who I think it was,’ Matteo said.

‘Yes, your brother was involved with Sir Jevan, Master Matteo.’

‘If he had paid the man to kill me, perhaps Benedetto wanted to see to it that Sir Jevan could not confess and put the blame on him,’ Matteo said.

‘Your brother could be a danger to you. Be aware, and act accordingly. Keep Alured with you at all times; do not go about without a friend whom you can trust.’

‘Surely his brother will not attempt to kill?’ Alured said. ‘He had to enlist the aid of others to try to kill Matteo.’

His face suddenly froze as he realised what Simon was getting at.

‘Yes,’ Simon said gently as he watched Matteo. ‘Be very cautious, because it is possible your brother killed Sir Jevan last night. Perhaps he has no need of agents to perform his killings now. He can do it for himself.’

Second Thursday after Easter

Berkeley Castle

Benedetto Bardi was anxious and growing all the more so, the longer he was held in this castle. To think that only a few days ago he had felt that the place was pleasing! He had spoken to Matteo about the congenial atmosphere, the efforts which Lord Berkeley was expending to make it still more delightful . . . and now he could not look about him without thinking the place was no better than a midden.

There was a definite feeling of menace. Men on the walls stared down with suspicion, whilst the servants were surly and rude. If Lord Berkeley were here, Benedetto would have demanded of him that his staff remember their duty of courtesy to a guest, but without him, he dared say nothing. Not while the soul of Sir Jevan wandered the corridors. There was far too much death and sadness in this place, he thought.

He knew why they all looked at him askance: they knew that he was guilty. The letter which should never have been written had been found. That man Sir Baldwin had discovered it, and Lord Berkeley had seen it. Clearly that was the cause of all this suspicion.

Lord Berkeley had called for him soon after the arrival of the messenger from the King.

‘Come in, sit down, my friend,’ he had said as Benedetto entered his chamber.

It was a small room, this – dark, but warm.

‘You like my private chambers? Cosy, which is how I prefer it. I don’t like to suffer if I can avoid it,’ Lord Berkeley said.

He sipped from a goblet, and held it out. The only other man in the room was his steward, who stepped forward in an instant to refill it. Oddly enough, he forgot to offer a drink to Benedetto, but the latter assumed it was merely the pressure of work that was distracting him.

Lord Berkeley peered at him over the rim. ‘So, Master Bardi. You are an industrious fellow, I know. You have the difficult task of always being on the side of the men who will be in power – a balancing act that would torment the ability of a juggler. So difficult to maintain perfect harmony while trying to win the favours of Sir Roger Mortimer as well as Sir Edward of Caernarfon.’

Benedetto’s smile was forced as he muttered, ‘I don’t know what you mean, my lord.’

‘No? I suggest you search your memory. I know of the letter your family wrote to Sir Edward when he was King. You promised him your support. At the same time you swore to provide all needful to the Queen and Sir Roger. One letter to one side, another to the other. Did you not pause to reflect that the letters must become known? No matter who was to win, someone from the Queen’s camp would be sure to find out about your letters to the King, and vice versa. And now they are discovered, and I have the interesting difficulty that I am not sure what to do with you. Perhaps I should just tell Sir Roger Mortimer and see what he would consider best.’

‘No!’ Benedetto blurted out. ‘There is no need for that. Let me aid you, my lord, and we can-’

‘ “Aid me”, you say? I think that would be a most improper course. You wish to include me in your schemes – entangle me in the web of lies you have constructed? I think not.’

‘My lord, it was Manuele who wrote and signed those letters, not me. And I was already willing the Queen to overwhelm her husband. There must be something, a service I could provide . . .’

Lord Berkeley looked shocked. ‘Do you mean you would offer a bribe to keep my silence?’

It was agreed in a few minutes. Lord Berkeley had very little money. So much had been despoiled when Despenser captured his castle, so many objects stolen, so much damage done to the walls, that the cost of returning the building to its former glory would be exorbitant. And Benedetto must agree to help with those costs. Lord Berkeley drove a hard bargain.