King's Gold

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.