King's Gold

They walked over to the door, and the boy pointed across the ward to a small block of rooms. Inside, said the page, the King had two chambers, one above the other and both well-appointed. ‘And he can ride and hunt whenever he wishes. You can tell the King we see to all his father desires – even the stranger foods he wishes. In fact, we have purveyors riding all over Warwickshire for his delight.’

Dolwyn studied the building. He watched as a middle-aged woman left a chamber by the gates: from the baskets she bore on a yoke about her neck, and the steam that emanated from the room she had left, he guessed that this must be a laundress. There would be few women allowed in a castle, but she was one of the exceptions.

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.