King's Gold

They would survive, even if Ham had left them. They would survive.

Ross-on-Wye

Matteo de Bardi rode stiffly still, the pain in his back a reminder of his vulnerability. It did not matter whether a fellow was a lord or a king – if the mob decided to remove him, it would do so. A word in the right ear and a crowd would stab him to death without a moment’s hesitation.

The thought brought another twinge of pain.

Death had not left his mind in the last days. At Abergavenny Castle, danger had felt so close; on leaving, he felt as if he had sloughed off a heavy cloak – and with the cloak went all his fears and troubles. Outside the town’s gates he felt like a man renewed.

‘Are you well, master?’ Alured asked at his side.

‘Yes,’ Matteo smiled.

Matteo Bardi knew he was little known outside the bank, and yet it was he who wielded much of the real control. It was the information he gathered which led to the new directions being taken by the bank. Especially since the others rarely realised that they had been manipulated.

In recent years he had never once been in error. His informants were competent, from an Earl all the way down to a lay brother in a small priory. All knew their duties, and all were proficient if not prolific. It was the most arduous task, Matteo knew, to sift through the distraction of base rocks to search out the twinkling motes of pure gold. Other banks, even Florentine ones, were put to great effort to decide which information was accurate, which was guesswork, which was spurious or intended to cause confusion.

Matteo was happy that all that work had been done already. He paid well, and his sources knew that even if they had no information, he would still pay them. And because he did pay monthly in gold, his men continued to give him important tidbits when they had them. They trusted him.

And they were right to do so. He would support and protect them. Until they became dangerous, in which case he would instantly remove them.

It must have been something of this reputation which had helped recommend him to Sir Roger Mortimer. And now the latter had asked him to deliver the indenture to move Sir Edward of Caernarfon from Kenilworth. Matteo had considered it an honour, and had been happy to wait for a day while the parchment was drawn up by Mortimer’s clerks.

However now, sitting astride his horse, he was assailed by doubts.

Matteo knew that Earl Henry of Lancaster and Sir Roger were vying for power. Earl Henry had better contacts in Parliament and could count on winning debates there, but Sir Roger was the Queen’s lover. If Sir Roger wanted to take the old King from Kenilworth and place him in Berkeley Castle under the control of his son-in-law Lord Thomas de Berkeley, that must give Sir Roger the edge. While Earl Henry had him at Kenilworth, he could threaten to return Edward to his throne and oust Sir Roger. Without Sir Edward, his position was greatly weakened.

At least he would be safe enough, Matteo told himself. He was a mere messenger, one who was impartial in this matter.

Thank the Good Lord that Dolwyn had not been discovered, nor the Bardi letter found, he thought.

West Sandford

There were times when he hated that lazy prickle. Gurt hoddypeak

Hugh scowled at the boy and aimed a kick at his backside. ‘You know ’tis not what I meant, you boinard,’ he snarled.

‘How’m I to know what you mean? You never explain anything to me!’

Rob was a whining, idle, ferret-like boy whom Hugh’s master Simon Puttock had somehow collected when he was living as Keeper of the Port of Dartmouth some while ago. The post had been intended as a reward to Master Simon, because he had served his lord, the Abbot of Tavistock, well – but the good abbot had had no notion of how devastating his kindness had been. Removed from his beloved moors, Simon had been like a fish out of water. His wife was reluctant to move to Dartmouth, because their daughter Edith was the sort of girl who’d fall for the first fellow to come along, and the idea of her being exposed to a bunch of rough sailors was not to be borne. So the family had separated, Simon going to the coast while his family remained in Lydford.

This little wretch had been his servant there in Dartmouth. And he still couldn’t wake up in time to make the morning’s fire.

‘More logs, I said,’ Hugh hissed.

‘Oh, “more logs, more tinder, more wine, more everything, Rob. Just do as I say, and don’t argue”!’ the lad said bitterly, mimicking Hugh’s voice. ‘You just don’t know what I-’

He broke off as Hugh hurled a short stick at him. ‘I said, more logs. I want a fire for the master when he returns.’

‘You need a slave, that’s what you need,’ Rob grumbled.

‘Shut your noise, boy, and fetch the logs,’ Hugh rasped, and watched from black brows as the lad sulkily dragged his feet out through the doorway.