King's Gold

Benedetto sighed as he crossed the yard. Last night he had dreamed that Manuele was alive again – and the realisation as he awoke that his brother was still dead had coloured the rest of his day with a black melancholy. If truth be known, Manuele had been his favourite brother. Matteo was always a little reserved, as though he was still spying even when with his own family, whereas Manuele had been a pleasant, cheery fellow.

It was noon when he saw a man ride under the gateway. A strong, tall knight, with a beard and piercing eyes, behind him a man on a good palfrey. Both men looked experienced fighters, and Benedetto was impressed by the manner in which the second dropped from his mount and looked carefully about him, before steadying his master’s beast. With them was a large, long-haired mastiff with tricolour markings. A handsome brute, Benedetto told himself, rather like the farm dogs of the Swiss rebels. He could have been tempted by the fellow.

The knight pulled off his gloves as grooms rushed over to see to the horses, and asked for Lord de Berkeley.

‘Sir Knight,’ Benedetto said, ‘he is hunting. May I serve you? My name is Benedetto di Bardi.’

‘Signor Bardi, I am Sir Baldwin de Furnshill.’

‘I am honoured,’ Benedetto said, with a small bow.

The knight gave a perfunctory bow in return, but his dark eyes ranged over Benedetto, enough to make the Florentine flush, as though he had reason to be ashamed.

‘You are one of the famous banking family?’ Sir Baldwin asked.

Benedetto was not surprised that his fame should have reached all the way here, but he was confused by this knight’s cool response to his name. ‘Yes, we are bankers,’ he said.

‘I am very honoured to meet you too,’ the knight said, his voice stiff. ‘I know you were the banker to Sir Edward, the King’s father. And I suppose you support the new King now?’

‘Yes, we have assisted the new government,’ Benedetto agreed. ‘No modern government can survive without money.’

‘And when there are many foreign mercenaries to pay, I suppose the money is even more necessary,’ Baldwin said drily.

‘How the money is used is up to the King, of course,’ Benedetto said smoothly.

‘Of course,’ Baldwin said. ‘I apologise if you feel I insulted you. It was not my intention. However, to lend money at high rates does not seem to me to be Christian.’

‘How else would the government operate? And after the last year, anything that can ease the flow of money is to be applauded.’

‘And the profit you make on such loans?’

‘Is high, because the risks themselves are high. It could be that we lend, perhaps, tens of thousands of pounds – and then there is a change in government and we lose every penny.’

Baldwin smiled thinly. ‘And that would be dreadful.’

‘For the House of Bardi, my friend, yes.’

Willersey

In the church, Agatha stood staring at the cross while Father Luke led the funeral service. The words flowed over and around her, but even when the priest spoke in English, she barely comprehended. She held her feather in her hand, the goose quill that Ham had given her, as if it was some sort of token, but it gave her no consolation.

Jen was beside her, but the two did not touch; their grief separated them. Agatha was tormented by the feeling that she had failed Jen. Occasionally she felt the girl’s eyes upon her, but did not turn to meet them.

She knew she was the topic of gossip in the vill, but she didn’t care. There was nothing anyone could say to her that would make her feel worse. Her guilt, her shame, her inner revulsion, all combined to convince her of her utter inadequacy.

And then there was a flicker in her breast. A sudden thought that gave her a tingle of excitement. Someone had taken her husband’s cart and horse. There must be some means by which she could announce the theft and see them returned. Perhaps a word with the local officers, or . . .

The priest was finished, and now they were going to carry Ham to his grave. She followed the wrapped body out into the sunshine, and found herself at the edge of his grave, staring down into it. It looked very narrow. The men carefully slid Ham into the hole, the sexton taking his feet. But his hips stuck. The men above were forced to heave him upwards again, and then move him further down the grave’s pit, the sexton tugging at him with many a muttered imprecation. No one cared for Agatha’s feelings as the body was shifted this way and that. In the end, it was firmly pressed down, and one shoulder was set higher than the other. Jen wept quietly.

A couple of women were watching her and Jen, and partly in order to escape their gaze, Agatha put her arms around Jen and hugged her tightly so she wouldn’t see. She threw the feather in as the sexton clambered out of the grave and took up his shovel.

‘Father?’ she said to the priest.

‘Yes, daughter? A sombre occasion. How are you?’ Father Luke smiled at her, and at Jen, and Agatha took a deep breath.