30 - King's Gold

by Michael Jecks

  And that points to another possible motivation for a number of the men involved in the schemes to spring the King from gaol: some may well have realised that the crimes they had committed were so heinous that it was likely a new administration would come down heavily on them. They had enjoyed their freedom before King Edward III took the throne from his father, and they sought to return King Edward II, his father, to the throne in order that they might gain pardons for more recent crimes they had committed. Or so that they could continue their lawless way of life.

  Whatever their reasons, it is clear that many men were prepared to risk their lives in rescuing Sir Edward of Caernarfon from whichever gaol he currently inhabited.

  Once again, I am hugely indebted to Ian Mortimer, who very generously gave me an early sight of his latest book, Medieval Intrigue, which was published in September 2010. I am also glad to acknowledge the great help I’ve received from Jules Frusher and Kathryn Warner, and from their excellent Edward II and Despenser sites on the internet.

  Many other books have been of great assistance. There is a list of them on my website at www.michaeljecks.co.uk – please see the Bibliography button on the left.

  For now, I hope you enjoy the story as you slip back into the past and into a period in which life was more brutal and more dangerous than it is today, and when the people of England felt little compunction about rebelling against injustice.

  Michael Jecks

  North Dartmoor

  July 2010

  CHAPTER ONE

  Third Wednesday after the Feast of St Michael,

  twentieth year of the reign of King Edward II3

  Abchirchelane, London

  Matteo di Bardi hurried up the lane. His bodyguard, Dolwyn, was beside him; two more men behind – all anxious. At times they broke into a brisk trot, for it was impossible to saunter along when the city was in flames. Matteo must get to the meeting.

  The smell of charred embers was everywhere. He had heard that the houses of the Bishop of Exeter were all aflame, that the homes of other bishops were besieged or broken open, that men of prestige and authority were lying slain in the streets. It was lunacy!

  The third, and youngest brother of the House of Bardi, Matteo could have had a magnificent career in Florence, but the lure of the court of King Edward II had tempted him to join Manuele and Benedetto. He was shrewd and well-informed: with these talents, he reckoned he must soon rise in the family’s bank. Instead, he was witness to the destruction of the kingdom’s greatest city.

  Ahead lay Langburnestrate4, the great road that led from Garscherch Street to St Mary Woolchurch, and he knew that when he reached it, he must head west along it for a few yards before turning north.

  Usually Langburnestrate was full of vendors hoping to snare some fool into buying their maggoty pies and mouldy bread, but not today. The street was deserted. This eerie silence, Matteo knew, was the brief calm before the ‘rifflers’ arrived and began to torch, rape and murder. There was nothing those barbarians would not sink to. Truly, the only cure for them was to put them to the sword or hang the bastards.

  Matteo di Bardi was a small man, with thin, pallid features on which his black beard and dark, dilated eyes stood out like those on a fever patient. However, Matteo was not unwell: his was the pallor of the scriptorium. He spent his days assessing, calculating and carefully researching. And in his purse now he had the results of his labours.

  There was more smoke. He could practically taste it – along with the stench of death. At the end of the street he stopped, his heart pounding, as Dolwyn edged forward and peered around the corner. Nothing. He beckoned, and Matteo made haste to follow him.

  Here in Langburnestrate there was no one to be seen, only an occasional movement at an unshuttered window. Farther along the road, where it widened at the door of St Mary Woolchurch, there was a large bonfire, but apart from that, the area was deserted. That was not a good sign, since the men who had constructed this bonfire would not have left it without reason.

  The four hastened along the road until they reached the church, at which point they could turn along the narrow northern lane. At last Matteo saw the great stone house that was the London residence of the Bardi and pounded on the timbers with his gloved fist, his men behind him.

  The house of the Bardi was old. Over the door was a stone lintel in which the arms of King Edward II had been deeply carved, a proof of the bankers’ status in the city. The house gave him a feeling of safety – at least for now, he thought as he glanced nervously about him.

  The door opened and Matteo Bardi slipped inside with two of his men. However, Dolwyn remained outside; then, at a signal from his master, Dolwyn made his way back into the lane.

  St Peter’s Willersey

  Father Luke was kneeling at his little altar when he heard the rumble and clink of men and a cart in the lane outside. He was quick to finish his prayers and stride to the door.

  This last summer had been a good one, but rumours of impending disaster had abounded. Everyone in the country knew about the Queen’s treachery, and tales were flying around about how her mercenaries would despoil the kingdom. It was enough to make Father Luke consider pulling out his father’s old sword to defend himself, but he knew he’d be more likely to incite an attack than protect his church.

  Outside he found two men-at-arms on horseback, seven reluctant-looking peasants on foot, and a cart with a strongbox on it.

  ‘Father, I’ve heard you have a secure storeroom?’ one of the riders asked. He was a swarthy fellow with a bushy red and brown beard, and brown eyes in a square face.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Father Luke said. Churches were the best places for men to store valuable items. They would trust a priest not to rob them, and even if a church were to be broken into, it was rare for thieves to get into a strongroom within. Until recently, even the King himself had stored his crown jewels and gold in the church at Westminster Abbey.

  The man introduced himself as Hob of Gloucester. ‘We have a box to deposit with you, for my lord, Sir Hugh le Despenser. He cannot fetch it, and we cannot carry it with us, since it’s too heavy. Will you keep it for him?’

  ‘Oh, well, yes, of course,’ Father Luke said, flustered. Sir Hugh le Despenser was the King’s right-hand man. Some considered him to be more a brother than a friend, they were so close. In fact, he had become the second most powerful man in the kingdom. Sir Hugh was detested by many, including the Queen. It was due to him that she had run off to France, it was said.

  The chest was lifted from the wagon, which creaked in gratitude to be relieved of its heavy load. Then the men carried it into the nave, across to the doorway, down the staircase and into the undercroft. There it would be safe.

  ‘Thank you, Father,’ Hob panted.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Father Luke asked, as Hob pulled on his gloves before remounting his horse.

  His face grim, he replied, ‘I go to join Sir Hugh and the King. They are making their way west – fleeing from their enemies.’

  ‘God speed you, my friend, and bless you.’

  ‘Thank you, Father,’ Hob said. ‘Please – pray for us. Especially if we do not return.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘And pray for the kingdom too. I foretell a time of war and murder, Father, and only the Devil and his own will flourish.’

  House of the Bardi, Cornhulle, London

  ‘Matteo, you are most welcome,’ his brother Manuele greeted him as Matteo strode into the hall, still trying to calm his urgently beating heart. The men in this room were the most powerful in the family, and if they saw his weakness they would despise him.

  The other men present gave him a nod or a thin smile. Benedetto, the middle brother, appeared fretful, while Sebastian and Francisco, who worked with Manuele, looked haggard and exhausted. These were the men who controlled the untold wealth of the Bardi family here in England, but today disaster faced them.

  It was a massive chamber, Manuele’s hall, as befitte
d the master of the most important bank in London. A great fire roared in the hearth against the chilly air outside, but the breath of the five men was still misting before them. Matteo could see the steam rising from his clothes, and felt filthy compared with them. They must see the dirt on his hosen and boots – well, damn their souls if they did. He was past caring. They would soon know the same terror. The rioting crowds outside were full of dreadful hatred.

  And most of all they hated bankers.

  ‘Did you not bring your horse?’ Manuele asked, glancing pointedly at his soiled boots.

  ‘Men on horses are targets,’ Matteo said. He added, ‘I saw the Bishop of Exeter pulled from his horse today.’

  ‘Pulled?’

  ‘They beheaded him with a knife,’ Matteo said without emotion. ‘His body they threw in a ditch.’

  Manuele’s smile became a grimace of shock. ‘Bishop Walter? He’s dead?’ He rubbed a hand over his face. ‘There will be a terrible retribution for this when the King hears.’

  Matteo eyed him with disbelief. ‘Manuele, the King is running for his life. He won’t come back here!’

  ‘Nonsense!’

  ‘You have to accept the facts,’ Matteo said steadily. ‘You think the King is all-powerful. I tell you he is not. He is weak – and all those who would have sought his protection are fleeing. There is no safety here in London. We need to have a thought for our own survival!’

  ‘You are our intelligencer. What intelligence do you bring?’ Benedetto asked. Younger than Manuele and more intellectual, he was also taller, a wiry man with the darker skin of one who had only recently returned from Florence. He had spent much of the last year there, and was more used to the Byzantine intrigues of that city. Matteo knew he was much more competent than Manuele, who was grown fat and lazy here in this cold climate. Benedetto was hungry.

  ‘You know it already,’ Matteo snapped. ‘The Queen has returned to the kingdom, and at no point was she turned back. We know she could have been repelled at sea, but King Edward’s navy refused his orders to stop her. She could also have been prevented from landing, but of the men King Edward sent to capture her, all went over to her side. As she progresses across the kingdom, the King flies before her, losing men-at-arms like a bucket leaking water, while every day her followers grow in number. She will eventually catch her husband – and when she does, who can say what will happen?’

  ‘She may catch the King, but the King has the authority of the coronation behind him. No one has ever killed a crowned King except those whom God favours.’ Manuele sipped from his wine, eyeing the others as though daring them to argue.

  ‘It is true. But the Queen has the support of the people. And her son is with her; who would dare to stand in his way? To dispute with her would be to dispute with the future King.’ Matteo was keen to convince them. This could be the end of their house if he failed, and he had no intention of seeing it destroyed. ‘London has declared for her.’

  ‘London,’ Manuele sneered. ‘The city is only one of many in the realm. It is not like Florence.’

  ‘True, it is not independent like Florence,’ Matteo said earnestly, ‘but in many ways it is more influential. It helps govern the whole kingdom. The King of this fractious and intolerant people has to be strong to hold their allegiance, and they perceive Edward as weak because of his attachment to Despenser. So they will overthrow him.’

  ‘In London they will, possibly,’ Benedetto said. ‘But, little brother, I agree with Manuele: there is more to this kingdom than just one city.’

  ‘Yes,’ Matteo agreed. ‘Men flock to the Queen from all over the realm.’

  ‘The King has friends elsewhere. What of the Welsh?’

  ‘My spies tell me some may rise in his support, but there is no sign of it as yet. If they do not hurry to his aid . . .’

  ‘For the King to be saved, they will have to declare for him soon, yes,’ Benedetto put in.

  Matteo shook his head impatiently. ‘Do you not see, the King has already lost?’

  Benedetto glanced at Manuele. ‘I know it is alarming, but the city can soon be brought back under control.’

  ‘And if you are wrong?’

  ‘Matteo, you grow strident,’ Benedetto said with a condescending smile. ‘You bring us intelligence and we adapt our policies to suit. There is no need to become upset.’

  ‘Brother, the Queen will almost certainly defeat the King. The question is, what then? Will she kill those who caused trouble between her and her husband, but then return the King to the throne?’

  ‘Of course,’ Benedetto said. ‘She can do nothing else.’

  ‘She has made her husband wear the cuckold’s hat, brother. She shares a bed with Sir Roger Mortimer. So, tell me, do you think it likely she would return her husband to the throne, knowing he could charge her with treason and have her lover hanged, drawn and quartered? Or would she prefer to see King Edward imprisoned while she rules in his place?’

  Benedetto stared at him for a moment, and Matteo saw a shrewd calculation flare in his eyes.

  Manuele held up a hand. ‘No! The Queen would of course return her husband to the throne. He has been anointed by God.’

  Benedetto kept his eyes on Matteo as he said, ‘I am beginning to think we need to reconsider this.’

  ‘You have been in Florence too long, Benedetto,’ Manuele scoffed. ‘I have lived here many years. The people may be angry and argumentative, but they believe in the law, and the law does not give them the right to evict their King. They will come to the brink and then surrender, as they have done before. That is why our investment must remain with the King.’

  ‘And if they don’t?’ Matteo asked pointedly. ‘If you are wrong, and all our money is with him, we shall be ruined, because I do not think the Queen has any liking for our House. She wanted us to help her last year in France and she was snubbed, if you remember?’

  Manuele pulled a face, a tacit admission that his decision at that time had been wrong. ‘We thought that she was only there for a little while, and would return to her husband. How was I to know that she would leave him and form a liaison with a traitor? It was only logical to continue to support King Edward.’

  ‘You took the decision for the best of reasons,’ Matteo concurred, ‘but events have overtaken us.’

  Manuele had lost his way, Matteo thought privately. Benedetto was stronger, and he possessed a certain crafty slyness, but he was too concerned with the Queen. It was enough to make a man despair. The bank needed strong leadership now, more than ever, and his brothers were so hidebound.

  Matteo wanted to groan. He knew best how to guide the bank because of the flood of reports that swamped his table daily. Armed with that information, he could ensure the security of their money better than either of his brothers.

  He tried a persuasive tone: ‘The Queen is back, and we must consider how this changes things for us. We should attempt to win her favour – offer her our support. We must gain her respect and that of her advisers. I have held discussions—’

  ‘Yes. It is as I have argued,’ Benedetto interrupted smoothly. ‘I have connections with Queen Isabella’s advisers – influential men. They can see that, with our support, she is more likely to succeed in deposing her husband.’

  Matteo threw him a suspicious look. He had not expected Benedetto to be persuaded so easily.

  ‘This is nonsense,’ Manuele snapped. ‘The Queen? Pfft! She is nothing.’

  ‘We have to retain our position at the heart of the government,’ Benedetto said. ‘It is the source of all our profits. With our money behind her, the Queen can win the realm, and she will have reason to be grateful to us.’

  Manuele frowned with exasperation. ‘What risk would there be to our investment in the King if he should return to power?’

  ‘His reign will soon end,’ Matteo said. ‘The people detest him and his advisers, especially Sir Hugh le Despenser. If Despenser fails to escape, he will be executed, and all the money which we hav
e earned from his investments will be gone.’

  ‘Despenser’s funds are already gone,’ Benedetto said. ‘He has withdrawn his money, and I doubt that he will return it to us if he flies abroad. I am inclined to the opinion that we should throw our weight behind the Queen. The King is a broken straw.’

  ‘A broken straw will support cob or daub and make a strong wall,’ Manuele argued. ‘The man will recover his authority. He has done so before.’

  ‘He may, but I fail to see how,’ Matteo stated. ‘He has so alienated his barons that the country supports his Queen, not him.’

  ‘So that is why we should give our support to her now,’ Benedetto said. ‘That is your proposal.’

  ‘I say no!’ Manuele said heatedly. ‘We have invested too much in him.’

  ‘I do not say we ignore him,’ Matteo said, then paused. From the window, he could hear angry chanting in the street. ‘We should also bear in mind that the King is in need of friends.’

  ‘But if you are right, he will be insignificant shortly,’ Benedetto protested.

  Matteo took a deep breath. He had hoped that Benedetto would understand.

  ‘Yes. But if he loses all for now, he may yet regain influence in years to come. He may tutor his son, he may again command the respect of some barons, perhaps win back the love of his Queen . . . who can tell? If he ever returned to power, he would richly reward those friends who had provided support or finance to him in his hours of deepest need, would he not?’

  Benedetto smiled. ‘I think you grow confused. We should support only the Queen. She is the source of power now that she controls the heir.’

  ‘No!’ Matteo growled. ‘You still don’t understand!’

  London Bridge

  The bridge was closed. At the road leading to it, Sir Jevan de Bromfield studied the closed and barred gates, the men standing about with polearms and axes. There would be no escape there.