Senchet and Harry watched the cart being taken away to the stables. Senchet wanted to keep close to all that lovely money in the chest, but even as he watched, two men lifted it down. There was a low stone building near the entrance of the castle, and the men hauled the chest over to it between them. There a man with keys, presumably the keeper, opened the door. The two carried the box inside, and a moment later they were out and the door was again locked.
Senchet felt utter despair at the thought of that lost fortune.
Matteo could smell the smoke, he could hear the screams and shouts, see his brother’s horse rearing, Manuele flailing about him with his riding crop, while the mob attempted to pull him down, some with knives and hatchets, a butcher with his two-handed cleaver. Matteo tried to run towards him, but the throng was too thick, and his legs moved as if through treacle . . . and then he felt the grip of men’s hands on his arms, tugging him away, back from the mob and their bonfire, backwards to safety.
And then he heard the shouts, the sudden pattering of feet, the bellow from old Andrew, his bodyguard, followed by the thud of stones landing all about him. And he felt the stone that clubbed him on the back of the head, slamming him to the ground, seeing the cobblestones rise up to meet his face – and his men running to save their own skins, leaving him to die in the dust.
He felt the single, quick stab in his back, and he screamed . . .
. . . and woke, sweating, the wound inflamed once more. He rolled over on to his belly, knowing it was only a dream, that the mares would bring the same visions to him night after night, that he would never be free of this horror.
It was a long time before he dared close his eyes again.
Tuesday after Palm Sunday38
Berkeley Castle
John had slept moderately well, and woke hoping that his growing beard would protect him from recognition.
The castle was stirring as he rose from his blanket near the wall in the main hall. He walked outside with his blankets and set the bundle on his saddle where he had left it, before studying the yard without enthusiasm. The land around was boggy. It would be astonishingly difficult for any party to storm the place. Still more so to achieve that and reach Edward.
‘You are worried, my friend?’ William atte Hull was at his side already, and he smiled to see John’s startled expression. ‘Don’t panic. It is a skill, walking quietly, which poachers round my home learn when they are young.’
John whispered earnestly, ‘The Dunheveds will not be able to take this place. It is too well protected.’
‘You mean men?’
‘Men, yes. There are too many here. If there were only a small garrison perhaps it could be attempted, but with this force? No. No one could get in here.’
‘Perhaps not usually,’ William atte Hull said. ‘But with men inside the castle to ensure that the gate opened, and then helping us from within, then it would be different.’
‘Not with so many guards,’ John said bleakly. He looked about him at the men up on the walls, more men down in the yard, and even as he watched, a party of men rode in through the gates. ‘And even without them, the land about here is too marshy for a force to reach the place. They would have to come along the road, and that would make them too obvious.’
‘There may be another way,’ his companion said. ‘And we shall discover it.’
‘If you say so. But I am doubtful, friend.’
‘There is always hope.’
There was a loud shout from the gate, and John turned to stare as a pair of shabby peasants approached from the mists.
‘Who are they?’ John asked.
William atte Hull looked up without interest. ‘Beggars, perhaps? Either that or a priest and woman petitioning the Lord de Berkeley for some slight, real or imagined.’
John nodded. He felt as though he was in great danger all the time that he remained here in the castle. ‘Sir Jevan saw me, you know, at the gate at Kenilworth.’
‘If he sees you here, tell me,’ William said. His gaze moved back to the two bedraggled figures at the gate. ‘We may have to do something about him.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Berkeley Castle
Agatha felt the weight of the place as she stepped under the gatehouse. This castle was built, it seemed to her, of men’s dreams and ambitions. And they were crushing.
‘We are here to speak to the Lord de Berkeley,’ Father Luke said to the porter at the gate.
The man looked the Father up and down, and kept his hand on his sword. Giving a whistle over his shoulder, he kept half an eye on the priest and Agatha, while peering out towards the roadway beyond them. Soon a small group of men-at-arms was gathered about them, and the porter could devote his entire attention to them. ‘Where you from?’
‘Willersey. It is—’
‘I know where it is. Why’re you here?’
‘I said, to speak with—’
‘Yeah. You said.’ The man scratched at his armpit, gazing at Agatha. ‘What’s she want?’
‘To speak with—’
‘My Lord de Berkeley, yeah. Why?’
Agatha felt her indomitable spirit returning in the face of this petty official. ‘I’ll tell the lord himself, not his meanest servant,’ she snapped.
‘Meanest, eh?’ the porter said, taking in her black garb. ‘A widow are you, then? All in your weeds. So you’re here to demand help from his lordship, I suppose? Perhaps some money to compensate you? You just go home to your donkey, mistress and—’
‘HOI! PORTER!’ Simon, Baldwin and Sir Richard de Welles had overheard this conversation from where they sat on a bench near the armourers’ rooms.
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Let them in. I would speak with them.’
‘Sir, they are . . .’
Sir Richard de Welles was unused to being denied his whims. Hearing the porter attempt to refuse him, he smiled and nodded.
The porter felt a vague unease, but continued nonetheless. ‘Sir, I have been ordered to prevent any suspicious characters from entering.’
Aye. Very sensible.’
Anybody who is not known must be refused admission. Because of the prisoner.’
‘Oh. Right.’
‘So I cannot let these in.’
‘Suspicious characters, eh?’
The porter looked at the large knight’s face and felt a sinking in his belly. ‘Sir, I . . .’
‘The priest, eh? You think he’s dangerous? He carries a poisoned crucifix, I suppose?’
‘No, but—’
‘The widow? You think she carries a siege engine upon her person?’
The porter wisely chose to remain silent.
‘Let them enter,’ Sir Richard boomed. ‘If there’s any danger it’ll be to me, and I think I’ll be safe enough, but if they overpower me, you have my permission to take any action you see fit.’
The man subsided reluctantly, muttering to himself about guests taking over the place, and curtly waved away his guards as he marched back to the gatehouse, Then Sir Richard beckoned Agatha and Luke to join them.
‘Now, mistress,’ Sir Richard said, looking at Agatha. ‘What’re you here for, eh?’
‘My husband is dead. The man who killed him stole our cart and horse, and I want them back,’ she glowered.
‘Aye, I’m sure ye do,’ Sir Richard said heartily. ‘What of it?’
‘I thought that the Lord de Berkeley would help me. I am one of his serfs,’ she said.
‘And you, priest?’
‘I am Father Luke of St Peter’s, Willersey, where this good woman comes from.’
‘Oh.’ Sir Richard looked at Agatha again. ‘So, why do you think that the Lord de Berkeley will have time to help you?’
‘It was all we had, that old horse and cart. The horse wasn’t even a good one, but at least he was reliable. He drew goods all the way to Kenilworth, and then—’
‘Kenilworth?’ interrupted Sir Richard. ‘When?’
Agatha shot a
look at Luke, and in her heart there was horror at her betrayal. She hadn’t meant to speak of that, and certainly not to bring Father Luke into her story so swiftly.
Father Luke smiled gently. ‘Do not worry, Agatha, I am sure that this good knight will understand.’
Sir Ralph and Baldwin were leaning forward now.
Baldwin spoke softly. ‘Madam, are you saying that you were there at the attack?’
‘No, it was me,’ said Luke. He shook his head. ‘So many dead men, and all for nothing.’
‘What were you doing there?’ Simon demanded.
‘There was money on that cart.’ Father Luke went on to explain about the chest of gold which had been left in his care.
‘And you think this gold was on the cart when it was stolen?’ Baldwin frowned.
‘I don’t know where else it could have gone,’ Father Luke said.
‘Wherever it went, it probably went there a long time ago,’ Simon said. He leaned back in his chair. He had spent so many years dealing with the law and enforcing it on Dartmoor, that he had a solid understanding of the mind of a felon. ‘Whoever took your cart, mistress, has almost certainly sold it. If he had the brains to look in the chest, that money will be gone too. A man like that will not have gone far, though. If you look within a ten-mile radius of where you found your husband, I’d lay a wager that the thief will be there. Probably in a city with a bevy of whores about him, and reeking of cider or strong ale. He’ll have spent it rashly, not thinking that tomorrow he’ll hang for murder, because men like that never think.’
Baldwin was frowning. ‘Mistress Agatha, this cart – of what type was it? And the beast that pulled it, what manner of horse was this? You say old, but what colour, what markings?’
Agatha shrugged. ‘The cart was a good, sturdy one, with a plank to sit on. Two wheels, one either side. It was plain, but wider than most. As to the horse, well, he was a good height, with a broad chest, and a white flash on his breast like a fist. He had brown on his flanks and back and head, but there was a white ankle on his left foreleg, and above the right rear leg he had a star on his rump.’
Simon had not been close to the cart when it was captured the previous day, but he realised that something was going on, and he looked at his friends with interest. ‘What? What is it?’
Berkeley Castle Hall
This morning Matteo had woken tired and unrested amid the hubbub of the celebrations in the hall at the return of Lord Berkeley, as people demonstrated their joy at the fact that the lord’s most despised enemy, the man who had seen him incarcerated for years – Sir Edward of Caernarfon – was now his prisoner.
Even when he did manage to fall asleep, Matteo kept seeing the same vision: Benedetto, chasing after him with that wicked knife in his fist and a look of cold hatred in his eyes.
Three times Matteo fell into a heavy slumber, and each time he was woken by that horrible mare. The last occasion, he had woken himself with a scream. After he had reassured Alured that he was perfectly safe, he had lain awake, staring into the shadows of his room.
Rising long after dawn, Matteo dressed slowly, and went to the hall to eat. Inside it was filled with benches and long tables. There were no spaces that he could see, and he was about to ask a steward where he might sit, when the lord lifted the tapestry behind the dais and walked in.
All those in the hall stood, their benches scraping and screeching on the tiled floor. Until the lord had walked to his seat and taken it, all his guests of lower degree must remain on their feet. It was a matter of protocol and good manners.
Lord Berkeley was a happy man, and although last night he had celebrated in grand style, this morning he was still in a cheerful mood, from what Matteo could see. His laughter rang out over all the other noises of the hall, and Matteo was irritated to see how the man smiled and clapped his men on the back. His own head was sore from lack of sleep.
At last the lord stood in front of his seat, staring at the assembled men before sitting. This was the signal for a general scraping of benches and stools, until at last all the assembled men were seated. Benedetto, as the head of the House of Bardi, was granted the unusual privilege of a seat at the lord’s table, next to Sir John Maltravers, but Matteo was not given the same honour. He looked about him for a space at any of the messes, but there was none. Angry at being ignored, he strode from the room.
A kitchen maid took pity on him and offered him a crust or two of good white bread, along with a jug of strong ale, and he sat on a stool by the gate nursing his bitterness until he had finished his food. It soothed him, and soon he was engaged in conversation with the porter.
It was a useful chat. The porter was garrulous on the subject of the new prisoner.
There were several advantages to Lord Berkeley in taking on the role of Sir Edward’s gaoler, Matteo learned. First among them was the fact that he now had funds to support an increased garrison. Matteo heard Sir John Maltravers mention the fee on the ride here: five pounds each day, just to look after the King’s father. And it would not cost him that much, Matteo knew.
The chamber in which the sorry man had been installed was narrow and dank. It had a window that looked out over a little courtyard, and a smelly garderobe in the corner. It was a most deplorable lodging for a former King. From what Matteo heard, he felt it insulted not only Sir Edward, but the realm. Yet it provided the porter with great amusement.
Matteo chewed and listened carefully.
The money would be enormously useful for Lord Thomas because it was not merely for the upkeep of Sir Edward; it was to make sure that he remained in captivity without the opportunity of escape. Thus it would help with the cost of his rebuilding works, too.
Leaving the man, Matteo went to stand in the gateway, staring out over the landscape. Today the weather was almost warm enough for a Florentine, he thought. But too humid.
He could not leave the thought of Benedetto. How much longer could he maintain this pretence of civility to his would– be murderer without losing his mind?
He must force a conclusion somehow.
Sir Jevan eyed the men about him in the hall as he finished his meal. It had been a surprise to come across that churl who had held him up that day when he was pursuing the felon. Good to see that his sword had marked the man, but odd to find him so close to Berkeley. And then the fleeting glimpse of that other face: the man he had been chasing.
He had been so close to bellowing that the fellow there was one who had been with the attackers of Kenilworth – and yet as soon as he thought of it, the face vanished, and no matter how Sir Jevan sought him, he could not find him anywhere.
Oh well. He knew his eyesight was not of the best, so perhaps he had been mistaken. He would keep a close eye on all the fellows about the castle, just in case.
Matteo looked over towards the forebuilding, in which he knew Sir Edward of Caernarfon was being held. Irked by the thought of the horrible confinement of that once great King, Matteo set off in the opposite direction, around the main keep.
Matteo had good reason to wish to speak with the captive, but knowing how to was the problem.
There was a sudden shout behind him, and a young man hobbled towards him. ‘A message,’ he called.
Matteo recognised the lad. He was one of Benedetto’s messengers who had been left with the Queen and Sir Roger Mortimer. He nodded, and took the proffered note. He checked the seal: it had been signed by the Queen herself, he saw. He broke the wax and glanced down the roll, and then whistled.
‘Go and find yourself some food and drink,’ he said to the messenger. ‘You will need to rest, after riding all that way.’
The fellow gave him a grateful look, and followed his directions to the buttery, exhausted after his punishing ride.
‘So,’ Matteo said to himself. ‘The Queen thinks her son would have a war, does she?’ A war was good. There were endless opportunities for a bank to earn money during a conflict. As soon as he could, he would have to bring this to Benede
tto’s attention, he thought – but then gave a frown. Benedetto was not the man that Manuele had been when it came to decision-making. He was always weighing one argument against another, considering this compared with that . . . never making up his mind.
Matteo was about to walk back to the hall, when he saw the knight Sir Baldwin de Furnshill and the other, Sir Richard de Welles, heading towards the stables. With them were a woman in black and a priest. There was something about the way they moved that intrigued him – and he decided to sneak along behind them, to find out what they were up to.
The cart was standing a short way from the rest of the wagons, carts and paraphernalia of transport in the large chamber close by the little stable.
As Baldwin knew, usually horses and equipment would be stored away from the castle. Lord Berkeley’s warhorses were kept at his great stables at Wotton-Under-Edge, and they would be sent for as required. Today the stables were still over-full from the arrival of so many men yesterday, but the old nag from the cart stood out even so.
Baldwin could see it from some distance away. The white fist was quite plain, and the star he remembered from the day before. It was exactly as the woman had described it.
Agatha glanced over all the beasts, but it was obvious when she spotted her own. A smile spread over her face, and she looked at the priest for confirmation. ‘That’s him.’
Father Luke nodded. ‘It certainly is. I remember that fellow from all those miles to Kenilworth. That star is imprinted upon my mind. Where are the goods from the cart?’
Baldwin looked at Sir Richard. ‘They are convincing, are they not?’
‘Aye, like enough. So, good Agatha, what was on the cart?’
‘I don’t know – it was whatever the purveyor wanted to take. Some perry, I think, and lampreys.’
‘And a small chest,’ Father Luke said. About this size,’ he added, gesturing with his hands.
‘That was where your money was held?’ Simon asked.
‘Yes.’
‘We shall need to speak with the fellows who brought this cart here,’ Baldwin said, ‘and the castle’s steward will know where the items from the back of the cart have gone.’
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