30 - King's Gold (26 page)

The weather was at least clement, but although the sun shone, it meant that before long Simon was feeling the sweat soaking into the collar of his tunic. His hat was intolerably warm, and he was forced to remove it after a while, holding it in his left hand, occasionally lifting it to shield his eyes from the blazing sun as he peered ahead at the road.

It was the duty of the Keepers of the King’s Peace to see to it that the verges of roadways were kept clear of all brambles, trees and shrubs, so that there should be less risk of ambushes. These roads had recently been surveyed, but it did not help Simon. He felt foul, from the soles of his sweating feet to the stickiness under his armpits. His mouth was disgusting and dry, his tongue felt woollen and revolting.

By contrast, Sir Richard was enjoying his ride. ‘Magnificent weather, eh?’ he trumpeted. ‘What more could a man ask for in this beautiful kingdom of ours than an open road, sunshine, and the promise of a pleasant journey.’

‘A bed,’ Simon said, and belched acid.

Behind him, Hugh said grumpily, ‘And a pot of ale.’

‘Come now, Simon, Hugh. The sun has been up for an age. Only a child would wish to sleep through a day such as this. Or a poxy monk sitting in his scriptorium. No, Simon,’ he said, warming to his theme, ‘this is the way to live. Not hiding away in a warm room, but out in the open air.’

On any other morning, Simon would have agreed – but this day he was not inclined to support the knight. ‘How far is it?’ he mumbled.

‘To Kenilworth? Oh, less than seventy leagues. Up to Bristol, thence to Gloucester, Evesham, and on up to the castle.’

‘Seventy leagues?’ Hugh asked. He had never enjoyed riding, although some years ago he had grown accustomed enough to the distances that he must cover with his master. But in recent weeks he had not travelled so widely, and it was plain from his expression that he would have been happy not to have to renew his acquaintance with this saddle.

‘Two hundred and ten miles,’ Sir Richard said. He lolled back against the cantle and sighed happily. ‘And if it’s all as pleasant as this, we shall have a wonderful time. Tell me, Simon, did I ever tell you the joke about the man who borrowed a horse? Eh? He—’

‘Yes, I think you did tell me.’

‘Ah, well, then, Hugh, you will like this: the man spoke to the stableowner and paid for a beast, and the stableman said, “You are a very clever man to pick that fellow. It’s the best in my stable. You must be like Ben Bakere”.

‘ “Who?” asked the man.

‘ “Ben Bakere. If he went to a stable, he always picked the best mount. He had an infallible eye, that man.”

‘ “Oh,” said the man.

‘ “Yes, and if he went to the wine merchants, he always got the best wine. A perfect nose.”

‘ “Oh,” said the man.

‘ “If he negotiated to buy hay, he always got the best deal. If he needed harnesses, he could find the best quality at the finest price. He was clever, was Ben Bakere. The cleverest man who ever lived in jolly old England. The wisest, shrewdest, kindest and pleasantest.”

‘ “You said ‘was’ – has he moved away?”

‘ “No, he died.”

‘ “I’m sorry. It’s hard to lose a friend,” the man said.’

Sir Richard chuckled richly, glancing at Simon to ensure he appreciated the full perfection of the tale.

‘ “Friend? he’s no friend to me.”

‘ “But from what you said, I thought he was a close friend?”

‘ “No. I never met him. But I married his damned widow.” Ha! You understand, eh? Talking about his wife’s first husband, you see?’ And the good knight laughed without affectation, delighted with the simplicity of the joke.

Simon smiled thinly. Seventy leagues of this . . . His headache grew suddenly much worse.

Bishop’s Cleeve

The noise grew, and Senchet was aware of the hair on the back of his neck standing up on end. There was still no sign of the source. He glanced at Harry, and the two men edged closer together.

‘Senchet,’ Harry said quietly. ‘I’ve not said it before, but I’ve been glad of your company.’

‘Friend Harry, I have been grateful for your companionship also.’ Senchet pulled his sword out with a slow slithering of metal. ‘I do not like this phantasm, though. How does a man fight with a wraith? It is not to be borne.’

‘It’s no wraith,’ Harry said suddenly, and pointed.

There, before them, a cart with one tired nag pulling it, crossed the road.

Senchet felt relief flood his body. ‘For a moment . . .’

‘Never mind that, let’s ask him if there’s somewhere near,’ Harry said urgently.

It was astonishing what hunger could do to a man’s feet. Senchet lurched into a trot and stumbled off along the roadway after the cart, hallooing and waving his arms wildly.

The cart was large, and in the back were sacks and blankets. The carter himself was a shortish man, hooded, who lolled and nodded as the wheels bounced and rattled over the ruts and holes. Ranged along the outer side of the cart were pots and pans, which clattered so much it was a miracle that the driver could doze, Senchet thought to himself.

‘Hi! Hey there, fellow! Wake yourself, and listen to me! Wait!’

Although the man didn’t react, the horse heard him, and drew to a halt so that Senchet could hurry to catch up. Senchet was surprised to see that the horse itself was close to collapse. It had been forced to carry on long after it should have rested.

‘Sir,’ he panted. ‘Do you know how far to the nearest village? My friend can hardly walk, and we are both famished.’

The man on the board gazed at him listlessly, then shook his head as though trying to waken himself. ‘Village?’

‘Where are we?’

‘I . . . don’t know . . .’ the man said, and closed his eyes again.

‘Listen, we need to find our way to a place for some food. Do you—’ Senchet suddenly saw that the man’s flank was soaked with blood. ‘You are injured?’

‘Jumped on – men from Earl of Lancaster few miles back. Got lost. Don’t know where I am,’ the man mumbled. His eyes closed again and he slowly toppled over. Senchet caught his body, grunting with the effort.

There was one good thing. The man might be in a bad way, but Senchet had a strong conviction that there was food in his wagon.

Friday following the Feast of the Annunciation
³⁰

Willersey

All had been . . . satisfactory, Agatha supposed.

The coroner had arrived yesterday afternoon – a pasty-faced young knight who coughed and sneezed all over everyone, sneered and shouted at the jury, and swore at his clerk, an inoffensive little man at least double the man’s age. The conclusion of murder was hardly surprising, since the axe was still in Ham’s head.

She felt her heart constrict at the sight of her husband’s naked body, lying there as all the vill’s men and women stared at him, the coroner measuring each wound, wincing at the insects buzzing about and then deciding on the fines to be imposed, noting the names of the ‘First Finder’, the nearest householders, the members of the jury and all the others who could be forced to pay for the breaking of the King’s Peace. He made a perfunctory enquiry about who could have been responsible, but there was little he could glean. No one had known Ham was back in Willersey, after all.

Everyone knew Ham had left the vill with the purveyor almost two weeks ago. The only motive that could be inferred was based on the fact that his cart and horse were missing, but no one in the jury mentioned that in case there would be a further fine imposed for the theft. Nor did anyone there trust this cunning-looking knight with the streaming nose. He was not of a mind to be accommodating or kindly.

Walking back to the vill yesterday, with her husband’s body pushed in a handcart by two farmers, all Agatha could think of was the injustice. Ham had been so late coming back, yet there was no money. If only there had been a little to help her and Jen. Just the coins promised by the purveyor would have helped, let alone those the priest had mentioned. She had no choice now: she would have to depend on the charity of the Church. While there were alms, she and Jen should not starve. And given time, a man would be found for her. She could not expect to depend upon the others in the vill for the remainder of her days. When a local man lost his wife, Agatha would be prevailed upon to make an arrangement with him, and marry. Any widow who refused would find herself without friends. Men needed women, and to fight against the natural way of things was a certain way to make enemies.

Yesterday they had undressed Ham, she and Jen, and washed away the worst of the blood about his face. His jaw was broken, and when she saw his teeth had snapped off, it made her stomach lurch. The axe-wounds were less horrific; they were merely broad cuts in his flesh, but the sight of what had happened to his face was appalling. It was a relief to be able to wrap him in muslin and cover his sad eyes.

Jen was pale, slightly greenish, as she helped her mother. She worked methodically, concentrating on the wounds she was cleaning. It made Agatha’s belly knot to see her so distraught.

Agatha sat up all night with his body, Jen beside her. Ham wasn’t there: this corpse wasn’t him. The man she had known was gone, his soul flown, and there was nothing of him left behind, only a husk. After the cleaning and washing, even his odours were gone. She could scarcely believe this was him. All her life was in turmoil, and she knew only utter emptiness.

But even as she sat beside him, she railed inwardly. It was so unfair! Where were Ham’s horse and cart? The man who stole them had stolen Jen’s future. He was the focus for her bile and rage.

If she met him, she would
kill
him.

Close to Warwick

The carter’s wound was at least clean. Senchet and Harry were trained in dealing with injuries of many types.

‘It must have been a sword wound,’ Harry guessed. A bad cut, but not septic. Last night he had washed it and placed some linen over it, but this morning, when he saw it in daylight, the man’s flank was bloody again. Harry frowned. The carter was losing too much blood.

‘We must place him in his cart and take him to the nearest vill,’ Senchet said.

Harry shivered. His belly was better after he and Senchet had eaten some of this man’s food yesterday, but he was still suffering from the after-effects of their enforced starvation. ‘We can’t leave him here,’ he agreed.

‘He needs hot food, or I’m a Saxon,’ Senchet said.

Harry was already gathering more sticks and pieces of wood for a fire. The two men worked together quickly, collecting enough to make a small pile, and Senchet struck sparks from his flint until his tinder caught. Before long the two men were setting a pot over the flames to heat some water. In the man’s pack they had found some dried sticks of meat, and they placed these in the pot with some herbs and leaves they found about the area.

Harry broke bread into a bowl, and then they spooned the gravy over it. The watery pottage thickened well, and both had a little before they tried to feed some to the injured man. He moved his head as they attempted to pour a little of it into his mouth, but then he started to swallow, and soon his eyes flickered and opened.

Senchet held up the spoon so he could see it. ‘You need this, my friend. Can you open your mouth?’

The man nodded, and soon he was eating hungrily. Only when the last of the gravy had been wiped away did he settle back again, eyes closed.

‘Are you well?’ Harry asked, and received a nod in return. ‘Are you from near here? Is there somewhere we can take you?’

‘My name is Dolwyn,’ he said weakly. ‘I don’t know this area at all.’

Passion Sunday
³¹

Berkeley Castle

It was miserable that day. Benedetto had joined Lord Berkeley in the small, cramped chapel for Mass, and the chill had eaten into his bones. How he longed for the warm climate of Florence!

The service must have left the chaplain feeling as cold as the congregation, because he hurried through the last parts and completed it in what seemed like indecent haste.

Benedetto left the chapel, trailing out behind the lord and members of the garrison, and was momentarily blinded by the brightness. The sun was concealed behind a series of clouds that ranged over the sky, but for all that her glow was apparent, especially after the comparative gloom of the chapel.

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?’