King's Gold

Dolwyn stayed, listening intently, until he was certain they had all gone. Only then did he peer around the open doorway, trembling with excitement. There was nobody in the darkened hallway. Only a pale light at the far end of the corridor, where the door remained open. With his legs stiff and hunger gnawing his belly, he would find it difficult to escape if the gaoler appeared. Grabbing his victim had exhausted him. But up there, perhaps he could find some bread, a lump of cheese or something – and a gulp of clean water or ale. From the sight of the mob, he guessed it was unlikely that the gaoler was still in the prison. He had taken flight – or had been killed.

‘Take me with you!’

At the third door along the corridor, a pale face was staring through the grille at him. Two small fists gripped the bars. It was the boy who had cried so piteously for the last few nights. Dolwyn stood for a long moment, contemplating the lad. Then he went back to his cell and felt around the door. He was sure that the keys must still be here. A great steel ring hung from the lock, with keys strung along it, and he picked it up. The fourth key fitted the boy’s lock, and he turned it, pulling back the two bolts to open the door.

‘Thank you!’ the boy wept, falling through the door as soon as it was opened wide.

Dolwyn pushed the child before him, along the passage and out up the stairs, keeping him in front of all the way.

He had no other defence. If there was danger, this boy would be his shield.

CHAPTER FOUR

House of Bardi, London

Alured had returned here two days ago to see how bad the damage was, and the sight was chilling.

The door had been broken in, and hung from the lower hinge only. Shards of pottery and splinters of wood lay underfoot. Some were from goblets and mazers, and when he sifted a handful, he saw the gleam of gold. The wood about it was marked with a knife’s blade, and he assumed that here a decorative band of gold had been hacked from a mazer.

It was enough to make a man weep, he thought. This had been a great house, filled with glorious items of beauty, and now the rifflers had been through it like rats through a larder, destroying all they couldn’t eat or carry away.

He entered, carefully stepping over the leaning door. In the passageway was a mess of broken barrels and pottery. Staves poked up like the breastbones of some strange beast, and there was a thick blanket of tapestry that had been dropped in a foul heap. He would have opened it out to view the pictures, but a warning odour of faeces deterred him. Instead he walked into the hall itself. It was a scene of destruction. The rifflers had not known the value of the items they carelessly tossed aside to smash on the ground. Glass crunched beneath his boots as he made his way to the middle of the room and stared about him.

A huge table had been overturned, and one leg wrenched from it, probably to build a fire to destroy the building, but for some reason the rest of the table was intact. Alured assumed that the strength of the timbers had deterred the rifflers. They had gone in search of easier fuel. Chairs had been thrown over, their legs snapped away. Cushions had been disembowelled, while men had pissed and vomited everywhere as a sign of their contempt for those who lived here.

All the doors had been tested, and those that were locked, broken open. If there had been money or gold here, it was gone, he saw as he investigated further into the house. They had enjoyed their time here, obviously, from the smell of sour ale and wine about the place. It was a relief that there were no bodies. By now, they would have grown smelly, he reckoned.

Alured walked from the house and stared at the door. He would have liked to shut up the house before leaving. He tried to lift it, but it was heavy oak and would not budge. He was standing, scratching at his head, his hat in his hand, when he heard steps.

‘What has happened here?’ Dolwyn asked, staring about him with horror in his eyes.

‘The rifflers came to visit,’ Alured said shortly. This fellow had the look of a felon himself, from his filthy clothes and lack of a weapon. He could well be another draw latch come here to try his fortune at a despoiled house. ‘Do you know who used to live here?’

‘I worked for them – the Bardi. My master was the youngest brother, a man called Matteo. But I left him here some days ago . . . Were they all killed?’

‘No, not all.’ Alured eyed Dolwyn with a speculative eye. ‘Where were you?’

‘I was sent away with a message.’

‘Where? In London?’

‘Yes, over towards the River,’ Dolwyn lied. ‘Why?’

Alured looked away. ‘Nothing. There were so many murders that day, and afterwards.’

‘I wasn’t here,’ Dolwyn said firmly. He glanced about the ravaged hall. ‘They did this place well, didn’t they?’

‘This man you worked for,’ Alured said. ‘What did he look like?’