King's Gold

There was no flicker of emotion on the King’s face. His hollow-eyed stare continued to study something far distant that obviously filled him with horror. Gilbert wondered: did he see his wife in the arms of her lover, Sir Roger Mortimer; or Sir Hugh Le Despenser, his closest companion, writhing and choking as he was hanged, then disembowelled . . . Or did he see his son, the figurehead of those who had come to humiliate him? Gilbert could not tell, but the expression on King Edward’s face was enough to tell him that the man was all too aware of his precarious position.

No matter. Gilbert would safely convey this noble prisoner, to whom he still felt enormous loyalty, to Kenilworth, the Earl of Lancaster’s great stronghold. Once there, King Edward would be passed on to another from the Earl’s entourage, and Gilbert could relax.

He looked at the King again, and his heart was clutched with pity. Gilbert remembered a man who had lost his wife and children in the floods eleven years ago. He had worn the same air of confused distress as this King.

Gilbert had done all he could. Perhaps the kindest thing to do was to get the King to Kenilworth as quickly as possible.

He would be glad for this task to come to an end.

St Benet Fink

The old church was quiet as Alured approached it from the little alley. He came along here often now, as though hoping that something might leap into his imagination as he walked; perhaps some little detail of the alley that might help him discover who had killed the young couple.

It had been a simple task to learn who they were. The dead youth was apprentice to a leatherworker, while his girl was the daughter of a groom. Both families were happy for the two, and hoped that they would marry when they had a little money saved. The groom in particular was devastated to see his daughter killed. He had no other family, since the girl’s mother had died giving birth to her. When Alured saw him at the inquest, the man had fallen in a dead swoon, and it took three men to carry his body to a tavern to recover.

The young couple were only two out of the many who had been killed that day, but there was something about their bodies that had wrenched at Alured’s heart. Others had been attacked by the mob, and their bodies slashed and hacked with abandon as though killed by raving demons; this couple was different, though. They had been slain with precision. One slash to the girl beheaded her, while the boy had two thrusts to his breast. It was as clean as an execution.

The drunk had consumed too much to be able to recall anything in detail, but he was convinced that the murderer was a knight. A middling-years man, with dark hair and a white tunic. He had good Cordova boots, he remembered. From his angle, lying on the ground, that was the most definite thing he could see under the long tunic. Good Cordova leather boots with a red tassel at the top.

That description would match half of the King’s two thousand knights. As for the boots, any man’s tunic would conceal them. Alured had little or no chance of finding the killer among the teaming thousands of London.

He would have to forget the two dead lovers. There were other, more important matters to occupy him.

Reluctantly he turned his steps homeward.

Alured’s house, London

Matteo Bardi woke when Alured returned.

He was still as weak as a puppy. He had recovered from the terrible fever that had nearly killed him – a result of the stab wound in his back – and thanks to the constant care of Alured and his wife, he was feeling much improved. In recent days he had even begun to read one or two messages from other merchants and bankers.

Matteo had become petrified of strangers. It was natural after being attacked by the mob, who hated those of his profession, and it made him want to return home to Florence by the swiftest means. He hated this cold, wet, miserable, uncouth land.

Only one man could he entirely trust. ‘I am glad of your help,’ he said to Alured.

‘It was nothing. I hope someone would do the same for me,’ Alured said gruffly. ‘You were lucky I was near to hand.’

‘Very lucky,’ Dolwyn agreed. He brought a cup of watered wine to his master and passed it to him.

‘I just wish I’d been there earlier,’ Alured added. He told the banker and his henchman about the two youngsters murdered in the nearby alley. ‘Perhaps the same man stabbed you as killed them,’ he wondered, but it didn’t seem likely. They had been so efficiently slain, while Matteo was still alive.

Matteo took a sip of his wine and peered at Dolwyn. ‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘did you see anything of a man near me on the day I was attacked?’

‘No, master. I was away from you, you remember?’

‘Yes. And I was running from that mob,’ Matteo said, feeling at his scalp. The hair had been clipped away. After prodding his skull and checking his urine, the physician declared he should live: his injuries were superficial. ‘You have a hard head, master,’ he had declared.