King's Gold

By Michael Jecks

One kingdom, two kings. Only one can rule

As the year 1326 draws to a close, London is in flames. King Edward II is a prisoner, and the forces of his vengeful queen, Isabella, and her lover Sir Roger Mortimer, are in the ascendant. The Bardi family, bankers who have funded the King, must look to their future with the Queen, steering a careful course between rival factions – if, that is, they can keep themselves alive.

Others, too, find their loyalties torn. Guarding the deposed King on behalf of Mortimer, Sir Baldwin de Furnshill and bailiff Simon Puttock find themselves entangled in a tightening net of conspiracy, greed, betrayal and murder.

The thirtieth instalment in the gripping Last Templar Mysteries series, perfect for fans of C. J. Sansom and Susanna Gregory.

Praise for Michael Jecks

‘Michael Jecks is a national treasure’ Scotland on Sunday

• Language: English
• Publisher: Canelo Adventure
• Release date: Jun 7, 2021
• ISBN: 9781800323964

Michael Jecks

Michael Jecks gave up a career in the computer industry when he began writing the internationally successful Templar series. There are now twenty books starring Sir Baldwin Furnshill and Bailiff Simon Puttock, with more to follow. The series has been translated into all the major European languages and sells worldwide. The Chairman of the Crime Writers' Association for the year 2004–2005, Michael is a keen supporter of new writing and has helped many new authors through the Debut Dagger Award. He is a founding member of Medieval Murderers, and regularly talks on medieval matters as well as writing.

Book preview

Praise for The Last Templar Mysteries

‘The most wickedly plotted medieval mystery novels’

The Times

‘Michael Jecks is a national treasure’

Scotland on Sunday

‘Atmospheric and cleverly plotted’

Observer

‘Marvellously portrayed’

C. J. Sansom

‘Michael Jecks is the master of the medieval whodunnit’

Robert Low

‘Utterly enthralling’

Karen Maitland

‘If you care for a well-researched visit to medieval England, don’t pass this series’

Historical Novels Review

‘Torturous and exciting… The construction of the story and the sense of the period are excellent’

Shots

‘Jecks’ knowledge of medieval history is impressive, and is used here to great effect’

Crime Time

‘A gem of historical storytelling… authentic recreation of the modes and manners, superstitions and primitive fears that made up the colourful but brutal tableau of the Middle Ages’

Northern Echo

‘A tremendously successful medieval mystery series’

Sunday Independent

‘Jecks writes with passion and historical accuracy. Devon and Cornwall do not seem the same after reading his dramatic tales’

Oxford Times

‘Each page is densely packed with cuckolding, coarseness, lewdness, lechery, gore galore, but also with nobility. A heady mix!’

North Devon Journal

‘His research is painstaking down to the smallest detail, his characters leap alive from the page, and his evocation of setting is impressive’

Book Collector

This book is for the Marvellous Marvins with thanks for Fnob Cheese!

Cast of Characters

Sir Baldwin de Furnshill: Keeper of the King’s Peace, known for this astute investigation of crimes.

Jeanne de Furnshill: wife to Sir Baldwin.

Edgar: Baldwin’s servant and chief man-at-arms.

Simon Puttock: once a bailiff on Dartmoor, now a local farmer and freeman, Simon has been associated with the new government because of his hatred of the Despenser regime.

Margaret Puttock: ‘Meg’ is Simon’s wife.

Edith: Simon and Meg’s daughter.

Hugh: Simon’s servant.

Sir Richard de Welles: friend to Simon and Baldwin, Coroner to the Hundred of Lifton.

Sir Ralph of Evesham: a knight loyal to the old king.

Willersey

Father Luke: vicar of St Peter’s, Willersey.

Ham: a fanner in Willersey.

Agatha: wife of Ham.

Jen: daughter to Ham and Agatha.

London

Bardi: family of Florentine bankers who helped fund the King of England, based in Florence, but with a house in London.

Manuele di Bardi: the oldest of the brothers and head of the Bardi family in London.

Benedetto di Bardi: second-in-command of the bank.

Matteo di Bardi: youngest brother of the family.

Sebastian & Francisco: two merchants from the House of the Bardi.

Dolwyn of Guildford: bodyguard; supporter of Edward II.

Alured the Cooper: a law officer.

Camp of Sir Edward of Caernarfon

Sir Edward of Caernarfon: once King Edward II of England, he has been forced to abdicate the realm and pass it on to his son.

John of Shulton: a man-at-arms from the Despenser estates.

Paul of Bircheston: John’s best friend; also a Despenser vassal.

Harry le Cur: one of the men-at-arms who had been besieged at Caerphilly.

Senchet Garcie: another member of the Caerphilly garrison.

Stephen Dunheved: an instigator of the plots to rescue the former King.

Frere Thomas Dunheved: brother of Stephen, and a Dominican Friar, Thomas had been a confidential agent for King Edward II and remained loyal to him.

Brother Michael: a monk at the Augustinian Priory of Llantony-next-Gloucester.

William atte Hill: nephew to Brother Michael.

Sir Edmund Gascelin: ally to the Dunheveds and involved in their plots.

Donald, Earl of Mar: a Scottish earl who was intensely loyal to Sir Edward of Caernarfon and involved in many plots to release him.

Camp of King Edward III

King Edward III: the young son of Edward Caernarfon, he rules on with the approval and consent of Sir Roger Mortimer, his Regent. Also known as the Duke of Aquitaine.

Sir Roger Mortimer: for many years Sir Roger was King Edward II’s favourite general, but now he is Edward of Caernarfon’s most hated enemy.

Earl Henry of Lancaster: one of the most powerful noblemen in England, who inherited his title when his brother Thomas was executed by Edward II for rebellion.

Sir Jevan de Bromfield: a knight in the service of Henry, Earl of Lancaster at Kenilworth.

Lord Thomas de Berkeley: son-in-law to Sir Roger Mortimer.

Sir John Maltravers: a close friend to Lord Thomas.

Gilbert: chief guard of Edward Caernarfon.

Squire Bernard: porter at the gate of Kenilworth Castle.

Chapter One

Abchirchelane, London

Third Wednesday after the Feast of St Michael, twentieth year of the reign of King Edward II

¹

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 the 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 Langburnestrate², 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 comer. 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 di 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 befitted 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 have 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.

All in good time. There were other gates by which a man could leave this cursed city. For now he had to hurry to his meeting. He had an urgent mission – the first serious business since his return to England.

With the force led by Sir Roger Mortimer and the Queen, Sir Jevan had spent his time in idle meandering about the countryside. That was all it had been, an amiable wandering, while the populace turned out to cheer and applaud. The mercenaries could have been liberators instead of invaders.

But that would soon change if there was no money.

The Queen had used the little wealth she had stored in maintaining herself in France. Sir Roger Mortimer had nothing, because his estates and belongings had been confiscated when he was declared a traitor and imprisoned. As soon as his death warrant had been signed, he had lost all. So now their men, mercenaries from Hainault and the Low Countries, with some adventurers from France and a few English fighters determined to take back what they had lost, were marching with empty pockets. Money was desperately needed.

That was why Sir Jevan was here, in London, to ensure that a deal was struck. If it would hasten the end of Edward’s obnoxious reign, he would treat with the Devil himself.

---

15 October 1326.↩︎

Lombard Street.↩︎

Chapter Two

House of the Bardi, London

There was a crash outside the hall, and the men in the room spun around to stare at the window as though they expected to see the mob spilling into the hall.

‘What do you suggest, then?’ Manuele demanded of Matteo. ‘You speak of supporting first the Queen, then the King – I don’t follow your reasoning.’

‘An offer to the King. Of gold, or influence. Anything he needs. A letter couched in careful terms, that would give him hope, if nothing else. Money to help him in his prison. We can tell him that he can always count upon our support, that whenever he has need of us, we will aid him. If we can get that to him, he will gain confidence from it, and reward us if he ever does return to his throne.’

‘And if the Queen or Sir Roger Mortimer found it, we should be ruined,’ Benedetto snapped.

‘Brother, hear him first,’ Manuele said, his dark eyes remaining fixed on Matteo.

‘The letter would remain a secret known only to him and us. We would have a trusted messenger take it to him. And as I said, if we couch the letter in careful terms,’ Matteo explained patiently, ‘the Queen would not seek to harm us. Especially if any doubts were already assuaged by our support for her and her son. If we advance her money, she will believe us when we state our allegiance to her. We gain the friendship of both sides, and thereby assure our continued profits no matter who wins.’

There was another crash outside. ‘Matteo, can you write such a letter?’ Manuele asked.

In answer Matteo pulled the carefully written note from his purse and passed it to him. Manuele took it warily, as though touching it conferred guilt.

There was a shriek in the street, a clattering of weapons, and the men all started.

Manuele read the parchment, then, taking up a reed, he slowly wrote his name at the bottom in ink. ‘For the House of the Bardi,’ he muttered to himself as he sprinkled some sand over the wet ink. Removing his seal ring, he melted a little wax in a candle-flame, and sealed the document, setting it aside to cool on the table.

‘I will see that it reaches the King’s friends,’ Matteo said, feeling the warm glow of success. With this letter the House was safe again, and with fortune, he would soon control it.

A sudden pounding on the front door interrupted their discussions. Matteo was relieved. He had feared that the visitors might have been waylaid. ‘Let them in,’ he called.

There were four men-at-arms in the party, all wearing mail and coats of plates and, from the way that they held themselves, it was clear that they had been expecting trouble on their way here.

Matteo introduced the men. ‘Stephen Dunheved, John of Shulton, Harry le Cur, and Senchet Garcie. These gentlemen are here to listen to our position regarding the King.’

‘Not only that,’ Stephen Dunheved said, ‘we are here to have your absolute declaration of loyalty to the King of England, my lord Edward II. He demands your obedience, else he will have all your House closed in England, your funds sequestered and all loans cancelled.’

Matteo reached for the signed document, but before his hand could touch it, Manuele had removed it. ‘Brother?’

‘Quiet, Matteo.’ Manuele stood slowly, the parchment in his hand. ‘You come to my house to threaten me?’ he demanded of Dunheved. ‘Do you know who I am?’

Matteo swore under his breath. He had won the day already, and if these men would only show a little respect due to Manuele, they would win all they wanted. But he could see Manuele was having second thoughts: if one of these men were a traitor who had already turned his coat to support the Queen, he dared not talk of the parchment nor ask any of these to take it to the King. The risk of betrayal was too great.

Dunheved, a weatherbeaten man with the build of a fighter, took a step forward, his hand on his sword, but before he could pull it more than half-free, there was a rush and clatter of steel, and Manuele’s servants had their own weapons drawn and ready. Three held swords at Dunheved’s throat.

‘So this is your answer, then? Betrayal and deceit?’ Dunheved hissed.

Manuele walked to him and studied him for a moment. ‘No, it is not. I will consider how best to aid your master, but I will not be treated as a churl in my own home. You will leave, and we shall speak no more of this. When I am ready, I will invite you back to discuss this with me. Perhaps.’

‘It will be too late! The Queen knows you have maintained the King. And remember that you denied her money when she was in Paris. You think she will forget that and reward you? She will ruin your House, and impoverish you!’

‘She may try,’ Manuele said suavely. He walked to his sideboard, the parchment still in his hand, and picked up a goblet of wine. Sipping, he gazed at the rich gold and enamel about the bowl. ‘You realise that my House is more wealthy than your Kang’s? I have more money at my disposal than he – which is why he sends to me to beg for gold. Well, I am of a mind to answer his call. But not yet.’

As though to emphasise his words, just then a rock the size of a man’s fist flew through the window, narrowly missing Benedetto. ‘Stronzi,’¹ he snarled, his hand on his sword.

Manuele walked to the stone and peered at it. ‘It would seem that your mob is interested in meeting with us, too.’ he said. Then, more seriously: ‘Your King will have my answer in a few days. But this city is dangerous just now. You may leave.’ Dunheved set his jaw and would have spoken further, but the man called Senchet called quietly, ‘Stephen, you escaped death once before, my friend. I think we should depart while it is still a possibility.’

‘Very well,’ Dunheved said. ‘You will find us at the House of the Lion near the Black Friars.’

He turned, jerked his head to his companions, and they were gone. The servants of the house walked with them, and soon there was a bellowing from the front of the hall.

‘I think,’ Manuele said with a small smile, ‘that the people there wish to talk to our friends.’

‘And what of the letter?’ Matteo demanded.

‘Your letter is good. It will suffice,’ Manuele said. ‘Send it as we agreed, by a safe messenger.’

‘We should leave,’ Benedetto said urgently. ‘The mob is enraged, and they may well attack us. Let us go by the back gates!’

‘Very well,’ Manuele said absently.

Matteo led the way to the rear of the house, past the kitchen and gawping servants, and out to the gate at the back. There was a short alley here, which gave onto Cornhulle. When sure that the road was safe, he called the others to follow.

Manuele was last to leave. He insisted on his taking his palfrey, and stood tapping his toe until his groom brought the beast.

Matteo protested, ‘There are gangs all about the city – a man on horseback is an easy target for their rage and enmity.’

‘I am not slim like you. If I meet with a mob, I need a means to escape,’ Manuele said with a smile. ‘At least on a horse I am more fleet than the London mob.’

As Manuele trotted off into the distance, his two henchmen with him, Matteo watched anxiously. He saw a mass of men erupt from the side streets and envelop his elder brother. A thin scream of terror came from Manuele, and then Matteo too was running away, pounding for his life up a side street with his own two remaining guards.

He only managed a few paces when his legs were knocked from beneath him, and he fell on the cobbles. Something clubbed the back of his head, before the blade slid into his flesh and he toppled into a vast emptiness.

Cornhulle, London

Sir Jevan de Bromfield ran along the roadway at full tilt, and seeing an alleyway, he hurtled into it, hiding in a little corner and gripping his sword tightly.

The mass of feet went thundering on along the main road, and he slowly began to relax. Risking a glance around the comer, he saw the alley was clear.

But then there was a step behind him. He knew that it must be one of his pursuers who had outflanked him to get behind and slip a knife between his shoulderblades while he stared back towards the road like a fool.

He would not die like this!

Whirling like a berserker from a Viking ship, he slashed with his sword and felt it slither into soft flesh. The dragging of meat on his blade was enough to slow his movement, and he had time to gaze upon the young woman’s face as his blade sliced deep into her neck. And then his blade was through the bone, and with a gush of blood, her head flew away.

Behind her, the young man who was her swain stood with his mouth wide in horror, so shocked that even as her torso collapsed and the blood besmottered his face and shirt, he could not speak or cry out.

Without hesitation, Sir Jevan reversed his blade and stabbed twice quickly before the lad could call, both wounds in the fellow’s breast. One at least punctured his heart, for he died without speaking, the two bodies entangled in death.

Sir Jevan cursed quietly under his breath, then wiped his blade on the young woman’s skirts. Her face was pretty, he thought, studying her dispassionately. He regretted their deaths, but for him, a man who had been declared outlaw and exiled by the King, it was better to take no chances. The couple should not have crept up behind him like that.

He moved up the alley away from the road, hoping to avoid any other embarrassments. All he wanted now was to get away from this God-forsaken city and out to the safe, open countryside. But first he had to attend to the Queen’s business.

Reaching the end of the alley, he made his way westwards again until he saw the building he sought. Heavy stone walls and small, slit-like windows gave it a grim appearance, but in times like this, it was a welcome sight. Sir Jevan rapped smartly on the door.

A small peephole snapped open and he saw an eye peer at him, then behind and around him.

‘You know me,’ he said. ‘I am here to see him.’

The bolts were drawn back, and the door pulled open to reveal a narrow passage.

Sir Jevan walked inside, but was pulled up short by the sight of two swords pointed at his throat and belly: one held by Benedetto, one by a servant. ‘What is this? You mean to betray us and our cause? Your deaths will be sealed if you harm me!’ he hissed.

Benedetto’s sword wavered. ‘I’m not betraying you,’ he whispered. ‘I’m betraying my family… and the King.’

‘A pox on your family, and the King. He betrayed us all,’ Sir Jevan sneered. ‘He’d sell the kingdom if he thought it a pretty enough bauble for his darling Despenser!’

‘It is agreed, then?’

‘You keep up your side of the bargain, Master Benedetto, and yes, Her Royal Highness will be pleased to make use of your money.’ Sir Jevan moved forwards, slapping away both swords. ‘I have details with me of where to deliver it. You are sure you can provide it? Your brothers won’t cause trouble?’

‘I can promise it,’ Benedetto said. There was an edge in his voice that did not go unnoticed.

‘Good,’ Sir Jevan said. ‘Don’t fail us. The Queen may be forgiving, but by the Gospel, I swear Sir Roger Mortimer is not – and neither am I.’ He turned with a feline grace, drawing his dagger and pulling the banker off-balance. His blade rested on Benedetto’s throat as he warned, ‘And next time you hold a sword to my guts, man, you had best be ready to use it. I don’t take kindly to such a reception!’

---

Alured the cooper had never known a time like this.

He was a hoary old man now, almost fifty years old, and he’d seen enough of death in his life. Clad in a strong leather jerkin over a padded jack, wearing the three items he considered most essential for his office – a dagger, a horn and a heavy oaken staff – he listened carefully for danger as he patrolled the streets.

London was his home. As a boy he had run about these streets, breaking windows, banging on doors, almost turning to crime himself, but then something happened to change his whole outlook on life. He had killed a man who was trying to rob him, out near the Austin Friars, and for the first time, Alured discovered what it was to wish to protect his own property from those who would steal it. When later he was elected as a constable for his parish, he took to the role with relish.

The law had to be upheld, that was his belief. But no one was bothering to serve the law today.

There were more than enough men in the Tower to calm the mob – so where were they? It wasn’t the whole city on the rampage, in God’s name, just some foolish hotheads – apprentices, clerks and the like. There may have been some bad apples in among them, but most were simple, harmless folk who saw that with the King gone, the city was theirs for a while. Well, Alured would exert what authority he could – alone, if need be.

He came across small groups as he did his rounds. For the most part they were content to make way for him. Only a few hundred yards from Cornhulle he met three lads, and sent them packing. Then there were two more boys gawping at a fire, who cleared off quickly enough, and finally he saw a mob of twelve, rampaging along one of the streets that led south from Cornhulle itself, all of them drunk and full of the courage that comes from ale. Observing them from the protection of a doorway, Alured soon identified the two troublemakers amongst them, and nodded grimly to himself. Christ alive, not one of them was more than eighteen years. If he couldn’t cow lads of that sort of age, he didn’t deserve to see his fiftieth birthday.

The two ringleaders were hurling missiles at the windows of a large house, and when Alured could see it clearly through the smoke of a bonfire that raged somewhere nearby, he recognised it as the Bardi place.

He himself didn’t care for bankers. To his mind, they were a shameful bunch, lining their pockets at the expense of decent men who laboured long hours, afraid to get their own hands dirty. Still, they were not lawbreakers, so far as he knew, and he was an officer of the law.

When the two had flung their stones, and had set to prising cobbles from the road as missiles, Alured stepped out from the doorway. Wearing an amiable smile, he nodded at the youths about him until he reached the two ringleaders. Once a little behind and between them both, he moved his staff in his hands, holding it half-staff, and struck both men smartly on the back of the head: one-two, right first, then left. The two collapsed like pole-axed cattle.

‘You’ve had your fun, boys. Now bugger off,’ he said, facing the others.

There was one on the left who scowled belligerently and took a half-pace forward. ‘What’d you wanna do that for? They’re only lads. You shouldn’t have hit them!’

From the others there came some expressions of agreement, but as yet no one else moved forward. Alured was tempted to take up a defensive stance, but instead he set his staff on the ground and leaned on it. ‘They may only be boys, but if you don’t clear off, and take this heap of garbage with you, I’ll break your pate too. Understand me?’

‘Your mother was a whore, and your father—’

The fellow choked off as the staff’s tip struck his Adam’s apple. It was not a hard blow, not enough to break his neck, but it was firm enough to make him fall back, clutching at his throat, and now Alured held the staff like a lance, quarter-staff, the tip waving gently from side to side.

‘Lads, I’ve been to war. I’ve killed. You don’t scare me, because I’ve got a staff, and you can’t reach me without me hurting you. Now pick up these three dog turds and go home. If anyone else tries something stupid, I’ll stick this pole right up your arse!’ As he had thought, the three on the ground were the leaders; the nine remaining were the sheep who followed. There were some muttered oaths, and more comments on his parentage, but he stood by with his affable smile fixed to his face and waited. Soon they had gone. Alured watched them leave with satisfaction. He felt he’d handled them well.

There was another shout from up at Cornhulle, and then screams and cries for help. Gripping his horn in one hand, his staff in the other, Alured pelted up the road towards the noise.

---

This was no gang of drunken youths. As he reached Cornhulle, Alured saw a large group over near a big fire outside St Mary Woolchurch, and in the opposite direction there were a few men gathered together too. He recognised two of the men in that smaller band. They weren’t rioters and felons, he knew, and he bent his steps to join them.

‘Hello, Bill,’ he said to a short man with a thick, grizzled beard and bright brown eyes. ‘What’s all this?’

‘Those arses,’ Bill responded, pointing with his chin at the group near the fire.

Alured nodded, but his attention was already on the body lying on the ground behind Bill and the others. ‘Who was he?’

‘Don’t know. The poor follow was already dead when we got here.’

‘You saw him die?’

‘No. I was watching that lot and tripped over his body. See them?’ Bill was a sturdy fellow, Alured knew, but even he was visibly shocked by the violence he had witnessed. ‘I saw them kill three men a while ago – one man on a good horse with a couple of guards riding at his side. No reason: all three dragged from their horses and then beaten on the ground. Kicking and battering at them… I saw that and ran back up here, before they had a chance to start on me. I’d guess this poor soul was felled here just before that. They killed him, then went back to their bonfire and attacked the other three.’ He lifted a shaking hand to his eyes.

‘Calm yourself!’ Alured said sharply. ‘Keep your wits about you, Bill.’

He looked back towards the main group of rioters, but it was a