‘Alured . . .’ he began.
‘Master Bardi?’
Matteo dropped from his horse and passed the reins to a groom. ‘When I lay dying, I was very fortunate because you found me.’
Alured caught his serious tone and looked at him. ‘I know.’
‘There is always someone who benefits from a murder. Only one man could have benefited from my death: my brother Benedetto.’
‘As you said before.’
‘If he could, he would have finished me off.’
‘No, master. I didn’t tell you before, because I thought it would worry you, but when you were unwell, he visited you. He could have killed you then, while you were fevered and weak. I left him with you at least twice. It would have taken no effort for him to finish you.’
‘Did he offer you money?’ Matteo damanded. How could Alured have left him alone with Benedetto?
‘For your keep, master. That was all.’
‘He said, “Take this. You will be doing me a service.
‘Nothing like that,’ Alured protested, and frowned. ‘Really He was being kind and offering to pay us for your food and cleaning. He was generous.’
‘My brother is a clever, clever man,’ Matteo said. ‘I don’t think he ever makes a simple request. He may still be at Berkeley, Alured. When we reach it, I want you to swear to me that you will watch over me all the more carefully.’
‘Very well. I swear it,’ Alured said, but he did not believe there was any need. Benedetto struck him as a pleasant soul.
John was not of a mind to be convinced by a statement. ‘Who are you?’
‘I am William atte Hull,’ the man said. ‘Nephew to Michael here.’
‘He is telling the truth,’ Brother Michael said urgently. ‘You have to trust him, as you trusted me.’
John felt his resolution waver. His flank was hurting abominably, and he was confused and lost without Paul. If Paul were here, he would be able to understand better what he should do for the best. Now, on his own, he was unsure about everything.
‘I was sorry to hear of your companion’s death,’ William said. ‘I heard about the attack. It must have been terrible to see so many good men die.’
‘Paul was indeed a good man. He and I rode together for many years,’ John said. He looked from one to the other, and made a decision. If these two were enemies of his, he was already lost. They need only shout and half the escort would come in here to take him. Sighing, he thrust his sword back in the sheath. ‘He was the sort of man in whom you could place your trust. Not perfect, because he had his faults like all of us, but he was yet a kindly man. Honourable and courteous.’
‘I know. I met him a few times,’ the monk said, ‘when he was here with the King.’
‘He and I used to travel with our lord, Despenser, and the King quite regularly. They knew that they could count upon us. But he died after the adventure at Kenilworth.’
‘What actually happened there, John?’ William asked.
‘We were sorely beaten,’ he said shortly. As if in sympathy, his wound flared again, and he had to put a hand to his side with the pain.
‘I forgot your injury!’ Brother Michael castigated himself. ‘You are in pain. Come over here and let me see to it. I have some skill with curing ailments.’
John disliked the idea of taking his mail off, but the notion that this kindly-looking old monk might be seeking to hurt him was on the face of it ludicrous.
He began to tell them about the attack, while William helped him to remove his tunic and mail, setting them on a nearby bench until John was down to his braies. He had spoken to no one of that awful day since the meeting in the tavern, and to be able to unburden himself felt good.
‘We’d stopped earlier to pass the weapons to Stephen, as was agreed, but by the time he got to us, the rest would have been in the castle some hours, all of them waiting for us and the cart. God knows what he was thinking of, but he stopped at an ale-house, and that delayed us all. So when we reached the castle, the gatekeeper was already bellowing to have the gate locked. Stephen rode on ahead to try to delay that, because without the cart of weapons, we could achieve nothing. Paul and I went to assist, and suddenly all hell was let loose. A man in the gateway was preventing us from getting in, and there were arrows everywhere . . .’ He broke off, remembering. ‘I was stabbed in the flank here by a man with a lance or something. The same fellow managed to strike Paul in the throat.’ He swallowed. ‘There was nothing I could do.’
‘I understand,’ the monk said, peering. ‘You have been lucky, indeed, my friend. The blade stabbed into your ribs – and painful though it is, that injury prevented the point from thrusting into your vitals. If your lungs or liver had been penetrated, you would not be here now.’
‘He paid for his attack,’ John said bleakly. ‘I saw to that.’
‘Good.’ The monk had a wad of cloth in his hand; he smeared some honey onto it, then added some paste from a jar. ‘You have a melancholic appearance. This should help soothe the injury.’
