There was a sudden shout behind him, and a young man hobbled towards him. ‘A message,’ he called.
Matteo recognised the lad. He was one of Benedetto’s messengers who had been left with the Queen and Sir Roger Mortimer. He nodded, and took the proffered note. He checked the seal: it had been signed by the Queen herself, he saw. He broke the wax and glanced down the roll, and then whistled.
‘Go and find yourself some food and drink,’ he said to the messenger. ‘You will need to rest, after riding all that way.’
The fellow gave him a grateful look, and followed his directions to the buttery, exhausted after his punishing ride.
‘So,’ Matteo said to himself. ‘The Queen thinks her son would have a war, does she?’ A war was good. There were endless opportunities for a bank to earn money during a conflict. As soon as he could, he would have to bring this to Benedetto’s attention, he thought – but then gave a frown. Benedetto was not the man that Manuele had been when it came to decision-making. He was always weighing one argument against another, considering this compared with that . . . never making up his mind.
Matteo was about to walk back to the hall, when he saw the knight Sir Baldwin de Furnshill and the other, Sir Richard de Welles, heading towards the stables. With them were a woman in black and a priest. There was something about the way they moved that intrigued him – and he decided to sneak along behind them, to find out what they were up to.
The cart was standing a short way from the rest of the wagons, carts and paraphernalia of transport in the large chamber close by the little stable.
As Baldwin knew, usually horses and equipment would be stored away from the castle. Lord Berkeley’s warhorses were kept at his great stables at Wotton-Under-Edge, and they would be sent for as required. Today the stables were still over-full from the arrival of so many men yesterday, but the old nag from the cart stood out even so.
Baldwin could see it from some distance away. The white fist was quite plain, and the star he remembered from the day before. It was exactly as the woman had described it.
Agatha glanced over all the beasts, but it was obvious when she spotted her own. A smile spread over her face, and she looked at the priest for confirmation. ‘That’s him.’
Father Luke nodded. ‘It certainly is. I remember that fellow from all those miles to Kenilworth. That star is imprinted upon my mind. Where are the goods from the cart?’
Baldwin looked at Sir Richard. ‘They are convincing, are they not?’
‘Aye, like enough. So, good Agatha, what was on the cart?’
‘I don’t know – it was whatever the purveyor wanted to take. Some perry, I think, and lampreys.’
‘And a small chest,’ Father Luke said. About this size,’ he added, gesturing with his hands.
‘That was where your money was held?’ Simon asked.
‘Yes.’
‘We shall need to speak with the fellows who brought this cart here,’ Baldwin said, ‘and the castle’s steward will know where the items from the back of the cart have gone.’
‘Where is the castle prison, do you think?’ Sir Richard said.
Simon had seen a man leaning negligently against a wall at the farther side of the courtyard. Gesturing at him, he said, ‘I would think if he isn’t the gaoler, he will know who is.’
When Sir Jevan de Bromfield caught sight of Benedetto Bardi, he gave the short bow due to a man of wealth, even if he were a mere merchant.
‘Sir Jevan,’ Benedetto said, bowing lower.
The knight smiled at his politeness. It was natural that a banker should be somewhat obsequious when faced with a man of noble birth. ‘You have enjoyed your meal?’
‘His lordship was most courteous.’
Sir Jevan thought, Yes, he would be. He knows you could lend him enough money to rebuild his entire castle. ‘You are popular.’
‘I am fortunate to be able to help people in need,’ Benedetto said.
Sir Jevan detected smugness; it was enough to turn his stomach. ‘The Queen must be very grateful,’ he said.
‘She appreciates the good I can do for her,’ Benedetto said smoothly. ‘I was glad to help her and the King.’
Sir Jevan commented, ‘Your brother – he suffers from mares, I hear. He was very loud last night.’
Benedetto nodded; he had to step to one side as a man barged past on his way to the smiths’ forges. ‘Yes, Matteo was attacked by the mob in London. It was a terrible affair – I thought he would die.’
‘Death is never pleasant.’ Sir Jevan recalled for a moment the young woman’s face, the shock on her swain’s as his sword thrust into flesh. Those two deaths had been so long ago, he had all but forgotten them. But now there was something that brought them back to him. Benedetto – of course, he told himself. He had gone to meet Benedetto just after killing them both.
‘He is a different man since the attack,’ Benedetto said.
‘Near-death is bound to affect a man,’ Sir Jevan said, tiring of the conversation and the banker. He looked about him. ‘Is that him?’ He pointed to Matteo.
