Baldwin was frowning. ‘Mistress Agatha, this cart — of what type was it? And the beast that pulled it, what manner of horse was this? You say old, but what colour, what markings?’
Agatha shrugged. ‘The cart was a good, sturdy one, with a plank to sit on. Two wheels, one either side. It was plain, but wider than most. As to the horse, well, he was a good height, with a broad chest, and a white flash on his breast like a fist. He had brown on his flanks and back and head, but there was a white ankle on his left foreleg, and above the right rear leg he had a star on his rump.’
Simon had not been close to the cart when it was captured the previous day, but he realised that something was going on, and he looked at his friends with interest. ‘What? What is it?’
Berkeley Castle Hall
This morning Matteo had woken tired and unrested amid the hubbub of the celebrations in the hall at the return of Lord Berkeley, as people demonstrated their joy at the fact that the lord’s most despised enemy, the man who had seen him incarcerated for years — Sir Edward of Caernarfon — was now his prisoner.
Even when he did manage to fall asleep, Matteo kept seeing the same vision: Benedetto, chasing after him with that wicked knife in his fist and a look of cold hatred in his eyes.
Three times Matteo fell into a heavy slumber, and each time he was woken by that horrible mare. The last occasion, he had woken himself with a scream. After he had reassured Alured that he was perfectly safe, he had lain awake, staring into the shadows of his room.
Rising long after dawn, Matteo dressed slowly, and went to the hall to eat. Inside it was filled with benches and long tables. There were no spaces that he could see, and he was about to ask a steward where he might sit, when the lord lifted the tapestry behind the dais and walked in.
All those in the hall stood, their benches scraping and screeching on the tiled floor. Until the lord had walked to his seat and taken it, all his guests of lower degree must remain on their feet. It was a matter of protocol and good manners.
Lord Berkeley was a happy man, and although last night he had celebrated in grand style, this morning he was still in a cheerful mood, from what Matteo could see. His laughter rang out over all the other noises of the hall, and Matteo was irritated to see how the man smiled and clapped his men on the back. His own head was sore from lack of sleep.
At last the lord stood in front of his seat, staring at the assembled men before sitting. This was the signal for a general scraping of benches and stools, until at last all the assembled men were seated. Benedetto, as the head of the House of Bardi, was granted the unusual privilege of a seat at the lord’s table, next to Sir John Maltravers, but Matteo was not given the same honour. He looked about him for a space at any of the messes, but there was none. Angry at being ignored, he strode from the room.
A kitchen maid took pity on him and offered him a crust or two of good white bread, along with a jug of strong ale, and he sat on a stool by the gate nursing his bitterness until he had finished his food. It soothed him, and soon he was engaged in conversation with the porter.
It was a useful chat. The porter was garrulous on the subject of the new prisoner.
There were several advantages to Lord Berkeley in taking on the role of Sir Edward’s gaoler, Matteo learned. First among them was the fact that he now had funds to support an increased garrison. Matteo heard Sir John Maltravers mention the fee on the ride here: five pounds each day, just to look after the King’s father. And it would not cost him that much, Matteo knew.
The chamber in which the sorry man had been installed was narrow and dank. It had a window that looked out over a little courtyard, and a smelly garderobe in the corner. It was a most deplorable lodging for a former King. From what Matteo heard, he felt it insulted not only Sir Edward, but the realm. Yet it provided the porter with great amusement.
Matteo chewed and listened carefully.
The money would be enormously useful for Lord Thomas because it was not merely for the upkeep of Sir Edward; it was to make sure that he remained in captivity without the opportunity of escape. Thus it would help with the cost of his rebuilding works, too.
Leaving the man, Matteo went to stand in the gateway, staring out over the landscape. Today the weather was almost warm enough for a Florentine, he thought. But too humid.
He could not leave the thought of Benedetto. How much longer could he maintain this pretence of civility to his would- be murderer without losing his mind?
He must force a conclusion somehow.
Sir Jevan eyed the men about him in the hall as he finished his meal. It had been a surprise to come across that churl who had held him up that day when he was pursuing the felon. Good to see that his sword had marked the man, but odd to find him so close to Berkeley. And then the fleeting glimpse of that other face: the man he had been chasing.
He had been so close to bellowing that the fellow there was one who had been with the attackers of Kenilworth — and yet as soon as he thought of it, the face vanished, and no matter how Sir Jevan sought him, he could not find him anywhere.
Oh well. He knew his eyesight was not of the best, so perhaps he had been mistaken. He would keep a close eye on all the fellows about the castle, just in case.
Matteo looked over towards the forebuilding, in which he knew Sir Edward of Caernarfon was being held. Irked by the thought of the horrible confinement of that once great King, Matteo set off in the opposite direction, around the main keep.
Matteo had good reason to wish to speak with the captive, but knowing how to was the problem.
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 seaclass="underline" 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.