He had survived because of Edgar’s crossbow bolt. .
Baldwin wondered now whether he was, or was not, grateful for that shot.
Willersey
Father Luke smiled at Jen as she swept out his church.
What a year this had been! He was glad to be away from the castle. Berkeley had only miserable memories for him, which all merged in Luke’s mind to form a mosaic of horror.
Not that it was all that much better here, he thought. There were too many memories of Agatha and Ham for his entire comfort. Still, he must forget that in the interests of Jen. She needed all the help she could get.
Her face was a little rounder, he was sure, and she had lost the look of bewildered terror that had so characterised her until her mother’s death. He wished — he prayed — that she would find some comfort from the fact that she had the support of the entire vill. The reeve had made it plain that he would look with disfavour upon any man who refused to help the child. But for her part, although it was highly unorthodox, she insisted that she could cope with her father’s farm. She would not tolerate another man taking it on, even though Will Sharp and Dan Bakere both offered to take her in and work her lands for her. She gratefully accepted their offers of aid but refused to leave her house, and there was nothing anyone could do to persuade her otherwise.
They could have forced her, perhaps, but as Luke said to them, what was the point? She could feed herself, she could see to her own animals — she had done so, much of the time already in her short life — and it was surely better that when she truly needed help, the vill would support her.
He would always be there for her, in any case.
Oxford Road
Benedetto was glad to have left the charnelhouse that was Berkeley Castle behind him. He had managed to pack his belongings, and with his guards about him, had been pleased to ride away.
The journey was to be a lengthy one, but it was good to be moving at last. His horse had a comforting gait, rolling gently from side to side as Benedetto recalled the horrors of the last weeks. His own injury was nothing compared with those of Alured and others, and yet it did not prevent him from missing his younger brother. If only there had been something he could have done for poor Matteo.
Still, there was one good thing about Matteo’s death yesterday. Benedetto had been able to bring his brother’s body with him. He would ensure that Matteo was given a good funeral at Oxford.
And it did save the family’s honour. Matteo had died, so all would hear, from wounds earned while trying to protect Berkeley Castle from attackers. Benedetto would make sure that Queen Isabella and the Regent heard that story, he promised himself.
It should help the bank. And Matteo would be glad to know that his death had helped it.
Dolwyn too was relieved to be away from the castle.
He found it hard to believe how drastically his life had changed in recent weeks. From being a loyal servant of Matteo, he had managed to risk his all to take a message to Sir Edward at Kenilworth, and then there had been all the deaths, the fighting, and the ignominy of arrest and the gaols.
Never again, he swore, would he spend time in a gaol. If there was any risk, he would prefer to fight to the death. He had seen too much of Newgate and Berkeley’s prisons in the last year.
Matteo had lost his mind — a fortunate development. Dolwyn wouldn’t have wanted people to hear about his own part in Matteo’s affairs. Benedetto would disembowel him alive if he learned that Dolwyn had been responsible for Manuele’s death. Dolwyn had gone to the mob and given them the money Matteo had paid so that Manuele should be killed. It had been Dolwyn’s task to pay and point out their man, and he had done so without trouble. But then, when they had pulled Manuele from his horse and cut off his head, many of them, drunk with bloodlust, had run on and grabbed Matteo.
There was nothing underhand about his stabbing. It was just the London mob acting in character. Dolwyn had tried to make him see that, but Matteo was always busy looking for secrets, assuming that there was an undercurrent to everything. He just could not believe that his own injury could have been committed on the whim of a crowd.
Road to Gloucester
They rode side by side, and every so often Senchet turned and gazed behind him at the road going back towards Berkeley Castle.
‘Is anyone there?’ Harry said.
‘No. No one.’
‘Oh.’
They rode on again in silence.
Then Senchet said, ‘It wasn’t really theirs.’
‘You tell that to the men with the swords.’
‘They took it.’
‘Aha.’
‘It was Despenser’s, really.’
‘Aye.’
‘And he’s dead.’
Harry made no comment.
Senchet looked down at the bag that hung over his belly. Inside it were a number of little leather pouches. In each, fistfuls of gold coins. He looked across at Harry. Harry had a similar bag at his stomach. Senchet looked up into Harry’s face, and Harry looked back at him.
Their laughter could be heard by a peasant called Martin at the farm a half-mile from the road.
His wife came out and gestured towards the roadway. ‘What’s so funny, you reckon?’
‘God knows,’ he muttered dourly. But his eyes were on the two riders as they continued on their way, laughing uproariously as they increased the distance between themselves and the castle.