reins of power. Very quick.
Almost like a man who had planned for the eventuality.
‘Dolwyn,’ he said, ‘I have a task for you. I need you to go to Bristol and learn what you may from this man. But you must be very careful that you are not followed. You understand me?’
Matteo felt enormous thankfulness as Dolwyn nodded once, listened to his instructions, and then left.
Staring down at the parchments before him, Matteo rose with a grunt of pain, and shuffled to the fire. There he took out the letter which Manuele had signed just before his death. He read it, and was about to hold it to the flames when he hesitated. This letter could still be useful. It could be shown to the King, if he ever did return to authority, to prove that the Bardi had been on his side. He may not have received this letter, but its existence demonstrated that the bank had been willing to help him.
After a moment’s thought, he shoved the letter into his chemise, next to his flesh, before going back to the bed and lying down with a grunt.
He fell asleep, hoping that Dolwyn would bring useful news from Bristol.
CHAPTER FIVE
Third Wednesday after the Feast of St Martin 11
St Peter’s, Willersey
Panic did not fully overwhelm him until later, when he heard of the death of Sir Hugh le Despenser, and went to open the chest hidden in his undercroft. Only then did he comprehend the full horror of his situation, and Father Luke cried out, gazing about him as though all the fiends of hell were encircling him, lurid in the gloomy light, watching to tempt him.
Because inside the chest, gleaming in the candlelight, was more gold coin than he had ever seen before.
Before the men appeared, that day had been much like any other. Calm, orderly, unexceptional.
Father Luke of St Peter’s Church, Willersey, was unaccustomed to shocks. His had been an exemplary life. He had lived here in Willersey for eleven happy years, and now, in his middle thirties, his paunch attested to the wealth of the area. The crow’s feet at his smiling blue eyes showed him for what he was, a contented, affable priest. His living was good, the tithes more than adequate for his limited needs, and the local peasants were willing to supplement his resources when he needed more food or wine. There was no doubt about it: since he had first arrived and seen the great church of St Peter’s with its tall spire, he had thought he was privileged to serve God here.
He was a man of learning, who had early discovered that there was a lot of sense in the stern injunctions against amatory adventures. All too often he had seen his peers humbled as their little misdemeanours came to light. For Father Luke, it was better by far to accept his position and enjoy serving the souls of his vill than to indulge his natural desires with the women of the area.
His was a round, ruddy-complexioned face, with full lips and heavy jowls – a face made for smiling, while slightly protuberant eyes viewed the world with an amiable fascination. He was that rare creature: a priest who genuinely liked his fellows. His slight pomposity made him human, in the eyes of the folks about him, and endeared him to them, while his irritation at their gambling in his churchyard on Sundays did not make them angry, only bemused when he railed at them for their ungodly behaviour. His was a figure designed to inspire jollity and companionship, rather than stern respect.
It had been an unexpected interruption when the horses arrived this morning – and a disturbing reminder of Despenser’s men’s appearance almost six weeks ago.
Earlier today, Father Luke had been at the base of the tower, idly studying the tympanum within the arch. The stone held a series of rich carvings: circles on either side with a flower inside them, a chequerboard strip beneath with a cross at either side, also set inside circles. In the middle, between the two flower shapes, was another circle, with four more set within, and a fifth as a
Almost like a man who had planned for the eventuality.
‘Dolwyn,’ he said, ‘I have a task for you. I need you to go to Bristol and learn what you may from this man. But you must be very careful that you are not followed. You understand me?’
Matteo felt enormous thankfulness as Dolwyn nodded once, listened to his instructions, and then left.
Staring down at the parchments before him, Matteo rose with a grunt of pain, and shuffled to the fire. There he took out the letter which Manuele had signed just before his death. He read it, and was about to hold it to the flames when he hesitated. This letter could still be useful. It could be shown to the King, if he ever did return to authority, to prove that the Bardi had been on his side. He may not have received this letter, but its existence demonstrated that the bank had been willing to help him.
After a moment’s thought, he shoved the letter into his chemise, next to his flesh, before going back to the bed and lying down with a grunt.
He fell asleep, hoping that Dolwyn would bring useful news from Bristol.
CHAPTER FIVE
Third Wednesday after the Feast of St Martin 11
St Peter’s, Willersey
Panic did not fully overwhelm him until later, when he heard of the death of Sir Hugh le Despenser, and went to open the chest hidden in his undercroft. Only then did he comprehend the full horror of his situation, and Father Luke cried out, gazing about him as though all the fiends of hell were encircling him, lurid in the gloomy light, watching to tempt him.
Because inside the chest, gleaming in the candlelight, was more gold coin than he had ever seen before.
Before the men appeared, that day had been much like any other. Calm, orderly, unexceptional.
Father Luke of St Peter’s Church, Willersey, was unaccustomed to shocks. His had been an exemplary life. He had lived here in Willersey for eleven happy years, and now, in his middle thirties, his paunch attested to the wealth of the area. The crow’s feet at his smiling blue eyes showed him for what he was, a contented, affable priest. His living was good, the tithes more than adequate for his limited needs, and the local peasants were willing to supplement his resources when he needed more food or wine. There was no doubt about it: since he had first arrived and seen the great church of St Peter’s with its tall spire, he had thought he was privileged to serve God here.
He was a man of learning, who had early discovered that there was a lot of sense in the stern injunctions against amatory adventures. All too often he had seen his peers humbled as their little misdemeanours came to light. For Father Luke, it was better by far to accept his position and enjoy serving the souls of his vill than to indulge his natural desires with the women of the area.
His was a round, ruddy-complexioned face, with full lips and heavy jowls – a face made for smiling, while slightly protuberant eyes viewed the world with an amiable fascination. He was that rare creature: a priest who genuinely liked his fellows. His slight pomposity made him human, in the eyes of the folks about him, and endeared him to them, while his irritation at their gambling in his churchyard on Sundays did not make them angry, only bemused when he railed at them for their ungodly behaviour. His was a figure designed to inspire jollity and companionship, rather than stern respect.
It had been an unexpected interruption when the horses arrived this morning – and a disturbing reminder of Despenser’s men’s appearance almost six weeks ago.
Earlier today, Father Luke had been at the base of the tower, idly studying the tympanum within the arch. The stone held a series of rich carvings: circles on either side with a flower inside them, a chequerboard strip beneath with a cross at either side, also set inside circles. In the middle, between the two flower shapes, was another circle, with four more set within, and a fifth as a
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