annealed discs into a desired thickness and recheck the weight on a set of scales. The discs were then passed to another table where hammermen worked alongside one another, striking the blank rounds of silver between two dies provided by the Exchequer in London. The moneyer explained that the bottom die, mounted in a small block of solid iron, bore the imprint of the king and his name, while the upper die, a long, thin rod of the same metal, had one end fashioned in the design of a short cross in a circle. As they watched, one of the hammermen fixed a blank disc onto the surface of the bottom die and, grasping the upper die firmly in his hand, positioned the imprinted end over it. Once he was satisfied the disc and dies were correctly aligned, he brought his hammer down sharply on top of the upper die to produce a coin that was imprinted with both the obverse and reverse images at the same time. The newly minted penny was then given to a worker at an adjoining table to polish with a buffing rag. The whole procedure was slow and tedious, requiring studied concentration.
Casements fitted with protective iron grills were set in the walls on either side of the forge and, despite the cold winter temperature outside, the shutters had been thrown open in an attempt to lessen the stifling heat. In one corner, a bell with a pull rope hung from the ceiling. Lined up on the floor nearby were a half dozen stout wooden chests banded with iron and fitted with triple locks. Standing beside them was another guard who, like the men on duty at the doors, was clad in a leather tunic studded with iron rings and had a short sword in a scabbard depending from his belt.
De Stow motioned to a door near where the guard stood. “That leads through to the exchanger’s office,” he said. He then gestured towards a shelf where a set of scales and a pile of empty leather sacks were laid. “And that is where his assayer keeps his equipment. Usually it is stored in Legerton’s office but when they are both away, Partager brings it in here for safekeeping.”
The Templar looked around the room. “You said you had four guards in your hire. I see only three; is the other off duty?”
“He is,” de Stow said. “All the guards live in quarters in the yard at the back. I also keep two mastiffs there and the dogs patrol the grounds at night. The guards rotate their shifts, so that after working hours there is one on duty in here and one asleep in their quarters, while the other two are at liberty to spend some time in the town if they choose. If anything untoward should occur after the mint is closed, the inside guard would ring the bell to sound the alarm and bring the other man, and the dogs, to his assistance.”
“You keep a secure mint, moneyer,” the Templar said. “Your precautions are admirable.”
De Stow gave a smile of pleasure; it was obvious he was gratified by the compliment.
Bascot nodded at the iron chests. “The coins you produce—are they kept in those chests?”
“Yes, as are those brought in for changing. Two of them contain blocks of refined silver from the mine. As I said, the assayer tests all the old coins before they are melted down. He usually uses only a touchstone and his scales, but there are some occasions when he feels it necessary to assay the silver by melting it with lead in a crucible. When he wishes to do that, he uses my forge.”
Bascot nodded. If any coins from the reign of King Stephen had been brought in to be exchanged, Peter Brand would have had access to the place where they were kept, but so would all the rest of de Stow and Legerton’s employees, including the guards. “I assume only you and the exchanger are in possession of keys to the coffers?” he asked de Stow.
The moneyer nodded, patting the pouch he wore on his belt. “Each of them has three separate locks and a different key is required to open each one. I hold the master keys to all of them and Legerton has duplicates. We keep them
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