The Tintern Treasure (11 page)

‘So?' I said coldly, viciously. ‘Who is the father of your little bastard? Or don't you know? Was he someone you pleasured in that casual way of yours? Did you even know his name?'

The words were barely out before I was feeling ashamed of myself. I saw the tears well up in her eyes, and she looked for a moment as though she might faint. I had to remind myself that this woman had done me a great wrong in order to prevent myself going to her assistance.

Juliette took a deep, steadying breath, then nodded. ‘You are quite right, Roger. You are owed an explanation.'

‘Well?' My tone was softer, more reasonable. Nevertheless, I felt that the explanation had better be good, but I was unable to imagine what it could be.

Juliette took another sip of wine. She was breathing calmly now, but her pallor was more alarming than ever. I half rose from my chair, wondering if I should summon Jane Spicer but, guessing my intention, she waved me back into my seat.

‘I shall be all right,' she said. ‘Just sit still and listen.'

In the spring – ‘probably March' – of the preceding year, the year of the invasion of Scotland, she had met a young Irishman who told her he was seeking temporary lodgings. Juliette smiled wryly. ‘He didn't tell me what he was doing in Gloucester, and I didn't ask.'

That, I thought, was typical of the woman: large-hearted, generous and fond of younger men. ‘Go on,' I said resignedly. My anger had evaporated.

She gave something like a grin, but it was a feeble attempt and slid without difficulty into a grimace of pain. ‘Jane had come to live with me after my uncle died. She was a cousin of his on his mother's side of the family, and I'd always known her, if only at a distance. She didn't like the thought of me being here on my own, so she shut up her own house and moved into Uncle Robert's chamber. But there was still a small attic room standing empty.'

‘So you offered it to the young Irishman,' I said, not even bothering to make it a question.

‘Yes. It was only for a week or so, and I persuaded Jane that we could do with the extra money.'

‘But you didn't really charge him. You intended him to pay in kind.'

Again, hot colour touched the almost transparent skin. But she made no effort to refute my accusation.

‘Of course,' she retorted defiantly. ‘And he was only too eager to oblige. I was still strong and healthy then. Not as you see me now.'

‘He couldn't believe his luck, I daresay. Free lodgings and an attractive woman anxious for his company in bed. What was he doing in Gloucester?'

‘I've already told you, he didn't tell me and I didn't ask.' She passed a hand across her brow and when it came away, I could see that it was damp with sweat. She didn't seem to notice and went on, ‘But I don't think it was anything legal. There was a furtiveness about his comings and goings. If I had to make a guess, it would be smuggling . . . He came to my bed three times in all during the week or so that he was with us. It was quite easy: Jane sleeps like a log and snores as well. We always knew as soon as she was asleep.'

She started to cough, a harsh, hacking sound, and I rose and poured her more wine. She thanked me and seemed better for it.

‘Go on,' I said inexorably, ignoring the look of exhaustion in her face.

Juliette nodded and made a visible effort to concentrate. ‘When he left, he was genuinely concerned what might happen to me should I find that I was pregnant. I assured him his fears were groundless. I was unable to conceive, I told him. I was barren. He said, quite rightly as it turned out, that nothing in this world was certain, but I just laughed at his fears. All the same, I said, if he felt so strongly, he must tell me where to find him in Ireland, but for all his solicitude, that was the one thing he refused to do – which convinced me even more that he was engaged in some criminal activity. However, he did say that if I were to find myself in serious difficulties . . .'

Here she paused, giving me a long, hard look of such significance that I wondered uneasily what was coming. And if I'd thought for a week, I don't think I could have guessed the answer.

Juliette continued: ‘He said that if I were to find myself in serious difficulties, I could do no better than to go to his brother – his half-brother – in Small Street in Bristol, whose name was Roger Chapman, and beg his aid.' She ignored my gasp of incredulity and went on, ‘I asked him to describe you and when he had done so, I told him you and I were already acquainted. I said you had called here on some business with my uncle the year before and that our acquaintance had . . had blossomed into something more.'

I was hardly listening to her. ‘John,' I said. ‘John Wedmore, that's his name. He's my father's bastard son, but I never knew of his existence until three years ago, when I cleared him of a charge of murder that was brought against him. He went back to Ireland afterwards – although he's no more Irish by birth than I am – and I've neither heard from nor seen him since. And he had the . . . the audacity to suggest that you should pass his bastard child off as mine?'

‘No, no!' Juliette exclaimed, distressed. ‘He only suggested that if I were in difficulties or any sort of trouble I should seek your help. Naturally, I dismissed the idea as absurd – even after I discovered that I was indeed carrying his child.'

‘So what changed your mind?' I demanded savagely.

‘My sickness,' she answered simply. ‘Luke was born in January, on St Agnes's Day and by that time, I knew that I hadn't long to live. I first began to feel ill last summer, but thought it just the natural malaise of women in my condition. By Christmas, I feared I was wrong and by the time Luke was two months old, I knew my days were numbered. It's no good hoping that Jane will care for him when I'm gone. She doesn't really like children, and he's of no kin to her. But he is your nephew.'

‘Half-nephew,' I corrected her.

She went on as though I hadn't spoken. ‘I have no family of my own, and the neighbours have shunned me since Luke was born. As far as they're concerned, I'm no better than a whore. So I decided I must take John's advice and seek you out and ask for your help. But when I got to Bristol, you weren't at home and your wife didn't know when to expect you.' Juliette put up a trembling hand to her mouth. ‘I didn't know what to do. The story was too difficult and too complex to explain to a stranger and I felt so ill. Oh, I know that's no excuse, but I just said the first thing that came into my head, that the child was yours and asked her – your wife – to take him in. Of course, I knew I'd done wrong as soon as I'd said it. My only comfort was that she didn't seem to believe me.'

‘Maybe not at once,' I answered grimly. ‘But Adela had time to think things over before I got home and decided there might be some truth in your story. As I told you, she left me for a while and I had to follow her to London.' There was a strained silence between us which I eventually broke by getting to my feet and saying, ‘Well, at least now I know the truth, I shan't think quite so badly of you.'

‘Would . . . Would you like to see Luke?' she asked tentatively.

I shook my head. ‘No.'

I think she knew by my tone of voice that it was useless to persist.

I shouldered my pack, took a grasp on my cudgel and left.

T
hen I went back.

Some sixth sense must have told her that I would, because Juliette opened the door before I had time to knock. I followed her into the parlour only to find Jane Spicer also there with the child, a boy about ten months old, rather small for his age – but then, both parents were on the small side – with his mother's colouring of copper-red curls and large brown eyes. Held upright in the older woman's arms, he surveyed me critically before giving vent to an enormous yawn and lowering his head to Jane Spicer's shoulder. Plainly, I was dismissed as being of no interest, but not someone to be afraid of, either.

‘Mistress Gerrish,' I said, ‘I want you to understand that I really can't help you. I accept that I'm your son's uncle. There's no possible way you could know about my half-brother by hearsay alone. You must have met him –'

‘John Wedmore is Luke's father,' she cut in earnestly. ‘I swear it.'

‘I believe you,' I assured her. She didn't have to convince me, either, that she was dying. ‘But there's nothing I can do about it, you must see that. Between us, my wife and I already have three children and we are not rich people. To ask Adela to take in and rear my half-brother's bastard is more than I can find the courage to do. If Luke were a girl it might make a difference. A very slight difference. Our daughter, Elizabeth, is mine, not hers, and she lost a daughter of her own. But another boy . . . No! You must see that it's impossible.'

Juliette sat down rather suddenly, her face ashen, obviously in the grip of pain. The jug of wine was still on the table and she poured some into her mazer with a shaking hand, swallowing it almost at a gulp. Then she looked pleadingly at Jane.

I saw something like a spasm of pity crease the other woman's face, but the next moment her features had hardened again.

‘It's no good, Juliette,' she said. ‘I won't be persuaded to change my mind. At my age I'm not prepared to look after a young child single-handed. The Virgin knows I'm fond of him, but not enough to take on that responsibility. If Walter had married me as he promised, it might have been a different matter.' Her lip curled. ‘But when I was fool enough to mention the possibility to him, you know very well what happened. He ran away.'

Juliette looked distressed. ‘I thought he went only to take up this new position in Somerset because of the money. I thought . . . I thought he might send for you, or come back and fetch you when he was settled. Maybe,' she added, brightening a little, ‘this Sir Lionel you mentioned might not have employed him after all. Perhaps he'll come home any day now.'

‘He's been gone more than four months,' Jane Spicer said drily. ‘Walter's not coming home again, ever. I didn't expect that he would. Any man who wants the best for his horses would be a fool to ignore Walter's way with the animals. He only has to whisper to the most savage brute to have it eating out of his hand. His name was a byword in these parts. His former master begged him on bended knees not to leave. And I don't believe he would have done – there have been Gurneys hereabouts for hundreds of years – if, as I say, I hadn't mentioned to him about keeping Luke when . . . when . . .'

‘When I'm dead,' Juliette finished for her. ‘But you don't know for certain that that was what made him go away.'

Jane Spicer snorted and shifted the now sleeping child to her other arm. ‘I know Walter Gurney,' she said emphatically. ‘And I tell you, Juliette, that as soon as that travelling barber mentioned this Sir Lionel Despenser to him, and that he'd just lost his head groom –'

‘Sir Lionel Despenser?' I questioned sharply. ‘Not of Keynsham, in Somerset?'

Both women turned to look at me. ‘You know him?' Juliette asked.

‘I know of him. He has an estate near Keynsham Abbey, and the village itself is about five miles or so south-east of Bristol, on the road to Bath. He comes into the city on occasions. He's the friend of our chief goldsmith, Gilbert Foliot.'

As I uttered the last few words, it seemed as if a giant hand had squeezed my entrails. Here was coincidence with a vengeance. Or was it? Until now, I hadn't been aware of God taking a hand in this affair. Indeed, why should He? So far, I couldn't think of anything that might interest Him. I still couldn't. But as I keep saying, I don't like coincidences; and so often in they past, they have meant that God was poking His nose into my business once again.

Juliette was addressing me eagerly, clutching at straws. ‘Roger, when you get back to Bristol, could you – would you – go to this place and talk to Walter Gurney? Try to persuade him to . . . to . . .'

‘Come back and marry me?' Jane Spicer finished bluntly. ‘He won't, of course.'

‘Why not?' Juliette cried.

Jane Spicer shrugged as well as she could with the sleeping child's arms entwined about her neck. She made no reply, but I guessed her thoughts. If her mistress couldn't see the reason for herself, it wasn't worthwhile trying to explain.

‘You will, Roger, won't you?' the younger woman insisted. ‘Promise me.'

What could I say? When a dying woman asks for help, it would take a harder man than I am to refuse, however useless my intervention was plainly destined to be. ‘Very well,' I said.

‘Promise!'

‘I promise. And now I must go. God be with you.'

And this time, I really did take my leave.

I finally arrived back in Small Street on Monday, the third day of November and, although I would not learn this until the beginning of the following week, the day after Henry, Duke of Buckingham was publicly beheaded in Salisbury marketplace. The Welsh rebellion had been crushed and the king was on his way to Exeter to deal with the western uprising in an equally ruthless and efficient manner (but always, as was his way, tempering justice with mercy).

It had taken me somewhat longer than I expected to travel from Gloucester to Bristol, largely due to the state of the roads, never good but even worse than usual after the recent two months of appalling weather. This, at last, seemed to be on the mend, but the almost incessant wind and rain had left devastation in their wake. Fields were flooded, tracks ankle-deep in mud, bridges washed away, rivers in spate and fords impassable. I got a lift with a carter only once, and even then he had been unable to reach his intended destination at Fairford and been forced to turn back halfway.

Before I left Gloucester, I had followed Oliver Tockney's example and replenished my pack with a number of items including two pairs of Spanish gloves, a set of very pretty carved bone buttons and a knife with an ivory inlaid handle, all of which I knew I could sell at a substantial profit. Unfortunately, I had been so carried away with my Gloucester bargains that I had added considerably to the weight of my pack, a fact which, as well as the conditions underfoot, had impeded my progress more than a little.