The Tintern Treasure (16 page)

‘I'm afraid we're in for a wet walk, old friend,' I said, pulling my cloak more firmly about me and my hat down over my ears.

Hercules, however, was already investigating various promising scents and noises coming from the bushes and tufts of long grass growing by the side of the road, and was not yet in the mood for playing a dog who was being hard done by. That would come later when he decided it was time to be carried. Adela was right about him, I decided. He had put on weight since I went away.

As a reluctant and watery sun rose over the distant hills, painting the landscape a pale and dirty yellow, the track began to get busier. Hercules and I met an increasing number of farmers and smallholders driving or walking their goods to Bristol market. A weary friar, his bare feet blue and swollen with sores and cold, gave me a cheerful ‘God be with you!' and would have paused for a word with Hercules, but the ungrateful beast only growled and went off in pursuit of an imaginary rabbit.

The rain which had threatened since dawn was, in spite of the scurrying clouds, still holding off by the time we sighted Keynsham somewhere around mid-afternoon. The rest of the journey had been as uneventful as its beginning. And with only one stop in the lee of a hedge to eat the bread and cheese provided by Adela, we had made excellent progress. But with daylight already fading, there was no doubt that we should be forced to find accommodation for the night.

But as I passed along Keynsham High Street, I could see no sign of an inn. I had always thought it a mean place, with little besides the abbey to recommend it. The houses were, for the most part, crudely built, one-storey, daub-and-wattle dwellings with thatched roofs and single windows closed by wooden shutters. No worse than many other places of its size and kind, I supposed, and the Romans hadn't spurned it. At least, I had once been shown bits of pottery and tessellated pavement that had been discovered in the bed of the River Chew, the muddy tributary of the Avon which encircled the village.

Enquiries for Sir Lionel Despenser's holding led me up the steep hill at the eastern end of the main street and in the direction of Bath for perhaps some half a mile or so. I was just beginning to fear that I had lost my way when an arched gateway rose in front of me, suddenly appearing out of the gathering gloom and with the light from a wall torch illuminating the massive bell-pull.

An overzealous tug on the rope caused the bell itself to clash loud enough to waken the dead in the abbey graveyard and to provoke a furious response from the guard dog on the other side of the gate. This affront to his dignity sent Hercules into a positive frenzy so that by the time the gatekeeper arrived, Sir Lionel himself had emerged from the house to demand what, in God's name, was going on.

‘Who's there, Fulk? Why is the dog making all this racket?'

‘Dunno, master. There seems to be someone outside the gate.'

‘Of course there's someone outside the gate, you dolt! He rang the bloody bell!' Sir Lionel had by now hushed his own dog and I had picked up Hercules, holding him firmly under one arm. ‘Ask who it is.'

I saved the man the trouble. ‘It's Roger Chapman, sir. You promised me I might have a word with your groom, Walter Gurney.'

There was a sudden silence, all the more profound after the recent cacophony. A moment or two later, the knight said slowly, ‘So I did. You'd better come in.'

The man he had addressed as Fulk drew back the bolts and eased the gates open just enough for me to pass through.

I found myself in an impressively large courtyard surrounded on three sides by the house itself and its outbuildings. The guard dog was now under the control of a third man who, at a nod from Sir Lionel, led him away towards what I presumed were the kennels. But I was taking no chances: I still held fast to Hercules.

The knight and I sized one another up, then he smiled. ‘Have you walked here?'

I nodded.

‘You'd better come inside, then. You must be tired. It's all right, Fulk. I know this man. He won't harm me.'

The retainer grunted, closed and bolted the gates again before slouching off into the darkness. Sir Lionel led me indoors, into a great hall with elaborately carved and painted beams, the reds and blues and greens embellished here and there with gold leaf which shimmered in the firelight. On a dais at one end of the chamber a substantial meal had been set out on a long trestle table, and an armchair with a brocaded seat had been pushed back at right angles to it. The knight had obviously been disturbed in the middle of his supper. A tall, lean man who was presumably his steward (his wand of office was propped against the back of his chair) and one or two other household officials were seated at either end of the board, but there was no sign of any female company. I recollected that Sir Lionel was a bachelor.

He slapped me on the shoulder. ‘Come and eat with me,' he invited. Taking my acceptance for granted, he addressed a server who had just appeared from behind the kitchen screen, carrying a covered dish. ‘Robin, set another place beside mine.' He indicated Hercules, now struggling to be put down. ‘And take the dog to the sculleries and find him some water and scraps.'

I wasn't sure that Hercules would go with him – he was wary of strangers – but to my surprise, he trotted off at the fellow's heels quite happily. He had evidently decided that there was nothing to be afraid of.

I took my place on the dais next to Sir Lionel and was soon tucking into baked carp in a galentyne sauce – if this was an ordinary midweek supper, then my host lived in a very high style – followed by a syllabub of pears. I couldn‘t help wondering why I was being treated with such unprecedented courtesy (for a common pedlar, that is) and came to the conclusion that Gilbert Foliot had imparted his quite erroneous belief that I was an agent for King Richard to his friend.

When I had finished eating, but not before, I once again broached the possibility of a private word with Walter Gurney.

‘Ah!' Sir Lionel gave a wry smile. ‘Unfortunately, that's impossible.' I said nothing, waiting for the explanation which I felt sure would be forthcoming. ‘Walter has, unhappily, left my employ.'

‘Left?'

‘I'm afraid so. The day after I gave him your message, he packed his things and went, taking one of my best horses with him. As payment of wages I suppose.'

‘Do you have any idea why he departed so abruptly?'

My host snorted with laughter, but he was plainly not amused.

‘My dear fellow, I should have thought that was obvious, wouldn't you? Your message frightened him away.' He produced a wintry smile. ‘I don't know what your business is with him. Nor do I wish to know. It seems to be a matter better kept between the two of you. But whatever it is, he was scared of meeting you.'

‘He doesn't even know me,' I protested. I thought I saw an expression of surprise – or was it disbelief? – in my companion's eyes and continued irritably, ‘Whatever you may have surmised, sir, that couldn't possibly have been his reason. Have you tried to find him?'

Sir Lionel looked pardonably annoyed. ‘Of course I've tried to find him! I told you! He's stolen one of my best stallions, Caesar, a big, handsome black with white stockings. Part Arab. Worth far more than anything Walter Gurney was owed in wages, wizard though he was with the animals. I sent four of my men out in all directions as soon as his and the horse's disappearance was reported to me. But to no avail.'

‘And you blame me for this loss.'

He laughed awkwardly. ‘No, of course not. I presume you were only acting under orders and weren't to know that the man would take fright.' The blue eyes narrowed suddenly. ‘Or did you suspect that this might happen?'

‘No. Or I shouldn't have alerted him to my coming. I'd have arrived unannounced. Furthermore,' I went on, ‘the message I had to give him was merely one of remembrance from a lady in Gloucester to whom he had once been betrothed.' I considered it more prudent to give this simpler version of events. There was no point, in the circumstances, to complicate matters.

‘I see.' Sir Lionel rubbed his chin. ‘An explanation which makes Walter's sudden flight seem rather strange.' My host was clearly not convinced by my story, but was too much the gentleman to question it. He smiled and once again pushed back his chair. ‘In that case, we'll let the subject rest. You'll do me the honour of spending the night here? I assure you I can offer you better hospitality than you'll find at the abbey.'

‘Mine will be the honour, Sir Lionel,' I answered formally, then suddenly grinned. I was beginning to like the man.

‘That's settled then.' He gave me an answering smile, but I had the feeling that it was not as spontaneous as it seemed. ‘Do you play chess?' he asked.

‘Not at all, I'm afraid. I've watched men play, of course, but I've no knowledge of the rules of the game.'

‘I believe the Du— I mean, King Richard is an excellent player,' was the seemingly irrelevant response.

‘I wouldn't know, sir.'

Once again, my host gave me the leery look that implied he quite understood my discretion. Not for the first time, I silently cursed Margaret Walker and her friends, who had spread the idea throughout Bristol that I was a part of King Richard's inner circle and privy to all its confidential secrets. (In fairness, though, I have to admit that the notion had begun to take hold without the aid of their chattering tongues.)

In the end, Sir Lionel and I whiled away the hours before bedtime with a game or two of Three Men's Morris, and I entertained him with the story of how I had once taken part in a game of Nine Men's Morris played with live ‘counters', of which I had been one. This amused him greatly. Halfway through our third game, however, the servant, Robin, a big, burly fellow with a broken nose and a scarred cheek, came in and whispered something in his master's ear, and this seemed to be the sign for our retirement. Sir Lionel's housekeeper was summoned and bidden to show me to the room which she had prepared for me.

‘I'd be grateful,' I said, ‘if I could have my dog returned. He gets restless in strange surroundings if we're parted for too long.'

‘Of course.' The knight was immediately sympathetic and despatched Robin to the kitchens to seek out Hercules. While we were waiting, I told Sir Lionel of the circumstances in which the dog and I had been thrown together, and made him laugh with a description of the animal's less endearing habits. In return, he disclosed that one of his favourite hounds had recently died and that he had been so distressed by his loss that he had had poor Wolf, as he called him, buried within the manor precincts, in a vacant plot of land, close to the chapel.

By this time I had been reunited with Hercules, who greeted me ecstatically and embraced my left leg with embarrassing familiarity. After which, I said a hurried goodnight to my host and followed the housekeeper up to bed.

T
he housekeeper had allotted me a small room over the entrance porch of the house which she obviously considered more in keeping with my lowly status than any of the manor's larger bedchambers. In spite of this, the sheets were clean, the mattress comfortable and my ‘all-night', consisting of half a loaf and a substantial beaker of ale, placed within easy reach on the ledge of a fine circular window that overlooked the courtyard below. A jug of water and a bowl had been provided for me to wash with, while a lighted candle and tinderbox stood on a handy shelf.

Hercules, as tired by his long walk as I was, leapt on to the bed and had settled down before I had even removed my boots. But as soon as I had stripped and splashed a few token drops of water about my person, I was not long in following his example. Only pausing to blow out the candle, I was asleep in minutes.

I don't know how long I slept before being roused by the dog's restless behaviour. Hercules was standing on his hind legs on the edge of the bed, his front paws placed on the window ledge, his ears pricked forward, every inch of him alert and listening.

‘What is it, lad?' I whispered.

I could hear nothing, the window being fast shut, but it was plain that his acute hearing had picked up some noise that he thought it worthwhile to investigate. I slid out of bed and knelt beside him, but the thick, opaque glass prevented any sound from reaching my ears. As my eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, however, I noticed a catch at the base of the window frame, and when this was released, the window tilted on a central crossbar. Cautiously, I eased it open an inch or two, then, removing the ‘all-night' to the far side of the bed, wriggled around until I was in a position to squint down into the courtyard. I was in luck. This was faintly illumined by the flickering radiance from a torch placed high on a wall beyond my range of vision, and by its feeble light I was able to make out the figures of two men standing with heads close together, obviously deep in conversation.

After a moment or two, I recognized the man on the left as Lionel Despenser, but his companion was unknown to me. I certainly hadn't met him so far during the course of my visit, but that didn't mean to say that he wasn't attached to the manor in some capacity or other. He was, however, dressed in a travelling cloak with a hood pulled up over his head and I recollected the servant, Robin, bringing a message to his master during supper and wondered if this meeting, which bore all the indications of secrecy, had anything to do with it. Even as the thought crossed my mind, there came the clop of hooves and a moment later Fulk – there was no mistaking him – led up a horse ready for the stranger to mount.

The other two continued their low-voiced, extremely earnest conversation for a short while longer, then clasped each other in a farewell embrace before the second man swung himself into the saddle with expert grace. And at exactly that moment a gust of wind must have torn at the flame of the wall torch making it flare into brightness. For five or six seconds, the courtyard was sufficiently well lit for me to see that the horse the visitor was straddling was black with four white stockings.