The Tintern Treasure (2 page)

Now, this!

I was just plucking up my courage to say flatly that I couldn't – and wouldn't – go, when Adela heaved a forlorn sigh and said no, she supposed it was too much to demand of me in the circumstances and that she was deeply ashamed of herself for having even suggested it. It was just that Goody Harker and her husband had been so very kind to her and Nicholas after Owen died that . . . And there she let the sentence hang on the breath of another sigh.

Women! They have more tricks up their sleeves than a conjuror! They are the wiliest creatures on God's earth. (But if I'm honest, I suppose I must admit that they have to be. It's their only armour in a world ordered always to the advantage of men.)

Of course, the moment I was offered a way out, a refusal with honour, I was unable to take it. The old, familiar urge for freedom stirred my blood. It was true that I should have to spend the second of October, my thirty-first birthday – a date and age I shared with our new king – away from my family, but other congenial company was certain to be found on the road; plenty of wayfarers like myself who would be more than willing to drink my health in the convivial atmosphere of tavern or ale-house. It might not be what I had planned, and it might be that I was reaching an age when independence was not quite as important as it had once been, but the thought of the open road and being my own man still held its attractions.

‘I'll do it,' I said, adding nobly, ‘for your sake, sweetheart.'

I had my reward, and this time it was Adela who was the more enthusiastic of the two of us. If the truth be told, I found it a bit of an effort, a fact which worried me considerably and led to something of a sleepless night. Thirty-one might be creeping on towards middle age but it wasn't that old, surely?

In the morning, we decided that I should set out as soon as possible in order to avoid the worst of the autumnal storms, so I fixed my departure for the following day, the last but one day of September. The children were as indifferent as always to my going. Or were they? In recent months they had all three demonstrated resentment and, in one instance, downright hostility, to my absences from home. On this occasion, however, realizing that their mother was actively encouraging my journey and that it was a favour to her, they only repeated their usual demand that I bring them something back.

‘Promise!' my daughter Elizabeth demanded.

‘Promise!' echoed her half-brother, five-year-old Adam.

My stepson, Nicholas, contented himself with giving me a steely look, but one, nevertheless, that spoke of serious consequences should I forget.

I gave my solemn promise.

It was little more than a fortnight later that I reached Hereford, on Monday, October the thirteenth. I might have covered the distance in less time had I not taken Adela's advice and stopped to sell my wares along the way. For the first week I had done good business and my pack was considerably lighter than when I started. But for the past seven days, the weather had deteriorated with frightening speed, bringing lashing rain and high winds to flood the countryside and uproot trees. By the time my destination came in view late on the Monday morning, I was, in spite of my good weatherproof cloak and hat, soaked to the skin, in a foul temper and cursing myself roundly for being such a fool as to set out on such a lengthy journey at that time of year. Discomfort might not have worried me once, but my recent illness and advancing age made me less and less inclined to endure adverse conditions with any sort of stoicism. As for actively enjoying pitting my strength against the elements, that kind of nonsense had vanished long ago.

Nor was my state of mind in any way improved by the discovery that the object of my journey was in no sort of distress. Goody Harker was living comfortably in her old home, well looked after by kindly neighbours and, far from having been unable to pay the tinker for his services, she had given him more money than he demanded, having been pleased by the speed and dexterity with which he had mended her broken pot.

‘He was having you and Adela on, the rogue,' she chortled, after inviting me in to partake of a bowl of her winter pottage and a mug of her home-brewed ale. ‘He saw a way of getting double the money out of you,' she added, setting my cloak and hat to dry before the fire burning merrily on the hearth. ‘Now, tell me, how is Adela and that dear little son of hers?'

I'm afraid she found me a poor conversationalist, my mind being preoccupied with devising all the worst forms of torture I could think of to inflict upon the tinker should he ever be unfortunate enough to cross my path again. I was furious with the conniving little toad's duplicity, with my own and Adela's gullibility and most of all with having allowed my wife to persuade me into undertaking this journey against my better judgement. But in time, my sense of well-being slowly began to return. The warmth of the little parlour and a bellyful of excellent food gradually did their work and I was able to answer Goody Harker's enquiries with tolerable politeness. However, the arrival, just as I was finishing my meal, of an elderly woman who, it soon became clear to me, was the goody's lodger, made it plain that I should be unable to beg a bed for the night before setting out on my homeward voyage, it having been obvious from the exterior that the cottage boasted no more than two bedchambers. Instead, I asked for the name of a decent inn where I might rest my weary bones.

Both dames having heartily recommended one in Behindthewall Lane, I thanked Goody Harker for her hospitality, donned my still-not-dry hat and cloak and emerged once more to brave the elements. The rain had eased a little, but the clouds piling up in the western sky suggested that there was more to come, so I wasted no time in making my way to the inn – whose name, after all these years, escapes me – and paying for a bed for the night.

The landlord at first eyed my pedlar's pack askance, but the colour of my money put paid to any qualms he might have had about offering me a room. I suspected, too, that the sudden burst of bad weather was making him short of customers because, just before suppertime, another pedlar with his pack, urgently seeking shelter from a further violent storm, was ushered into the room next to mine. I had been standing on the covered courtyard gallery as he arrived and we gave one another a nod of mutual understanding. Then a sudden flurry of hailstones made me descend to the ale-room and the comfort of a sizzling bacon collop served with pease pudding and a mazer of rough red wine.

‘That was good.'

The stranger pushed his stool away from the table and rubbed his belly in satisfaction.

It was dark by now and candles had been lit in the ale-room. By the sound of things, the weather had worsened yet again. No locals had ventured out of doors and no other traveller had arrived to disturb the peace of my fellow pedlar and myself.

‘You were hungry.' I nodded at the empty plate.

He nodded. ‘Aye, I was that.'

‘You're from up north,' I said. ‘I recognize the accent.'

He grinned assent. ‘God's own country. You know those parts?'

‘I passed through York on my way up to Scotland with the army last year.' I naturally didn't enlarge upon the circumstances of my journey. ‘Your speech is not so thick as some of your countrymen. I couldn't understand a lot of 'em.'

My companion laughed as we drew our stools closer to the old-fashioned central hearth and settled down to a steady drinking session, the considerate landlord having left a full jug of ale on the table behind us.

‘Your own accent is none so easy to follow,' he complained, then held out his free hand. ‘Name of Oliver Tockney,' he said. ‘What's yours?'

I returned his clasp warmly. ‘As a child I was known as Roger Stonecarver or Carverson. It was my father's trade. But nowadays everyone calls me Roger Chapman and it's the name I answer to in general.'

The other nodded. ‘It's the way you get labelled in life. My guess is that you're from somewhere in the west. Your speech has got that burr to it. Now us, up north, our Viking ancestors gave us our distinctive way of talking.'

I took a swig of ale as another, even more violent gust of wind rattled the shutters. ‘More than likely,' I agreed. ‘They never got a foothold in my part of the world, thanks to King Alfred and the great battle at Ethandune.' The candles guttered in a sudden draught. ‘You're a fair distance from home.'

‘Aye. And going further.' He gave me a leery look and added succinctly, ‘Wife and five children.' He offered no other explanation, and perhaps none was necessary. ‘You?' he enquired with equal brevity.

‘Wife and three children. But I'm starting for home tomorrow.' And I gave him a short history of how I came to be in Hereford in the first place.

He grinned appreciatively. ‘You've to watch yon tinkers. They've a reputation for being rogues and rascals. Don' know why it should be so, but there it is.' A squall of rain hit the shutters with the force of a handful of thrown pebbles. ‘By the Virgin, it's a rotten evening. Saint Christopher will have his work cut out tonight, guiding any travellers foolish enough to be out in this. Let's hope it'll have eased off by morning.' He hesitated for a second or two, then asked, ‘Would you be willing to have some company on your journey? I'm minded to go all the way with you to Bristol. Never seen the place and I doubt I'll ever be this far south again. Nor will I be in the mood to give my dame the slip for so long a while.' His pleasant face darkened. ‘But this time she deserves it.'

Once again, he didn't enlarge on the subject, and it was obvious that he was labouring under a strong sense of grievance. But it was also obvious that he regretted having said so much. He wriggled uncomfortably on his stool and was plainly casting about in his mind for some other topic of conversation.

I supplied it for him. ‘Were you still in York back in late summer, early autumn?' I asked.

‘I was just on the point of leaving. Why?'

‘Before I left Bristol there was talk of King Richard having staged a second coronation in the Minster. Talk that someone – Sir Walter Tyrrell was the name bandied about – had been sent back to London to collect extra robes and jewels from the Wardrobe at the Tower. The rumour wasn't too well received down south, I can tell you. There's always the feeling there that our new king favours the north over the southern counties.'

Oliver Tockney threw back his head and laughed out loud.‘Oh, aye! He's a Yorkshireman to his fingertips all right is our Richard, God bless him! That would make the southrons spit, I daresay. But no one'll ever alter him. Yorkshire's bred in his bones. And in our new queen's. But it wasn't a second crowning that was held in the Minster, and so you can tell all your friends when you get back.'

‘What was it then?'

‘It was the ceremony to make his son, young Edward, Prince of Wales.'

‘Ah! No one down south seems to have thought of that.'

Yet again, wind and rain together lashed the inn. My companion and I huddled yet closer to the fire, and I threw on another log to keep it blazing. It was the sort of night when all the demons of hell seemed to be abroad.

‘I've heard the French king's dead,' Oliver remarked after several minutes' silence.

I nodded. ‘I've heard the rumour, too. Whether it's true or not, I couldn't say. But if it is, it'll be no loss to King Richard. King Louis never liked him, not after his refusal to take French bribes eight years back when the English invasion of France came to nought. Or was bought off, which is nearer the mark.'

My new friend regarded me curiously. ‘You speak with some authority.'

I cursed inwardly. I was always making mistakes like that. It's not that I am, or ever have been, a particularly modest man, but the recounting of my various exploits and the answering of all the old, familiar questions has become a chore, a penance to be endured rather than relished.

‘Oh, one hears things in our line of business,' I prevaricated. ‘You know how it is.'

To my relief, my companion seemed to accept this and lapsed once more into silence, staring gloomily into the fire, lost in his own thoughts.

There was a loud banging on the inn door, and I heard the landlord yelling for one of the potboys to go and open it. The sound of voices penetrated our cosy retreat, followed by the sound of someone trying to shake the rain from his cloak. The landlord was speaking – I could hear his questioning tone, then the tramp of feet as he and the newcomer mounted the stairs to the upper chambers. After some minutes, someone clattered down again and the landlord entered the ale-room.

‘A guest,' he said sharply. ‘A gentleman. I'll have to ask you two to move and continue your gossip elsewhere.' He ignored our glares of resentment. Indeed, I doubt he even noticed them, preoccupied as he was by news that the stranger had brought. ‘He says a rebellion's broken out in the south against the new king.'

‘R
ebellion?'

Oliver Tockney and I framed the word together, incredulity in both our voices.

‘Whose rebellion?' I added, dismay adding an edge of challenge and disbelief.

‘It's no use asking me,' the landlord retorted, understandably annoyed by my belligerent attitude. ‘I'm only repeating what the gentleman's told me. And now, if you two will remove yourselves while I and my goodwife prepare his supper . . .'

But I was going nowhere until I had seen and questioned this visitor for myself. My companion obviously felt the same way, because he settled himself more firmly on his stool and glared defiantly.

‘We've paid our shot like honest citizens,' he announced, his north country speech becoming thicker with every word as his indignation grew.

‘Besides,' I chorused, ‘we'd like to discover just what foundation there is for these rumours. Indeed, if they have any foundation.'