The Tintern Treasure (5 page)

It took us all day and well into the evening to cover the four miles to Monmouth. The goodwife's instructions how to get there had been lucid and concise when we reappeared at her door, and I think even she had been relieved that we hadn't been seeking further shelter. She had thanked us for the information concerning the tree blocking the northern track and been moved to provide us with slices of bread and cheese to sustain us during the hours ahead.

‘Not too many dwellings hereabouts to beg food from,' she had said.

She was right. Nor did we meet many people as foolish as ourselves, out of doors in such terrible weather. We passed a woodcutter once, going in the opposite direction, but he merely grunted in response to our greeting, too wet and sorry for himself to linger. A young girl carrying a basket of eggs, her skirts bunched up around her knees, scurried down a stony path leading heaven alone knew where. There was no house in sight that we could see. A discalced friar, not even allowing himself the permitted luxury of sandals, joined us for half a mile or so, his bare feet swollen and blue with cold. But he discoursed cheerfully enough of this and that, speculating with Oliver and myself on whether or not we believed the rumours that placed Buckingham at the head of a Welsh uprising to be true. Or whether, indeed, there was an uprising at all.

‘For I've seen nobody but you two gentlemen on the roads all day. Hardly surprising in this sort of weather.'

He didn't mention the other rumour concerning the death of the young princes in the Tower, so I assumed they hadn't yet come his way. And before I could ask him, he left us with a blessing and a hastily sketched sign of the cross as he disappeared abruptly into the woods which stretched, gloomy and dark, on either side of the track. After that, we trudged doggedly along, all our energies concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other and avoiding the worst of the puddles. Sometimes there was no help for it but to wade straight through the larger ones which stretched the width of the path, from one tangle of bushes and undergrowth to the other.

We ate our bread and cheese beneath the shelter of a tree, our silent thanks going out to the cottager's wife who had so thoughtfully provided it. By mid-afternoon – or what we judged to be mid-afternoon – a thin sun emerged from between the clouds, striking down between the tree trunks in patterns of fretted gold. But there was no warmth in it. A wind had sprung up, whispering among the black and silver shadows of the leaves and making us shiver under our rain-soaked cloaks.

The sound of hoof-beats made us draw into the side of the track, and only just in time as a horse and rider went past us at a decent pace and with little regard for our safety. To be fair, the rider was so hunched up against the elements, I doubt if he was even aware of us.

I stared after his receding back.

‘I feel certain that that was Lawyer Heathersett,' I said at last.

‘Did you see his face?' Oliver asked.

‘No.'

‘Then how do you know?' My companion was sceptical.

‘There was just something about his appearance.'

A snort was my only answer and I decided to say no more. Nevertheless, I was quite sure in my own mind that it had been Geoffrey Heathersett who passed us, and I was therefore not in the least astonished, two hours later, as Oliver and I entered an inn close to Monmouth's St Mary's Church, that the first person I clapped eyes on was the lawyer.

He was seated at a table near the door, deep in conversation with two other men who I also recognized. They, too, were Bristol citizens, the slightly younger one being Gilbert Foliot, a man of about forty, fair-haired and blue-eyed in a typically English fashion, a wealthy goldsmith with a shop in St Mary le Port Street and an expensive new house close to St Peter's Church. He had been a widower for the past eight years and was the father of an only child, a daughter, whose name I seemed to remember was Ursula. (Although how I knew that, I wasn't quite sure.)

The second man, Henry Callowhill, was a wine importer with at least three ships plying between Bristol and Bordeaux and southern Spain. Not quite as wealthy perhaps as Gilbert Foliot, but certainly rich enough to be venerated in a city that regarded the making and accumulation of money as one of, if not the most, desirable goals in life. He was a large, jolly man who might well have run to fat in old age had it not been for his height of almost six feet. He was married and had named his three ships after his three children, Martin, Edmund and Matilda.

‘You were right, Roger,' Oliver Tockney breathed in my ear. ‘I owe you an apology.'

At that moment, the landlord came bustling towards us, none too pleased to have his inn invaded by a couple of pedlars, their homespun cloaks dripping water all over his nicely sanded floor. (Gentlemen, of course, were different. They were allowed to drip anywhere they chose.)

‘We're full,' he said before either of us could speak, ‘and very busy. You two will have to look for some other kitchen to sleep in. There's an ale-house in the street next to this.'

‘We can pay,' Oliver snapped and produced a handful of coins from his pouch, rattling them under the innkeeper's nose.

The man hesitated, then, glancing over his shoulder at the trio seated behind him, shook his head.

‘This is a hostelry for gentlemen,' he hissed. ‘You can see that for yourselves.'

‘It's for anyone who can pay,' Oliver answered aggressively. ‘You wouldn't get away with this sort of attitude where I come from. One man's as good as another up north.'

I doubted that and so, by the look on the landlord's face, did he. But before he had time to argue the point, there was a scraping of stool legs and Gilbert Foliot was advancing on us, one hand extended in greeting.

‘Master Chapman!' he exclaimed. ‘What are you doing in this part of the world? Or shouldn't I ask? Is it perhaps' – he gave an awkward laugh – ‘another secret mission for the duke? I mean,' he added hurriedly, ‘the king. One tends to forget.'

I was conscious that Oliver Tockney and the innkeeper were regarding me open-mouthed, and it was my turn to be embarrassed.

‘No, no, sir! I'm merely earning my living which, I assure you, is what I do most of the time. Had I known what shocking storms and winds I would encounter, I should never have left Bristol.'

It was plain that the goldsmith didn't believe me, but he was willing to leave the matter there. Indeed, his discretion was so obvious that it must have raised doubts in everyone's mind concerning the true reason for my presence.

‘It's all right, landlord,' he said. ‘These two gentlemen' – he choked slightly over the word, but continued gallantly – ‘will eat with us. And I feel sure you can find somewhere for them to sleep tonight.'

The innkeeper muttered something in reply, but he was still too busy goggling at me to argue, and merely ordered the potboy to place two more stools at Master Foliot's table before hurrying off to the kitchen.

‘Well, Master Chapman,' the goldsmith resumed when Oliver and I were settled, ‘this meeting is not altogether a surprise. Lawyer Heathersett here told us he'd run into you in Hereford.'

‘Yes.' I helped Oliver to shed his pack. For all his brave talk earlier, I could see that he was a little overawed at being in the company of men so far above him in the social hierarchy.

Henry Callowhill gave me a hearty slap on the back, causing me to spill some of the ale which the potboy had just placed in front of me.

‘No necessity for you to say anything further,' he said. ‘No need at all. We quite understand.'

Geoffrey Heathersett made no comment, simply giving me a hard stare and a sour smile, both of which might have meant anything or nothing according to how I liked to interpret them.

I made one last effort to convince the three that they were wrong. ‘Gentlemen, you are labouring under a misapprehension. I was in Hereford on some business for my wife and doing a little trade on my own account. Master Tockney – who comes from Yorkshire, by the way – and I met quite by chance, and we are here because I missed the road to Gloucester and landed us on the Welsh side of the Severn by mistake. We intended to retrace our steps to Gloucester, but when we started out this morning, we were told that the track was impassable because a large tree had been blown down overnight. According to our informant, it will probably be several days before the path is clear again, and the sidetracks are also impassable because of the mud.'

There was a moment's silence, then Master Callowhill administered a second resounding slap on my shoulder. ‘Quite so! Quite so! We'll say no more about it, eh?'

I gave up. And in any case, at that moment the food arrived; roast fowl with buttered parsnips and a beef pudding on the side. We all picked up spoons and knives, setting to with a will, and for quite some while there was nothing to be heard but the champing of jaws. Gradually, however, conversation became possible again.

Gilbert Foliot smiled at me across the table. ‘Gossip has it, Master Chapman, that you attended King Richard's coronation at his personal command.'

There was no point in denying it. My former mother-in-law, Margaret Walker, and her cronies had made sure that all Bristol knew this unimportant fact.

‘In a very, very lowly position, sir, I assure you.'

‘And also the coronation banquet afterwards.'

I squirmed. ‘Again, on the very lowliest benches. If you've heard otherwise, it's a blatant lie.'

The goldsmith laughed. ‘I'll accept your word for it. I understand it was the best attended coronation for many years. Is that so?'

I grimaced. ‘As to that, I'm in no position to say. I've never been to a coronation before. But certainly, no one who is anyone appeared to be missing. Even Henry Tudor's mother and stepfather were present. Lady Stanley carried Queen Anne's train, or so I was informed by one who knew.'

‘Is that so?' my interlocutor questioned smoothly. ‘Well, I suppose there can be very little possibility of her son ever obtaining the crown. She might as well throw in her lot with the Yorkists. Although I must admit I'm surprised. Wasn't Thomas Stanley implicated in that plot to kill King Richard, back in the summer? The one which ended with Hastings summarily losing his head?'

‘Not summarily,' I protested indignantly. ‘I know there were malicious rumours that he was beheaded out of hand, but I can assure you they were false. Lord Hastings was not executed until a week later, after due trial and sentence.'

‘You know that for a fact, do you?' Lawyer Heathersett asked, staring hard at me and raising his brows.

‘Yes.'

The three older men exchanged significant glances, as much as to say that I had confirmed all they had ever heard about me was true, and I realized that I must have been steadily gaining a reputation for being the Duke of Gloucester's – now the king's – man without being aware of it. I opened my mouth to lodge another protest, but Gilbert Foliot suddenly decided that enough was enough, and abruptly changed the subject. ‘How's your daughter, Henry?' he asked, looking across the table at the wine merchant. ‘How old is she now?'

‘Nine,' Master Callowhill answered thickly through a mouthful of beef pudding.

The goldsmith continued, ‘And I believe you also have a daughter about the same age, Master Chapman? I've seen her with your wife. A pretty little thing.'

I wasn't sure that I'd describe Elizabeth as pretty and certainly not little. Her physique was too much like mine. She would be a big woman. But I nodded agreement just the same.

Gilbert Foliot heaved a sentimental sigh. ‘A lovely age, gentlemen, when girls think their fathers are gods.' I very much doubted this in Elizabeth's case, but I held my tongue and tried to show a Greek profile to the others. ‘But things change,' the goldsmith went on sadly. ‘Girls grow up and become openly defiant and sulky when their wills are crossed.'

Geoffrey Heathersett, a childless bachelor, gave a superior smile. ‘Is Ursula still giving you trouble, Gilbert? Still wanting to marry young Peter Noakes?'

There was another sigh. ‘I'm afraid so.'

‘You don't intend to allow it?'

The younger man snorted. ‘No, I do not. Oh, Anthony Roper is quite a good sort of man and pretty plump in the pocket, I grant you. But that nephew of his is a ne'er-do-well if ever I saw one. And who exactly was his father, can anyone tell me that?' His friends glumly shook their heads. ‘That sister of Roper's was always a wild piece. Ran away when she was fifteen, a year younger than Ursula is now, had a child by some fellow who deserted her as soon as he'd made her pregnant, came home destitute to her brother, gave birth and incontinently died. And her son has grown up just as feckless as far as I can see. Shows no interest at all in the rope-making business. Just likes spending his uncle's money and loafing around the town. And hanging around my daughter. Well, I don't need to tell you, gentlemen, that's not the sort of husband I want for my only child.'

We all shook our heads and pursed our lips in solemn agreement. But I couldn't help reflecting that Master Foliot would have his work cut out keeping that motherless chit in leading reins. I knew by sight the woman he had installed as Ursula's companion: one Margery Dawes, a younger cousin of Geoffrey Heathersett, a buxom woman with the lawyer's protuberant blue eyes and a roguish smile entirely her own. According to my former mother-in-law and her best friend, Bess Simnel – and believe me, those two knew everything that went on in Bristol: nothing escaped their eagle gaze – Margery was more inclined to encourage her charge and young Noakes than not, and arranged lovers' trysts for the pair of them. But of course I said nothing.

At this point another jug of ale and a syllabub of pears arrived at the table to replace the fowl and beef pudding, now shadows of their former selves. We fell to with a will and the conversation flagged again until once more our plates were empty. But even then, the talk was desultory. We were all by now feeling the effects of the second jug of ale and a long, hard day and beginning to think longingly of our beds. Outside, the rain still beat down and the wind had risen, causing the locals to hurry home and leave the five of us in sole command of the ale-room. The landlord, evidently impressed by our apparent friendship with three men of substance, offered Oliver and myself the use of an attic where, he assured us, we should find a comfortable bed provided with clean sheets and good wool blankets. We accepted with alacrity and, having bidden the others goodnight, followed him up three flights of rickety stairs to a room so small and low-pitched that I was unable to stand upright in it. Stripping to our shirts, we fell into bed without more ado, my eyes closing almost as soon as my head touched the pillow.