The Tintern Treasure

TEN

The 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.

I closed the window gently, making no sound, and went slowly back to bed. It was a long time, however, before I fell asleep, my thoughts going round and round like a squirrel in a cage.

There was little doubt in my mind that the horse I had seen was the one Lionel Despenser had accused Walter Gurney of stealing. It was remotely possible, I supposed, that the knight might have two animals with identical markings, but I thought it extremely unlikely. Or did the beast have some additional distinguishing mark that I had missed? Somehow I didn’t think so. The horse, fresh from the stables and eager to be off, had shifted, half-turning towards me, but apart from the liquid flash of his eye in the torchlight, I could remember nothing but the ‘stockings’.

I awoke the next morning very little refreshed and with unresolved questions still going round in my head. Was the man I had seen Walter Gurney? Was the story of his flight a lie? And if so, why? And would Sir Lionel be on such familiar terms with his groom as to embrace him as I had seen the two men embracing the previous night? Perhaps. I recalled Jane Spicer saying that when a travelling barber had brought word of Sir Lionel Despenser seeking a new head groom, Walter had packed his things and left in a hurry. She had assumed that it was because of her hints about adopting Juliette’s baby, but could there have been another motive? Had the two men known one another in the past?

A maid arrived with a ewer of hot shaving water and a message that I would find breakfast waiting for me in the kitchen when I was ready. Sir Lionel, she added in response to my enquiry, had already eaten and left the manor. He would not be returning until late.

So I was to be denied any further conversation with my host. He could have no idea that I had overlooked his meeting with his nocturnal guest — neither man had glanced up and seen me — but he was taking precautions not to be alone with me again. Or, at least, that was how it appeared to me in the suspicious state of mind I was in. But there was nothing I could do about it. Even if I hung around all day waiting for Sir Lionel’s return, what could I accuse him of when, finally, we came face-to-face? Of lying to me about the horse? But to do that I should have to admit that I had spied on him the night before, a sad breach of the rules of hospitality. And it was possible, of course, that Walter Gurney had not really run away. Perhaps he had merely asked his master to concoct a plausible enough story to discourage any further visits on my part. In which case, the best thing I could do would be to go home and wait a week or two before making a further, unheralded appearance. Besides which, I had promised Adela to return as soon as possible — probably the most cogent reason of all for not delaying my departure.

It was almost dark when Hercules and I reached the Redcliffe Gate and we passed through with only minutes to spare before the curfew bell began to toll. The streets were still crowded with people shutting up shop for the night or hurrying home for a belated supper. There was a deal of noise and rowdiness along the Backs, where the foreign ships were berthed, and near the marsh in the street known as ‘Little Ireland’. It was there that the Irish slavers congregated, carrying on their highly illegal trade with any good Bristolian who wished to rid him- or herself of an embarrassing or unwanted member of the family. I had myself had dealings with a couple of the Irish fraternity in the past, but in general I gave the place a wide berth.

Since Oliver Tockney’s murder, I had been more than usually conscious of the evil stalking the streets after dark and so I walked purposefully and with lengthened stride, swinging my cudgel as I did so. As I crossed Bristol Bridge, I stopped to use the public latrine and found it already occupied.

‘Who’s that?’ demanded the gentleman struggling fractiously with the laces of his codpiece. Then, as I began to fiddle with my own, a face was suddenly thrust close to mine and a voice said in relieved accents, ‘Ah! Master Chapman, it’s you!’

‘Master Callowhill,’ I acknowledged as I made out the handsome features and bulky physique of the wine merchant.

‘Yes. I’ve been hoping for a word with you. Will you walk as far as Wine Street with me?’

‘With the greatest pleasure,’ I answered, wondering what on earth he could want. I had a nasty feeling he was going to remain in the latrine with me, but after a second’s hesitation, he withdrew to wait for me outside. When I at last emerged from behind the wooden screens, he was standing a few feet off. Hercules, who had taken the opportunity to cock his leg against the wall of a neighbouring house, gave a low growl and tried to bite the merchant’s ankles. Cursing, I grabbed the dog and tucked him firmly under my arm.

Henry Callowhill cut short my apologies and, to my astonishment, took hold of my arm as though I were one of his particular cronies, after which we completed our crossing of the bridge in silence.

I was just beginning to wonder if my companion had changed his mind about desiring a word with me when, as we started up the gentle rise of High Street, he said, ‘Master Chapman, you may think this an odd question, but since our return home have you noticed any sinister strangers lurking about the streets?’

I was at first inclined to think he was jesting, but peering at his face in the light of two wall cressets above our heads, I saw to my astonishment that he was in deadly earnest. ‘But Master Callowhill,’ I protested, ‘there are always more strangers than one can count in Bristol. For a start, it’s a port, which means that there are foreign sailors. French, Bretons, Portuguese, Spanish and from a dozen or more countries you can think of. Not to mention the Irish! Then there are people who come in from the surrounding villages. It stands to reason that not all of them are honest trading folk. And there are plenty of rogues native to the town itself.’

‘I know all that,’ was the testy answer. ‘I’m not talking about those sort of men. I can recognize a foreign sailor when I see one and I’ve lived in Bristol all my life. I’m able to sort the wheat from the chaff. No, I’m talking about three or four — or maybe in reality it’s only one or two — big, strong, ugly-looking fellows who seem, on occasions, to be watching my house. And don’t tell me I’m imagining it because Lawyer Heathersett has complained to me of exactly the same thing. So I was wondering if you had noticed them anywhere in Small Street.’

‘No,’ I said slowly. ‘I don’t remember seeing anyone of that description. All the same. .’

‘Yes?’ he prompted eagerly.

‘I was going to say that it might tally with one I was given by someone who witnessed the murder of poor Oliver Tockney.’

Henry Callowhill stopped in his tracks. ‘Someone witnessed the murder? Then why hasn’t he gone to Sergeant Manifold or one of the other sheriff’s officers with this information?’

I laughed. ‘Because he isn’t the kind of man who would have dealings with anyone in authority. His mother has a house — a hovel — in Pit Hay Lane and he claims he saw the attack on Master Tockney from her doorway. His description of the attackers suggests a couple of ruthless but highly efficient ruffians, although apart from saying they were great big fellows, he wasn’t close enough to see any other details. As for himself, he stinks to high heaven and it wouldn’t surprise me to know that he’s also one of the city’s criminal fraternity.’

The wine merchant began walking again, but slowly, obviously lost in thought. After a moment or two, he went on: ‘As I said, “great big fellows” would describe the pair I’ve noticed once or twice hanging around opposite my shop.’

‘And you say that Lawyer Heathersett has noticed them as well?’

‘Yes. He reckons there have been strangers loitering around Runnymede Court for the past week, if not longer.’

‘Are you both sure they’re the same men you’ve noticed every time? After all, there must be a number of big men in the city. I could probably name you half a dozen.’

My companion was silent for a moment or two before reluctantly admitting, ‘Well, no! I wouldn’t like to say that either of us is absolutely certain. But certain enough to make us both uneasy.’

‘Could it be,’ I persisted, ‘that you and Lawyer Heathersett are imagining things in the wake of Oliver Tockney’s death?’

The wine merchant hesitated. ‘I suppose it‘s possible,’ he agreed, but in a tone that showed him to be doubtful.

‘And do you and Master Heathersett connect these sightings with events at Tintern Abbey?’ I asked abruptly.

‘You think Geoffrey and I are making them up,’ Henry Callowhill accused me. ‘You think we’re behaving like a couple of hysterical women.’

I did, if I were honest, but I wasn’t going to admit it.

We had, by this time, drawn abreast of the opening to St Mary le Port Street. I was struck with a sudden inspiration. ‘Why don’t you pay Master Foliot a visit and ask if he’s noticed any strangers answering to your description anywhere in his vicinity?’

Henry Callowhill paused yet again, mulling over this suggestion. ‘Gilbert won’t be in his shop now,’ he hedged. ‘It’s after curfew. He’ll be at home in St Peter’s Street.’

‘I feel sure he won’t mind a visit from an old friend,’ I encouraged him.

Still the wine merchant hesitated. ‘Will you come with me?’ he asked after further cogitation.

I could see his motive for the invitation. Henry Callowhill was a man who liked to be thought well of by everyone, but particularly by someone such as the goldsmith, whom he plainly revered and whose good opinion he set much store by. Why this should be so I had no idea, for in terms of wealth and social standing there was little to choose between them. Nevertheless, my companion was obviously lacking in the self-confidence his friend enjoyed and was afraid of appearing a fool in the other man’s eyes. If I were with him he could, if he were clever enough, make it seem as if I was the one plagued by silly fancies. He could say with perfect truth that I was the one who had proposed the visit.

I thought things over, but for less time than it takes to tell, then nodded. ‘Yes, I’ll come with you,’ I agreed.

The goldsmith’s opinion mattered nothing to me. He was welcome to think me a fool if he liked, but somehow I didn’t think he would. He struck me as a shrewd man who regarded the world with a sapient eye and was perfectly well aware of his many friends’ faults and foibles. Indeed, during the days we had all spent together in Wales I had, on occasions, caught him looking at his companions with something akin to barely concealed intolerance at best, outright contempt at worst. If I were honest, I wasn’t sure that I really liked the goldsmith, and yet there was something about him that commanded my admiration: a decisiveness, an ability to make the best of any situation, but with, deep down, a sense of the futility of life. I felt he was all too aware of the stupidity of hopes and dreams in the short span of time allotted to us, but that wasn’t going to stop him trying to fulfil his aspirations. Whatever they were.

Henry Callowhill and I turned into St Mary le Port Street much to the annoyance of Hercules who, having sensed that we were on the road home, deeply resented this diversion. He began to snuffle and whine, wriggling and squirming beneath my arm in an effort to regain his freedom.

‘Quiet!’ I commanded him. He licked my face.

The shops on either side of us were now boarded up, but candle- and lamplight glowed through the chinks of the shutters in the upper storeys. Only one was shrouded in complete darkness and that was the goldsmith’s.

‘Doesn’t it worry Master Foliot to leave his wares unattended at night, in an empty building?’ I asked as we drew to a halt and surveyed the house from the opposite side of the street.

‘Oh, as to that,’ my companion replied, ‘I believe he had a special underground strong room built — in addition, that is, to the cellars — before he moved to St Peter’s Street. The entrance and how to open it is known only to him.’

‘And to the workmen who made it,’ I added.

‘Yes, yes, of course. But as I understand it, they weren’t local men. Not from the town, at least. They were men of that Keynsham friend of Gilbert’s, Sir Lionel Despenser.’

‘Ah!’ I said. ‘Him! I slept at his house last night.’

‘You know Sir Lionel?’ The wine merchant was plainly curious. For a pedlar, I must seem to him to know a great many people who should be far above my reach. On the other hand, if he shared the goldsmith’s mistaken belief that I was in the king’s employ his curiosity extended only to finding out what my business could be with the knight. I had no intention of disappointing him.

‘I know nothing of Sir Lionel himself. I went to Keynsham merely to deliver a message to his head groom, Walter Gurney, from a lady of his acquaintance in Gloucester. Unfortunately, I got there only to discover that Master Gurney had run away, at the same time stealing one of Sir Lionel’s most valuable horses.’

‘How very odd!’ Henry Callowhill made to walk on, then stopped again beneath an overhead torch, wrinkling his brow. ‘You say this man’s name was Gurney?’

‘Walter Gurney, yes. Why?’

The brow wrinkled even more. ‘I don’t really know. But there’s something about the coupling of the two names. . Despenser. . Gurney. .’ There was a pause while the merchant wrestled with his thoughts. In the end, however, he shook his head. ‘No, it’s no good. Somehow or another I feel there is a connection, but for the life of me I can’t remember what it is. Perhaps it’s just in my imagination.’

‘Perhaps,’ I agreed.

We moved on at last, and not before time. It had grown very chilly standing there in the street. I could feel Hercules shivering. But we had hardly taken three steps when the wine merchant stopped yet again, grasping my arm. ‘Somebody’s up there! In the upper-floor room over the shop. I’m sure I saw a flicker of light through a chink in the shutters.’

I stared hard at the first-storey window, but could see nothing. Then I walked across the cobbles, subjecting the whole front of the house to close scrutiny. Hercules whined suddenly and his ears went up.

‘What’s the matter?’ I hissed.

He gave a little bark and his whole body tensed, but a moment later, a cat sauntered out of the narrow alleyway between the goldsmith’s shop and its neighbour. I was caught unawares and, before I could stop him, Hercules, breathing fire and slaughter, had wriggled free of my grasp and hurled himself in the direction of the unsuspecting interloper who dived back into the alleyway and was soon swallowed up by the shadows.

Cursing fluently, I made a lunge at the dog, just managing to grab him at the expense of a twisted ankle and a grazed hand. He protested violently, but I was angry enough to clip him across the nose, for which indignity he tried first to bite me before finally settling down again under my arm, but emitting a series of little growls just to let me know of his displeasure.

‘There’s no one there,’ I said, returning to Henry Callowhill. ‘You probably saw a reflection of the torchlight.’

He laughed shortly. ‘Even if there was someone there, he isn’t going to show himself now after all that commotion.’

‘There was no one there, I tell you. It was your imagination.’ I felt certain that I was right and that it had been nothing more than a trick of the light.

We proceeded on up the street and into St Peter’s Street, where the bells of St Peter’s Church were just beginning to toll for Vespers.

There were lights in the ground-floor windows of Gilbert Foliot’s imposing house and the wall cressets had been lit. Henry Callowhill raised his hand and knocked on the door, which was answered after a brief delay by the goldsmith’s housekeeper, Mistress Margery Dawes, who also acted as a companion to Ursula. As I think I mentioned somewhere earlier, she was a cousin of sorts to Lawyer Heathersett and had his slightly protuberant eyes, although that was the only real likeness. She was a big, full-bosomed creature, not in the first flush of youth, but not old enough, either, to have lost completely the romantic yearnings of her girlhood. It was generally accepted that she had connived at the secret meetings between Ursula and young Peter Noakes, even if she had not actively encouraged them.

‘Yes?’ she queried, peering at us short-sightedly.

‘Who is it, Margery?’ asked Gibert Foliot, his face suddenly appearing over her shoulder. It registered surprise. ‘My dear Henry! And Master Chapman! This is an honour indeed. Pray come in.’

Mistress Dawes, having been politely but firmly shouldered aside, the goldsmith held the door wide as we stepped into the splendid hall with its painted beams and carved figureheads, while I reminded myself to act as though this were my first visit. I doubted very much that Ursula had mentioned my earlier one to her father.

We followed our host into the same parlour that I had seen before, but this time a fire had been lit on the hearth and the rocking chair removed from the dais to stand beside it. Another armchair had also been introduced into the room, directly facing it, while between them stood a small table bearing a flask of what was undoubtedly wine and two very fine Venetian goblets. The goldsmith had obviously been entertaining.

He must have followed my gaze and said calmly, addressing himself to his friend, ‘A good job you didn’t come earlier, Henry, or I couldn’t have received you.’ He waved a casual hand at the chairs and table. ‘I’m trying my best to persuade a certain gentleman to buy an extremely expensive gold necklace for his wife’s birthday — so far, I must admit, without any luck. This was a private visit to display the goods without fear of interruption, and I was hoping some of my best malmsey might have done the trick. But, alas, he’s still hesitating. . Now, what can I do for you and Master Chapman? If it’s about your wine bill. .’

‘No, no!’ Henry Callowhill was dismissive as though money were of no importance. ‘The thing is. .’ He paused, reluctant to continue, feeling, I could see, a little foolish.

‘Yes?’ Master Foliot raised his finely marked eyebrows.

The wine merchant glanced imploringly in my direction and, taking pity on him, I explained the situation.

For a moment our host stared blankly, then he laughed and indicated that we should both sit down, waving Master Callowhill to the rocking chair and himself taking the armir opposite. That left me to pull out a stool from under the table, demonstrating that however wary of me he might be, and however friendly he might appear on the surface, there was still a social distinction between us.

‘Now, let me understand this, Henry,’ he said, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, ‘you and Lawyer Heathersett think you’re being watched by two or more bravos whose descriptions, if you’ll pardon my saying so, could be that of at least a hundred men in this town. Let’s face it, Bristol harbours as pretty a set of rogues as any other city in the kingdom and they are frequently to be met with in the streets. Why should you and Geoffrey feel yourself under any particular threat?’

‘You haven’t seen anyone in particular, then, loitering around hereabouts?’

‘No. Nor do I expect to. Henry, you are allowing your imagination to get the better of you. Geoffrey also. Why, I’m not sure. Has it to do with the pedlar’s murder?’

His friend looked a little hangdog. ‘I daresay,’ he admitted. ‘But these men. . their description does tally with that of the two men who killed Oliver Tockney.’

Up went the eyebrows again. ‘I wasn’t aware we had a description of Tockney’s murderers. Or even that we knew there were two.’

I said quietly, ‘I’ve spoken to a fellow who witnessed the attack. A beggar — or perhaps worse — whose mother lives in Pit Hay Lane.’

‘Indeed? And have you informed the necessary authorities of this?’

‘No one’s interested. Oliver Tockney’s dead and buried. Moreover, he was a stranger, not one of our own.’

The goldsmith pursed his lips. ‘That’s true. Very true. You’d doubtless be wasting your time.’ He turned once more to Henry Callowhill. ‘And having heard Master Chapman’s tale, you’re now convinced that the same men are the ones you say are watching you. Does Geoffrey agree?’

‘He doesn’t know. Master Chapman’s only just told me the story.’

‘And what do you think, Roger?’

The sudden familiarity threw me somewhat. ‘I–I don’t know,’ I stammered.

‘Well, I do.’ The goldsmith rose and took up a stance with his back to the fire, raising his padded tunic slightly and rubbing his buttocks as they absorbed the welcome heat. ‘It’s all in your mind, Henry. Yours and Geoffrey’s. What with young Noakes’s death at Tintern and now poor Tockney’s murder, you’ve allowed things to breed ill fancies until you’re jumping at your own shadows and seeing danger where none exists. Although why is a mystery to me. Neither event had anything to do with either of you. So pull yourself together, man! And stop listening to Heathersett. He’s an old woman at the best of times.’

‘You’re right.’ Henry Callowhill spoke humbly, like a small boy who’d just been chastened by a schoolmaster. ‘I suppose,’ he added in extenuation, ‘the danger we found ourselves in, in Wales, the rebellion, upset me. I–I assume all’s safe now?’

‘Of course it is!’ The goldsmith spoke scathingly. ‘What else did you expect with King Richard at the helm? A soldier of his experience, who’s been fighting from his earliest years! And the latest information is that Henry Tudor is sailing back to Brittany with his tail between his legs. It seems he’s found it impossible to land anywhere along the south coast of England. So you may rest easy in your bed, Henry. No bogey man is coming to get you.’

The wine merchant flushed scarlet and got to his feet with what dignity he could muster. It was plain that his host had gone a step too far. ‘Thank you for your advice, Gilbert,’ he said quietly. ‘Master Chapman and I will be leaving now.’

‘Henry!’ The goldsmith gave a rueful grin and stretched out a hand. ‘My cursed tongue! I’m sorry.’

His friend inclined his head. ‘Your apology is accepted. All the same, it’s after curfew and Roger and I must be going. I bid you goodnight.’

And so we left, the two men apparently reconciled. But I had a feeling that the goldsmith’s overhasty words, his scornful tone, would not easily be forgotten by his friend.