The Tintern Treasure

ELEVEN

Hercules and I accompanied the wine merchant as far as his house in Wine Street and said goodnight to him at his front door. He had been rather quiet during our walk, but roused himself from his abstraction to thank me for my company.

‘It’s been my privilege, sir,’ I bowed.

He raised his hand to knock for admittance, but hung on his heel for a moment. ‘Gilbert can be a little brusque at times,’ he said, almost apologetically. ‘But he’s a good friend. He has some peculiar ideas, but there’s not a more loyal man in the whole of the West Country than him.’

I made no reply. Indeed, I wasn’t at all sure what Henry Callowhill meant by the remark. It seemed to refute some accusation that had not been made, at least not by me. Nor by anybody else as far as I knew. So I let it go and, instead, pressed for an answer to a question which had been bothering me. ‘Master Callowhill, you said earlier that you thought there was some connection between the names of Despenser and Gurney. Have you, by any chance, recollected what it is?’

He stared at me for a few seconds, a little bemused by this sudden change of topic, then shook his head. ‘No. No, I’m afraid not.’

‘But you believe there is one?’

‘Well. . Perhaps “believe” would be too strong a word. It was just a momentary feeling, that’s all.’

I hesitated before asking, ‘If you should remember, will you let me know?’

He looked faintly surprised, but nodded. ‘Certainly if you think it important. Is it?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ I replied truthfully. ‘Probably not. But it might be.’

‘Then I promise.’ He extended his right hand, a great condescension, and grasped mine. ‘Goodnight again, Master Chapman. And, once more, thank you.’

His knock was answered almost immediately by a young servant girl, the candle- and lamplight spilling out into the street and gilding the piles of rubbish overflowing from the central drain and awaiting tomorrow’s muckrakers. The wine merchant gave me a final nod before the door was closed behind him.

I glanced down at the patiently waiting Hercules. He was by now too tired even to protest at all these delays. I stooped and picked him up, holding him under my left arm and grasping my cudgel firmly in my right. Both suddenly seemed to weigh a ton and my back was aching. All the same, I wasn’t quite ready to give up yet. ‘Sorry, lad,’ I whispered. ‘I just want to go back to St Mary le Port Street. I promise you we won’t be long. I’m as anxious to get home as you are.’

He gave a half-hearted growl, but couldn’t be bothered to register his displeasure more forcefully.

The streets were far less crowded than they had been, those people who were still abroad being, for the most part, cosily ensconced in their favourite ale-houses, the remainder tucked up safely by their firesides. Of course that meant that those people I did encounter were the more likely to be on some nefarious business of their own, but it was still too early for the real rogues to be up and doing, and I retraced my steps to St Mary le Port Street scornful of any lurking danger.

Once again, I stopped opposite the goldsmith’s shop, where I stood looking at it closely for several minutes, then crossed the road and entered the alleyway between it and the bakery next door. It was pitch black here and I had to pause while my eyes grew accustomed to the darkness. Eventually, however, I was able to make out a door which must lead into the back of the ground-floor living-quarters — kitchen, scullery, counting-house — and beyond that a small yard with a bedraggled-looking tree and a few sad bushes just visible over the top of a wall. There was a gate which gave access to it — an important factor as far as I was concerned for, a moment later, I heard a key rattle in the lock of the door.

The lock, fortunately, seemed to be somewhat rusty, judging by the fact that its wards refused to turn easily. This gave me time to push wide the gate into the yard and conceal myself and Hercules behind one of the bushes before the door finally opened. Someone stepped into the alleyway, cursing softly and the dog gave a little whimper which I hushed, waiting to find out in which direction the unseen interloper would go. He trod quietly, and it was only because his foot disturbed a loose stone that I realized he was heading towards St Mary le Port Street. I emerged from the yard just in time to see him disappear around the corner of the bakery, turning left and making for the junction with High Street.

In a few swift strides I, too, had reached the corner and was staring after the man as he proceeded on his way, every now and then glancing back over one shoulder to ensure that he was being neither followed nor observed. I had drawn back into the shadows cast by the goldsmith’s shop, which appeared to afford sufficient protection.

I stared after the retreating figure and suddenly drew a sharp breath. Hercules gave an indignant yelp as he was crushed against my ribs, but I took no notice. Without any justification whatsoever, I was convinced that I had seen the man before, last night in the courtyard of the Despenser manor, talking to Sir Lionel. Walter Gurney? Maybe. Or then again, maybe not. But whoever the man was, and whatever his name, I felt sure that it was the same person. Why I was so certain I had no idea, but there was something about the shape of his back, his height, the way he moved that was instantly familiar.

Cautiously, I followed him.

I reckoned that at the end of the street he was bound to turn right, into the heart of the town. He must have left the horse tethered somewhere, or else at the livery stable in Bell Lane. Indeed, so certain was I of this, that I had begun to cross the road in anticipation of his move when, to my astonishment, he swung sharply left again, towards Bristol Bridge and the Backs.

‘Now where is he going?’ I muttered in Hercules’s ear, before it occurred to me that the man could just as easily have left his mount at one of the ale-houses in Redcliffe as elsewhere.

But at the bottom of High Street, he made no attempt to cross the bridge, instead walking slowly the length of the quay, looking up at the ships berthed alongside. Suddenly, by one particular ship, he stopped and again looked round, as though something, some noise or movement, had made him suspicious. Hurriedly, I drew back into the shadow of one of the cranes, praying that Hercules would not choose that particular moment to register a further protest at the long delay in getting home. I felt him quiver, but he remained silent, some of my tension obviously communicating itself to him.

After several moments, the stranger seemed satisfied. He turned his head away and gave vent to a piercing whistle. Almost immediately, as though he had been waiting for the signal, a sailor appeared, leaning over the side of the ship and peering down at the wharf. My quarry stepped deliberately into the light of a lamp hanging from the bow, raising a hand, and the sailor nodded. Within a minute or two, he had lowered the gangplank which the stranger mounted before vanishing below deck. The gangplank was then withdrawn.

It had all happened so quickly and so unexpectedly that I was left standing in the shadow of the crane, completely bewildered. Was the man fleeing the country? Or was he simply a foreigner returning to his home? If the latter, then he was not Walter Gurney. If the former, why this precipitate flight? Surely not because of my message that I wished to speak to him. That made no sense. Even if he had guessed I was the emissary of Jane Spicer, all he had to do was make it plain that he had no interest either in her or in returning to Gloucester and that would have been that. I couldn’t have forced him.

And there was another, more important question. If this man were indeed the one I had seen last night in the courtyard of the Despenser manor, what had he been doing in Gilbert Foliot’s old house? He had had a key, which suggested that the goldsmith knew him, or at least knew of him as a friend of his friend, and had been willing to give him access to the shop. .

I was suddenly conscious of how quiet and still everything was. Faintly, in the distance, I could hear singing from one of the dockside taverns, but the wharf itself seemed deserted, eerily silent, striped with shadows of the warehouses and cranes. It was long past curfew now and I was uncomfortably aware of my proximity to ‘Little Ireland’.

I decided that it was high time I went home.

‘I wasn’t expecting you,’ Adela said as I walked into the kitchen. ‘You said you might be away two nights, and as curfew sounded over an hour ago, I naturally thought. .’ Her voice tailed away and she smiled a little guiltily. ‘Not that I’m not pleased to see you.’ She came over and kissed me warmly before going on, ‘It’s just. . well. . Richard’s here.’ She hurriedly placed a finger on my lips. ‘Before you say anything hasty and which you might regret later, I didn’t invite him. He arrived just as the children and I were sitting down to supper.’ Of course he did! That man had a nose for Adela’s cooking that would have put a greyhound to shame. ‘So naturally I felt I must ask him to join us. He has no one, Roger. He gets very lonely.’

I snorted derisively. ‘Then perhaps he should find a good woman to look after him. I resent sharing my wife.’ I seized her roughly around the waist and returned her kiss with interest.

She laughed and traced the curve of my cheek with her forefinger. ‘You’ve no reason in the world to be jealous,’ she said.

I knew I hadn’t. That didn’t stop me, however, from indulging in a little childish petulance.

‘Where is he?’ I asked.

‘In the parlour, playing at fivestones with the children.’

My parlour! My children!

Adela smiled at the expression on my face and kissed me again. ‘Someone’s playing with your toys, is that it? Without your permission.’ I flushed, feeling stupid, and she went on, ‘Sit down at the table and I’ll heat up the pottage for you. Did you manage to speak to this Walter Gurney?’

I sank down thankfully on a stool and began pulling off my boots. Hercules started to bark, nosing his bowls and generally indicating that he, too, was in need of attention. So while my wife bustled about, attending to my wants and his, I gave her a brief history of my visit to Keynsham and of all that happened during the past hour or so since my return home.

‘As a matter of fact,’ I concluded, ‘I’m glad Richard is here. There are some questions I want to ask him.’

Adela stirred the pottage as it began to bubble in its pot over the fire. ‘In that case, you’ll be pleased to see one another,’ she said. ‘He came here hoping for a word with you.’

I was immediately suspicious. ‘Now what does he want? When that man starts to pry, it usually means there’s trouble brewing.’

My wife ignored this and put down a plate of offal scraps for Hercules, who fell on them with all the ravening hunger of a dog who has never had a decent meal in his life. I drew up my stool to the table, stretching and easing my stockinged toes, and waited for my supper.

Adela sat opposite me while the pottage came back to the boil and questioned me about the events of the evening. Who did I think it was in the goldsmith’s old house? Why had I not returned and informed Master Foliot of what I had seen? What did I think the stranger could possibly have been up to? Where did I think he was going onboard that ship?

Thankfully, at this point, the stew began to bubble, demanding her attention. And, once a steaming bowlful was placed in front of me, I was able to stuff my mouth too full to give her any coherent answer. Hercules, having wolfed down his portion, came across to see what he might wheedle out of me. He received short shrift.

I had just asked for a second bowlful when Richard walked into the kitchen. ‘The children are tired of beating me at fivestones,’ he said, ‘and have gone upstairs about their own. .’ He broke off, suddenly becoming aware of my presence. ‘Roger!’ He even managed to sound faintly pleased to see me. ‘You’re back! Good! I’ve been wanting to speak to you.’

‘So Adela tells me. And I wish to have a word with you, so sit down and we can talk while I eat.’

Adela, to my great annoyance, immediately fetched him a beaker of ale from the barrel in the corner, but as she also brought one for me, I stifled the impulse to utter the acid comment which was hovering on the tip of my tongue and started on my second helping of pottage.

Richard waited until I had swallowed my first mouthful before enquiring, ‘Well? What is it you wish to say?’

‘There are three ships berthed at the wharf by the bridge. Do you happen to know whereabouts they’re from?’

‘Doesn’t the Quay Master know?’

‘I haven’t asked him.’

I could see that this answer annoyed my companion — he went red with suppressed irritation — and that he was longing to tell me to consult the proper authority, not bother an important and busy man like himself. But he wanted something from me in return and was afraid that if he angered me, I would refuse my help.

He sipped his ale. ‘Let me see,’ he said, stroking his chin, a silly, pompous habit he seemed to have acquired lately. ‘There was a ship arrived yesterday morning from Bordeaux. Cargo wine, I think. I believe that’s anchored along the Backs. But as for the other two — you mentioned three ships? — then I’m sorry, I can’t help you. Although. . Wait! Now I come to think of it, someone did mention that a Breton ship had been berthed there for several days and wondered what it was waiting for because it had been unloaded and reloaded on the day of its arrival.’

‘A Breton ship,’ I muttered, laying down my spoon and wiping my mouth on the back of my hand.

There was silence for a few moments, except for the children thundering overhead. Then Richard snapped, ‘Are you going to tell me what this is all about? Plainly you find this information disturbing. I should like to know why.’

So, between mouthfuls of pottage, I told him briefly of my evening’s adventures, but without laying too much stress on the name of Gilbert Foliot.

‘And now,’ I said, ‘I should like to hear what it is you want to say to me.’

Richard hesitated, obviously mulling over what I had told him. Then, after a moment or two’s reflection, he nodded. ‘Very well! A friend of His Worship the Mayor — what I’m telling you is in the strictest confidence — returned from London this morning. Whilst there, he was told, or heard a rumour, I’m not sure which, that an old friend of yours has secretly been sent here on account of some treason or other which may be brewing in the city. As you can imagine, His Worship is deeply worried by this information.’

‘What old friend of mine?’

‘That little man who worked for the king when he was Duke of Gloucester. One of his spies, I should imagine. And every time he appears, you seem to vanish with him to London.’

‘Timothy Plummer,’ I said grimly. ‘And he’s the King’s Spymaster General. Well,’ I added with more than usual determination, ‘if he thinks he’s haling me off anywhere this time, he will have to think again. I’m not going.’ Adela was looking unhappy, so I stretched out a hand and squeezed one of hers reassuringly. She managed an unconvincing smile.

Richard shook his head. ‘No,’ he corrected me, ‘I don’t think he’s here to look for you. Not on this occasion. The understanding of His Worship’s friend was that Master. . Plummer, did you call him?’ I nodded. ‘That Master Plummer is in the city, but probably in disguise. Now, mind you, Roger, the Mayor has impressed upon me that all this is most secret! His friend has no right to this information and it could mean serious trouble for both him and his informant if it were to be made public. Suspicions must not be aroused. Do you understand me?’

‘Perfectly,’ I said. ‘In that case, why are you telling me? Adela, too?’

My wife grimaced mockingly. ‘Me, especially, when it’s well known that women are notoriously unable to hold their tongues.’

Richard’s face softened as he looked at her. ‘I’d trust you, Adela, with my life.’ He turned back to me and his features hardened again. ‘The mayor and sheriff want your help, Roger. You are the only person who knows this Timothy Plummer well. If it’s true he’s in disguise, you may be able to penetrate it. If that should happen, then naturally you would be curious as to what he’s doing here. Who is he watching? What does he suspect?’

‘What if, supposing he tells me, he enjoins me to strict secrecy, as you have done?’

Richard regarded me straitly. ‘I feel certain you could find a way round that.’

The implication, of course, was that I was a devious, conniving bastard. It didn’t make me feel any more charitable towards my uninvited guest.

‘The situation may not arise,’ I said. ‘I may not recognize Timothy. Or the whole story may be a bag of moonshine. However, if there should be a grain of truth in it, if treason is being hatched in this city, then I would advise you to have that Breton cargo ship searched without delay. Unless, that is, it has already set sail on the evening tide.’

Richard looked startled. ‘Why? What has the Breton ship. .?’ He broke off, obviously furious with himself and his own stupidity. ‘You think the man you saw boarding her this evening might be a Tudor agent?’

‘It’s possible. Yet Bristol has always been deeply loyal to the Yorkist cause. I’ve never heard any Lancastrian sympathies expressed.’

Even as the words left my mouth, I could have given his answer myself.

‘But you wouldn’t, would you? Not to you of all people.’ Richard drained his beaker, frowning. ‘Yet what would anyone be plotting here? Very well, we know that Henry Tudor with his Breton mercenaries has been sailing off the south coast for the past week or so, trying to get a foothold on land and that he has now returned to Brittany, disappointed. But he wouldn’t have chosen Bristol as a landing place, not with the River Avon to negotiate before he reaches harbour. Any seaman will tell you that the Avon with its hidden rocks is a treacherous beast.’

I finished my ale and Adela fetched us both more.

‘All the same,’ I pressed, ‘I’d have that Breton ship searched immediately. Unless, as I said earlier, she’s already sailed on this evening‘s tide.’

‘Her captain won’t have risked sailing in the dark,’ Richard said positively.

‘He might,’ I argued. ‘It would depend on how desperate he is to get his additional “cargo” away.’

‘The man you followed?’

‘Yes.’

Richard rose reluctantly to his feet, swallowing his ale in just two gulps. ‘I’d better be off,’ he said.

Adela fetched his cloak and hat and saw him to the door. Then she came back and sat down again at the kitchen table. ‘What is this all about, Roger?’ she asked me.

I shrugged. ‘I’ve no more idea than you have, sweetheart.’

‘Is that the truth? You haven’t. . You haven’t already spoken to Master Plummer?’

I raised one of her hands and kissed it. Adela looked suitably surprised at this wholly uncharacteristic gesture. ‘I promise you,’ I said, ‘that I had no more idea of Timothy being in Bristol than you had. Nor do I know what it is he wants here. Not me, that’s for certain; not if he’s skulking around in disguise.’ I grinned. ‘I wonder what he’s pretending to be this time.’ I thought for a moment, then went on: ‘But I should guess that his presence here — if, that is, the rumour is true and he really is in the city — might have something to do with the man I saw.’

‘You suspect a conspiracy? On behalf of Henry Tudor?’

I bit my lip. ‘I can think of no other explanation. All the same, it doesn’t make sense. What Richard says is true. No invasion fleet would have risked sailing up the Avon, and if troops had landed at the river’s mouth, the city would have had ample warning to shut and bar the gates against them. No, if the man I followed is working for the Tudor, then he’s here for an entirely different reason.’

Adela still looked worried. ‘You say Bristol is notoriously Yorkist in sympathy and I know it to be a fact. But that was in the past when Edward was king. Is there the same loyalty, do you think, to King Richard? Especially since the rumours of his nephews’ deaths?’

I frowned. She had a point, I had to admit. Adherents of the House of York had just risen in rebellion against Richard’s assumption of the crown, and the heart of the revolt had been here, in the south and west. Nevertheless, I still felt sure that if there were indeed a conspiracy in the city it had nothing to do with the landing and invasion of a Tudor force. I had no real reason for this certainty, but I had, over the years, learned to trust my instincts and deliberately closed my mind against the idea that they might be wrong.

Adela changed the subject for one nearer her heart. ‘Roger, this Walter Gurney! You say you were unable to speak to him. That he had run away. There’s no chance then that he could return to Gloucester and offer to marry the woman you mentioned?’

‘Jane Spicer? No.’ I shook my head wearily. ‘Whether he really has run away or whether he’s hiding somewhere on the Despenser manor makes no difference. He’s made it plain that he has no intention of going home.’

My wife took a deep breath. ‘But in that case what will happen when. .?’

I knew what she was going to ask. A question to which, as yet, I had no ready answer, and it was with a feeling of enormous relief that I welcomed the children as they suddenly burst into the kitchen with cries of, ‘We didn’t know you were home!’ followed inevitably by, ‘What have you brought us?’

Fortunately for my already tarnished reputation, I had had the forethought to purchase some sweetmeats — sugared violets and rose petals — before finally quitting Keynsham. They were, by now, a somewhat sorry, sticky mess, wrapped as they had been in a scrap of rag-paper and thrust into the depths of my pouch, but Elizabeth and the boys seemed not to notice as they devoured them in less time than it takes to tell. They made no comment on Richard’s disappearance except to say that they had all beaten him at fivestones, an abstention that pleased me greatly. Nor, I noticed, did they refer to him as ‘uncle’ any more, another cause for satisfaction. I had a sneaking suspicion that this might be Adela’s doing, but I didn’t enquire too closely. I preferred to believe that it was the children’s own choice.

Adela had not long sent them off to bed — after a Herculean tussle to make Adam wash his face and hands, an act he considered altogether unnecessary — and we had retired to the greater comfort of the parlour, when a knock on the street door heralded the return of Richard Manifold.

‘The Breton ship has been searched,’ he announced bluntly, dispensing with the courtesy of greetings, ‘and there’s no one onboard the captain can’t account for.’ Of course there wasn’t, not if he was being handsomely paid for conveying his illicit passenger safely back to Brittany. ‘Nor,’ Richard continued, ‘could we find anyone stowed away in any part of the ship. All right,’ he added grimly, noting the expression on my face, ‘if the man you saw is still aboard, then he’s probably disguised as a member of the crew. But without knowing what he looks like, we can’t accuse him. The sheriff wants to know if there is the slightest chance that you might recognize him.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘Not to be certain. When’s the ship sailing?’

‘Tomorrow morning, on the first tide.’

‘Well. .’ I was beginning doubtfully, but Adela cut me short.

‘No,’ she said, addressing Richard Manifold, a determined set to her mouth. ‘Roger is not getting embroiled in this. I scent danger, and he’s been in enough of that this past spring and summer.’ She turned to me. ‘I forbid you to have anything more to do with this affair.’

Our guest snorted with laughter. ‘He won’t be able to help himself, my dear. When have you ever known your husband to keep that long nose of his out of any trouble that’s going? It’s against his nature. Roger, if you would only. .’

I suddenly felt extraordinarily weary. There were a number of queries that needed answering, not least what was the connection — if, indeed, there was one — between the man I had followed and Gilbert Foliot? How did the former come to have a key to the goldsmith’s old house over and behind the shop? Why. .? But here my mind balked at any more questions. I had not completely got over my illness of the summer, and although, in a general way, I had recovered my health and strength, there were still times when the lassitude would reassert itself.

‘I’m sorry, Richard,’ I smiled, ‘but you heard Adela. This seems to me like an affair of state, and therefore none of my business. Tender my apologies to the sheriff, but tell him I would be unable to identify this man. I didn’t really see his face.’

Richard looked sceptical, but he knew when he was beaten. Once Adela had ranged herself on my side, there was nothing more to be said. When, finally, he had gone, after one last half-hearted attempt at persuasion, I put my arms about her and kissed her lingeringly.

She was having none of that. ‘Bed,’ she said firmly, ‘but to sleep. You’re worn out.’

She was right. I was snoring almost as soon as my head touched the pillow. I don’t know how much later it was when I felt her hand shaking my shoulder.

‘Wake up, Roger,’ Adela hissed in my ear. ‘There’s someone downstairs. Someone’s trying to get into the house.’