The Tintern Treasure

FOURTEEN

He was sitting — perched would perhaps be a better word — on a narrow stone ledge beneath a tiny barred window through which the pallid November daylight struggled to make any impression. A rush light provided almost no illumination, and I had to wait for my eyes to grow accustomed to the gloom before viewing the huddled figure with any clarity.

He was a small man dressed in an ancient and very patched tunic, torn hose, rubbed shoes, with several weeks’ growth of beard adorning his chin, long greasy hair and a filthy eye-patch over the left eye. The right regarded me malevolently.

I started to shake with laughter.

The prisoner snatched off the eye-patch and threw it to the floor.

‘Don’t just stand there cackling like a demented peahen!’ he yelled. ‘Tell this idiot who I am.’

When, finally, I could command my voice, I turned to Richard Manifold, who was gloomily regarding the pair of us. ‘Hard as you may find it to believe,’ I gasped, ‘this gentleman is the King’s Spymaster General, one Timothy Plummer.’

‘You’re sure of that?’

‘Of course he’s fucking sure, you dolt!’ Timothy bounced to his feet and shook his fist under the other man’s nose, something I’d never seen anyone actually do before. ‘Fetch the sheriff here immediately so that Master Chapman can identify me in front of His Honour. Go on! Shoo!’

Richard departed, a sullen look of resignation on his face. Timothy resumed his seat and I sat down beside him.

I said, ‘I don’t think they do, you know.’

‘Who? Who don’t do what?’ my companion snapped.

‘Peahens. I don’t think they cackle.’

There was a pregnant silence. ‘Why are we talking about peahens?’ Timothy asked, dangerously quiet.

‘You were. You said. .’

‘Shut up! Shut up, you great oaf! I suppose you think that’s humorous? Well, it isn’t!’ Timothy was on his feet again, fairly dancing with temper. ‘I just want to get out of here then come home with you and have a good wash while you go and collect my saddle-bags from the Full Moon Inn. I feel certain your goodwife will find me something to eat, even if it’s only bread and cheese, and after that we can talk. Perhaps you can tell me what’s going on in this benighted town.’

‘There’s nothing like inviting yourself! And I’m not your errand boy,’ I rebuked him. ‘And what about this secret mission that you’re on?’

‘I can’t continue with that now, can I? Not now half of Bristol knows my real identity.’

This, of course, was a total exaggeration, but I guessed he was glad of an excuse to rid himself of a disguise which had begun to irk him and which he saw as demeaning to his dignity. I reflected that it must be a very important and delicate matter to have made him undertake it himself in the first place.

‘All right,’ I conceded, ‘provided Adela raises no objection and understands that you’re not going to hale me off to London again at any minute.’ Timothy made a dismissive gesture. ‘In that case, I’ll do as you ask.’ He was moved to grasp my hand, which left it smelling strongly of decaying fish. I wrinkled my nose. ‘I suppose you know you stink to high heaven?’

It must have been well into the afternoon and getting on for suppertime before Timothy and I were at last able to settle down in the parlour for our talk.

It had taken the sheriff a good hour or more to put in an appearance at the bridewell (he was, as he was careful to point out, a very busy man), by which time my companion was at boiling point. It had taken all the tact of which I was capable to prevent him from insulting a civic dignitary and being kept in prison for contempt. However, I finally managed to convince the sheriff that this was indeed the king’s Spymaster General and that His Highness would be most displeased if he were mistreated in any way. In the end, the pair were slapping each other on the back and enjoying a laugh at Timothy’s unprepossessing appearance, and the latter was promising to pay a visit to both the mayor and the sheriff on the morrow to make them free of anything they desired to know.

‘But not of anything I don’t desire them to know,’ Timothy said later, stretching his feet towards the fire burning on the hearth.

Adela’s goodwill had been more difficult to win, and it had only been repeated assurances on my part that I was not to be dragged off to the capital at a moment’s notice that had finally persuaded her to let Timothy use the pump and some of her carefully hoarded best white soap while I visited the Full Moon Inn to collect his saddle-bags. She had also fed him a makeshift meal of bread, goat’s milk cheese and onions and promised him a share of our supper. But she refused to let him stay for the night.

‘Now that he’s clean and shaved, he can go back to the inn.’

I didn’t blame her. It would have meant Adam sleeping with Nicholas, and that always led to trouble.

‘Right,’ Timothy said, looking much more like himself in a decent blue tunic and hose and with a chin and upper lip free of hair, ‘what do you know of what’s going on in this town? And don’t tell me “nothing” because I shan’t believe you. There’s no one else I know who has your talent for getting mixed up in other people’s business. If there’s any trouble, you’re sure to find yourself in the thick of it.’

I was in half a mind to resent his remarks, but decided it would be a waste of effort to do so. I was not, however, going to allow him the ordering of the conversation.

‘Tell me what you’re doing here first.’

He hesitated briefly, then decided to comply. ‘One of our best spies at the Breton court sent back a report that the Tudor is growing short of money. Duke Francis is facing war with France — the French nobles are flexing their muscles now that Louis is no longer alive to restrain them; the new king is too young to hold them in check — and therefore is unable to give the same generous aid to Henry. The latter’s attempted invasion during the recent rebellion failed lamentably as you probably know, but even so, mercenaries still need paying, win or lose. But our man wrote that there was a rumour — indeed, more than a rumour — in circles close to the Tudor of the possible windfall of a vast sum of money coming his way. And the source of this money was here, in Bristol. His Grace the king was perturbed by this story as you can well imagine.’

‘King Richard took it seriously then?’

‘Of course he took it seriously!’ Timothy fairly exploded. ‘I’ve told you, this report came from one of our best men; a man probably only second to myself in reputation. A man who, if he works hard and lives long enough, may even one day succeed to my office. That shows you how good he is and how highly his opinion is regarded.’

‘You’ve no need to say more,’ I assured him, straight-faced. ‘So the king sent you in disguise to Bristol to find out more?’

‘Of course. He would trust no one else. It had to be done under a cloak of the greatest secrecy.’

I said meanly, ‘Not secret enough, I’m afraid. I was informed of your possible presence in the city yesterday and asked, as someone who knew you well and might be able to penetrate your disguise, to keep a lookout for you.’

Timothy stared at me disbelievingly. ‘This is one of your ill-timed jests.’

‘No. The absolute truth, I assure you. It would seem that a close friend of His Worship the Mayor had just returned from London and had been warned of the fact that there might be treasonable activity in the city, and that you were here to investigate.’

Timothy was silent for a long moment, then he burst out: ‘Matters are worse than I thought. The king is beset by traitors! Even the people he thinks he can trust betray him! Buckingham was the prime example, but there are others less open in their disaffection and therefore even more dangerous.’

‘His taking the crown has incurred a great deal of ill will,’ I said soberly. ‘Even amongst former friends and well-wishers.’

Timothy nodded grimly and leant forward, clasping his hands between his knees. A flame spurted suddenly between the logs on the hearth and a shower of sparks, like golden thistledown, burned brightly for a moment, then vanished. The shadows of the November afternoon thickened and I realized that my companion was no longer a young man. He was growing old and cares pressed heavily on him. The future, in spite of its bright promise a few months ago, now looked dark. The old familiar bombast, once so laughable, now invited sympathy. It covered a multitude of anxieties.

Timothy,’ I said urgently, also leaning forward and lowering my voice almost to a whisper, ‘what is the truth in this rumour that the king’s nephews have been murdered?’

His head reared up at that. ‘False, of course! You, at least, should know better than to believe it.’ His tone was accusing.

‘I don’t believe it.’ There was another silence filled only with the crackling of the fire. Then, ‘You know for certain it’s not true, do you?’ I asked.

He flung me a contemptuous glance. ‘I know him! I know the king! So do you, and that should give you your answer.’

‘It does. . But he hasn’t publicly denied it.’

Timothy turned on me in a fury.

‘Why should he? Why should he give himself the trouble, the indignity, of publicly denying what anyone who knows him must be aware is a vicious lie?’

‘It would make sense to do so,’ I argued gently. ‘Produce the boys. Bring them to court. Show people that they’re still alive.’

‘And remind everyone of their existence? Make them a focus of rebellion yet again? Is that what you want? It’s much better, surely, to keep them quietly secluded in the Tower until he decides what to do with them. Given time, and once King Richard has established his rule, people will forget about them. Or they’ll appreciate how much better off they are with a man than a boy on the throne. How much better off without the Woodvilles! Then he can establish the boys again in the world without the fear that someone will rise up on their behalf.’

‘But you are certain that the lord Edward and his brother are still alive?’

‘I’ve told you, yes!’ Timothy almost shouted.

‘That’s all right, then,’ I said.

The trouble was that I didn’t believe him. I wanted to. How I wanted to! But I had a feeling that he didn’t really know. Like the rest of us who loved King Richard he was saying what he wanted to be the truth, not what he knew to be fact. Why I felt this, I wasn’t sure. Maybe it was the way his eyes refused to meet mine, sliding away to focus on the fire or the fleas hopping about amongst the rushes, brought out of hiding by the warmth.

‘Now,’ Timothy remarked briskly, changing the subject with obvious relief, ‘let’s get on with the business in hand, shall we? What information do you have for me?’ He flung up a warning finger. ‘And I’ve told you, don’t pretend you know nothing. If you haven’t sniffed out something by this time, then I’m a Chinaman.’

Once more, I risked his fury by countering with another question. ‘Who’s this beggar you were accused of murdering? And how did you come to be found stooping over his body?’

‘For Christ’s sweet sake — ’ he was beginning, but it was my turn to hold up an admonitory finger.

‘It might be important. Did someone mention that he lived in Pit Hay Lane?’

‘I don’t know! Quite possibly. I’m not acquainted with the names of the streets in this town, let alone the alleyways. I just know I tripped over something, crouched down to see what it was and the next moment I was being clapped on the shoulder by that oaf of a sergeant who was putting me under arrest for murder.’

‘You’re sure the man had been murdered? I know Sergeant Manifold said so, but — ’

‘Oh, yes! That was plain. He’d been strangled, any fool could see that. His eyes were bulging out of their sockets, his tongue was swollen and protruding from his mouth, his face, what I could see of it beneath the dirt, was suffused with blood.’

‘A small man? Stank to high heaven?’

‘He didn’t appear to be very big and he certainly stank. Like an old fish barrel.’

I nodded. There were a lot of beggars in the city but I had no hesitation in concluding that this was the man who had witnessed the murder of Oliver Tockney. Now he, too, was dead. Strangled. And I was the idiot who had so carelessly made it known that the pedlar’s killing had been overlooked. There would have been little difficulty in identifying him. A bribe offered for the person in question to come forward and tell what he had seen, a meeting in a dark corner of the alleyway, a knotted rope slipped swiftly around the neck. .

‘Are these questions relevant?’ Timothy’s voice broke in on my thoughts and his nails tapped against the arm of his chair impatiently.

I nodded. It was quite dark outside by now and I rose to kindle a taper at the fire and light some candles.

‘Timothy,’ I said, glancing over my shoulder at him, ‘do you have any idea what happened in the year thirteen twenty-six?’

He goggled at me. ‘Thirteen twenty-six? Thirteen twenty-six? That’s. . That’s more than a hundred and fifty years gone! Sweet Jesu! How would I know what went on over a century and a half ago?’ He eyed me wrathfully. ‘What’s this all about, Roger? Why do you keep putting me off with these ridiculous questions?’

‘They’re not so ridiculous,’ I said, returning to my seat on the other side of the hearth. I sighed. ‘I suppose I’d better begin at the beginning and tell you everything I know. But try to refrain from a lot of foolish interruptions. Just wait until I’ve finished or I’ll lose the thread of my tale.’

To do him justice, the only questions he asked were to clarify some point which I had not made clear; other than that, he remained silent throughout the long and sometimes complicated story. I even had to admit to the tangled history of my relationship with Juliette Gerrish in order to introduce the name of Walter Gurney.

When at last I had finished, he said nothing for a while, sitting forward and staring into the flames as though for inspiration. Finally he grunted, ‘Then the two conspirators would appear to be this goldsmith, Gilbert Foliot, and Sir Lionel Despenser.’

‘I wouldn’t even be sure about that. There’s no proof against either of them,’ I pointed out. ‘No solid proof. And both men have a reputation of being loyal to the House of York. Foliot, as I told you, was married to a Herbert and attended William Herbert’s funeral after Edgecote.’

Timothy frowned. ‘But the man you followed to the Breton ship had, according to you, been prowling around the living quarters above the goldsmith’s shop and, again according to you, let himself out with a key. You don’t have keys to other people’s property unless they’ve been given to you.’

‘Or stolen. Or given to you by some other person than the one concerned. You’ll have to tread warily, Timothy. Without positive proof, you can’t go accusing a wealthy Bristol citizen, especially not one who is a friend of the mayor and sheriff, of treasonable activities. King Richard won’t thank you for alienating a city as rich as this one, whose wealth he may have need of one day. Take it from me, insult a Bristolian and you insult the whole population. You’re dealing here with a town that, during the reign of the second Edward, built a wall between itself and the castle and defied authority for three long years until eventually the king had to send an army with siege machines and batter it into submission. The memory of that episode still fills every man, woman and child with pride after more than a hundred and seventy years.’

‘Which just goes to show,’ Timothy spat, ‘what a lot of traitorous dogs the inhabitants of this godforsaken city really are. Oh, all right, all right!’ He waved a dismissive hand as I would have protested further. ‘I understand what you’re saying and I’ll walk carefully. But you must admit the circumstances are suspicious. Then there’s this odd business of the treasure at Tintern Abbey. Do you have any idea what it might be?’

‘How can I?’ I was suddenly impatient. ‘I told you, it’s never been found. If young Peter Noakes did discover anything, he hid it so effectively that no one can find it. But that begs the question, was there anything more than the account books and diary to be found in the first place? For fourteen years no one ever considered that there might be, and then. .’

‘And then?’ Timothy prompted.

‘And then. . Oh, I don’t know!’ I exclaimed, tired and irritated. The smoke from the fire was making my head ache, I wanted my supper and all at once I was sick of the subject, sick of going round in circles, every now and then catching, or so it seemed to me, a little gleam of light, only to lose it again. Who were those men who had arrived at Tintern Abbey all those long years ago whose crime, whatever it was, had so revolted the monks that they had begged the abbot not to give them shelter? And why had the abbot chosen to do so in spite of all their pleadings? Had the criminals brought treasure with them which he had agreed to keep concealed; treasure so valuable that he had had a special hiding place made for it in his own lodgings? And what was the connection between Walter Gurney and Sir Lionel Despenser? Because it seemed to me that this notion of there being more to the Tintern treasure than simply the original documents had arisen only after Walter had become the knight’s head groom.

Or was that, too, just my imagination?

‘Roger! Are you all right?’

Timothy’s concerned voice brought me back abruptly from where I had been floating somewhere near the ceiling, and I realized that in another moment or two I would have lost consciousness. I felt deeply ashamed of such weakness, my only excuse being that it had been a stressful year one way and another, and that I had suffered an illness during the course of the summer which had left me prey to an exhaustion which occasionally threatened to overcome me.

Fortunately, at that moment, Adela called us out to supper.

A further discussion after the meal — more fish as it was Friday — decided nothing but that Timothy would return to London the following day, after visiting the mayor and sheriff, leaving me, as he put it, to ‘poke and pry around’ in the hope that I might stumble upon some answer to the riddle of what, if anything, was going on in Bristol.

‘There’s no point in my staying,’ he said, ‘now that my identity has been revealed. If a plot is being hatched to succour Henry Tudor, then the conspirators won’t make a move while they are aware of my presence in the city.’

‘What will you tell the king?’

He grinned and slapped me on the back. ‘That the investigation is in the capable hands of his loyal subject, Roger Chapman. He will be more than satisfied.’

I groaned. Here I was, mixed up in Richard’s affairs yet again, and how it had come about I had no very clear idea. Our lives seemed destined to intertwine. The only bright spot in a day which seemed to have flashed past in a series of not altogether pleasant surprises was that while Timothy and I had been talking John Carpenter had arrived to mend the damaged shutter, so I was spared another uncomfortable night sleeping — or rather not sleeping — in the kitchen.

But if I had expected a well-earned rest, I was destined to disappointment. My sleep was troubled by dreams. In one, Timothy and I were building a wall between ourselves and the goldsmith’s house in St Peter’s Street when Oliver Tockney arrived to say that the king was coming and asking what I had done with his pack as he daren’t go home without it. ‘It’s in Gloucester Abbey,’ I said, and the next minute I was standing looking down at Robert of Normandy’s effigy in the choir. A second later, I was tapped on the shoulder by Jane Spicer, holding Juliette’s baby in her arms and saying, ‘That’s the wrong tomb. It’s the other one.’

And then I woke up.

It was Adela who was tapping my shoulder. ‘Wake up, Roger! You’ve been tossing and turning all night. I’ve hardly had a wink of sleep and now it’s high time we were stirring.’

She sounded aggrieved, looking as little refreshed as I felt myself. And to make matters worse, I could hear rain pattering at the shutters and a rising wind moaning around the housetops. Moreover, I knew that today I must get out with my pack or money would be in short supply, a circumstance for which I should quite rightly get the blame. As I dragged on my clothes preparatory to staggering downstairs and braving the icy water of the pump, I roundly cursed Timothy Plummer for leaving me with the responsibility of discovering what — if anything at all — was going on in Bristol that was a threat to King Richard’s peace.

Breakfast was a quiet meal, even the children appearing somewhat subdued. The next day being Sunday, Adela announced that she would hear the passages of scripture that they should have learned by heart as soon as she had washed the dishes. This was greeted with a general moan which evoked my sympathy. I had endeavoured to teach them a little Latin from my own scanty knowledge, but it was not enough. They learned by rote, reproducing the sounds without any clear idea of what they were saying. Occasionally, in my more heretical moments, I wondered if anyone would ever continue Wycliffe’s work and eventually translate Holy Writ into English. It was not, naturally, a thought that I expressed out loud.

I was struggling to make sense of my dream. The building of the wall had undoubtedly been prompted by the episode in Bristol’s past that I had told to Timothy the previous afternoon, and that had led on to Edward II and his tomb in Gloucester Abbey. No great mystery there then! And yet I couldn’t rid myself of the notion that the dream had been of more significance than that. It had been trying to tell me something, but I was too stupid to see what it was. There was another thing, too, niggling away at the back of my mind; something Adam had said. But what? And I also kept seeing in my mind’s eye the contents of my pack strewn across the kitchen floor. Why, I had no idea. I was tired. I was feeling overwhelmed with responsibilities and people. I needed, as was so often the case with me, to be by myself.

What better excuse then than to get out on the open road, away from my nearest and dearest, for the most cogent of all reasons, to make some money? Breakfast over, I rose briskly to my feet and announced my intention.

Adela expressed her approval, but frowned when I said that I might be away for a night, or even two.

‘Tomorrow’s Sunday. Wherever you are, don’t omit to go to church if at all possible.’ I gave my promise. ‘And take Hercules with you,’ she added.

The dog looked up from the bone he was gnawing and gave me a leery stare. He could hear the rain and wind as well as I could and was obviously not eager for a closer acquaintance with either.

I shook my head. ‘Not this time.’ I could see that Adela was about to argue the point when I was struck with inspiration. ‘With all these robberies going on, you’ll need him to guard you.’

‘He can sleep on my bed and then I’ll feel safe,’ Elizabeth announced, a statement at once hotly contested by Nicholas and Adam, who both maintained they had a superior claim to Hercules’s protection.

I left them wrangling and went upstairs to put a clean shirt in my satchel, wrap myself in my thickest cloak and hood and then return to the kitchen to pick up my pack and cudgel.

‘Where will you go?’ my wife asked as she kissed me goodbye.

‘I thought I might walk as far as Keynsham again.’ It hadn’t been my intention, but the words just seemed to form themselves naturally in my head.

‘Don’t forget to bring us back presents,’ my daughter reminded me, breaking off in mid-argument to slide from her stool and put up her mouth for a kiss.

I stroked her soft cheek. ‘Be a good girl and help your mother while I’m away.’

A slightly mutinous set to her lips made my heart sink and I said sharply, ‘Now, Bess!’

‘Let things be, sweetheart,’ Adela whispered, drawing me towards the door. ‘There’s nothing to worry about,’ she urged when we were out of earshot. ‘She’s at a difficult age.’

Gloomily, I agreed. But sometimes it seemed to me that females were always at a difficult age however old they might be. I thought for a moment that it was on the tip of Adela’s tongue to demand a definite day for my return, but she refrained. She knew only too well the wanderlust that gripped me every now and again.

I hugged her and stepped out into the storm buffeting its way down Small Street. I had intended to continue straight on to the Redcliffe Gate, but at the junction of Broad Street and High Street I hesitated, then walked a little way along Wine Street to Master Callowhill’s house.