The Tintern Treasure

FIFTEEN

The servant who answered my knock, a stout body with a gimlet eye, took one look at me and my pack, said sharply, ‘Nothing today, my man!’ and made to close the door.

I stuck my foot in the narrowing gap and asked to see Master Callowhill.

‘Be off with you!’ she retorted angrily. ‘Neither the master nor the mistress deals with the likes of you.’

‘Just tell Master Callowhill that Roger Chapman would like a word with him,’ I snapped.

I had no great hope that this information would carry any weight and was preparing myself for battle when, to my astonishment, she immediately stepped back and held the door wide.

‘Oh, him!’ she grunted, beckoning me in. ‘Wait here. I’ll fetch the master.’

Nothing could have shown me more plainly that the reputation I was gaining throughout the city was no figment of my imagination. The perception of me as someone who was in Richard’s pay, first when he was Duke of Gloucester and now that he was king, was growing. My prolonged absences, both last year and this, the rumours that I had been engaged on secret work for him, had confirmed a steadily increasing belief, no doubt fostered by Margaret Walker and her precious friends, that I was someone to be reckoned with, if not actually feared. It accounted for a certain change in attitude amongst my friends, some of whom had definitely become more reserved in their dealings with me, whilst others, mainly the ones I liked least, were more ingratiating.

I was not kept waiting many moments. Master Callowhill emerged from one of the doors on the right-hand side of the hall, the white cloth tied around his neck indicating that he was still at breakfast.

‘Master Chapman!’ His tone was effusive. ‘Come in! Come in! You’re abroad early. We’re still eating I’m afraid. But come and share a pot of ale with us.’ He laid a broad arm across my shoulders, practically propelling me into the dining parlour where his wife and children were seated around a laden table, and refusing to take no for an answer.

I felt uncomfortable and stupid in my old clothes and looking, I was sure, like a drowned rat. But no one seemed to notice anything amiss, Mistress Callowhill giving me a courteous greeting, the daughter of the house rising from her stool to bob me a curtsey, the elder of the two boys hurrying forward to relieve me of my pack and cudgel and the younger one offering me his seat.

‘Now,’ Henry Callowhill said as soon as a maid servant had appeared with a clean beaker for me and he had filled it from the pitcher in the middle of the table, ‘let me guess why you’re here. Rumour has it that this gang of robbers also attacked your house the night before last. You wish to know, as I do — as we all do — what measures the City Fathers are taking.’

Mistress Callowhill gave a visible shudder. ‘It’s dreadful! Dreadful! So many houses broken into in one night! Ours! Yours! Lawyer Heathersett’s! Master Foliot’s! And now we hear Alderman Roper suffered a similar fate yesterday evening.’

I gave a startled glance in the wine merchant’s direction.

My host nodded. ‘Our servant, Molly — the one who opened the door to you — has a sister who works for the alderman and who was round here at first light this morning to tell Molly the news. It seems that not only did these villains search as much of the house as they could without waking the sleeping household, but they went so far as to disturb the body of poor young Peter Noakes which was lying in its coffin. In case, one can only suppose, there was anything of value hidden underneath it to be buried with him. You may not have heard, Master Chapman — ’

‘Yes,’ I interposed. ‘Yes, I had been told by Mistress Ursula that the alderman had returned from Tintern with his nephew’s body the day before yesterday.’ I put down my beaker and, leaning forward for greater emphasis, asked, ‘Master Callowhill, what was stolen from this house?’

His wife answered before he had a chance to reply. ‘Everything was all over the place,’ she shrilled indignantly. ‘You never saw such a mess. Cupboards emptied! Drawers emptied! Stuff strewn everywhere. Coffers — ’

‘But what was actually taken?’ I insisted, stemming her flow of words without compunction.

There was a silence, broken finally by Henry Callowhill, who said slowly, ‘Well, now that I think about it. . nothing. At least. . nothing of any value or one of us would have discovered its absence by now.’ He frowned. ‘How very odd!’

‘Very odd indeed,’ his wife corroborated. She turned to the children. ‘Are any of you aware of anything missing?’

They shook their heads and suddenly the elder boy saw the funny side of things.

‘Whoever heard of robbery where nothing was stolen?’ He started to laugh and his siblings joined in.

I waited for their merriment to subside before turning to Master Callowhill once more.

‘Lawyer Heathersett — or, rather, his clerk — tells the same tale. The place ransacked but, so far as can be ascertained, nothing taken. It would be interesting to know if Alderman Roper has found anything missing.’

‘You think this may be of some importance, Master Chapman?’ The wine merchant regarded me enquiringly.

‘Master Callowhill,’ I said earnestly, ‘has it not occurred to you that these break-ins and attempted break-ins have all been at the houses of people who were at Tintern? Yours, the lawyer’s, Master Foliot’s, mine and now at the home of poor Peter Noakes.’

My host looked startled. ‘Sweet Jesu,’ he breathed. ‘You’re right. And that must mean. .’

I nodded. ‘That someone thinks Peter Noakes did discover something and that one of us, knowingly or unknowingly, may well have whatever it is in our possession.’

The elder Callowhill boy, a pleasant, fresh-faced lad whose name I knew to be Martin, objected. ‘But would robberies have been attempted at all your houses? I mean, if someone who was at Tintern Abbey is the instigator of the break-ins. .’

‘One could be faked,’ I pointed out gently, and he let out a long, low whistle.

His mother frowned disapprovingly and glanced towards her husband. But the wine merchant issued no reprimand: he was busy wrestling with thoughts of his own.

He addressed me. ‘You’re thinking that if young Noakes did discover something, he might have planted it on one of us?’

‘Yes, in our baggage. You may remember that he ran back into the infirmary before escaping.’

Master Callowhill rose to his feet. ‘Let’s put this theory of yours to the test. I shall send one of the maids to Redcliffe immediately to enquire of Alderman Roper if anything is actually missing. If the answer is “no”, I think that will prove your point.’

‘Sir, it’s pouring with rain,’ I protested. ‘Send later in the day if you must.’

‘Pooh!’ My host rejected this argument with a wave of his hand. ‘A drop of rain doesn’t hurt anyone.’ And he left the room.

When he returned a moment or two later, it was to say that a girl had been despatched and would not be many minutes. Meantime, would I have more ale?

I accepted, although silently cursing this unlooked-for delay. It meant that the morning would be well advanced before I began my walk to Keynsham. But at least there was a chance that the rain might have eased off by then.

The conversation flagged due to the fact that Henry Callowhill seemed temporarily withdrawn, staring unseeingly ahead of him and occupied by his own thoughts. Then, suddenly, he burst out with, ‘No, no! I cannot believe that either Lawyer Heathersett or my good friend Gilbert Foliot would go to such lengths as to organize robberies in order to discover if young Noakes had hidden anything in our baggage. And who else is there? It’s utterly preposterous. For one thing, they wouldn’t know how to set about it. For another, they would only have to ask us. I repeat, the notion is ridiculous. Geoffrey, after all, is a man of the law himself. And Gilbert is one of my most respected friends. He has even offered to admit me to the Fraternity of St Mary Bellhouse. Only last week, he did the boys and me the honour of showing us all over St Peter’s Church. Is that not so, lads?’

Both boys nodded and Martin added eagerly, ‘Did you know, Master Chapman, that St Peter’s is built on the foundations of the old Saxon church? There is still a portion of the original crypt underneath the present bell tower.’

I smiled at his enthusiasm. He was obviously a boy with a thirst for knowledge. ‘And did you know,’ I asked him, remembering some of Brother Hilarion’s more subversive teaching, ‘that the Saxon term for a Norman was Orc? A term of abuse, of course. Or that our Saxon forefathers called the great battle near Hastings the Battle for Middle Earth? Middle earth being where we live, between Heaven and Hell.’

Henry Callowhill gave a loud cough, an indication that he considered the discussion had gone far enough. We were all English nowadays. Memories of the old, divisive times were not to be encouraged.

Luckily, as a rather heavy silence had descended, the young kitchen girl made her appearance, wet and out of breath. She bobbed a curtsey to her master and mistress.

‘Please sir, ma’am, the alderman says as how he can’t rightly find anything missing, but he’s sure there must be summat as’ll be discovered later.’

She made another curtsey and withdrew, hopefully to get warm and dry. My host pulled down the corners of his mouth.

‘It seems as if your theory could be the correct one, Roger. Well, as I have said, it can’t possibly be one of us. So who else could it be?’

I was not prepared to answer this and got to my feet. ‘Master Callowhill, I’m afraid I must bid you good-day. I’ve my living to earn and have determined to walk as far as Keynsham today. Don’t refine too much on anything I’ve said. I could be wrong in my assumptions. It’s probably no more than a gang of bravos working the Bristol streets. The Watch will soon have their measure and clap them behind bars.’

He looked unconvinced and when he accompanied me to the front door — a mark of respect he would never have accorded me in the past and yet another indication of my increased standing in the community, however undeserved — he said in a low voice, ‘You don’t really believe that.’

‘I don’t know what I believe,’ I told him. The rumours of a royal spy having been discovered in the town, or of a treasonable plot being hatched, seemed not to have reached him so I decided to say nothing further. But as he was a man of education and learning I asked him if he had any idea what might have been happening in the year thirteen twenty-six. ‘The year mentioned in those account books found in the abbot’s secret hiding place.’

But he was unable to help me. Nor, when they were applied to, were either of his sons. There was a limit to their knowledge.

I thanked them and set out once more, heading for the Redcliffe Gate.

The rain had ceased by the time I had walked a mile or so beyond the gate and a thin autumnal sun was trying to penetrate the clouds. The wayside shrines, dedicated to various saints, but mostly to the Virgin, glowed here in all the freshness of a new coat of paint, or showed there the battered, weather-beaten face of neglect. Yet none was truly neglected; even the most dilapidated boasted its posy of flowers or, now that November was almost half done, an offering of leaves and berries. I reflected how much the Virgin was beloved in this country. English names and places — marigold and Lady’s smock, Mary’s Mead and Ladygrove — all testified to the fact. Her image was everywhere, in gold and silver, alabaster and marble, and every statue studded with a plethora of gems. Poems abounded in her praise and Mary was the most common girl’s name in the English language. .

My ruminations were interrupted by the sound of cart-wheels just behind me, and the next moment, the cart itself had pulled up alongside, a handsome brute of a shire horse harnessed between the shafts. Seated on the box beside the carter was my acquaintance of the previous day, the cobbler’s wife from Keynsham, Mistress Shoesmith.

‘I thought it were you, young man,’ she said. ‘There’s not many of your height about. I’d like to thank ’ee again for your kindness of yesterday.’ She added, lowering her voice confidentially, ‘I decided to go home earlier than intended. My sister and I had a few words. We ain’t that fond o’ one another, but I feel I’ve got to visit her from time to time. She’s my only kith and kin. Apart from my Jacob, that is.’ She eyed me speculatively. ‘Where’re you bound?’

‘Keynsham,’ I said, ‘to sell my wares.’

She at once turned to the carter sitting stolidly beside her and poked him in the ribs. ‘Give him a lift, Joseph Sibley,’ she ordered. ‘I’ll pay you. There’s room enough if I squeeze up a bit. Or he can sit in the back on one o’ them crates.’ She turned to me. ‘There’s only candles in ’em.’

The carter, a man I knew vaguely by sight, having seen him on various occasions in the company of Jack Nym, grunted assent and shifted obligingly to the edge of the box. Mistress Shoesmith followed suit and patted the narrow space thus left. I heaved my pack and cudgel into the cart on top of the crates of candles and climbed aboard. There wasn’t much room and, to her obvious delight, I was forced to put an arm around my benefactress’s broad waist to prevent myself from toppling off.

‘Eh, lad,’ she gurgled, ‘this takes me back to my girlhood. I haven’t had a cuddle with a good-looking man since I married my Jacob.’ She grew serious. ‘Are you visiting your friend Sir Lionel Despenser again?’

The carter snorted with laughter, evidently taking this for a joke.

I let him think it. And in a way he was right. The knight, I was sure, only treated me with civility because Gilbert Foliot had warned him that it would be circumspect to do so. ‘No,’ I answered cheerfully. ‘Just hoping to make some money for my wife and children. I shall spend tonight at the abbey and return home again tomorrow.’

‘You’ll do no such thing,’ Mistress Shoesmith said robustly. ‘You’ll spend the night with Jacob and me. What’s your name, lad?’

‘He’s called Roger Chapman,’ the carter put in before I could reply. ‘And you want to be careful of ’im, Missus. They do say there’s more to ’im than meets the eye.’

I sighed, but didn’t argue the point. It would have been of no use, anyway, so deeply entrenched now was this belief that I was an agent of some sort — although of what sort exactly no one was prepared to say — of the king.

‘Take no notice of the fool,’ I told my companion as she turned a somewhat bewildered face towards me. ‘He’s jesting.’

The carter gave another snort but, thankfully, seemed disinclined to argue the matter. Instead, he asked, ‘Not got that dog o’ yourn with you, then? Jack Nym reckons ’e’s an ’oly terror. Chases anything on two legs or four.’

‘You don’t want to believe everything Jack says,’ I snapped, irked by this criticism of my favourite. I could see by the carter’s face that he was getting ready to make a running joke of Jack’s numerous anecdotes about his difficulties with Hercules during our journey to London earlier in the year, so I said quickly, ‘Sir Lionel told me that he had recently lost a favourite dog. It was an animal he was most attached to, so he had him buried in a vacant plot of land close to the manor chapel.’

Mistress Shoesmith looked puzzled. ‘I don’t know why he should say that. Not unless you misunderstood what it was he was telling you, my dear. That there grave belongs to one of the manor servants who died sudden-like. One of the kitchen hands my Jacob were told when he took some mended boots and shoes up to the manor. Sir Lionel’s chaplain had just finished the burying of him. There weren’t nothing said about any dog.’

‘Perhaps. . Perhaps I did misunderstand him,’ I said slowly. But I sat staring before me like a man in a dream, a suspicion forming and growing in my mind until it became almost a certainty. ‘When was this?’ I asked. ‘Can you remember, mistress?’

My companion pursed her lips. ‘Well. . Not all that long ago. A week, maybe.’

‘About the time that Walter Gurney disappeared?’

She looked at me for a long moment, twisting her head round to stare at me in surprise. Then she burst out laughing. ‘Go on with you! It wouldn’t be him! He didn’t work in the kitchens. He were Sir Lionel’s head groom. Sir Lionel would’ve said if it’d been him. Very upset he were about Master Gurney’s disappearance. No, no, lad! Put that notion right out of your head.’

‘You still haven’t answered my question,’ I said.

‘What question was that?’

‘Was the death of this man, this kitchen hand so-say, about the same time as Walter Gurney’s disappearance?’

There was an uneasy silence. ‘Well. . Yes, it was,’ she admitted at last. ‘The day before. Or maybe the day after.’ Mistress Shoesmith thought about this then shook her head decidedly. ‘No. It don’t make sense. If Groom Gurney had died why would Sir Lionel not say so? And why’d he tell you he’d buried a dog?’

Why indeed? Unless he was afraid I might notice the newly turned grave and connect it to Walter Gurney’s sudden disappearance. But why not simply tell me, if he felt he had to mention it at all, what he had told everyone else? Because he was afraid of rousing my suspicions? Because he thought that I knew more than I did about something? Maybe, if he believed everything that Gilbert Foliot had hinted about me. But what was it that he thought I knew?

Perhaps it was true that he and the goldsmith were at the heart of a conspiracy to raise money for Henry Tudor and perhaps the latter had been hoping to find something of value at Tintern. But that begged the question as to why, suddenly, after so many years, he had thought there might be treasure hidden in the secret hiding place in the former abbot’s lodgings.

Once again it seemed to me that the missing link in the chain might be Walter Gurney who, on hearing that Sir Lionel Despenser of Keynsham in Somerset was in need of a groom had not hesitated, but left his home and previous employment and set off to offer his services to a man whom, as far as anyone knew, he had never met before. Had it been simply to avoid his obligations to Jane Spicer? Or had there been another motive? He had, at any rate, according to Mistress Shoesmith, boasted of a connection somewhere in the past between the Despensers and the Gurneys. But what that was, and whether or not it had any significance, I was unable to decide. Was it the real reason for his disappearance before I could speak to him?

And had he not really run away, but been murdered? The more I considered the question, the more likely a possibility it became. I knew for a fact that the horse Sir Lionel had accused him of stealing had not been stolen at all, but was being ridden by the man whom I had seen in St Mary le Port Street and, later, board the Breton ship. At the time I had thought the stranger might be Walter Gurney himself, but now I felt certain I was wrong. It seemed probable that the man was a Tudor agent who had been visiting Gilbert Foliot. I remembered the supper things set out before the fire the evening that Henry Callowhill and I had called on the goldsmith unexpectedly; the best glass and napery produced for someone of consequence. A valued customer the goldsmith had said, which had appeared to be a valid explanation at the time. But now, I wondered. .

‘You’ve gone all quiet, lad.’ Mistress Shoesmith reproached me. ‘The cat got your tongue?’

‘I’m sorry,’ I apologized. ‘I was thinking about that grave and. . and what you said about it being one of Sir Lionel’s kitchen hands. You’re sure of that? You’re certain it wasn’t one of his dogs?’

She gave her infectious gurgle of laughter. ‘Of course I’m certain. He told my Jacob so, and my Jacob wouldn’t have made it up. He’s not got your brains, but he ain’t stupid either. It’s you who must’ve got hold of the wrong end of the stick, lad. Which wouldn’t surprise me — not if you’d been in a trance like the one you were in just now. I’d to speak to you three or four times before I was able to get your attention.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said again. ‘I was thinking.’

‘Well, that’s what I mean. My Jacob, he don’t do much thinking, but he understands what’s said to him in simple, straightforward English.’

It was, and is, my firmly held contention that English is neither simple nor straightforward — there are too many different languages all mixed up together and vying for supremacy — but this was neither the time nor the place to argue the point. In any case, we were now within sight of Keynsham Abbey and the carter was enquiring whereabouts Mistress Shoesmith wished to be set down.

‘The cobbler’s shop at the far end of the High Street,’ she said. ‘You can put Master Chapman down with me.’ She produced her purse and some coins changed hands which the carter quickly pocketed.

‘Are you returning to Bristol on Monday?’ I asked him, but he shook his head.

‘Goin’ on to Glastonbury. Two cases of these here candles are for the abbey.’

I was struck by a sudden inspiration. Brother Hilarion, my old Novice Master, was one of the most learned men I knew.

‘Will you take me with you?’ I asked. ‘And then back to Bristol after that?’ I, too, produced my purse and gave it a shake. There was the satisfactory sound of money chinking.

‘Done,’ he said. ‘But I’ll be starting early, as soon as it’s light. I’ll be staying at that ale-house, down in the dip there between them two slopes. Don’ be late, ’cos I shan’t wait. Understood?’

I assured him it was, grabbed my pack and cudgel from the back of the cart and, with Mistress Shoesmith, watched him drive away back along the street to make his first call.

It was by now well past the dinner hour, the carter having taken the five-mile journey at a leisurely pace, certainly below the capabilities of his horse, and I was ravenous. Fortunately, Mistress Shoesmith, as her comfortable shape implied, was also a hearty eater and her first action, once she had shepherded me through the cobbler’s shop to the living quarters behind, was to berate the little maid we found dozing there for taking the pot of stew off the fire. Being a just woman, however, she relented almost at once, admitting she had not been expected for at least another day.

‘There, there! Don’t grizzle, Betsy. I didn’t mean it. Just get the pot back over the heat. This is a friend o’ mine, Roger, who’s going to stay a night or two. And when you’ve done that, you can take my bag upstairs. Where’s the master?’

‘Gone out, deliverin’ the mended shoes. ’E’ll be back soon.’

Her mistress nodded briskly. ‘Very well. Now stop gawping at Roger like you’ve never seen a good-looking man before and bustle about.’ The dame turned to me. ‘The accommodation ain’t much, lad, as you can see, but what there is you’m more than welcome to share for however long you want to stay. There’re two rooms upstairs, one that I share with my Jacob and a little one that Betsy sleeps in. But it won’t hurt her to sleep in the kitchen for a night or two.’

I immediately protested, at the same time trying to press my share of the carter’s fee on my hostess, who promptly rejected it with every appearance of being mortally insulted. In fact, she began to wheeze in such a distressed manner that I was forced to desist and assure her that I was only jesting. Also, when Betsy reappeared, she expressed perfect willingness to give up her room to me for as many nights as I wished, at the same time giving me such a broad wink, accompanied by an alluring swing of her hips, that I at once scented danger. If I didn’t find her in my bed, either that night or the one after, I should be very surprised. Disappointed, too. She was a cosy little armful.

Mistress Shoesmith and I had just finished our bowlfuls of rabbit stew, and I was about to start on my second, when we heard voices raised in the shop and, a moment later, the cobbler entered the kitchen, to be brought up short by the sight of his wife and a perfect stranger sitting at the table. Mistress Shoesmith greeted him rapturously.

‘I’ve come home early, my dear,’ she said, rising and casting herself into his arms. ‘Mary and I don’t rub along too well at the best of times, as you well know, and this visit she just ruffled me up the wrong way right from the start. So here I am, two days early. And this is a young friend of mine, Roger Chapman, who’s stopping with us tonight and tomorrow. He’s a pedlar and hoping to do a bit of trade today and make some money for his wife and kinder. Roger, this is my Jacob, what you’ve heard me speak about.’

Jacob Shoesmith was as skinny as his wife was plump, the classic pairing that I had noted so often in my life; the attraction of opposites. But in nature they seemed well matched, he accepting my presence without demur and indeed smiling a welcome without demanding any further explanation. He returned his wife’s embrace with a fervour equal to her own.

‘I’ve allus said your Mary’s a sharp-tongued shrew,’ was his sole comment before turning to the maid. ‘’Ere, Betsy, you seen a pair o’ black Spanish leather boots anywhere? I should’ve taken ’em with me to Sir Lionel’s, but somehow I mislaid ’em. . Ah! There they be!’ He pointed to a corner of the kitchen. ‘Now, how did they get in here? Must’ve walked by theirselves.’ He and the two women laughed heartily at his joke. Then he called out, ‘Found ’em, sir! They’re in here. I’ll bring ’em out.’

But before he could do so, another man entered the living quarters without so much as a by-your-leave and stood, looking contemptuously around him.

I knew at once who he was. He was the man I had seen in the courtyard of the Despenser manor house and, later, in Bristol, boarding the Breton ship.