The Tintern Treasure

FOUR

Of course, with hindsight I know that the rebels never had any intention of besieging Monmouth, never came within miles of it; that even then, the rebellion was beginning to lose momentum. But at the time, with rumours flying about like leaves in autumn, the emergency seemed very real.

‘Will the abbot be willing to give us all shelter?’ the lawyer queried, and was met with a haughty stare from Gilbert Foliot.

‘Apart from the fact that it is his religious duty to offer shelter to wayfarers in need, he will certainly not refuse me,’ was the crisp retort. Then, as there was a baffled silence from his listeners, the goldsmith added with asperity, ‘My late wife was a Herbert.’

If he expected this fact to explain matters, he was due for a disappointment. The silence was as profound as before. He continued impatiently, ‘Sir William Herbert, late Earl of Pembroke, was buried in Tintern Abbey after his execution fourteen years ago. My wife, as a member of a cadet branch of the family, attended his funeral. I accompanied her.’

Memories came flooding back. Fourteen years previously, I had just begun my novitiate at Glastonbury, but I still maintained a lively interest in what was happening in the outside world. And in that year of Our Lord, 1469, the country was again in a state of insurrection, with the mighty Earl of Warwick and his son-in-law, the Duke of Clarence, in revolt against the late King Edward, who had briefly become their prisoner. Yorkists and Lancastrians were once more at war and, after the battle at Edgecote, which the former lost, the loyal William Herbert had been executed out of hand. His body had, it seemed, later been interred at Tintern Abbey.

‘Ah!’ I said, indicating by a nod that I had grasped the goldsmith’s meaning. As a relation, if only by marriage, of one of the martyrs of the Yorkist cause, he would be welcomed by the abbot.

Gilbert Foliot smiled gratefully at me. ‘I suggest, Master Chapman, that you and your, er, companion’ — he eyed Oliver Tockney somewhat askance — ‘set forth immediately. You should reach the abbey easily by nightfall. We’ — he indicated the other two men — ‘will no doubt pass you on the road and, if no misfortune befalls us, should be at Tintern by noon. I shall ensure that the brothers are ready to receive you; that beds and food are prepared for you. You will only have to present yourselves at the main gate to be allowed immediate access.’

I noticed he didn’t suggest that Oliver and I hire horses and ride with him and the others. I didn’t press the point because, for one thing, I wasn’t sure that Oliver could ride and had no wish to embarrass him. Another reason, and perhaps the more cogent of the two, was that I had no desire to spend more time than necessary in our new-found acquaintances’ company. They were all three perfectly pleasant, but I knew very well that their friendliness stemmed from a wariness of me and uncertainty as to my exact relationship with King Richard, who was himself something of an unknown quantity to all southerners. Underneath their polite words and manners, I could detect a certain resentment at the need for courtesy towards someone whom they regarded as little better than a peasant, but were frightened to offend. And who could blame them? Finally, it occurred to me that if we should encounter armed rebels, it would be easier to seek shelter among the trees and undergrowth bordering the track than attempt to outstrip them along paths that were ankle-deep in mud and pitted with potholes from the recent storms: veritable stumbling blocks for fast-moving horses.

Oliver Tockney duly expressed his gratitude as we left Monmouth and headed south, following the rough map which the landlord had drawn for us.

‘For it’s not that I couldn’t have afforded to hire a nag,’ he said when he had voiced the same misgivings as my own. ‘And I feared it was what they might suggest. But I’m no good astride any beast, unless it were my old grandfather’s cow, and would only have fallen off and made a right fool of myself. Besides, they don’t like me, I can tell. And they’re afraid of you. So,’ he added as the rain once more began to fall, ‘why don’t you enliven what looks like being another miserable journey by telling me what it’s all about. For you’re no ordinary pedlar, that’s clear.’

The hills rose all around us in the encroaching dark, the trees foaming in dusky waterfalls between the primeval humps, loose scree and shale ribbing their slopes. Below us, we could just make out the shape of the abbey and its sprawl of attendant buildings, candle- and lamplight starring the gathering dusk.

Our journey had been uneventful except for the need to take frequent shelter from the rain, which had increased in volume as the day progressed towards late afternoon. Several times it had turned to hail, and once, on the higher ground, to snow, but we had ploughed on doggedly and now had our reward. Food — hot food — and shelter were both at last within sight.

I had told Oliver Tockney my life story, or as much of it as I had thought fit to impart, with the unfortunate result that he, too, had now lost his ease of manner with me. I could feel the distance between us growing — not physically, of course — and a certain deference had crept into his manner when addressing me.

‘Look, man!’ I said as we descended the path to the main gate. ‘I’m just a pedlar, like yourself. I’m not a spy or an agent for King Richard. I just happen to have done one or two good turns for him over the years. That’s all. I daresay that you and your fellow Yorkshiremen have seen a great deal more of him than I have, for most of the time I’ve been in Bristol and he’s been up north. So, for the Virgin’s sake, don’t start treating me as though I’m something that I’m not. We shall need each other’s support once we‘re inside the abbey. Now, let’s hope that Master Foliot has been as good as his promise and that we’re expected. I don’t know about you, but I could eat an ox. And I’m too cold and wet to start bandying words with the gate-porter.’

All was well, however. Not only were we expected, but the porter was on the lookout for us and had the gate open before we had even rung the bell. As we entered, I noted that the River Wye, which bounded two sides of the abbey, was swollen and, here and there, overflowing its banks.

‘I’m to take you first, sirs,’ the porter said, ‘to the infirmary hall where you and the other gentlemen are to sleep and which, at the moment, is happily free of patients. You may stow your baggage there. Afterwards, I am to conduct you to Father Abbot’s lodging where you will eat.’

Oliver and I had no fault to find with this programme and followed our guide, his white Cistercian robe glimmering palely in the darkness, between various buildings and across a cloister and garden to a single-storey building on the eastern perimeter of the enclave. The brother opened the door and ushered us inside. Oliver and I paused on the threshold, both equally surprised.

I have been in a few infirmaries in my time, including Glastonbury’s, but this was the most imposing I had seen. A broad central aisle was flanked on both sides by separate bays, each with its own fireplace and lit by a pair of lancet windows, between which stood a bed and a bedside cupboard. Perfect privacy could be obtained by pulling a curtain across the front of the bay. There was a large, traceried window in the eastern wall which must, in the daytime, give more than ample light, while we later discovered that in the north-west corner, hidden from view, was a private latrine.

‘Luxury, indeed,’ Oliver murmured in my ear. ‘The monks do themselves well here.’

‘More than well,’ I answered softly, first making sure that our guide wasn’t listening.

There were six bays in all, and in three of them, I could see the saddle-bags of the goldsmith and his companions already stowed. The porter indicated that we should take two of the three on the opposite side of the aisle where the third one, judging by the drawn curtain, was occupied.

I raised my eyebrows. ‘I thought you said the infirmary was empty.’

The brother nodded.

‘That’s not a patient,’ he said. ‘It’s another traveller, like yourselves and the gentlemen, seeking sanctuary from the weather. A young man who arrived early this morning and who has kept to his bed ever since. He’s feeling unwell and has particularly asked not to be disturbed. He suffers, it seems, from severe headaches which attack him from time to time and for which the only real cure is rest. Complete rest. So Brother Infirmarian has given instructions that he is to be left alone to sleep.’ He smiled. ‘Now, sirs, if you will follow me again, I’ll take you to Father Abbot’s private lodging, and then I must return to my gate. I’ve left it for far too long as it is.’

We were buffeted by another squall of wind and rain as we stepped outside and once more drew our cloaks about us. We recrossed the cloister — ‘the infirmary cloister,’ our guide informed us, skirted a small chapel, ‘Father Abbot’s private chapel’ — and were finally shown into the abbot’s private parlour, a haven of warmth and light.

Good wax candles shed their glow across shining, polished surfaces, and a fire of scented pine logs burned on the generous hearth, around which Gilbert Foliot, Henry Callowhill and Lawyer Heathersett were standing. Each held a brimming glass of wine, the liquid jewel-red in the flickering light, and were, at the moment of our entry, pledging the health of their host.

Gilbert Foliot turned and saw Oliver and myself hesitating just inside the doorway. ‘Ah!’ he exclaimed, setting down his glass — fine Venetian glass if I were not mistaken. ‘Here are the two men I was telling you about, Lord Abbot. Our two companions from Monmouth.’ He patted my shoulder. ‘Truth to tell, Roger, you’re not that far behind us. Our journey must have been worse than yours, I think. The roads were almost impassable in places. And as I don’t recall overtaking you, I guess you must have found some sidetracks that saved you a mile or so.’

I smiled noncommittally. I thought it best not to mention the fact that the three men had indeed passed us, but failed to notice two such insignificant travellers. A lay brother, who was evidently in attendance on the abbot that evening, handed a glass of wine to both Oliver and myself — although I could see that he thought it a case of casting pearls before swine — and then ushered everyone to the long oak table and bade us be seated. My fellow pedlar and I found ourselves sitting opposite one another at the bottom of the board.

A bowl of rich, hot oyster soup was placed in front of each of us and a large basket of white bread graced the middle of the table. For a while, talk was suspended as we all set to with a will, letting the hot liquid course through our frozen bodies and thaw out numbed extremities. After a time, however, conversation was gradually resumed with, inevitably, discussion of the rebellion taking precedence.

‘What in heaven’s name could have possessed My Lord of Buckingham to raise his standard against King Richard?’ the abbot wanted to know. ‘If all the stories which have reached us here are true, he practically put the crown on Richard’s head himself, with the result, or so we hear, that the king’s gratitude has been boundless. The duke was the mightiest subject in the land. Or does his defection have anything to do, I wonder, with this rumour of the princes’ murder?’

I saw Oliver Tockney’s hand clench around the handle of his spoon and, without being asked for my opinion, hurried into speech. ‘I am convinced, My Lord, that that is a malicious rumour put about by the supporters of Henry Tudor in order to get the Yorkist insurgents on their side. I am persuaded that the king will refute all such stories once the rebellion has been put down and the ringleaders punished.’

The abbot raised his eyebrows in haughty surprise, then glanced questioningly at Gilbert Foliot. The latter, seated at his right hand, gave an almost imperceptible nod before muttering something that I was unable to catch.

‘Ah!’ The abbot gave me a piercing stare. ‘So this is the man you were telling me about. A chapman who is also a confidant of our new royal master. Remarkable. Quite remarkable. But then, I’d always heard that Gloucester, as he then was, made friends of some oddly assorted people.’ What he meant, of course, but did not like to say, was low-born scum like me. He need not have worried. I got the message. His tone of voice said it for him.

The goldsmith sent him a warning glance, then smoothly changed the subject. Looking around him, he said, ‘Allow me to congratulate you, Lord Abbot, on your new accommodation. This lodging of yours is a great improvement on the old.’

The abbot frowned slightly. ‘It must be many years since you were last here, sir. It is some time since the old house was in use.’

The by now empty soup bowls were removed and replaced by clean plates and a large haunch of venison, which was set in front of the abbot. Dishes of leeks and parsnips and water chestnuts were also arranged on the table by servants who were both deft and quick. A couple of them gave Oliver and me resentful looks, just to let us know that they were unused to waiting on anyone below the rank of gentleman; but, with Oliver following my lead, we returned high-nosed stares, indicating that being waited on was something to which we were entirely accustomed.

Master Foliot was replying to the abbot. ‘It is many years, Father, as you surmise. Fourteen, to be precise. It was at the interment of my late wife’s kinsman, William Herbert, Earl of Pembroke. He was executed on the orders of Warwick and Clarence after the unfortunate defeat at Edgecote. He was not the only one, of course. Earl Rivers and one of his sons, the, er, the Queen Dowager’s father and brother, also lost their lives during that rebellion.’

‘Should one call her Queen Dowager now?’ mused Lawyer Heathersett.

‘It’s difficult to know exactly what to call anyone since. . since the summer,’ Henry Callowhill complained.

There was a reflective silence. I had the odd feeling that much more might have been said, but for my presence. I wasn’t sure why. As far as I knew, everyone present was a supporter of the Yorkist cause and a loyal subject of our new king. But then, I thought, as recent events had shown, one did not necessarily march hand-in-hand with the other.

Gilbert Foliot once again took charge of what could have proved an awkward hiatus in the conversation. ‘On the last occasion when I was here, My Lord,’ he said, addressing the abbot, ‘that secret hiding place in your old lodgings had just been discovered. Was anything more found afterwards?’

‘More than those old documents?’ The prelate shook his head. ‘No, nothing.’ He laughed. ‘A most disappointing treasure trove.’

Master Foliot, noting the curious, enquiring looks of the rest of us, condescended to explain. ‘Fourteen years ago, when, as you will have gathered, I was here with my late wife for her kinsman’s funeral, some alterations had recently been made to the hearthstones of the abbot’s previous lodging, during the course of which, a cavity had been revealed beneath one of the tiles. It had, it seemed, caused great excitement when it was first discovered, but sadly proved to contain nothing more than a couple of ancient account books and a few pages of a diary kept by one of the monks over a century and a half ago.’

There was a general murmur of interest.

‘What were the diary pages about?’ I asked.

The goldsmith laughed. ‘Ah! You scent a mystery, Roger. Unfortunately, if my memory serves me right, there was little of interest in them.’

The abbot nodded in confirmation, adding, ‘Nothing more than a description of the daily round, the reporting of one or two of the inevitable squabbles among the brothers — such disagreements are bound to happen from time to time in enclosed communities — and, I think, the mention of some strangers received by the then abbot who stayed at Tintern for a night or two. I remember that because there appeared to have been an argument between the brothers and their superiors about the advisability of granting these men sanctuary. But I may be wrong. It is many years now since I read the diary.’

‘Is it still here, in the abbey?’

The abbot made a dismissive gesture. ‘In the library somewhere, I believe. Brother Librarian could show it to you if you’re really interested. But I assure you it would be a waste of your time and his. It’s the merest fragment.’

‘Dating from when exactly?’ Geoffrey Heathersett queried. His lawyer’s mind liked to have things neatly labelled.

The abbot speared a slice of venison on the end of his knife and waved it with an airy gesture. ‘My dear sir, I’ve told you! It’s no more than a page or so. There is nothing to date it with any accuracy. It’s only because of the books of accounts that were found with it that Brother Librarian considers we might date it to the year 1326. But of course there is no reason why we should make that assumption.’

‘I wonder,’ I observed, helping myself liberally from the dish of parsnips, ‘why it was considered necessary to conceal such an innocuous collection of documents in a secret hiding place.’

Gilbert Foliot signalled his agreement. ‘I’ve often thought the same thing, Master Chapman.’ He again turned to the abbot. ‘I suppose the secret compartment is now sealed?’

Our host looked surprised. ‘It was sealed almost immediately after its discovery. Its contents were removed and then it was closed. Did you ever see it?’

The goldsmith nodded. ‘I was shown it at the time of the funeral, and the documents as well. As you so rightly say, Lord Abbot, an unremarkable collection. A couple of abbey account books and the diary pages. One can see no reason at all why they should have been hidden. That was why I asked if anything more had ever been discovered.’

‘Not to my knowledge,’ the abbot answered thickly, his mouth full of venison. He was plainly tired of the subject. ‘Well, gentlemen, tell me what brings you to this part of the country, and in such terrible weather.’

He so obviously did not include Oliver and myself in this invitation that we were able to apply ourselves wholeheartedly to our food and listen with only half an ear to what the others were saying. The lawyer had had business both in Hereford and on this side of the Severn — something to do with bequests from a will, I think — and the same was true of the other two. Business had brought them from home in weather that, they declared, had not been so very bad at the outset of their journeys. It had, it seemed, been pure chance that had seen all three fetch up at the same inn at Monmouth.

‘Nevertheless,’ Gilbert said, ‘it was a happy circumstance as things fell out. It’s better to have company in the sort of storms we have experienced these past few days than to be on one’s own.’

The other two murmured their hearty agreement, but for my own part, while not doubting their sincerity, I had reservations about the goldsmith’s. It seemed to me that there had been a certain constraint in his tone that suggested he was not entirely pleased at this reunion with old friends and acquaintances; that he would be happier on his own. I fancied I was not alone in this opinion: I saw the lawyer give him a shrewd, sidelong glance beneath half-closed lids, but he made no comment.

‘News has reached us from overseas,’ said the abbot, ‘that the king of France is dead.’

I raised my head sharply from the contemplation of my empty plate. The rumour I had heard was true, then. The others seemed unsurprised.

‘Yes, so I believe,’ Gilbert Foliot answered. ‘At the end of August.’

‘The penultimate day,’ Geoffrey Heathersett agreed pedantically.

The abbot murmured, ‘The feast day of Saint Felix.’

At this juncture, our dirty plates were removed and clean ones set before us. A truly majestic apple pie was placed in the centre of the table, together with a pitcher of cream, and we were all invited by our host to help ourselves and not to stint our portions. This being done, silence reigned once more as we again filled our mouths and bellies. A different wine was produced and poured into our glasses by the head server — a slightly more acidic-tasting drink, this, to counterbalance the luscious sweetness of the pie — and I could not help reflecting that this style of living had surely never been envisaged by Robert of Molesme when he established his new Order at Citeaux. In fact, I was absolutely certain it hadn’t, Robert having been the original aesthete. However, I wasn’t grumbling.

It concerned me somewhat that I had not previously heard definite confirmation of King Louis’s death, and that almost two months had elapsed since King Edward’s old enemy and benefactor had followed him to the grave. It proved — had I needed proof — that I had been away from Bristol far too long (and for no good reason as it had turned out). Bristol’s trade with very nearly every country in Europe, with foreign ships tying up daily along the Backs, ensured that the town’s citizens were early recipients of news from abroad.

Someone nudged me in the ribs and I realized that the abbot was condescending to address me. ‘Master Foliot, here, tells me that you were at the king’s coronation, Master, er, Chapman. And also afterwards, at the coronation feast.’ He smiled incredulously.

‘In a very humble capacity, My Lord. Extremely humble.’

‘Don’t overdo it,’ Oliver Tockney muttered.

‘It was well attended, I believe?’

I inclined my head. ‘I have it on good authority that it was the best attended coronation within living memory.’

‘Mmm.’ This noncommittal noise might have meant something or nothing. I waited. The prelate continued after some moments, ‘I understand a bill is to be passed at the next meeting of Parliament confirming Richard’s right and title to the crown.’ He regarded me thoughtfully for a moment or two before glancing at the others around the table. ‘Which makes these rumours of the young princes’ death absurd, wouldn’t you agree, gentlemen? Why order the commissioning of such a crime, when the prize is his already?’

‘There has been a rising in the south-west on behalf of the princes and, as far as I know, it has not yet been put down,’ Gilbert Foliot pointed out. ‘Maybe the king feels his crown is unsafe while his nephews are alive.’ He saw me look at him and smiled. ‘Oh, it’s all right, Roger. You needn’t doubt my loyalty. I don’t think for one moment that King Richard is capable of such a heinous sin. I’m no supporter of either young Edward or of Henry Tudor.’

‘Talking of the latter,’ the abbot broke in, ‘didn’t he at one time live in the household of your wife’s kinsman? The Earl of Pembroke who is buried here?’

The goldsmith nodded. ‘He did indeed, My Lord, for several years after his uncle, Jasper Tudor, fled abroad. William Herbert was eventually given Jasper’s old title and there was some thought at one time of marrying Henry to William’s daughter, Maud. I understood from my wife — whom God assoil! — that William was very fond of the boy, although he never wavered in his loyalty to the House of York.’

‘No, indeed,’ agreed the abbot. ‘A loyalty for which he paid with his life.’ He gave another glance around the table. ‘Well, my masters, if everyone has finished, no doubt you would like to retire for the night. You have all had long and tiring journeys. I am sure you are ready for your beds. Compline will be in an hour’s time, if any of you care to join us.’

There was a general murmur which might have signified assent or then again, might not. I think we all hoped that we could well be asleep by then and not to be roused without difficulty. I was good at feigning sleep when necessary, but felt that in the present case I wouldn’t have to pretend. I was bone weary and could hardly keep my eyes from closing. I was sure the others must feel the same.

A general scarping back of stools ensued as we rose at last from the table. Half the pie remained uneaten, but I think I spoke for everyone when I pressed a hand to my belly and said I was unable to eat another crumb.

As we moved towards the dining-parlour door, it was suddenly flung open and one of the brothers appeared, out of breath and slightly dishevelled. He was plainly agitated and forgot to close the door behind him. Outside, the storm still raged.

‘Father Abbot, come quickly,’ he urged. ‘There’s someone in the old abbot’s lodgings. I can see the glow of a lamp.’