Kate Sedley - The Tintern Treasure

‘Gentlemen!’ he gasped. ‘Word has just come that the Welsh rebels, under the Duke of Buckingham’s command, are closing in on Monmouth. If the town elders decide to withstand the rebels and close the Monnow Bridge Gate, there might well be a siege of lengthy proportions.’

Henry Callowhill and the lawyer both got hastily to their feet.

‘That decides it, then,’ Geoffrey Heathersett said. ‘I must leave at once and take my chance on the road.’

‘Me, too,’ the wine merchant agreed.

Gilbert Foliot looked up, asking in his calm way, ‘And if the rebels capture you? Do we know how far off they are, landlord?’

‘Report reckons about three miles, sir. They’re seemingly moving at a walking pace because most of ’em aren’t mounted.’

The other two paused in their headlong dash for the door.

‘But I don’t want to be caught up in any siege,’ Henry Callowhill objected. ‘It might go on for months.’

‘True,’ grunted the lawyer. ‘But neither do I want to be captured by Buckingham and his rabble. They might hold us to ransom.’

The goldsmith gave a sarcastic smile and rose to his feet. ‘Highly unlikely, I should think. However, let us err on the safe side. Landlord, how far is it to Tintern Abbey from here, would you reckon?’

The man pursed his lips. ‘About ten miles or so, Your Honour. Maybe a bit more, maybe a bit less.’

‘A day’s walk, a morning’s ride on horseback,’ Gilbert mused. He thought for a moment while we all waited for his decision. At last, he nodded. ‘Then I suggest that’s what we do. We make for Tintern and ask for sanctuary. The rebels won’t dare besiege us there.’

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.’