Kate Sedley - The Tintern Treasure

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.’