Kate Sedley - The Tintern Treasure

‘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?’