Kate Sedley: The Tintern Treasure

‘That was good.’

The stranger pushed his stool away from the table and rubbed his belly in satisfaction.

It was dark by now and candles had been lit in the ale-room. By the sound of things, the weather had worsened yet again. No locals had ventured out of doors and no other traveller had arrived to disturb the peace of my fellow pedlar and myself.

‘You were hungry.’ I nodded at the empty plate.

He nodded. ‘Aye, I was that.’

‘You’re from up north,’ I said. ‘I recognize the accent.’

He grinned assent. ‘God’s own country. You know those parts?’

‘I passed through York on my way up to Scotland with the army last year.’ I naturally didn’t enlarge upon the circumstances of my journey. ‘Your speech is not so thick as some of your countrymen. I couldn’t understand a lot of ’em.’

My companion laughed as we drew our stools closer to the old-fashioned central hearth and settled down to a steady drinking session, the considerate landlord having left a full jug of ale on the table behind us.

‘Your own accent is none so easy to follow,’ he complained, then held out his free hand. ‘Name of Oliver Tockney,’ he said. ‘What’s yours?’

I returned his clasp warmly. ‘As a child I was known as Roger Stonecarver or Carverson. It was my father’s trade. But nowadays everyone calls me Roger Chapman and it’s the name I answer to in general.’

The other nodded. ‘It’s the way you get labelled in life. My guess is that you’re from somewhere in the west. Your speech has got that burr to it. Now us, up north, our Viking ancestors gave us our distinctive way of talking.’

I took a swig of ale as another, even more violent gust of wind rattled the shutters. ‘More than likely,’ I agreed. ‘They never got a foothold in my part of the world, thanks to King Alfred and the great battle at Ethandune.’ The candles guttered in a sudden draught. ‘You’re a fair distance from home.’

‘Aye. And going further.’ He gave me a leery look and added succinctly, ‘Wife and five children.’ He offered no other explanation, and perhaps none was necessary. ‘You?’ he enquired with equal brevity.

‘Wife and three children. But I’m starting for home tomorrow.’ And I gave him a short history of how I came to be in Hereford in the first place.

He grinned appreciatively. ‘You’ve to watch yon tinkers. They’ve a reputation for being rogues and rascals. Don’ know why it should be so, but there it is.’ A squall of rain hit the shutters with the force of a handful of thrown pebbles. ‘By the Virgin, it’s a rotten evening. Saint Christopher will have his work cut out tonight, guiding any travellers foolish enough to be out in this. Let’s hope it’ll have eased off by morning.’ He hesitated for a second or two, then asked, ‘Would you be willing to have some company on your journey? I’m minded to go all the way with you to Bristol. Never seen the place and I doubt I’ll ever be this far south again. Nor will I be in the mood to give my dame the slip for so long a while.’ His pleasant face darkened. ‘But this time she deserves it.’

Once again, he didn’t enlarge on the subject, and it was obvious that he was labouring under a strong sense of grievance. But it was also obvious that he regretted having said so much. He wriggled uncomfortably on his stool and was plainly casting about in his mind for some other topic of conversation.

I supplied it for him. ‘Were you still in York back in late summer, early autumn?’ I asked.

‘I was just on the point of leaving. Why?’

‘Before I left Bristol there was talk of King Richard having staged a second coronation in the Minster. Talk that someone — Sir Walter Tyrrell was the name bandied about — had been sent back to London to collect extra robes and jewels from the Wardrobe at the Tower. The rumour wasn’t too well received down south, I can tell you. There’s always the feeling there that our new king favours the north over the southern counties.’

Oliver Tockney threw back his head and laughed out loud.‘Oh, aye! He’s a Yorkshireman to his fingertips all right is our Richard, God bless him! That would make the southrons spit, I daresay. But no one’ll ever alter him. Yorkshire’s bred in his bones. And in our new queen’s. But it wasn’t a second crowning that was held in the Minster, and so you can tell all your friends when you get back.’

‘What was it then?’

‘It was the ceremony to make his son, young Edward, Prince of Wales.’

‘Ah! No one down south seems to have thought of that.’

Yet again, wind and rain together lashed the inn. My companion and I huddled yet closer to the fire, and I threw on another log to keep it blazing. It was the sort of night when all the demons of hell seemed to be abroad.

‘I’ve heard the French king’s dead,’ Oliver remarked after several minutes’ silence.

I nodded. ‘I’ve heard the rumour, too. Whether it’s true or not, I couldn’t say. But if it is, it’ll be no loss to King Richard. King Louis never liked him, not after his refusal to take French bribes eight years back when the English invasion of France came to nought. Or was bought off, which is nearer the mark.’

My new friend regarded me curiously. ‘You speak with some authority.’

I cursed inwardly. I was always making mistakes like that. It’s not that I am, or ever have been, a particularly modest man, but the recounting of my various exploits and the answering of all the old, familiar questions has become a chore, a penance to be endured rather than relished.

‘Oh, one hears things in our line of business,’ I prevaricated. ‘You know how it is.’

To my relief, my companion seemed to accept this and lapsed once more into silence, staring gloomily into the fire, lost in his own thoughts.

There was a loud banging on the inn door, and I heard the landlord yelling for one of the potboys to go and open it. The sound of voices penetrated our cosy retreat, followed by the sound of someone trying to shake the rain from his cloak. The landlord was speaking — I could hear his questioning tone, then the tramp of feet as he and the newcomer mounted the stairs to the upper chambers. After some minutes, someone clattered down again and the landlord entered the ale-room.

‘A guest,’ he said sharply. ‘A gentleman. I’ll have to ask you two to move and continue your gossip elsewhere.’ He ignored our glares of resentment. Indeed, I doubt he even noticed them, preoccupied as he was by news that the stranger had brought. ‘He says a rebellion’s broken out in the south against the new king.’

‘Rebellion?’

Oliver Tockney and I framed the word together, incredulity in both our voices.

‘Whose rebellion?’ I added, dismay adding an edge of challenge and disbelief.

‘It’s no use asking me,’ the landlord retorted, understandably annoyed by my belligerent attitude. ‘I’m only repeating what the gentleman’s told me. And now, if you two will remove yourselves while I and my goodwife prepare his supper. .’

But I was going nowhere until I had seen and questioned this visitor for myself. My companion obviously felt the same way, because he settled himself more firmly on his stool and glared defiantly.

‘We’ve paid our shot like honest citizens,’ he announced, his north country speech becoming thicker with every word as his indignation grew.

‘Besides,’ I chorused, ‘we’d like to discover just what foundation there is for these rumours. Indeed, if they have any foundation.’

The landlord began to bluster, but before he could threaten us with eviction, the door into the ale-room opened and the new arrival appeared.

I knew him at once, although it took him a minute or two to recognize me. He was a Bristol lawyer by the name of Heathersett, an elderly bachelor who lived with his mother and had chambers in an alleyway that ran between two of the Broad Street houses, curving to the right and emerging into Wine Street, near the castle. Whatever its original name — probably Crooked or, perhaps, Elbow Lane — it was known generally as Runnymede Court on account of the fact that there were at least three men of law practicing there.