Kate Sedley - The Tintern Treasure

‘Lawyer Heathersett,’ I said, rising respectfully to my feet and nudging the Yorkshireman to do the same. ‘What’s this story, sir, of rebellion in the south?’

He peered at me short-sightedly with his protuberant, pale blue eyes, then fiddled in his pouch, finally producing a pair of spectacles which he perched precariously on the bridge of his nose.

‘Do you know me, my man?’ He stared harder, then suddenly added, ‘Ah! Yes! It’s Roger the chapman, isn’t it? Forgive me for not knowing you at once, Master Chapman. My eyes are not what they were.’

Oliver Tockney and the landlord turned to stare at me. The latter looked thoroughly taken aback. ‘You’re acquainted with this man, Your Honour?’ he asked dubiously.

The lawyer nodded vigorously. ‘Oh, yes. Most certainly. He’s very well known in Bristol, where we come from. Quite one of our more famous citizens.’ His tone was dry and, I thought, a little mocking, but to my relief, he didn’t elaborate.

Curiosity was written in every line of the landlord’s face, but all he said was, ‘I’m just about to get Your Honour’s supper. Indeed, my goodwife’s already preparing it. But. . But if you’d be obliging enough to tell us what you know. . how these rumours of rebellion came about. . where you heard them. . if they’re true or not. .’

‘Yes, yes.’ Lawyer Heathersett drew nearer the fire, spreading his delicate, almost transparent hands to the flames, his thinning grey hair still damp from the storm and plastered to his skull. A thought struck him. ‘Is my horse being properly cared for?’ he enquired anxiously.

‘As if he were my own,’ the landlord reassured him. A jerk of his head indicated that Oliver Tockney should vacate his stool, and promptly. Our host had patently become nervous of me, unsure of my status. A pedlar who was hailed almost as an equal by a lawyer was outside of his experience.

Master Heathersett — his Christian name was Geoffrey, I suddenly recalled — took the proffered seat and shivered as yet another squall of wind and rain hit the shutters and the candles once more guttered in the draught.

‘The first rumours reached Bristol before I left home, last Thursday. Who brought them I’ve no idea, but the town is always full of strangers, as you know, Master Chapman. I think the first I heard was on the Monday and, to begin with, I discounted it all as malicious gossip. Up until then, everyone had spoken well — more than well, if the truth be told — of King Richard, and it seemed universally acknowledged that Parliament’s offer of the crown to him had been a very good thing. But as the week wore on, other and more convincing details reached us. Many of the late king’s friends and loyal supporters in the south and west had risen on behalf of his son and were determined to restore the boy to his throne. There was a story that an attempt had been made to rescue him and his brother, the little Duke of York, from the Tower. By the time I left Bristol for Hereford early Thursday morning, the rumours were gaining credence everywhere, and when I reached Gloucester, proclamations against the rebels confirmed their truth.’

The lawyer paused as his supper was borne triumphantly into the ale-room by the goodwife, who had produced a fricassee of chicken and mushrooms in very short order and was expecting to be congratulated on her efforts.

Nothing but silence greeted her, however, and she unloaded her tray, setting a place for one on the table with an offended sniff. There was also a certain amount of thumping and spilled ale as she placed another full jug and a fresh beaker alongside the dish of fricassee. Then the door banged behind her and we heard her muttering angrily to herself as she retreated to the kitchen. The landlord raised his eyebrows at my fellow pedlar and myself — a look which plainly said, Women! — but which went unnoticed by the lawyer as he drew his stool to the table and set about his supper with a will.

I gave up my stool to the landlord, dragged forward a bench from beside the opposite wall and shared it with Oliver Tockney. We allowed Master Heathersett to take the edge off his hunger before continuing to question him.

I got in first. ‘You were saying, sir, that proclamations against the rebels were being issued at Gloucester, in which case there can be no doubt that these rumours are true and that there has been a rising in the south and west in favour of the lord Edward. Do you have any idea of what is happening elsewhere?’

The lawyer made no answer, his mouth being full, rendering it impossible for him to reply immediately. But Oliver Tockney said, ‘If the news has reached York, King Richard will be on his way south to confront the rebels. He may in any case have already started on his return journey to London.’

And not before time, I thought to myself. The king had, in my estimation, lingered far too long in his beloved Yorkshire. It would not endear him to his subjects in the south, whose suspicions of anyone living north of The Wash were ineradicably inbred.

With a determined effort, Lawyer Heathersett cleared his mouth, waving his spoon about in an agitated manner as he did so. When he was at last able to speak, he said excitedly, ‘But that’s not all! I haven’t told you everything yet.’ He took a gulp of ale and continued, ‘I’m here on business with a fellow lawyer. Here, in Hereford. He, himself, has only just returned from Wales and he says that the Welsh are also up in arms on behalf of Henry Tudor. .’

‘Henry Tudor!’ I broke in scornfully. ‘No one’s going to rebel in favour of Henry Tudor! He hasn’t a shred of entitlement to the throne!’

Geoffrey Heathersett’s judicial instincts asserted themselves. ‘Indeed, he has,’ he argued with asperity, ‘on both the spear and distaff side.’

‘Both bastard lines,’ I contested hotly. ‘Neither the Beauforts nor the Tudors have a legal claim to the throne.’

The lawyer shrugged. ‘That won’t stop the disaffected backing them. Henry Tudor is the last scion of the House of Lancaster, and the Lancastrians, as you know, have never accepted the Yorkist claim to be the legitimate heirs of Richard II. Besides’ — he gestured once more with his spoon, flicking bits of fricassee in all directions and his voice rising almost to a squeak — ‘according to my friend, there’s another, much more serious rumour gaining ground in Wales.’ He drew a deep breath and lowered his voice to its normal level. ‘And that is that the two boys, the two princes, have been murdered in the Tower on the orders of the king.’

There was an aghast silence. The landlord sat as though turned to stone while Oliver Tockney and I looked at one another in total and utter disbelief.

‘What a fucking great lie!’ Oliver roared, so loudly that the lawyer jumped and spilled gravy down his tunic.

At the same moment, I pounded the table and demanded, ‘Surely you don’t believe such vicious nonsense, do you?’

I was remembering some words of King Richard’s, spoken to me back in the summer. ‘You have saved the life of a young boy, a very precious thing.’ Moreover, I knew the man — had known him, on and off, for the past twelve years — and I would swear to his probity and honour. He was deeply religious, but even if he weren’t, he would never order the death of any child, let alone his own nephews. And in any case, why would he need to? Parliament had accepted his right and title to the crown. He had been consecrated king in Westminster Abbey.

I felt confident that the rebellion would come to nothing. King Richard had been a seasoned soldier since the age of eleven. He was perfectly capable of putting down any revolt against him. The story of the murders would then be disproved. The lie had been concocted by someone or other for his or her own ends. But who that person was and what those ends were was not yet clear.