Kate Sedley - The Tintern Treasure

‘So what are you advising me to do?’ I asked.

‘I’m not advising you to do anything,’ he snapped. ‘I thought I’d made that clear.’ Frowningly, he reconsidered this statement. ‘All right! I’m advising you not to pursue this matter until you have positive evidence that Gilbert and that friend of his, Sir Lionel Despenser, are planning to aid Henry Tudor. And it seems to me that you won’t have that unless this Tintern treasure, as you call it — if, that is, it exists at all except in your imagination — turns up. Let sleeping dogs lie. Just accept that these break-ins, the murder of that pedlar who was with us in Wales, young Noakes’s death are simply what they seem to be — street robbers going about their business, a chance killing for gain, a youth accidentally drowned in a river.’

He was right, of course. Everything that had happened had a reasonable explanation. Even the attack on me in Keynsham had been explained away by Joseph Sibley. I could suspect what I liked about the goldsmith and Lionel Despenser, but unless I could force them to show their hand, it was all speculation.

‘Thank you for your time, Master Heathersett,’ I said and got to my feet. ‘I appreciate your advice.’

He nodded. ‘I’m sure,’ he added slyly, ‘that your royal master will understand your predicament.’

There it was again, that presumption that I was working for the king! In a way I supposed I was. But not on his orders nor in his pay. I was about to protest my innocence yet again when the lawyer interrupted me.

‘Gilbert Foliot isn’t the only man you need to look at in this town,’ he said dryly.

I turned back, raising questioning eyebrows, but he waved his pen at me. ‘I’m saying no more. Now, if you’ll please go, I have work to do. Edwin will show you out.’

I hesitated, but he drew some documents towards him, bending his head over them until his nose almost touched the parchment. I should get no more out of him, so I left.

Young Master Pennyfeather, who must have had his ear to the door, was waiting to bid me a deferential ‘good morning’.

Adela was watching impatiently for my return.

‘You said you’d be as quick as you could,’ she reproached me. ‘Did you see Master Callowhill?’

‘No, he was out, so I went to visit Lawyer Heathersett instead.’ I judged it best to be frank.

‘Oh, well! In that case your journey wasn’t entirely wasted,’ my wife commented dryly. She went on, ‘I’ve decided to take Luke with me,’ and indicated the box on wheels that I had made five years previously for Adam. ‘Margaret must get used to the idea that we’re fostering him, so the more she sees of him the better. But that, unfortunately, means that Hercules insists on coming, too.’ The treacherous animal, his leading rope around his neck, was already positioned alongside the box, gazing adoringly at the baby who was waving his little fists at him and gurgling something that Adela assured me was the word ‘dog‘. (How women know these things is beyond me.) ‘So you just have Adam to look after,’ she concluded somewhat bitterly.

I looked at my son who was regarding me with wide-eyed innocence, a sure sign that he was plotting mischief.

‘He’ll be more than enough,’ I protested feelingly and accompanied my wife and family to the street door, waving them off as they made their way up Small Street. By the time I had returned indoors, Adam had disappeared. Whatever he was up to it was something quiet, so, thankfully, I let him get on with it, substituted my boots for a pair of shoes and went into the parlour for an hour or more of peace and quiet. I intended to think things through and marshal my thoughts into some sort of order, but within minutes of sitting down in my armchair — comfortably adorned with two of Adela’s hand-embroidered cushions — I was sound asleep.

I don’t know how long I’d slept — probably no more than ten minutes or so, when I was roused by knocking on the street door. Cursing, I forced myself to my feet and went to answer it. To my surprise, Henry Callowhill was standing outside, in company with Gilbert Foliot.

‘Master Chapman!’ he exclaimed, extending his hand. ‘I met your wife by the High Cross and she told me that you are wishful of speaking to me, that you had in fact called at my house a little earlier, so I thought I might as well come to visit you and find out what it is that you want. And as I had just fallen in with Master Foliot here, he’s done me the favour of accompanying me.’

I swore inwardly. As what I wanted to say to Henry Callowhill concerned my suspicions of the goldsmith, I was in something of a quandary. Wondering desperately what explanation I could offer, I invited them both inside — I could do no less — and ushered them into the parlour. I felt unjustly irritated with my wife for having interfered in my affairs. The fact that she had obviously thought she was being helpful in no way assuaged my annoyance.

I saw both men glance curiously around the parlour, but whether they were thinking it poor and ill-furnished compared with their own, or whether they were considering it as too well appointed for a mere pedlar, I was unable to decide. If the latter, then it would merely confirm their belief that I was in the pay of the king. But as to how I came by the house itself, they must know the circumstances. Everyone in Bristol knew them.

I begged the two men to sit down, waving them to the armchairs, one on either side of the hearth, and offered them refreshment.

‘I don’t keep wine,’ I said, refusing to make it sound like an apology, but then ruining the effect by assuring them that Adela’s home-brewed pear and apple cider was, if not nectar of the gods, not far short of it.

‘By all means let’s try it,’ Gilbert Foliot said. ‘I’m sure, Master Chapman, it’s every bit as good as you say.’

I detected a patronizing note, but ignored it and went off to the kitchen to find clean beakers and broach an unopened keg. When I returned to the parlour, I found Adam there. He must have wandered downstairs and entered, unaware that I was entertaining visitors.

‘Your younger son, Master Chapman?’ the wine merchant queried and I nodded, deciding it was high time I accepted Nicholas as also my own. Henry Callowhill smiled. ‘A smart little fellow. Now, Roger, what is it you wish to speak to me about?’

The awkward moment had arrived. Whilst in the kitchen, I had been cudgelling my brains to think of a subject of sufficient moment to warrant my having sought him out. But my mind was still a blank. I handed each man his beaker of cider and desperately sought some distraction.

And, miraculously, found it.

In one of Adam’s hands he was clutching the worn leather bag with the drawstring of faded and ragged blue silk that belonged to Elizabeth. Sternly, I held out my hand.

‘Give that to me, Adam! You know very well it’s not yours. You’ve been in your sister’s chamber again, stealing her things. I told you earlier this morning that you are not to do it. This time it means a whipping.’ He looked defiant. ‘What’s in the bag, anyway, that it holds such fascination for you?’

For a long moment I thought he was going to refuse and make me look a fool in front of our visitors. I could see him turning it over in his mind, whether or not it was worth a beating just for the sheer pleasure of defying me, or whether it was more dignified to capitulate gracefully. Thankfully, he decided on the latter course.

In answer to my question, he said, ‘Buttons.’

‘Buttons?’

‘Yes.’

‘What buttons?’

He looked faintly surprised. ‘The ones Bess took, o’ course.’

‘Took?’

My son heaved a sigh, plainly exasperated by my lack of intelligence.