Kate Sedley - The Tintern Treasure

He was seated at a table near the door, deep in conversation with two other men who I also recognized. They, too, were Bristol citizens, the slightly younger one being Gilbert Foliot, a man of about forty, fair-haired and blue-eyed in a typically English fashion, a wealthy goldsmith with a shop in St Mary le Port Street and an expensive new house close to St Peter’s Church. He had been a widower for the past eight years and was the father of an only child, a daughter, whose name I seemed to remember was Ursula. (Although how I knew that, I wasn’t quite sure.)

The second man, Henry Callowhill, was a wine importer with at least three ships plying between Bristol and Bordeaux and southern Spain. Not quite as wealthy perhaps as Gilbert Foliot, but certainly rich enough to be venerated in a city that regarded the making and accumulation of money as one of, if not the most, desirable goals in life. He was a large, jolly man who might well have run to fat in old age had it not been for his height of almost six feet. He was married and had named his three ships after his three children, Martin, Edmund and Matilda.

‘You were right, Roger,’ Oliver Tockney breathed in my ear. ‘I owe you an apology.’

At that moment, the landlord came bustling towards us, none too pleased to have his inn invaded by a couple of pedlars, their homespun cloaks dripping water all over his nicely sanded floor. (Gentlemen, of course, were different. They were allowed to drip anywhere they chose.)

‘We’re full,’ he said before either of us could speak, ‘and very busy. You two will have to look for some other kitchen to sleep in. There’s an ale-house in the street next to this.’

‘We can pay,’ Oliver snapped and produced a handful of coins from his pouch, rattling them under the innkeeper’s nose.

The man hesitated, then, glancing over his shoulder at the trio seated behind him, shook his head.

‘This is a hostelry for gentlemen,’ he hissed. ‘You can see that for yourselves.’

‘It’s for anyone who can pay,’ Oliver answered aggressively. ‘You wouldn’t get away with this sort of attitude where I come from. One man’s as good as another up north.’

I doubted that and so, by the look on the landlord’s face, did he. But before he had time to argue the point, there was a scraping of stool legs and Gilbert Foliot was advancing on us, one hand extended in greeting.

‘Master Chapman!’ he exclaimed. ‘What are you doing in this part of the world? Or shouldn’t I ask? Is it perhaps’ — he gave an awkward laugh — ‘another secret mission for the duke? I mean,’ he added hurriedly, ‘the king. One tends to forget.’

I was conscious that Oliver Tockney and the innkeeper were regarding me open-mouthed, and it was my turn to be embarrassed.

‘No, no, sir! I’m merely earning my living which, I assure you, is what I do most of the time. Had I known what shocking storms and winds I would encounter, I should never have left Bristol.’

It was plain that the goldsmith didn’t believe me, but he was willing to leave the matter there. Indeed, his discretion was so obvious that it must have raised doubts in everyone’s mind concerning the true reason for my presence.

‘It’s all right, landlord,’ he said. ‘These two gentlemen’ — he choked slightly over the word, but continued gallantly — ‘will eat with us. And I feel sure you can find somewhere for them to sleep tonight.’

The innkeeper muttered something in reply, but he was still too busy goggling at me to argue, and merely ordered the potboy to place two more stools at Master Foliot’s table before hurrying off to the kitchen.

‘Well, Master Chapman,’ the goldsmith resumed when Oliver and I were settled, ‘this meeting is not altogether a surprise. Lawyer Heathersett here told us he’d run into you in Hereford.’

‘Yes.’ I helped Oliver to shed his pack. For all his brave talk earlier, I could see that he was a little overawed at being in the company of men so far above him in the social hierarchy.

Henry Callowhill gave me a hearty slap on the back, causing me to spill some of the ale which the potboy had just placed in front of me.

‘No necessity for you to say anything further,’ he said. ‘No need at all. We quite understand.’

Geoffrey Heathersett made no comment, simply giving me a hard stare and a sour smile, both of which might have meant anything or nothing according to how I liked to interpret them.

I made one last effort to convince the three that they were wrong. ‘Gentlemen, you are labouring under a misapprehension. I was in Hereford on some business for my wife and doing a little trade on my own account. Master Tockney — who comes from Yorkshire, by the way — and I met quite by chance, and we are here because I missed the road to Gloucester and landed us on the Welsh side of the Severn by mistake. We intended to retrace our steps to Gloucester, but when we started out this morning, we were told that the track was impassable because a large tree had been blown down overnight. According to our informant, it will probably be several days before the path is clear again, and the sidetracks are also impassable because of the mud.’

There was a moment’s silence, then Master Callowhill administered a second resounding slap on my shoulder. ‘Quite so! Quite so! We’ll say no more about it, eh?’

I gave up. And in any case, at that moment the food arrived; roast fowl with buttered parsnips and a beef pudding on the side. We all picked up spoons and knives, setting to with a will, and for quite some while there was nothing to be heard but the champing of jaws. Gradually, however, conversation became possible again.

Gilbert Foliot smiled at me across the table. ‘Gossip has it, Master Chapman, that you attended King Richard’s coronation at his personal command.’

There was no point in denying it. My former mother-in-law, Margaret Walker, and her cronies had made sure that all Bristol knew this unimportant fact.

‘In a very, very lowly position, sir, I assure you.’

‘And also the coronation banquet afterwards.’

I squirmed. ‘Again, on the very lowliest benches. If you’ve heard otherwise, it’s a blatant lie.’

The goldsmith laughed. ‘I’ll accept your word for it. I understand it was the best attended coronation for many years. Is that so?’

I grimaced. ‘As to that, I’m in no position to say. I’ve never been to a coronation before. But certainly, no one who is anyone appeared to be missing. Even Henry Tudor’s mother and stepfather were present. Lady Stanley carried Queen Anne’s train, or so I was informed by one who knew.’

‘Is that so?’ my interlocutor questioned smoothly. ‘Well, I suppose there can be very little possibility of her son ever obtaining the crown. She might as well throw in her lot with the Yorkists. Although I must admit I’m surprised. Wasn’t Thomas Stanley implicated in that plot to kill King Richard, back in the summer? The one which ended with Hastings summarily losing his head?’

‘Not summarily,’ I protested indignantly. ‘I know there were malicious rumours that he was beheaded out of hand, but I can assure you they were false. Lord Hastings was not executed until a week later, after due trial and sentence.’

‘You know that for a fact, do you?’ Lawyer Heathersett asked, staring hard at me and raising his brows.

‘Yes.’

The three older men exchanged significant glances, as much as to say that I had confirmed all they had ever heard about me was true, and I realized that I must have been steadily gaining a reputation for being the Duke of Gloucester’s — now the king’s — man without being aware of it. I opened my mouth to lodge another protest, but Gilbert Foliot suddenly decided that enough was enough, and abruptly changed the subject. ‘How’s your daughter, Henry?’ he asked, looking across the table at the wine merchant. ‘How old is she now?’