Kate Sedley - The Tintern Treasure

‘Nine,’ Master Callowhill answered thickly through a mouthful of beef pudding.

The goldsmith continued, ‘And I believe you also have a daughter about the same age, Master Chapman? I’ve seen her with your wife. A pretty little thing.’

I wasn’t sure that I’d describe Elizabeth as pretty and certainly not little. Her physique was too much like mine. She would be a big woman. But I nodded agreement just the same.

Gilbert Foliot heaved a sentimental sigh. ‘A lovely age, gentlemen, when girls think their fathers are gods.’ I very much doubted this in Elizabeth’s case, but I held my tongue and tried to show a Greek profile to the others. ‘But things change,’ the goldsmith went on sadly. ‘Girls grow up and become openly defiant and sulky when their wills are crossed.’

Geoffrey Heathersett, a childless bachelor, gave a superior smile. ‘Is Ursula still giving you trouble, Gilbert? Still wanting to marry young Peter Noakes?’

There was another sigh. ‘I’m afraid so.’

‘You don’t intend to allow it?’

The younger man snorted. ‘No, I do not. Oh, Anthony Roper is quite a good sort of man and pretty plump in the pocket, I grant you. But that nephew of his is a ne’er-do-well if ever I saw one. And who exactly was his father, can anyone tell me that?’ His friends glumly shook their heads. ‘That sister of Roper’s was always a wild piece. Ran away when she was fifteen, a year younger than Ursula is now, had a child by some fellow who deserted her as soon as he’d made her pregnant, came home destitute to her brother, gave birth and incontinently died. And her son has grown up just as feckless as far as I can see. Shows no interest at all in the rope-making business. Just likes spending his uncle’s money and loafing around the town. And hanging around my daughter. Well, I don’t need to tell you, gentlemen, that’s not the sort of husband I want for my only child.’

We all shook our heads and pursed our lips in solemn agreement. But I couldn’t help reflecting that Master Foliot would have his work cut out keeping that motherless chit in leading reins. I knew by sight the woman he had installed as Ursula’s companion: one Margery Dawes, a younger cousin of Geoffrey Heathersett, a buxom woman with the lawyer’s protuberant blue eyes and a roguish smile entirely her own. According to my former mother-in-law and her best friend, Bess Simnel — and believe me, those two knew everything that went on in Bristol: nothing escaped their eagle gaze — Margery was more inclined to encourage her charge and young Noakes than not, and arranged lovers’ trysts for the pair of them. But of course I said nothing.

At this point another jug of ale and a syllabub of pears arrived at the table to replace the fowl and beef pudding, now shadows of their former selves. We fell to with a will and the conversation flagged again until once more our plates were empty. But even then, the talk was desultory. We were all by now feeling the effects of the second jug of ale and a long, hard day and beginning to think longingly of our beds. Outside, the rain still beat down and the wind had risen, causing the locals to hurry home and leave the five of us in sole command of the ale-room. The landlord, evidently impressed by our apparent friendship with three men of substance, offered Oliver and myself the use of an attic where, he assured us, we should find a comfortable bed provided with clean sheets and good wool blankets. We accepted with alacrity and, having bidden the others goodnight, followed him up three flights of rickety stairs to a room so small and low-pitched that I was unable to stand upright in it. Stripping to our shirts, we fell into bed without more ado, my eyes closing almost as soon as my head touched the pillow.

My companion, however, was not so sleepy, his natural curiosity keeping him awake until he had received some answers to his questions. I could tell by the way he wriggled around in the bed, snorted and started forming sentences which he then abandoned, that he was intent on finding out exactly what sort of a pedlar I was and why my superiors deferred to my opinion. But I was far too weary for such a catechism — although I realized that I should have to take Oliver into my confidence at some time, particularly if he insisted on travelling with me to Bristol — so I pretended to sleep, emitting some really lifelike snores and keeping them going until they became genuine.

I slept dreamlessly and soundly. And the next thing I knew, it was morning.

I was the first of the guests to awaken and made my way downstairs, where one of the servants directed me to a pump in the yard. I removed my shirt under the interested scrutiny of two chambermaids leaning over the balcony rail above me and, working the handle with my right hand, cupped my left to help pour the icy water all over my shivering body, although I might just as well have stood in the middle of the yard and let the sluicing rain do the work for me, for the weather had not improved. Indeed, it seemed to have worsened during the night; even if the wind had dropped a little, the downpour continued.

I was fully dressed by the time that Oliver finally roused himself and managed, temporarily at least, to postpone any explanations he felt were his due by urging him downstairs to breakfast. The meal was once more laid out in the ale-room, and the mouth-watering smell of hot oatcakes and fried bacon collops greeted us as we entered. One of the potboys, obviously bursting with news, started to tell us something, but was thwarted by the arrival of the landlord, closely followed by Master Foliot and his two companions.

The landlord was speaking to them over his shoulder as he deposited a dish of honey and another of dried figs on the table alongside the oatcakes and bacon.

‘There are terrible rumours in the town this morning, sirs. Rivers are bursting their banks, bridges have been swept away during the night, animals are being drowned in the fields where they stand. Some say the Severn itself has flooded. I’m afraid you might find it difficult to continue your journey.’

Lawyer Heathersett chewed his bottom lip. ‘I shall at least have to try,’ he said uncertainly. ‘I have an important case coming up next week at the Bristol Assize.’

‘And I have a consignment of wine due from Spain in three days’ time,’ added Henry Callowhill.

Gilbert Foliot made no comment but he, too, looked dubious, as though there were affairs of the moment calling him home. I wasn’t any too happy myself, wanting to get back to Adela and the children before the weather suddenly became colder and all the rain turned to snow and ice. Nevertheless, it would be more than foolish to set out and find ourselves stranded somewhere without hope of reaching food and shelter.

‘Your Honours are welcome to remain here as long as is necessary,’ the landlord offered hopefully and already, no doubt, feeling the coins from this extra custom jingling in his pocket.

‘We’ll discuss it over breakfast,’ the goldsmith said, moving towards the laden table.

The rest of us nodded agreement and seated ourselves around the board, Henry Callowhill taking charge of the jug of ale and pouring us all generous measures.

We talked over the situation while we ate, but came to no definite conclusion. Geoffrey Heathersett gave it as his opinion that these rumours were often gross exaggerations of the truth and, while the rest of us desperately wanted to agree with him, the question, What if they’re not? was uppermost in everyone’s mind.

We were still debating the subject — no man willing to decide for himself because it was instinctively felt that, in the circumstances, it would be much better to travel as a company rather than individually — when the ale-room door burst open and the landlord reappeared, looking white and shaken.