The Tintern Treasure (27 page)

And had he not really run away, but been murdered? The more I considered the question, the more likely a possibility it became. I knew for a fact that the horse Sir Lionel had accused him of stealing had not been stolen at all, but was being ridden by the man whom I had seen in St Mary le Port Street and, later, board the Breton ship. At the time I had thought the stranger might be Walter Gurney himself, but now I felt certain I was wrong. It seemed probable that the man was a Tudor agent who had been visiting Gilbert Foliot. I remembered the supper things set out before the fire the evening that Henry Callowhill and I had called on the goldsmith unexpectedly; the best glass and napery produced for someone of consequence. A valued customer the goldsmith had said, which had appeared to be a valid explanation at the time. But now, I wondered . . .

‘You've gone all quiet, lad.' Mistress Shoesmith reproached me. ‘The cat got your tongue?'

‘I'm sorry,' I apologized. ‘I was thinking about that grave and . . . and what you said about it being one of Sir Lionel's kitchen hands. You're sure of that? You're certain it wasn't one of his dogs?'

She gave her infectious gurgle of laughter. ‘Of course I'm certain. He told my Jacob so, and my Jacob wouldn't have made it up. He's not got your brains, but he ain't stupid either. It's you who must've got hold of the wrong end of the stick, lad. Which wouldn't surprise me – not if you'd been in a trance like the one you were in just now. I'd to speak to you three or four times before I was able to get your attention.'

‘I'm sorry,' I said again. ‘I was thinking.'

‘Well, that's what I mean. My Jacob, he don't do much thinking, but he understands what's said to him in simple, straightforward English.'

It was, and is, my firmly held contention that English is neither simple nor straightforward – there are too many different languages all mixed up together and vying for supremacy – but this was neither the time nor the place to argue the point. In any case, we were now within sight of Keynsham Abbey and the carter was enquiring whereabouts Mistress Shoesmith wished to be set down.

‘The cobbler's shop at the far end of the High Street,' she said. ‘You can put Master Chapman down with me.' She produced her purse and some coins changed hands which the carter quickly pocketed.

‘Are you returning to Bristol on Monday?' I asked him, but he shook his head.

‘Goin' on to Glastonbury. Two cases of these here candles are for the abbey.'

I was struck by a sudden inspiration. Brother Hilarion, my old Novice Master, was one of the most learned men I knew.

‘Will you take me with you?' I asked. ‘And then back to Bristol after that?' I, too, produced my purse and gave it a shake. There was the satisfactory sound of money chinking.

‘Done,' he said. ‘But I'll be starting early, as soon as it's light. I'll be staying at that ale-house, down in the dip there between them two slopes. Don' be late, 'cos I shan't wait. Understood?'

I assured him it was, grabbed my pack and cudgel from the back of the cart and, with Mistress Shoesmith, watched him drive away back along the street to make his first call.

It was by now well past the dinner hour, the carter having taken the five-mile journey at a leisurely pace, certainly below the capabilities of his horse, and I was ravenous. Fortunately, Mistress Shoesmith, as her comfortable shape implied, was also a hearty eater and her first action, once she had shepherded me through the cobbler's shop to the living quarters behind, was to berate the little maid we found dozing there for taking the pot of stew off the fire. Being a just woman, however, she relented almost at once, admitting she had not been expected for at least another day.

‘There, there! Don't grizzle, Betsy. I didn't mean it. Just get the pot back over the heat. This is a friend o' mine, Roger, who's going to stay a night or two. And when you've done that, you can take my bag upstairs. Where's the master?'

‘Gone out, deliverin' the mended shoes. 'E'll be back soon.'

Her mistress nodded briskly. ‘Very well. Now stop gawping at Roger like you've never seen a good-looking man before and bustle about.' The dame turned to me. ‘The accommodation ain't much, lad, as you can see, but what there is you'm more than welcome to share for however long you want to stay. There're two rooms upstairs, one that I share with my Jacob and a little one that Betsy sleeps in. But it won't hurt her to sleep in the kitchen for a night or two.'

I immediately protested, at the same time trying to press my share of the carter's fee on my hostess, who promptly rejected it with every appearance of being mortally insulted. In fact, she began to wheeze in such a distressed manner that I was forced to desist and assure her that I was only jesting. Also, when Betsy reappeared, she expressed perfect willingness to give up her room to me for as many nights as I wished, at the same time giving me such a broad wink, accompanied by an alluring swing of her hips, that I at once scented danger. If I didn't find her in my bed, either that night or the one after, I should be very surprised. Disappointed, too. She was a cosy little armful.

Mistress Shoesmith and I had just finished our bowlfuls of rabbit stew, and I was about to start on my second, when we heard voices raised in the shop and, a moment later, the cobbler entered the kitchen, to be brought up short by the sight of his wife and a perfect stranger sitting at the table. Mistress Shoesmith greeted him rapturously.

‘I've come home early, my dear,' she said, rising and casting herself into his arms. ‘Mary and I don't rub along too well at the best of times, as you well know, and this visit she just ruffled me up the wrong way right from the start. So here I am, two days early. And this is a young friend of mine, Roger Chapman, who's stopping with us tonight and tomorrow. He's a pedlar and hoping to do a bit of trade today and make some money for his wife and kinder. Roger, this is my Jacob, what you've heard me speak about.'

Jacob Shoesmith was as skinny as his wife was plump, the classic pairing that I had noted so often in my life; the attraction of opposites. But in nature they seemed well matched, he accepting my presence without demur and indeed smiling a welcome without demanding any further explanation. He returned his wife's embrace with a fervour equal to her own.

‘I've allus said your Mary's a sharp-tongued shrew,' was his sole comment before turning to the maid. ‘'Ere, Betsy, you seen a pair o' black Spanish leather boots anywhere? I should've taken 'em with me to Sir Lionel's, but somehow I mislaid 'em . . . Ah! There they be!' He pointed to a corner of the kitchen. ‘Now, how did they get in here? Must've walked by theirselves.' He and the two women laughed heartily at his joke. Then he called out, ‘Found 'em, sir! They're in here. I'll bring 'em out.'

But before he could do so, another man entered the living quarters without so much as a by-your-leave and stood, looking contemptuously around him.

I knew at once who he was. He was the man I had seen in the courtyard of the Despenser manor house and, later, in Bristol, boarding the Breton ship.

W
hy did I feel so sure of that? At no time had I seen his features clearly enough to warrant such certainty. But there was something about his stance, the way he held himself, the arrogant set of his head on the broad shoulders, that left me in no doubt. I was also convinced that he was not Walter Gurney. His presence dominated the little room and he looked about him with a confidence that no servant, whatever his status, could command. He was a man used to consorting on equal terms with the very highest company. If he had indeed been Gilbert Foliot's recent guest, I could understand the effort made to impress him; the silver, the glass, the leaping fire, the best armchair. The boots, too, which he almost snatched from the cobbler's grasp, were fashioned from the very best Cordoban leather.

‘You're a damn careless fellow, mislaying them like that,' he said, and I noticed that his English was slightly accented, not so much in the manner of a foreigner speaking a strange tongue, but more after the fashion of a native who had spent many years abroad. Brittany, perhaps? With Henry Tudor?

‘I'm sorry, I'm sure, sir,' the cobbler apologized. ‘I dunno 'ow they got in 'ere from the workshop. I 'ope it ain't delayed Your Honour's journey too much.'

The man vouchsafed no reply to this observation, merely repeating over his shoulder, ‘You're a damn careless fellow. I don't know why Sir Lionel puts up with you.' The next moment he was gone, the curtain between the inner room and the shop rattling noisily on its rings.

‘The impudence of it!' my hostess exclaimed wrathfully. ‘What did he mean by that? I think I'll go after him and give him a piece of my mind.'

‘Now, now my girl,' her husband said, laying a hand on her arm. ‘Not so hasty. The gen'leman's got right on 'is side. I shouldn't've forgotten 'is boots. Nor Sir Lionel's red Moroccan slippers neither. I don' know what's got into me this morning. I'll 'ave t' go to the manor with them this afternoon.'

Mistress Shoesmith was not to be pacified. ‘That ugly brute,' she declared hotly, ‘could've taken Sir Lionel's slippers with him and saved you a journey. He must be staying at the manor. 'E wouldn't be likely t' be staying anywhere else.'

‘Now 'old yer 'orses, dearie. 'Old yer 'orses! First, it's my fault entirely fer bein' so bloody forgetful. Must be gettin' old or something. Second, the gen'leman ain't goin' back t' the manor. 'E 'ad 'is 'orse waitin' fer 'im outside and 'e's off down Cornwall way. Won't be comin' back. Leastways, so 'e says. And there ain't no reason not t' believe 'im. So I'll just 'ave t' trudge to the manor again. Serve me right an' all. Maybe I won't be so careless in the future.' He turned towards me. ‘Now tell me again oo this is. Didn't catch it proper the first time.'

So the introductions and explanations were gone through for a second time and Jacob Shoesmith welcomed me as warmly as his wife, generously bidding me to consider their home as mine for as long as was necessary.

‘And now, my dear,' his wife exhorted me, ‘if you want t' do some selling, you'd best get out right away. Fer it's Sunday tomorrow and I heard you make arrangements with Joseph Sibley to go on to Glastonbury with him on Monday. Besides, it gets dark early these days. You'll be back fer supper, o' course.'

I took the hint and shouldered my pack somewhat reluctantly, the goodwife's rabbit stew lying heavily on my stomach. But it also gave me the opportunity I had been looking for.

‘Let me take Sir Lionel's slippers to the manor for you, Master Shoesmith,' I offered, holding out my hand for them. ‘It will save you another journey.'

There was the inevitable argument of course, husband and wife both protesting that I didn't need to go beyond the village, and certainly not as far as the manor, while I insisted that it made no difference to me whatsoever. In the end, of course, I won. I made certain of that. I had been wondering how I could get inside the manor again if I was refused entry on the grounds of peddling my goods, and this gave me the perfect opportunity.

So, with the slippers wrapped in a piece of old sacking and tucked safely under my arm, my pack on my back and my cudgel in my hand I set out, promising to return in due course for supper.

To my great relief, the gatekeeper on this occasion was a stranger to me, for my fear had been that the man called Fulk, or the other servant, Robin, would have denied me access, a fear fully justified when I encountered the former as I crossed the courtyard.

‘What in the Devil's name are you doing here?' he growled, planting himself directly in my path and showing an ugly, unwelcoming face.

I explained my errand, but almost without knowing what I was saying as I stared, fascinated, at his right cheek where four long abrasions were just beginning to show signs of healing. I noticed, too, as I had not done previously, how tall and muscular he was. I remembered the old beggar telling me how poor Oliver Tockney had clawed at his murderer's face as he was strangled, and also Henry Callowhill's and Lawyer Heathersett's description of two big, burly men who, they were convinced, were watching them and their houses. And almost immediately, right on his cue, the other servant, the one called Robin, appeared around a corner of the chapel and strolled across to join his fellow servant.

‘What's the trouble, Fulk?'

Robin, too, was a heavily built man of an equal height with the other, a fact which made me catch my breath and then glance away quickly, in case I should be accused of staring. Could these be the two men who had committed the robberies, who had killed Oliver Tockney in order to steal and search his pack? If I were right, and I felt almost certain that I was, it meant that their master must have put them up to it.

Before Fulk could reply to Robin's question, another voice, that of Sir Lionel himself, posed the selfsame query. The man turned and indicated me. The knight's well-marked eyebrows flew up.

‘Master Chapman, what a surprise! I'm afraid that if you are still hoping to see Walter Gurney, you will be disappointed. He has not returned.'

‘Nor your horse, either, I suppose?'

He looked a little nonplussed for a moment before he recollected.

‘No, nor my horse.'

‘Well, that's not why I'm here,' I said. ‘I've given up all hope of speaking to Master Gurney. I've come to deliver these.' And I held out the slippers, freed from their sacking wrapping.

He looked startled. ‘What . . . I mean why . . .?'

I explained as briefly as I could. ‘And Cobbler Shoesmith sends his most abject apologies for his forgetfulness. It seems he also mislaid your friend's boots, but that mistake has also been rectified.'