‘Dating from when exactly?’ Geoffrey Heathersett queried. His lawyer’s mind liked to have things neatly labelled.
The abbot speared a slice of venison on the end of his knife and waved it with an airy gesture. ‘My dear sir, I’ve told you! It’s no more than a page or so. There is nothing to date it with any accuracy. It’s only because of the books of accounts that were found with it that Brother Librarian considers we might date it to the year 1326. But of course there is no reason why we should make that assumption.’
‘I wonder,’ I observed, helping myself liberally from the dish of parsnips, ‘why it was considered necessary to conceal such an innocuous collection of documents in a secret hiding place.’
Gilbert Foliot signalled his agreement. ‘I’ve often thought the same thing, Master Chapman.’ He again turned to the abbot. ‘I suppose the secret compartment is now sealed?’
Our host looked surprised. ‘It was sealed almost immediately after its discovery. Its contents were removed and then it was closed. Did you ever see it?’
The goldsmith nodded. ‘I was shown it at the time of the funeral, and the documents as well. As you so rightly say, Lord Abbot, an unremarkable collection. A couple of abbey account books and the diary pages. One can see no reason at all why they should have been hidden. That was why I asked if anything more had ever been discovered.’
‘Not to my knowledge,’ the abbot answered thickly, his mouth full of venison. He was plainly tired of the subject. ‘Well, gentlemen, tell me what brings you to this part of the country, and in such terrible weather.’
He so obviously did not include Oliver and myself in this invitation that we were able to apply ourselves wholeheartedly to our food and listen with only half an ear to what the others were saying. The lawyer had had business both in Hereford and on this side of the Severn — something to do with bequests from a will, I think — and the same was true of the other two. Business had brought them from home in weather that, they declared, had not been so very bad at the outset of their journeys. It had, it seemed, been pure chance that had seen all three fetch up at the same inn at Monmouth.
‘Nevertheless,’ Gilbert said, ‘it was a happy circumstance as things fell out. It’s better to have company in the sort of storms we have experienced these past few days than to be on one’s own.’
The other two murmured their hearty agreement, but for my own part, while not doubting their sincerity, I had reservations about the goldsmith’s. It seemed to me that there had been a certain constraint in his tone that suggested he was not entirely pleased at this reunion with old friends and acquaintances; that he would be happier on his own. I fancied I was not alone in this opinion: I saw the lawyer give him a shrewd, sidelong glance beneath half-closed lids, but he made no comment.
‘News has reached us from overseas,’ said the abbot, ‘that the king of France is dead.’
I raised my head sharply from the contemplation of my empty plate. The rumour I had heard was true, then. The others seemed unsurprised.
‘Yes, so I believe,’ Gilbert Foliot answered. ‘At the end of August.’
‘The penultimate day,’ Geoffrey Heathersett agreed pedantically.
The abbot murmured, ‘The feast day of Saint Felix.’
At this juncture, our dirty plates were removed and clean ones set before us. A truly majestic apple pie was placed in the centre of the table, together with a pitcher of cream, and we were all invited by our host to help ourselves and not to stint our portions. This being done, silence reigned once more as we again filled our mouths and bellies. A different wine was produced and poured into our glasses by the head server — a slightly more acidic-tasting drink, this, to counterbalance the luscious sweetness of the pie — and I could not help reflecting that this style of living had surely never been envisaged by Robert of Molesme when he established his new Order at Citeaux. In fact, I was absolutely certain it hadn’t, Robert having been the original aesthete. However, I wasn’t grumbling.
It concerned me somewhat that I had not previously heard definite confirmation of King Louis’s death, and that almost two months had elapsed since King Edward’s old enemy and benefactor had followed him to the grave. It proved — had I needed proof — that I had been away from Bristol far too long (and for no good reason as it had turned out). Bristol’s trade with very nearly every country in Europe, with foreign ships tying up daily along the Backs, ensured that the town’s citizens were early recipients of news from abroad.
Someone nudged me in the ribs and I realized that the abbot was condescending to address me. ‘Master Foliot, here, tells me that you were at the king’s coronation, Master, er, Chapman. And also afterwards, at the coronation feast.’ He smiled incredulously.
‘In a very humble capacity, My Lord. Extremely humble.’
‘Don’t overdo it,’ Oliver Tockney muttered.
‘It was well attended, I believe?’
I inclined my head. ‘I have it on good authority that it was the best attended coronation within living memory.’
‘Mmm.’ This noncommittal noise might have meant something or nothing. I waited. The prelate continued after some moments, ‘I understand a bill is to be passed at the next meeting of Parliament confirming Richard’s right and title to the crown.’ He regarded me thoughtfully for a moment or two before glancing at the others around the table. ‘Which makes these rumours of the young princes’ death absurd, wouldn’t you agree, gentlemen? Why order the commissioning of such a crime, when the prize is his already?’
‘There has been a rising in the south-west on behalf of the princes and, as far as I know, it has not yet been put down,’ Gilbert Foliot pointed out. ‘Maybe the king feels his crown is unsafe while his nephews are alive.’ He saw me look at him and smiled. ‘Oh, it’s all right, Roger. You needn’t doubt my loyalty. I don’t think for one moment that King Richard is capable of such a heinous sin. I’m no supporter of either young Edward or of Henry Tudor.’
‘Talking of the latter,’ the abbot broke in, ‘didn’t he at one time live in the household of your wife’s kinsman? The Earl of Pembroke who is buried here?’
The goldsmith nodded. ‘He did indeed, My Lord, for several years after his uncle, Jasper Tudor, fled abroad. William Herbert was eventually given Jasper’s old title and there was some thought at one time of marrying Henry to William’s daughter, Maud. I understood from my wife — whom God assoil! — that William was very fond of the boy, although he never wavered in his loyalty to the House of York.’
‘No, indeed,’ agreed the abbot. ‘A loyalty for which he paid with his life.’ He gave another glance around the table. ‘Well, my masters, if everyone has finished, no doubt you would like to retire for the night. You have all had long and tiring journeys. I am sure you are ready for your beds. Compline will be in an hour’s time, if any of you care to join us.’
There was a general murmur which might have signified assent or then again, might not. I think we all hoped that we could well be asleep by then and not to be roused without difficulty. I was good at feigning sleep when necessary, but felt that in the present case I wouldn’t have to pretend. I was bone weary and could hardly keep my eyes from closing. I was sure the others must feel the same.
A general scarping back of stools ensued as we rose at last from the table. Half the pie remained uneaten, but I think I spoke for everyone when I pressed a hand to my belly and said I was unable to eat another crumb.
As we moved towards the dining-parlour door, it was suddenly flung open and one of the brothers appeared, out of breath and slightly dishevelled. He was plainly agitated and forgot to close the door behind him. Outside, the storm still raged.