Timothy frowned. ‘But the man you followed to the Breton ship had, according to you, been prowling around the living quarters above the goldsmith’s shop and, again according to you, let himself out with a key. You don’t have keys to other people’s property unless they’ve been given to you.’
‘Or stolen. Or given to you by some other person than the one concerned. You’ll have to tread warily, Timothy. Without positive proof, you can’t go accusing a wealthy Bristol citizen, especially not one who is a friend of the mayor and sheriff, of treasonable activities. King Richard won’t thank you for alienating a city as rich as this one, whose wealth he may have need of one day. Take it from me, insult a Bristolian and you insult the whole population. You’re dealing here with a town that, during the reign of the second Edward, built a wall between itself and the castle and defied authority for three long years until eventually the king had to send an army with siege machines and batter it into submission. The memory of that episode still fills every man, woman and child with pride after more than a hundred and seventy years.’
‘Which just goes to show,’ Timothy spat, ‘what a lot of traitorous dogs the inhabitants of this godforsaken city really are. Oh, all right, all right!’ He waved a dismissive hand as I would have protested further. ‘I understand what you’re saying and I’ll walk carefully. But you must admit the circumstances are suspicious. Then there’s this odd business of the treasure at Tintern Abbey. Do you have any idea what it might be?’
‘How can I?’ I was suddenly impatient. ‘I told you, it’s never been found. If young Peter Noakes did discover anything, he hid it so effectively that no one can find it. But that begs the question, was there anything more than the account books and diary to be found in the first place? For fourteen years no one ever considered that there might be, and then. .’
‘And then?’ Timothy prompted.
‘And then. . Oh, I don’t know!’ I exclaimed, tired and irritated. The smoke from the fire was making my head ache, I wanted my supper and all at once I was sick of the subject, sick of going round in circles, every now and then catching, or so it seemed to me, a little gleam of light, only to lose it again. Who were those men who had arrived at Tintern Abbey all those long years ago whose crime, whatever it was, had so revolted the monks that they had begged the abbot not to give them shelter? And why had the abbot chosen to do so in spite of all their pleadings? Had the criminals brought treasure with them which he had agreed to keep concealed; treasure so valuable that he had had a special hiding place made for it in his own lodgings? And what was the connection between Walter Gurney and Sir Lionel Despenser? Because it seemed to me that this notion of there being more to the Tintern treasure than simply the original documents had arisen only after Walter had become the knight’s head groom.
Or was that, too, just my imagination?
‘Roger! Are you all right?’
Timothy’s concerned voice brought me back abruptly from where I had been floating somewhere near the ceiling, and I realized that in another moment or two I would have lost consciousness. I felt deeply ashamed of such weakness, my only excuse being that it had been a stressful year one way and another, and that I had suffered an illness during the course of the summer which had left me prey to an exhaustion which occasionally threatened to overcome me.
Fortunately, at that moment, Adela called us out to supper.
A further discussion after the meal — more fish as it was Friday — decided nothing but that Timothy would return to London the following day, after visiting the mayor and sheriff, leaving me, as he put it, to ‘poke and pry around’ in the hope that I might stumble upon some answer to the riddle of what, if anything, was going on in Bristol.
‘There’s no point in my staying,’ he said, ‘now that my identity has been revealed. If a plot is being hatched to succour Henry Tudor, then the conspirators won’t make a move while they are aware of my presence in the city.’
‘What will you tell the king?’
He grinned and slapped me on the back. ‘That the investigation is in the capable hands of his loyal subject, Roger Chapman. He will be more than satisfied.’
I groaned. Here I was, mixed up in Richard’s affairs yet again, and how it had come about I had no very clear idea. Our lives seemed destined to intertwine. The only bright spot in a day which seemed to have flashed past in a series of not altogether pleasant surprises was that while Timothy and I had been talking John Carpenter had arrived to mend the damaged shutter, so I was spared another uncomfortable night sleeping — or rather not sleeping — in the kitchen.
But if I had expected a well-earned rest, I was destined to disappointment. My sleep was troubled by dreams. In one, Timothy and I were building a wall between ourselves and the goldsmith’s house in St Peter’s Street when Oliver Tockney arrived to say that the king was coming and asking what I had done with his pack as he daren’t go home without it. ‘It’s in Gloucester Abbey,’ I said, and the next minute I was standing looking down at Robert of Normandy’s effigy in the choir. A second later, I was tapped on the shoulder by Jane Spicer, holding Juliette’s baby in her arms and saying, ‘That’s the wrong tomb. It’s the other one.’
And then I woke up.
It was Adela who was tapping my shoulder. ‘Wake up, Roger! You’ve been tossing and turning all night. I’ve hardly had a wink of sleep and now it’s high time we were stirring.’
She sounded aggrieved, looking as little refreshed as I felt myself. And to make matters worse, I could hear rain pattering at the shutters and a rising wind moaning around the housetops. Moreover, I knew that today I must get out with my pack or money would be in short supply, a circumstance for which I should quite rightly get the blame. As I dragged on my clothes preparatory to staggering downstairs and braving the icy water of the pump, I roundly cursed Timothy Plummer for leaving me with the responsibility of discovering what — if anything at all — was going on in Bristol that was a threat to King Richard’s peace.
Breakfast was a quiet meal, even the children appearing somewhat subdued. The next day being Sunday, Adela announced that she would hear the passages of scripture that they should have learned by heart as soon as she had washed the dishes. This was greeted with a general moan which evoked my sympathy. I had endeavoured to teach them a little Latin from my own scanty knowledge, but it was not enough. They learned by rote, reproducing the sounds without any clear idea of what they were saying. Occasionally, in my more heretical moments, I wondered if anyone would ever continue Wycliffe’s work and eventually translate Holy Writ into English. It was not, naturally, a thought that I expressed out loud.
I was struggling to make sense of my dream. The building of the wall had undoubtedly been prompted by the episode in Bristol’s past that I had told to Timothy the previous afternoon, and that had led on to Edward II and his tomb in Gloucester Abbey. No great mystery there then! And yet I couldn’t rid myself of the notion that the dream had been of more significance than that. It had been trying to tell me something, but I was too stupid to see what it was. There was another thing, too, niggling away at the back of my mind; something Adam had said. But what? And I also kept seeing in my mind’s eye the contents of my pack strewn across the kitchen floor. Why, I had no idea. I was tired. I was feeling overwhelmed with responsibilities and people. I needed, as was so often the case with me, to be by myself.
What better excuse then than to get out on the open road, away from my nearest and dearest, for the most cogent of all reasons, to make some money? Breakfast over, I rose briskly to my feet and announced my intention.
Adela expressed her approval, but frowned when I said that I might be away for a night, or even two.