‘You’ll do no such thing,’ Mistress Shoesmith said robustly. ‘You’ll spend the night with Jacob and me. What’s your name, lad?’
‘He’s called Roger Chapman,’ the carter put in before I could reply. ‘And you want to be careful of ’im, Missus. They do say there’s more to ’im than meets the eye.’
I sighed, but didn’t argue the point. It would have been of no use, anyway, so deeply entrenched now was this belief that I was an agent of some sort — although of what sort exactly no one was prepared to say — of the king.
‘Take no notice of the fool,’ I told my companion as she turned a somewhat bewildered face towards me. ‘He’s jesting.’
The carter gave another snort but, thankfully, seemed disinclined to argue the matter. Instead, he asked, ‘Not got that dog o’ yourn with you, then? Jack Nym reckons ’e’s an ’oly terror. Chases anything on two legs or four.’
‘You don’t want to believe everything Jack says,’ I snapped, irked by this criticism of my favourite. I could see by the carter’s face that he was getting ready to make a running joke of Jack’s numerous anecdotes about his difficulties with Hercules during our journey to London earlier in the year, so I said quickly, ‘Sir Lionel told me that he had recently lost a favourite dog. It was an animal he was most attached to, so he had him buried in a vacant plot of land close to the manor chapel.’
Mistress Shoesmith looked puzzled. ‘I don’t know why he should say that. Not unless you misunderstood what it was he was telling you, my dear. That there grave belongs to one of the manor servants who died sudden-like. One of the kitchen hands my Jacob were told when he took some mended boots and shoes up to the manor. Sir Lionel’s chaplain had just finished the burying of him. There weren’t nothing said about any dog.’
‘Perhaps. . Perhaps I did misunderstand him,’ I said slowly. But I sat staring before me like a man in a dream, a suspicion forming and growing in my mind until it became almost a certainty. ‘When was this?’ I asked. ‘Can you remember, mistress?’
My companion pursed her lips. ‘Well. . Not all that long ago. A week, maybe.’
‘About the time that Walter Gurney disappeared?’
She looked at me for a long moment, twisting her head round to stare at me in surprise. Then she burst out laughing. ‘Go on with you! It wouldn’t be him! He didn’t work in the kitchens. He were Sir Lionel’s head groom. Sir Lionel would’ve said if it’d been him. Very upset he were about Master Gurney’s disappearance. No, no, lad! Put that notion right out of your head.’
‘You still haven’t answered my question,’ I said.
‘What question was that?’
‘Was the death of this man, this kitchen hand so-say, about the same time as Walter Gurney’s disappearance?’
There was an uneasy silence. ‘Well. . Yes, it was,’ she admitted at last. ‘The day before. Or maybe the day after.’ Mistress Shoesmith thought about this then shook her head decidedly. ‘No. It don’t make sense. If Groom Gurney had died why would Sir Lionel not say so? And why’d he tell you he’d buried a dog?’
Why indeed? Unless he was afraid I might notice the newly turned grave and connect it to Walter Gurney’s sudden disappearance. But why not simply tell me, if he felt he had to mention it at all, what he had told everyone else? Because he was afraid of rousing my suspicions? Because he thought that I knew more than I did about something? Maybe, if he believed everything that Gilbert Foliot had hinted about me. But what was it that he thought I knew?
Perhaps it was true that he and the goldsmith were at the heart of a conspiracy to raise money for Henry Tudor and perhaps the latter had been hoping to find something of value at Tintern. But that begged the question as to why, suddenly, after so many years, he had thought there might be treasure hidden in the secret hiding place in the former abbot’s lodgings.
Once again it seemed to me that the missing link in the chain might be Walter Gurney who, on hearing that Sir Lionel Despenser of Keynsham in Somerset was in need of a groom had not hesitated, but left his home and previous employment and set off to offer his services to a man whom, as far as anyone knew, he had never met before. Had it been simply to avoid his obligations to Jane Spicer? Or had there been another motive? He had, at any rate, according to Mistress Shoesmith, boasted of a connection somewhere in the past between the Despensers and the Gurneys. But what that was, and whether or not it had any significance, I was unable to decide. Was it the real reason for his disappearance before I could speak to him?
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.