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.’
‘My friend? Ah, yes! He’s. . He’s left here now.’
‘He has business in Cornwall, I understand.’ I hadn’t seen the stranger ride away, but I drew a bow at a venture. ‘A very fine horse he was riding. Rather like the one you described Walter Gurney as having stolen.’
I saw his eyelids flicker for a second, no doubt silently cursing himself for having described the animal in such detail. He said curtly, ‘Something like,’ and rapidly changed the subject. ‘So you’re here to sell your wares, eh? I fear you won’t find much of a market in Keynsham. A stingy lot, the inhabitants — tight with their money.’ He indicated that I should hand the slippers to Fulk and went on, ‘I see you have your pack with you. Come inside. You may have something my housekeeper is in crying need of.’
‘In that case, I’ll go round to the kitchens.’
‘No, no! Come into the hall and display your goods in comfort. Robin, tell Dame Joliphant I need her and then take those slippers to my bedchamber.’
He nodded dismissal to both men and turned towards the door, but I hung on my heel. The chapel was to our right and the graveyard, behind its white paling, alongside it.
‘This is where your dog — Caesar, did you say he was called? — is buried, I think you told me.’ I pointed to a mound where the grass and tangle of bindweed, with its white, trumpet-like flowers, had not yet taken hold. ‘Is that it?’
Once again, Sir Lionel appeared to be slightly taken aback before making a recovery.
‘Er. . Yes.’
‘A big dog by the size of his grave.’
‘A mastiff,’ he answered shortly. ‘Now, shall we go in?’
Indoors, he led me to the dais at the far end of the hall and bade me set out the contents of my pack on the table. The housekeeper arrived, somewhat flustered by this peremptory summons, and was told to see if there was anything she needed. But I was more interested in the actions of my host who stayed glued to my side, closely scrutinizing every article I produced and laid out for inspection. And, finally, when the pack was emptied and he judged that my attention had been firmly claimed by Dame Joliphant, I saw him, out of the corner of one eye, lift the pack and shake it in order to satisfy himself that nothing remained inside.
Nothing did, and as soon as I had finished supplying the housekeeper’s modest requirements, I found myself being shown the door with a most impolite speed. Whatever Sir Lionel had hoped he might find in my pack, he had been disappointed and now had no further use for my company. Indeed, I had probably become an embarrassment to him with my unfortunate recollections of things he had said to me on the previous occasion; lies which he had concocted on the spur of the moment and by now half-forgotten.
I spent the rest of the short autumnal day hawking my wares around the Keynsham cottages, and little reward I had for my efforts. This, however, was not altogether due to the parsimony of the good folk of the village. To say that my heart was not in my work would be no more than the truth. I felt sure that those goodwives who did inspect my wares found me absent-minded and my conversation less than scintillating. After all, much of the pleasure of inviting a chapman, or indeed any itinerant member of society, into their homes was to hear the latest gossip and news of the outside world, and my vague, terse and occasionally downright impatient answers to their questions must have been a great disincentive to part with their money. But my mind was elsewhere.
I was trying to come to terms first and foremost with the idea that Walter Gurney was the occupant of that new grave in Sir Lionel’s chapel graveyard. It was obvious that the story of the dog had been a lie told me at the time in order to put me off the scent in case I noticed the freshly turned earth and grew suspicious. (In the event, the untruth had proved unnecessary and had only served to arouse my suspicions at a later date. The knight must again be rueing his too-ready tongue.) But that begged the question as to why he had thought I might suspect him of doing away with his groom.
I recollected his sceptical expression when I had revealed my reason for wishing to speak to Walter. He had plainly not believed me, which could only mean that he thought my business to be of a secret nature. That I was working under instructions from the crown? Yes, probably. If he and Gilbert Foliot were truly hand in glove with one of Henry Tudor’s agents, they would be wary of everyone who had known associations with King Richard. But what information had Walter Gurney possessed that might be of value to me as a spy?
The second thing that exercised my mind was the nagging conviction that Fulk and Robin were the two men responsible not just for Oliver Tockney’s murder, but also for that of the old beggar who lived in Pit Hay Lane and for the break-ins. But in that case, they had to be acting at the instigation of their master and possibly of the goldsmith, too, which, if true, bolstered my belief that the robbers were after only one thing. And that surely had to be whatever it was Peter Noakes had found — or they thought he had found — at Tintern Abbey.
Timothy had told me that Henry Tudor’s coffers were reported as being almost empty, and that money to pay the mercenary troops necessary to help him invade England was his most pressing need. So the obvious conclusion to draw was that the treasure was either cash or something that could be converted into cash. And whatever it was had been left at the abbey a century and more ago by men fleeing from the law; men for whom the monks themselves had felt the utmost revulsion but whom the abbot was willing to assist. Reluctantly, perhaps, and denying them more than two nights’ shelter from their pursuers, but nevertheless afraid to withhold his aid.