‘What happened to the Gascon?’
‘Eventually, he was murdered by the barons who resented his influence over Edward. They hoped that with Gaveston’s death, the king would amend his ways.’
‘But he didn’t?’
‘Of course not. The barons were fools to think that he would. He found another lover on whom to lavish his affection. Hugh le Despenser.’
‘Despenser?’ I demanded excitedly. ‘You think Sir Lionel might be a descendant of this Hugh?’
‘It’s possible.’ Brother Hilarion was cautious. ‘He might not be a direct descendant, of course, although I seem to recall that the younger Hugh was married and had children.’
‘The younger Hugh?’
‘He had a father of the same name who became Edward’s chief adviser. Both men were greatly resented by the barons, as I suppose I don’t need to tell you.’
‘What happened to them?’
‘Not so fast, my child. Queen Isabella, as you may well imagine, deeply resented her treatment at the hands of her husband. She was an extraordinarily beautiful woman, having inherited the good looks of her father, Philippe le Bel of France, and in the beginning, she was known as Isabella the Fair.’
‘And later?’ Something stirred in my memory. ‘Was she the queen known as the She-Wolf of France?’
Brother Hilarion gave a long drawn out sigh, obviously sorrowing for the weaknesses of mankind. ‘Yes,’ he agreed sadly. ‘Her beauty was not the only thing she inherited from her father. Philippe IV had a cruel, ruthless streak in him, as his vicious suppression of the Templars demonstrates. Isabella inherited that streak. But again, we are getting ahead of ourselves in the story.
‘Edward was due to go to France to do homage to his brother-in-law, King Charles, for the fiefs of Gascony and Ponthieu. But he was afraid to go; afraid of leaving the two Despensers without his protection. And so he did a very foolish thing. He sent Isabella as his deputy along with their elder son, the thirteen-year-old Edward of Windsor.’
‘Ah!’ I exclaimed, memory stirring once more. ‘If I remember rightly, she met a man and fell passionately in love.’
The little monk pursed his lips and stared down his nose. ‘She was a married woman,’ he said repressively, ‘and a mother four times over. She should have had more control. But you’re right. The great Marcher lord, Roger Mortimer of Wigmore, had been at the French court ever since Edward had sent him into exile for some misdemeanour — fancied or otherwise — and he was as eager for revenge on Edward as Isabella herself. Their love affair became so open, so unbridled, so scandalous, that they were ordered to leave France. So they went to Hainault, betrothed young Edward to the count’s daughter, Phillipa, and set out to invade England with an army of Hainaulters and mercenaries.
‘The English, sick and tired of the king and his minions, welcomed them with open arms. Edward’s supporters were murdered, including Bishop Stapledon of Exeter, his head hacked off with a butcher’s knife on the Cheapside cobbles. Edward and the Despensers fled westward to Bristol, along with Edward’s Chancellor, Baldock and a clerk of the court, Simon Reading.’
‘Baldock and Reading,’ I said excitedly. ‘The names in the diary.’
Brother Hilarion nodded. ‘The citizens of Bristol declared for the queen and Mortimer, managed to seize the elder Despenser and hanged him from the castle walls. Afterwards, they cut his body into collops and fed him to the wild dogs which scavenge for food on the heights above the city.’
I choked. Perhaps one of Hercules’s ancestors had been fed on these remnants of human flesh.
‘Go on,’ I muttered thickly to my companion, who was regarding me with concern, although by now I could work out for myself the end of the story.
‘Are you sure you wish me to?’ Brother Hilarion asked. ‘It’s a most unpleasant tale and you look a little queasy.’
‘No, no! I’m quite all right. Please continue,’ I urged him.
‘Well, there’s not much more to tell. Edward, the younger Despenser, Reading and Baldock escaped by the city’s Water Gate and reached the coast of Wales on the other side of the Severn. From there they went first to Tintern Abbey where, according to tradition, they stayed two nights, and then on to Neath Abbey where they lingered too long and were finally captured by Isabella’s and Mortimer’s troops. The favourite was hanged, drawn and quartered at Hereford, while the king was imprisoned firstly at Kenilworth and then at Berkeley Castle where, in spite of the most appalling ill-treatment, he refused to die, so was finally murdered in the barbarous way we mentioned just now.’ He regarded me anxiously. ‘My child, you look quite pale.’
If I did indeed look pale, it was with excitement.
‘And all this happened in the year 1326?’ I asked.
‘To the best of my recollection. But I will check for you in the annals of the abbey library after Compline or certainly before you leave us tomorrow.’
I didn’t discourage him in this self-imposed task — it was always good to have confirmation — but I had no doubt that his memory was good. Everything fitted together: the diarist’s and his fellow monks’ horror at the sin of sodomy which tainted their unexpected and unwanted guests and the abbot’s reluctance to offend the man who, when all was said and done, was still his sovereign. And how could he tell at that point who would finally prove victorious?
That left the mystery of the treasure, if it existed outside our imaginations. But it was more than possible that the king had left something of value in the abbot’s care; something which he did not wish to fall into his queen’s and her lover’s hands, but which he could go back for later if his cause took a turn for the better. Either money or something he could convert into money if the need arose.
What had alerted Master Foliot to its possible existence I was not quite sure, but I suspected that it must have something to do with the arrival of Walter Gurney in the life of Sir Lionel Despenser and the latter’s friendship with the goldsmith. The link was undeniably there, two men whose ancestors’ lives had both touched that of the second Edward.
But none of this answered the question of where, presuming that Peter Noakes had actually found something in the hiding place, the treasure was now concealed? What had he done with it? Who had it now?
EIGHTEEN
Once again, I slept badly; a sleep crowded with dreams which verged at times on the point of nightmares. Nor was it entirely the fault of the bed I occupied in the abbey guest-house, although to compare the thin mattress to a bed of nails is not such an exaggeration as it might at first seem. I could not help contrasting it with the luxury of the accommodation in the Tintern infirmary, but I reflected that the Benedictines had always paid more than lip service to the rigid rules of their Order, whereas the Cistercians had a more relaxed attitude to the needs of the flesh. At least, that’s my opinion. But perhaps others might think me wrong.
But it was not only bad dreams that disturbed my rest. Ideas and theories jostled around in my head until it positively ached with thinking. I lay on my back staring up at the low-pitched, black-shadowed ceiling trying to work out a course of events which fitted the facts and made some sort of sense.
Had members of the Gurney family ever had any inkling that there might be treasure hidden somewhere in Tintern Abbey? Treasure connected to Edward II? Somehow I doubted it, or someone at sometime in the past would have tried to locate it. So, how could I be sure they hadn’t? I couldn’t, but neither the present abbot nor any of his flock had suggested that such an enquiry had ever been made. Not a valid reason you might argue, and you would be right as far as the argument goes. But those sort of incidents — a stranger arriving and nosing around for buried treasure — have a profound impact on the monotony of cloistered lives, fostering endless discussion and repetition and finally growing into a tradition that is passed on from one generation of monks to the next.