I had no doubt that the knight, with the assistance of his friend the goldsmith, had reached the same conclusion as I had done: that there was a strong possibility that Edward II, during his flight into Wales, had left something of value in the care of the then abbot of Tintern, hoping to return later to retrieve it. Unfortunately, there was no proof so far that this had actually happened. Nor was there any real proof that Sir Lionel Despenser and Master Foliot had transferred their loyalty to Henry Tudor and were working on his behalf.
My thoughts were interrupted at this point by the sound of Elizabeth shouting at the top of her voice and Adam yelling in return. My temper being at that moment not of the best, I descended wrathfully from what was now the former’s little attic room under the eaves, where I had been completing my inspection of the house, to the chamber next door to mine and Adela’s which was shared by the two boys.
‘Be quiet, both of you!’ I commanded. ‘What is this all about?’
‘He keeps stealing my things,’ Elizabeth said, pointing an accusing finger at her brother.
Adam, red-faced and mutinous, had his hands behind his back. His expression left no possible doubt as to his guilt.
‘He keeps going into my room,’ my daughter complained angrily, ‘and poking about. He helps himself to my toys and private treasures.’
‘Adam,’ I said sternly, ‘whatever you are hiding behind your back, return it to your sister immediately! If you do not, you will get a whipping.’
I saw him weighing up the chances of my carrying out this threat, so I took a menacing step in his direction.
‘I mean it, Adam.’ And, somewhat to my own surprise, I found that I did.
My son obviously reached the same conclusion because, after a brief moment of continued defiance, he sullenly held out to his sister a small leather bag closed by a drawstring of faded and rather ragged blue silk. Elizabeth snatched it and flounced out of the room just as Adela called us downstairs to dinner.
The meal being over, I announced my intention of visiting Henry Callowhill. I felt it was high time I shared my deductions and theories with the wine merchant as someone who had been involved in this affair from the beginning, and also as someone who, I felt, was not quite so sympathetic to Gilbert Foliot as he at first appeared. I recalled the goldsmith once treating his friend in a somewhat high-handed manner which I thought had been resented.
‘Well, don’t be too long,’ my wife instructed me as she cleared the dirty spoons and dishes from the table. ‘I want to visit Margaret and Bess must come with me. She is her grandchild, after all, the only true one Margaret has. And if I take Bess, Nicholas is bound to want to come as well, so I need you to keep an eye on Adam and Luke.’
‘Why do you have to see Margaret?’ I demanded peevishly, not relishing these sorts of domestic ties and beginning already, even after so short a time at home, to feel leg-shackled.
‘Because she’s my cousin and I’m fond of her, and because we parted from her this morning on bad terms. I don’t like that. She can be irritating and annoying, I know, but she’s been good to us and I couldn’t do without her help when you’re away. And I shall need that help even more now that there’s another child to look after.’
I grumbled and argued — in my role as head of the household I could hardly do less — but in the end I gave in.
‘Oh, very well,’ I agreed. ‘I’ll be as quick as I can. But,’ I warned her, ‘that may not be as quick as you would like.’
Adela gave me a look: the sort of look wives give their husbands when they know these gentlemen are being deliberately awkward.
I called to Hercules, intending to take him with me, but the fickle animal had suddenly found another object for his devotion. Luke was sitting up in his cradle, where Adela had left it next to the water barrel, gurgling, dribbling and clapping his little hands, while Hercules lay beside him watching his every move with adoring eyes. To my demand for the dog’s company he turned a deaf ear, the merest twitch of his tail acknowledging my presence.
Disgusted and more than a little put out, I left him to it.
The morning was overcast and dank as only a November day can be. A few rays of watery sunlight pierced the clouds and a wind-like thin steel flailed its way down Small Street. I shivered and drew my cloak more closely around me. I had not intended to hurry but the cold drove me on and in no time at all I had reached the wine merchant’s house in Wine Street.
He was not at home.
Mistress Callowhill was all apologies, insisting I come into the parlour for a beaker of mulled ale to ‘keep out the cold of this miserable morning.’
‘Henry will be sorry to have missed you, Master Chapman,’ she fussed, shooing the two younger children — a pretty girl of about nine years old and a boy a little older — out of the room and instructing the elder son, Martin, to pour the ale. ‘He’s gone to the warehouse and might be some time. But if you would care to wait. .’
I shook my head. ‘Thank you, but my business is not that important.’
Once again, I felt uncomfortable, as though I were masquerading under false pretences. There had been a time, not so very far distant, when the wife of one of Bristol’s wealthiest citizens would barely have acknowledged my existence, let alone invited me into her parlour and plied me with refreshment. And she herself seemed to find the situation odd. She was not at ease.
By contrast, young Martin Callowhill was as friendly as ever, chattering away in his casual, friendly fashion and accompanying me to the door when I left.
‘I’m sorry you can’t stay, Master Chapman,’ he said, giving a quaint little bow. ‘I enjoyed the last conversation we had together. About Saxons calling the Normans Orcs and about the Battle for Middle Earth,’ he added when he saw that I was at a loss.
I laughed, remembering. ‘I had a suspicion that Master Callowhill was none too pleased.’
The boy shrugged, somewhat impatiently I thought, then smiled. ‘Oh, Father prides himself on his Norman ancestry. His mother’s family name was de Broke and there was a tradition that they were descended from a bastard son of the Conqueror. I don’t put any store by that sort of nonsense myself, but I fancy Father is a little disappointed that he hasn’t risen any higher in life. He went to London last year and was introduced at court by one of my grandmother’s relatives. The late King Edward made much of him and I think. .’
He broke off suddenly, flushing to the roots of his hair, realizing that he had no business to be talking of his father in such a free and easy way to a comparative stranger. Or, in fact, to anyone.
‘You. . You won’t repeat. .’ he stammered.
‘You may rely entirely on my discretion,’ I assured him.
He smiled gratefully and wished me good-day.
I started the return journey home, considering whether or not I might run the gauntlet of Adela’s displeasure by a quick visit to the Green Lattis for a further beaker of ale. But she was almost certain to hear of it. The women of Bristol had their own ways of being kept informed of what their menfolk got up to, so, in the end, I decided against it; but only, I told myself, because of a sudden decision to call on Geoffrey Heathersett. He had as much interest in the affair as Master Callowhill, and as a lawyer might be able to advise me what to do next.
I walked down Broad Street and turned into Runnymede Court, conscious of various people hailing me or shouting a greeting, but preoccupied with my recent conversation with young Martin. The picture he had presented of his father did not quite tally with the easygoing, rather jolly man I had always assumed Henry Callowhill to be. Perhaps that was why he occasionally seemed to resent Gilbert Foliot’s somewhat patronizing air.