The Tintern Treasure (24 page)

He was a small man dressed in an ancient and very patched tunic, torn hose, rubbed shoes, with several weeks' growth of beard adorning his chin, long greasy hair and a filthy eye-patch over the left eye. The right regarded me malevolently.

I started to shake with laughter.

The prisoner snatched off the eye-patch and threw it to the floor.

‘Don't just stand there cackling like a demented peahen!' he yelled. ‘Tell this idiot who I am.'

When, finally, I could command my voice, I turned to Richard Manifold, who was gloomily regarding the pair of us. ‘Hard as you may find it to believe,' I gasped, ‘this gentleman is the King's Spymaster General, one Timothy Plummer.'

‘You're sure of that?'

‘Of course he's fucking sure, you dolt!' Timothy bounced to his feet and shook his fist under the other man's nose, something I'd never seen anyone actually do before. ‘Fetch the sheriff here immediately so that Master Chapman can identify me in front of His Honour. Go on! Shoo!'

Richard departed, a sullen look of resignation on his face. Timothy resumed his seat and I sat down beside him.

I said, ‘I don't think they do, you know.'

‘Who? Who don't do what?' my companion snapped.

‘Peahens. I don't think they cackle.'

There was a pregnant silence. ‘Why are we talking about peahens?' Timothy asked, dangerously quiet.

‘You were. You said . . .'

‘Shut up! Shut up, you great oaf! I suppose you think that's humorous? Well, it isn't!' Timothy was on his feet again, fairly dancing with temper. ‘I just want to get out of here then come home with you and have a good wash while you go and collect my saddle-bags from the Full Moon Inn. I feel certain your goodwife will find me something to eat, even if it's only bread and cheese, and after that we can talk. Perhaps you can tell me what's going on in this benighted town.'

‘There's nothing like inviting yourself! And I'm not your errand boy,' I rebuked him. ‘And what about this secret mission that you're on?'

‘I can't continue with that now, can I? Not now half of Bristol knows my real identity.'

This, of course, was a total exaggeration, but I guessed he was glad of an excuse to rid himself of a disguise which had begun to irk him and which he saw as demeaning to his dignity. I reflected that it must be a very important and delicate matter to have made him undertake it himself in the first place.

‘All right,' I conceded, ‘provided Adela raises no objection and understands that you're not going to hale me off to London again at any minute.' Timothy made a dismissive gesture. ‘In that case, I'll do as you ask.' He was moved to grasp my hand, which left it smelling strongly of decaying fish. I wrinkled my nose. ‘I suppose you know you stink to high heaven?'

It must have been well into the afternoon and getting on for suppertime before Timothy and I were at last able to settle down in the parlour for our talk.

It had taken the sheriff a good hour or more to put in an appearance at the bridewell (he was, as he was careful to point out, a very busy man), by which time my companion was at boiling point. It had taken all the tact of which I was capable to prevent him from insulting a civic dignitary and being kept in prison for contempt. However, I finally managed to convince the sheriff that this was indeed the king's Spymaster General and that His Highness would be most displeased if he were mistreated in any way. In the end, the pair were slapping each other on the back and enjoying a laugh at Timothy's unprepossessing appearance, and the latter was promising to pay a visit to both the mayor and the sheriff on the morrow to make them free of anything they desired to know.

‘But not of anything I don't desire them to know,' Timothy said later, stretching his feet towards the fire burning on the hearth.

Adela's goodwill had been more difficult to win, and it had only been repeated assurances on my part that I was not to be dragged off to the capital at a moment's notice that had finally persuaded her to let Timothy use the pump and some of her carefully hoarded best white soap while I visited the Full Moon Inn to collect his saddle-bags. She had also fed him a makeshift meal of bread, goat's milk cheese and onions and promised him a share of our supper. But she refused to let him stay for the night.

‘Now that he's clean and shaved, he can go back to the inn.'

I didn't blame her. It would have meant Adam sleeping with Nicholas, and that always led to trouble.

‘Right,' Timothy said, looking much more like himself in a decent blue tunic and hose and with a chin and upper lip free of hair, ‘what do you know of what's going on in this town? And don't tell me “nothing” because I shan't believe you. There's no one else I know who has your talent for getting mixed up in other people's business. If there's any trouble, you're sure to find yourself in the thick of it.'

I was in half a mind to resent his remarks, but decided it would be a waste of effort to do so. I was not, however, going to allow him the ordering of the conversation.

‘Tell me what you're doing here first.'

He hesitated briefly, then decided to comply. ‘One of our best spies at the Breton court sent back a report that the Tudor is growing short of money. Duke Francis is facing war with France – the French nobles are flexing their muscles now that Louis is no longer alive to restrain them; the new king is too young to hold them in check – and therefore is unable to give the same generous aid to Henry. The latter's attempted invasion during the recent rebellion failed lamentably as you probably know, but even so, mercenaries still need paying, win or lose. But our man wrote that there was a rumour – indeed, more than a rumour – in circles close to the Tudor of the possible windfall of a vast sum of money coming his way. And the source of this money was here, in Bristol. His Grace the king was perturbed by this story as you can well imagine.'

‘King Richard took it seriously then?'

‘Of course he took it seriously!' Timothy fairly exploded. ‘I've told you, this report came from one of our best men; a man probably only second to myself in reputation. A man who, if he works hard and lives long enough, may even one day succeed to my office. That shows you how good he is and how highly his opinion is regarded.'

‘You've no need to say more,' I assured him, straight-faced. ‘So the king sent you in disguise to Bristol to find out more?'

‘Of course. He would trust no one else. It had to be done under a cloak of the greatest secrecy.'

I said meanly, ‘Not secret enough, I'm afraid. I was informed of your possible presence in the city yesterday and asked, as someone who knew you well and might be able to penetrate your disguise, to keep a lookout for you.'

Timothy stared at me disbelievingly. ‘This is one of your ill-timed jests.'

‘No. The absolute truth, I assure you. It would seem that a close friend of His Worship the Mayor had just returned from London and had been warned of the fact that there might be treasonable activity in the city, and that you were here to investigate.'

Timothy was silent for a long moment, then he burst out: ‘Matters are worse than I thought. The king is beset by traitors! Even the people he thinks he can trust betray him! Buckingham was the prime example, but there are others less open in their disaffection and therefore even more dangerous.'

‘His taking the crown has incurred a great deal of ill will,' I said soberly. ‘Even amongst former friends and well-wishers.'

Timothy nodded grimly and leant forward, clasping his hands between his knees. A flame spurted suddenly between the logs on the hearth and a shower of sparks, like golden thistledown, burned brightly for a moment, then vanished. The shadows of the November afternoon thickened and I realized that my companion was no longer a young man. He was growing old and cares pressed heavily on him. The future, in spite of its bright promise a few months ago, now looked dark. The old familiar bombast, once so laughable, now invited sympathy. It covered a multitude of anxieties.

Timothy,' I said urgently, also leaning forward and lowering my voice almost to a whisper, ‘what is the truth in this rumour that the king's nephews have been murdered?'

His head reared up at that. ‘False, of course! You, at least, should know better than to believe it.' His tone was accusing.

‘I don't believe it.' There was another silence filled only with the crackling of the fire. Then, ‘You know for certain it's not true, do you?' I asked.

He flung me a contemptuous glance. ‘I know him! I know the king! So do you, and that should give you your answer.'

‘It does . . . But he hasn't publicly denied it.'

Timothy turned on me in a fury.

‘Why should he? Why should he give himself the trouble, the indignity, of publicly denying what anyone who knows him must be aware is a vicious lie?'

‘It would make sense to do so,' I argued gently. ‘Produce the boys. Bring them to court. Show people that they're still alive.'

‘And remind everyone of their existence? Make them a focus of rebellion yet again? Is that what you want? It's much better, surely, to keep them quietly secluded in the Tower until he decides what to do with them. Given time, and once King Richard has established his rule, people will forget about them. Or they'll appreciate how much better off they are with a man than a boy on the throne. How much better off without the Woodvilles! Then he can establish the boys again in the world without the fear that someone will rise up on their behalf.'

‘But you are certain that the lord Edward and his brother are still alive?'

‘I've told you, yes!' Timothy almost shouted.

‘That's all right, then,' I said.

The trouble was that I didn't believe him. I wanted to. How I wanted to! But I had a feeling that he didn't really know. Like the rest of us who loved King Richard he was saying what he wanted to be the truth, not what he knew to be fact. Why I felt this, I wasn't sure. Maybe it was the way his eyes refused to meet mine, sliding away to focus on the fire or the fleas hopping about amongst the rushes, brought out of hiding by the warmth.

‘Now,' Timothy remarked briskly, changing the subject with obvious relief, ‘let's get on with the business in hand, shall we? What information do you have for me?' He flung up a warning finger. ‘And I've told you, don't pretend you know nothing. If you haven't sniffed out something by this time, then I'm a Chinaman.'

Once more, I risked his fury by countering with another question. ‘Who's this beggar you were accused of murdering? And how did you come to be found stooping over his body?'

‘For Christ's sweet sake –' he was beginning, but it was my turn to hold up an admonitory finger.

‘It might be important. Did someone mention that he lived in Pit Hay Lane?'

‘I don't know! Quite possibly. I'm not acquainted with the names of the streets in this town, let alone the alleyways. I just know I tripped over something, crouched down to see what it was and the next moment I was being clapped on the shoulder by that oaf of a sergeant who was putting me under arrest for murder.'

‘You're sure the man had been murdered? I know Sergeant Manifold said so, but –'

‘Oh, yes! That was plain. He'd been strangled, any fool could see that. His eyes were bulging out of their sockets, his tongue was swollen and protruding from his mouth, his face, what I could see of it beneath the dirt, was suffused with blood.'

‘A small man? Stank to high heaven?'

‘He didn't appear to be very big and he certainly stank. Like an old fish barrel.'

I nodded. There were a lot of beggars in the city but I had no hesitation in concluding that this was the man who had witnessed the murder of Oliver Tockney. Now he, too, was dead. Strangled. And I was the idiot who had so carelessly made it known that the pedlar's killing had been overlooked. There would have been little difficulty in identifying him. A bribe offered for the person in question to come forward and tell what he had seen, a meeting in a dark corner of the alleyway, a knotted rope slipped swiftly around the neck . . .

‘Are these questions relevant?' Timothy's voice broke in on my thoughts and his nails tapped against the arm of his chair impatiently.

I nodded. It was quite dark outside by now and I rose to kindle a taper at the fire and light some candles.

‘Timothy,' I said, glancing over my shoulder at him, ‘do you have any idea what happened in the year thirteen twenty-six?'

He goggled at me. ‘Thirteen twenty-six? Thirteen twenty-six? That's . . . That's more than a hundred and fifty years gone! Sweet Jesu! How would I know what went on over a century and a half ago?' He eyed me wrathfully. ‘What's this all about, Roger? Why do you keep putting me off with these ridiculous questions?'

‘They're not so ridiculous,' I said, returning to my seat on the other side of the hearth. I sighed. ‘I suppose I'd better begin at the beginning and tell you everything I know. But try to refrain from a lot of foolish interruptions. Just wait until I've finished or I'll lose the thread of my tale.'

To do him justice, the only questions he asked were to clarify some point which I had not made clear; other than that, he remained silent throughout the long and sometimes complicated story. I even had to admit to the tangled history of my relationship with Juliette Gerrish in order to introduce the name of Walter Gurney.

When at last I had finished, he said nothing for a while, sitting forward and staring into the flames as though for inspiration. Finally he grunted, ‘Then the two conspirators would appear to be this goldsmith, Gilbert Foliot, and Sir Lionel Despenser.'

‘I wouldn't even be sure about that. There's no proof against either of them,' I pointed out. ‘No solid proof. And both men have a reputation of being loyal to the House of York. Foliot, as I told you, was married to a Herbert and attended William Herbert's funeral after Edgecote.'