The Tintern Treasure (31 page)

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?

O
nce 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.

I therefore, rightly or wrongly, dismissed this notion. But the Gurneys had known something, that was obvious; something that Walter Gurney had repeated to Sir Lionel Despenser more, perhaps, as a joke than as any serious suggestion. Listening to the faint drumming of the rain on the guest-house roof – a ghostly tattoo beating to awaken Gwyn ap Nud, the Lord of the Wild Hunt, and his followers from their enchanted sleep beneath the Tor – I made a guess that maybe Edward, during his captivity in Berkeley Castle had tried to bribe his gaolers to let him escape. ‘I have money (jewels?) hidden in Tintern Abbey,' he might have told them. ‘It is yours if you let me go.' But no one had taken him seriously, treating his claim with derision. The story, however, had persisted down the generations of the Gurney family and was always good for a chuckle.

When a travelling barber had brought the news that Sir Lionel Despenser of Keynsham, in Somerset, was looking for a new head groom, Walter Gurney had seen not merely a chance to escape Jane Spicer and her unwelcome expectations of him, but also an opportunity to serve a man with whom his family shared a distant, if disreputable, past. Despensers and Gurneys both had a connection to the unhappy second Edward, and what would have been more natural than that Walter should have shared the joke of there being something of value which the king had left concealed at Tintern with his new master?

And that is what it might well have remained, a joke, if Sir Lionel had not told it to Gilbert Foliot who, by the sheerest chance, had been at Tintern Abbey for the funeral of his late wife's kinsman when the secret hiding place in the former abbot's lodgings had been uncovered. At the time, the hole in the floor had been only cursorily examined and its contents deemed, although of historical interest, valueless. But Sir Lionel's information aroused the goldsmith's interest, making him wonder if the hiding place had, fourteen years earlier, been sufficiently well examined. Perhaps they had all been too easily satisfied that there was nothing else to be found. Maybe, after all, there was some substance in the Gurney family story. Maybe Thomas of Berkeley, Sir William Maltravers and Sir Thomas Gurney should have taken their royal prisoner more seriously.

These thoughts Gilbert Foliot had imparted to his friend in the St Peter's Street house on the evening that Peter Noakes was concealed behind the curtain shutting off the dais from the rest of the parlour, and the young man had immediately determined to make the journey to Tintern Abbey to discover for himself if there was any truth in the speculation. He and Ursula needed money desperately in order to run away together. He must have set off for Tintern the very next day, beating Gilbert's own departure by a narrow margin.

As for the other pair, what did they want the treasure for? Not to line their own pockets, of that I felt certain. And although, I suppose, they might be allotted some credit for their lack of greed, the truth was that they needed it, if Timothy Plummer were to be believed, for a much more treacherous reason: to bolster the depleted coffers of Henry Tudor . . .

And here, I suppose, I must have fallen into the first of the night's uneasy dozes, for at this point I seemed to be back home, standing in the kitchen with the contents of my pack strewn all about the floor. It was a dream I had had before, except that this time, the woman demanding that I pick everything up and put it away tidily was not Adela but the goodwife of the farm where I had taken my Sunday dinner. I could also hear Adam's voice somewhere in the background although I could not see him, and I was trying vainly to hush both the goodwife and Adela, who had now mysteriously joined her, in order to make out the words. Unfortunately, they only increased their importuning until the noise grew so deafening that I was suddenly awake, sitting up in bed and listening to the autumnal storm which was howling around the abbey.

I shivered and lay down again, all my sympathy going out to the Brothers and novices who even at that minute were probably pattering down the night stairs to the cold and darkness of the abbey to celebrate Vigils, the pool of blackness that was the choir studded with the flickering flames of their candles. I supposed Brother Hilarion thought I should have joined them – a polite gesture from a guest who had once been an inmate himself – but I just pulled the rough grey blanket up to my chin and again reassured myself that twelve years previously I had made the right decision.

I expected to drop off almost immediately, but sleep eluded me for quite a while. To begin with, I spent some time trying to interpret my dream. I remembered Adam making some remark which had stirred my memory, but failed completely to recall what it was that he had said. And what significance the emptying of my pack and the farmer's wife held for me I was still unable to fathom. That they did hold significance I had no doubt, nor that God was trying to speak to me, as he had so often done in the past, through my dreams. The fault was mine. I was growing old and stupid.

I let the dream go. I knew from past experience that I could not force understanding. That would come when it would come in a flash of inspiration. Instead, I examined once more my earlier thoughts, my interpretation of events after my meeting with Master Foliot and the other two at Monmouth and later at Tintern. I was seized suddenly by the conviction that Peter Noakes's death had been no accident, but deliberate murder. I recalled the goldsmith's determination to follow the boy in spite of the teeming rain and tearing wind. But he hadn't lost him in the darkness as he had claimed. He had caught up with him somewhere out in the open, near the river and had dealt him a swingeing blow to the back of the head with . . . With what? A hefty branch most likely, torn from one of the trees by the raging gale. There had been plenty of those strewn around the following morning. (I recollected Ursula telling me that Anthony Roper had noticed a contusion on the back of his nephew's head.) The goldsmith must then have rummaged through his victim's pockets and his baggage, but all to no avail. If Peter Noakes had found something, it was not upon his person. It would then have been the work of moments to push the body into the river and leave it to be found the following morning.

Gilbert Foliot's chagrin and disappointment must have been great and I tried to recollect his demeanour when he had finally returned to the abbot's lodgings, but for the life of me I could remember nothing definite. That was hardly surprising, however: there had been so much general confusion. I wondered how long it had taken him to work out that young Noakes might have hidden his findings in one of our saddle-bags, intending to retrieve his booty at a later date. Less time, certainly, than it had taken me . . .

And it was about then, lulled by the storm chasing its tail around the abbey buildings, that I finally fell asleep.

It was still early when I awoke to a cold, dark, cheerless autumn morning and the bell ringing for Prime. I dragged myself out of bed and scrambled into such clothes as I had taken off the night before and made my way into the abbey church for the service. I remembered guiltily that I had promised Adela that I would go to Mass on Sunday and had failed in that intention. At least, now, I could assure her that I had done a little towards the salvation of my soul. (For she worried about me, I knew, and especially about some of what she stigmatized as my heretical theories.)

I ate breakfast – if you could call it that: stale oatcakes and only water to drink – in the refectory with a few of the lay brothers. (The monks themselves still adhered to the rule of one main meal a day. However had I borne it as long as I did?) I was just finishing this grisly repast when someone swung his leg over the bench and sat down beside me.

‘What happened to you then?' demanded the carter, Joseph Sibley.

I turned my head. ‘You made good time.'

He grinned. ‘Better than you think. I arrived late last night after you were tucked up in bed.'

I snorted. ‘You make it sound comfortable.'

He laughed at that, but then repeated his question. ‘So what did happen to you? I was told you'd legged it in the middle of the night. The cobbler and his wife were very upset. Couldn't think what they'd done to offend you.'

I hesitated, then told him a version of the truth without saying who I thought was my attacker.

The carter roared at that and slapped me on the knee.‘Reckon that were young Christopher Wiley,' he gasped, adding in explanation, ‘Betsy's swain. Crept in to have a bit of a lark with the girl, found you and jumped to the wrong conclusion. Got a hasty temper has young Chris, by all accounts. Don't know him personal like, but from what Goodwife Shoesmith've told me he's not one to cross.' He was shaken by another paroxysm of laughter from which he eventually emerged with streaming eyes. ‘I'll tell the dame next time I see her,' he offered. ‘Put all right with her and Jacob.' He gave me a salacious grin. ‘'Course, I can guess why you didn't bolt the door. So could young Master Wiley, I reckon.'

I said nothing. It was as good an explanation as another and one that would serve my purpose. But I didn't believe it, not for an instant, particularly when the carter described Christopher Wiley as a slender youth whose figure as well as his face made him a favourite amongst the womenfolk of Keynsham. There had been nothing willowy about the man who had assaulted me.

‘So,' Joseph Sibley continued, ‘you're returning to Bristol with me today as we arranged? I could do with the company. Finished your business here, have you?'

I admitted that I had and thankfully accepted his offer. I had no desire to walk the twenty and more miles to Bristol over again, so as soon as I had finished eating I sought out Brother Hilarion and thanked him for his time and patience.

‘And was my history lesson of any use to you?' he asked, reaching up and bringing my head down to his level so that he could kiss me on the forehead and give me his blessing.

‘Of inestimable value,' I assured him.

He nodded. ‘And don't let it be so long before I see you again,' he chided. ‘I'm an old man now.'

With a sudden rush of affection, and because I myself was growing ever more aware of the passing years, I put my arms around his slight body and gave him a hug.

‘I won't,' I promised.

He smiled ironically. ‘You're a good man, Roger. I know you mean what you say.' He patted my shoulder. ‘God be with you, my child.'

We reached Bristol in just over two days, passing through the Redcliffe Gate early on Friday morning having spent the night – at my expense, naturally – at an ale-house in the village of Whitchurch.

The night before, Wednesday (or Woden's Day as many Somerset people still insist on calling it, in memory of the old gods who preceded the coming of Christianity) had, by chance, been passed at the same farmhouse where I had eaten on Sunday. The good-hearted couple had been genuinely pleased to see me again, the husband taking the opportunity to pour into Joseph Sibley's ear the difficulties of raising his ‘hruther' or ‘rudder' beasts – I could see the carter nodding off from sheer boredom as he was told the tale – while the goodwife, in an excess of pride, showed me a new gown she had but just finished making and which was adorned down the front with the carved bone buttons she had purchased from my pack.