The Tintern Treasure Read Free

in making my way to the inn – whose name, after all these years, escapes me – and paying for a bed for the night.
    The landlord at first eyed my pedlar’s pack askance, but the colour of my money put paid to any qualms he might have had about offering me a room. I suspected, too, that the sudden burst of bad weather was making him short of customers because, just before suppertime, another pedlar with his pack, urgently seeking shelter from a further violent storm, was ushered into the room next to mine. I had been standing on the covered courtyard gallery as he arrived and we gave one another a nod of mutual understanding. Then a sudden flurry of hailstones made me descend to the ale-room and the comfort of a sizzling bacon collop served with pease pudding and a mazer of rough red wine.
    â€˜That was good.’
    The stranger pushed his stool away from the table and rubbed his belly in satisfaction.
    It was dark by now and candles had been lit in the ale-room. By the sound of things, the weather had worsened yet again. No locals had ventured out of doors and no other traveller had arrived to disturb the peace of my fellow pedlar and myself.
    â€˜You were hungry.’ I nodded at the empty plate.
    He nodded. ‘Aye, I was that.’
    â€˜You’re from up north,’ I said. ‘I recognize the accent.’
    He grinned assent. ‘God’s own country. You know those parts?’
    â€˜I passed through York on my way up to Scotland with the army last year.’ I naturally didn’t enlarge upon the circumstances of my journey. ‘Your speech is not so thick as some of your countrymen. I couldn’t understand a lot of ’em.’
    My companion laughed as we drew our stools closer to the old-fashioned central hearth and settled down to a steady drinking session, the considerate landlord having left a full jug of ale on the table behind us.
    â€˜Your own accent is none so easy to follow,’ he complained, then held out his free hand. ‘Name of Oliver Tockney,’ he said. ‘What’s yours?’
    I returned his clasp warmly. ‘As a child I was known as Roger Stonecarver or Carverson. It was my father’s trade. But nowadays everyone calls me Roger Chapman and it’s the name I answer to in general.’
    The other nodded. ‘It’s the way you get labelled in life. My guess is that you’re from somewhere in the west. Your speech has got that burr to it. Now us, up north, our Viking ancestors gave us our distinctive way of talking.’
    I took a swig of ale as another, even more violent gust of wind rattled the shutters. ‘More than likely,’ I agreed. ‘They never got a foothold in my part of the world, thanks to King Alfred and the great battle at Ethandune.’ The candles guttered in a sudden draught. ‘You’re a fair distance from home.’
    â€˜Aye. And going further.’ He gave me a leery look and added succinctly, ‘Wife and five children.’ He offered no other explanation, and perhaps none was necessary. ‘You?’ he enquired with equal brevity.
    â€˜Wife and three children. But I’m starting for home tomorrow.’ And I gave him a short history of how I came to be in Hereford in the first place.
    He grinned appreciatively. ‘You’ve to watch yon tinkers. They’ve a reputation for being rogues and rascals. Don’ know why it should be so, but there it is.’ A squall of rain hit the shutters with the force of a handful of thrown pebbles. ‘By the Virgin, it’s a rotten evening. Saint Christopher will have his work cut out tonight, guiding any travellers foolish enough to be out in this. Let’s hope it’ll have eased off by morning.’ He hesitated for a second or two, then asked, ‘Would you be willing to have some company on your journey? I’m minded to go all the way with you to Bristol. Never seen the place and I doubt I’ll ever