The Tintern Treasure Read Free Page B

added, dismay adding an edge of challenge and disbelief.
    â€˜It’s no use asking me,’ the landlord retorted, understandably annoyed by my belligerent attitude. ‘I’m only repeating what the gentleman’s told me. And now, if you two will remove yourselves while I and my goodwife prepare his supper . . .’
    But I was going nowhere until I had seen and questioned this visitor for myself. My companion obviously felt the same way, because he settled himself more firmly on his stool and glared defiantly.
    â€˜We’ve paid our shot like honest citizens,’ he announced, his north country speech becoming thicker with every word as his indignation grew.
    â€˜Besides,’ I chorused, ‘we’d like to discover just what foundation there is for these rumours. Indeed, if they have any foundation.’
    The landlord began to bluster, but before he could threaten us with eviction, the door into the ale-room opened and the new arrival appeared.
    I knew him at once, although it took him a minute or two to recognize me. He was a Bristol lawyer by the name of Heathersett, an elderly bachelor who lived with his mother and had chambers in an alleyway that ran between two of the Broad Street houses, curving to the right and emerging into Wine Street, near the castle. Whatever its original name – probably Crooked or, perhaps, Elbow Lane – it was known generally as Runnymede Court on account of the fact that there were at least three men of law practicing there.
    â€˜Lawyer Heathersett,’ I said, rising respectfully to my feet and nudging the Yorkshireman to do the same. ‘What’s this story, sir, of rebellion in the south?’
    He peered at me short-sightedly with his protuberant, pale blue eyes, then fiddled in his pouch, finally producing a pair of spectacles which he perched precariously on the bridge of his nose.
    â€˜Do you know me, my man?’ He stared harder, then suddenly added, ‘Ah! Yes! It’s Roger the chapman, isn’t it? Forgive me for not knowing you at once, Master Chapman. My eyes are not what they were.’
    Oliver Tockney and the landlord turned to stare at me. The latter looked thoroughly taken aback. ‘You’re acquainted with this man, Your Honour?’ he asked dubiously.
    The lawyer nodded vigorously. ‘Oh, yes. Most certainly. He’s very well known in Bristol, where we come from. Quite one of our more famous citizens.’ His tone was dry and, I thought, a little mocking, but to my relief, he didn’t elaborate.
    Curiosity was written in every line of the landlord’s face, but all he said was, ‘I’m just about to get Your Honour’s supper. Indeed, my goodwife’s already preparing it. But . . . But if you’d be obliging enough to tell us what you know . . . how these rumours of rebellion came about . . . where you heard them . . . if they’re true or not . . .’
    â€˜Yes, yes.’ Lawyer Heathersett drew nearer the fire, spreading his delicate, almost transparent hands to the flames, his thinning grey hair still damp from the storm and plastered to his skull. A thought struck him. ‘Is my horse being properly cared for?’ he enquired anxiously.
    â€˜As if he were my own,’ the landlord reassured him. A jerk of his head indicated that Oliver Tockney should vacate his stool, and promptly. Our host had patently become nervous of me, unsure of my status. A pedlar who was hailed almost as an equal by a lawyer was outside of his experience.
    Master Heathersett – his Christian name was Geoffrey, I suddenly recalled – took the proffered seat and shivered as yet another squall of wind and rain hit the shutters and the candles once more guttered in the draught.
    â€˜The first rumours reached Bristol before I left home, last Thursday. Who brought them I’ve no idea, but the town is always full of strangers, as you know, Master Chapman. I think the first I