The Tintern Treasure by Kate Sedley Page A

marble. For my own part, I wandered as far as the Choir to stare down at the battered image of Duke Robert II of Normandy, eldest son of the Conqueror, whose father had bequeathed him a dukedom but not a kingdom, and who had spent his life trying to wrest what he regarded as his birthright from his brothers, William and Henry.
    After a little while, I, too, made my way back to King Edward’s tomb, looking through the marble columns at his effigy, at the luxuriously curling beard and hair, and reflecting, somewhat cynically, that if the monks of Gloucester had not taken in and given burial to his mutilated body, the abbey would never have grown as rich as it was today. For once our forebears had finished reviling him as a weak ruler, a coward who had allowed himself to be ignominiously beaten by the Scots and, worst of all, a sodomite, they had suffered a typically English revulsion of feeling, turned on his conquering French wife and her lover and elevated Edward almost to the status of a saint. So many people began flocking to his tomb that an inn – still called the New Inn although it was now more than a hundred years old – had been built especially to accommodate them.
    Which reminded me . . . I left the abbey just as the pilgrims were being herded into the nave for Vespers and made my way back to the inn.
    Oliver was already there, anxious to show me some of the bargains he had obtained, but even more eager to inform me that not only had he secured us a decent room for the night, but that there was a carter staying at the inn with whom he had struck a deal to take us nearly all the way to Bristol, starting early the very next morning. His expression invited congratulation, and his face fell ludicrously when I refused the offer.
    â€˜I’m sorry, Oliver, but I’ve unfinished business to attend to in Gloucester tomorrow. Don’t worry, we’ll find another carter going our way.’
    His jaw jutted ominously. ‘You don’t know that.’
    â€˜Not for certain, no. But it’s more than possible.’
    The jaw jutted even further. ‘I’m not interested in “possible”. This is a certainty. This man says he can take us as far as a place called Westbury, and that Bristol is only a matter of a mile or two from there.’
    â€˜That’s so,’ I admitted. ‘All the same, I’ll have to refuse.’
    My companion took a deep breath. ‘Well, I’m going,’ he announced defiantly.
    A great sense of relief – of release – flooded through me, but I tried not to sound too eager. ‘You must, of course, do as you wish. Indeed, in your place I should do the same.’
    â€˜You don’t mind?’
    â€˜Not in the least. Haven’t I just said?’
    He drew a deep breath and clapped me on the back, smiling.
    Our last evening together was as convivial as those in Hereford had been two weeks earlier. We drank a great deal too much ale, laughed uproariously at the slightest thing, discussed the happenings at Tintern, propounding more and more preposterous theories as to the meaning of it all, and finally helped each other upstairs to the tiny cupboard-like chamber put at our disposal by the landlord, falling into bed fully clothed, without even bothering to remove our boots.
    When I awoke next morning, Oliver had already gone.
    The room smelled foul, a cross between a brewery and a shithouse, and my mouth tasted pretty much the same. My head was thumping fit to burst, so I staggered down to the courtyard and took my turn at the pump, stripping off with the best of them and persuading a fellow sufferer to scrub my back. Then I tottered up to my room again where I stripped for a second time, shaking the fleas out of my clothes and lamenting the fact that I had no fresh shirt left to put on. However, I cleaned my teeth and combed my hair before breakfasting in the ale-room on a fried herring, oatcakes and small beer.
    Thus fortified, I