The Tintern Treasure Read Online Free PDF

too, is an uncle of young Edward, although only by marriage. Buckingham’s wife is a Woodville, sister of . . .’ I hesitated. How did one refer now to the former queen? ‘. . . the Lady Elizabeth.’ I finished, before continuing. ‘I think, too, that the ease with which parliament and the nobility, both laymen and churchmen, accepted Duke Richard as king might have made him wonder if he couldn’t have made a successful bid for the throne himself. As a direct descendant of one of Edward III’s sons, he has a claim of sorts. Perhaps someone persuaded him . . .’ I broke off as some words of the tinker’s surfaced. ‘Of course!’
    My companion grimaced as another gust of wind hit us in the face and tightened the strings of his hood. ‘Of course what?’
    â€˜The king had placed the Bishop of Ely in Buckingham’s charge, under house arrest. The tinker I told you about saw them at Gloucester and said that the duke was riding off to his Brecon estates, taking John Morton with him.’
    â€˜And this bishop? He’s no friend of the king’s?’
    â€˜A sworn enemy. Hates him. Richard is too straightforward for a man with such a tortuous mind.’
    Oliver Tockney shrugged as well as he could with a pack on his back and a wet cloak clinging to his shoulders. ‘That would seem to explain matters, then.’
    â€˜It’s possible,’ I admitted cautiously. ‘It’s possible.’
    After that, we let the subject drop, battling against the elements and each occupied with his own thoughts. I was growing increasingly worried at my failure to recognize any markers along the track we were following. No familiar wayside shrines, dwellings, churches, or ale-houses emerged from the veil of rain and mist to reassure me that we were on the road to Gloucester. And when Oliver and I finally stopped at a slate-roofed cottage – the first habitation we had encountered for some miles – to beg food and shelter for the night, and when the cottager addressed us in a strange language which I guessed to be Welsh, my heart sank. I knew without doubt that I had missed my way and instead of approaching Gloucester, we were travelling south on the Welsh side of the River Severn.
    This fact was confirmed by the wife of our host who, providentially, turned out to be an Englishwoman.
    â€˜Then where, in the name of the Blessed Virgin, are we?’ I demanded, struggling to rid myself of my sodden cloak and boots.
    â€˜About four miles north of Monmouth,’ the goodwife answered, throwing more wood on the fire in an effort to heat up the pot of stew that hung above it. ‘On foot, you should reach there by midday tomorrow. Perhaps sooner if you make an early start. Mind you,’ she added, as the whole cottage was shaken by the wind, ‘that depends on the weather. Never known anything like it in all the years we’ve lived here, have we, Huw?’
    Her husband looked at her vaguely and she repeated the question in Welsh. Immediately, he broke into a spate of words, none of which Oliver and I could understand, accompanied by a wealth of gesticulation. The goodwife continued to stir the pot, not paying him a great deal of attention except to nod occasionally and grunt. When he eventually fell silent, she said, ‘He blames it all on the English. Says we’re a godless lot and that all the sins of the world are on our heads.’ She laughed, a deep-throated, guttural sound. ‘Daresay he’s right. What d’you think, gentlemen?’
    We both joined in her laughter and agreed. As a race, we’ve never much cared what other people think of us: we imbibe the consciousness of our superiority with our mothers’ milk. Foreigners down the centuries have upbraided us for our laziness, lack of personal cleanliness, inedible food and the unattractiveness of our habits in general, but we just raise two fingers and carry on our merry