The Burgundian’s Tale

‘No I fuckin’ don’t!’ he exploded with such venom that I jumped in surprise. ‘I came ’ere for safety. Someone in that house was tryin’ to kill me! Safety! Same as I told that there Fulk, or whatever he was called. They look after me ’ere.’

I was beginning to feel like Theseus in the labyrinth, but without his ball of thread.

‘Master Quantrell asked you the same question? How did he know where to find you? Nell doesn’t know where you are.’

Young Roger shrugged. ‘Just chance. ’E came ’ere looking for pleasure and, when we finished, we got talking. ’E found out I was Nell’s half-brother. Then ’e come back once or twice more. ’E wasn’t really a sodomite. Just did it now and then, I reckon, for the thrill of it. Doin’ something ’e shouldn’t. ’E was that sort. But ’e did like asking questions.’

‘What about?’

‘Well … ’Bout the garden, mainly. What sort o’ things we planted. Did Mistress St Clair and the rest take much interest in it.’ He shrugged. ‘Nothin’ more.’

‘Is that all?’

‘More or less. I did ask ’im once why ’e wanted to know about the garden. I said I thought he must’ve heard the story ’bout the old Savoy Palace that used t’ be in the Strand.’

‘What story is that?’ I queried. I found I wasn’t sweating as much as when I had first entered the room. I was growing accustomed to the stench and finding it less offensive than before.

Young Roger, too, grew easier in his manner as he became used to my presence, and convinced that I posed no threat.

‘You ain’t a Londoner,’ he said, nodding sagely. ‘Though I s’pose I’d guessed that already by the funny way you talk.’ I raised my eyebrows, but otherwise ignored this slur on my West Country burr. ‘Everyone in London,’ he went on, ‘knows the story that there’s treasure buried somewhere in the Strand.’

‘Treasure? What sort of treasure?’ I was intrigued.

‘Usual kind. Money, jewels, gold.’

‘Why? How is it supposed to have got there? And whereabouts?’

My final question made him laugh, showing stumps of blackened teeth. ‘If anyone knew whereabouts,’ he answered, carefully mimicking my tone, ‘some greedy sod would’ve found it by now, wouldn’t ’e? As to ’ow it got there, well! When that Wat Tyler ’n’ John Ball ’n’ Jack Straw ’n’ their howling mob sacked London and burned down the Savoy Palace all them years ago, Wat Tyler ’n’ John Ball gave orders that no one was to loot the place on pain o’ being strung up from the nearest tree. What they was doin’, they said, was for the King and liberty and so on, and not for making themselves rich.’ The boy curled his lip. ‘Well, I mean to say! Askin’ a bit too much of any man, ain’t it? John o’ Gaunt was the richest man in the country after the King. The Savoy was stuffed with treasures. Bound to ’ave been! More ’n flesh ’n’ blood could resist. The story reckons there was looting, and plenty of it, and a good few managed to get away with it. But a group of men got caught, an’ one o’ Wat Tyler’s captains ordered ’em to be hanged there and then, without trial nor nothin’, an’ the very people who’d been lootin’ themselves performed the deed.

‘But there’d been a fourth man in the group who managed to slip away unnoticed to where they’d piled up their loot. An’ while the others were hangin’ his three comrades, he buried it all, meaning to come back for it later. But later was no good. ’E was recognized and fingered as being one o’ the group and strung up, as well. The treasure ’e’d buried was never found, and still ’asn’t been found to this day. They reckon it’s still there, somewhere. Probably in somebody’s garden.’ He grinned. ‘Or maybe under one of the ’ouses. More ’n one owner’s had his cellar floor dug up, so they say.’

I thought this over. ‘But those three houses at the end of the Strand,’ I pointed out, ‘are considered to have been a part of the original palace; therefore, if this tale were true, the treasure – if it exists at all – is unlikely to be buried underneath them … Do you believe this story?’ I asked the boy.

My namesake grimaced. ‘Naw! There are tales like this un by the dozen about almost every part o’ London. The streets are paved with gold, we tell strangers. Just dig a bit an’ you’ll find it. Meantime, buy my nice new shiny spade. Or, better still, this old un that’s cost me nothing, ’cause it belonged to my great-great-grandfather.’

A cynic at twelve years old! My heart warmed to him in spite of his unprepossessing appearance and smell.

‘And what did Fulk Quantrell say when you asked him if he believed this story?’

‘Said ’e hadn’t ’eard it. What was it about? So I told ’im, like I’ve just told you.’

‘Did you believe him?’

Young Roger, who, until now, had been perched on the empty frame of the bed, shifted and slid down the curve of the mattress to sit cross-legged on the floor.

‘Well … that’s the funny thing. When ’e said ’e’d never ’eard the tale, yes, I did believe ’im. But later that visit, just as ’e was going, ’e laughed and said something like, “There’s plenty of treasure buried in the Strand if you know where to look for it. I’ve been hopin’ you’d tell me where it can be found. But seems like you don’t know.” Then ’e laughed again and added, “But I don’t really need it. I can make my fortune without.” ’E went away and that was the last time I saw ’im. Next thing I ’eard, he was dead. Been found murdered in Faitour Lane.’ After a pause, Roger asked eagerly, ‘Anythin’ else you want t’ know?’ He glanced at the coins in his hand and jingled them suggestively.