The Brothers of Glastonbury (11 page)

‘That’s true enough.’ I frowned as a thought occurred to me. ‘But if, as you say, his brother neither showed him this paper nor discussed it with him, how did Mark know that it had been given to Peter by you?’

The priest nodded sagely. ‘That question also occurred to me. It would seem that my name had been written on the reverse side of the parchment by his brother.’

Of course! I had seen similar annotations on the books and folios I had looked at that morning; names written either at the beginning or at the end of the script which, then, had had no meaning for me. Now I understood. They were the names of the people from whom Peter had acquired them.

I turned to Cicely, only to find that she was not attending to the conversation. She had been busy picking the daisies which surrounded her and fashioning them into garlands. She had a chain about each wrist and a third, longer one, perched on her curls like a flowery coronet, but slipping towards her left ear, which gave her a slightly rakish appearance. I realized that, in spite of her airs and graces, she had not really grown up yet, which gave her the childlike ability to detach herself from time to time from the worries and concerns of everyday life and enter, however briefly, a secret world of her own.

Suddenly conscious of my eyes upon her, she returned my look defiantly. ‘We should be getting home,’ she said, scrambling to her feet. ‘It will soon be suppertime. Mark and Aunt Joan will be waiting for us.’

The thrust of her chin dared me to contradict this statement. It had been proved that, after all, her cousin had indeed visited Beckery Island as he had said he was going to do, and she was now ashamed of her former state of panic. She obviously felt that she had been foolish, and tried to make up for this by descending the knoll with her most queenly gait. Unfortunately she had forgotten the daisy chains, until the one on her head slipped forward over her eyes and she snatched it off and stamped on it with a most unladylike display of rage. I only made matters worse by being unable to control my laughter, and she swung round, pummelling me hard on the chest.

‘I hate you! I hate you!’ she shouted, and would have continued hitting me had she not caught sight of the young priest’s scandalized face. She then tossed her curls, divested herself of the daisy bracelets and proceeded on her way without a backward glance.

I paused at the foot of the slope to thank Father Boniface for his time and trouble and, above all, his frankness in answering my questions.

He made the sign of the Cross and gave me his blessing. ‘And if you hear anything at all of Peter Gildersleeve, my son, please send me word. I shall not sleep soundly until I know that the paper I gave him has nothing to do with his disappearance.’

‘Even if it has, Father,’ I consoled him, ‘it was a gift made in all innocence. No one, not God Himself, can blame you for such an act.’

‘Do not presume to speak for God, my son,’ he answered severely. ‘It is difficult enough trying to fathom the hearts and minds of our fellow men, without aspiring to interpret the thoughts of the Almighty.’

Suitably chastened, I closed the gate of the inner fence in order to keep the hens out of the chapel precinct, called a greeting to two of the pilgrims who had just emerged from the house in anticipation of the Vespers bell, and followed Cicely through the door in the outer stockade and on to the track which led to Glastonbury.

We trudged in silence for a while, the green mass of Weary-all Hill keeping us company, until at last I was forced to express contrition.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘I shouldn’t have laughed at you like that.’

Cicely sniffed, but her back grew a little less rigid. ‘It was unkind,’ she chided.

‘I know. I’ve said I’m sorry.’

She seemed to accept this, waiting for me to catch her up and slipping her right hand beneath my left elbow. ‘What was Father Boniface saying to you about Mark?’ she asked.

‘You should have listened.’

She withdrew her hand abruptly. ‘Don’t be horrid! You sound like my father.’

So I repeated all that the priest had told me – a good test to discover how much I could remember, which was very nearly everything. (My memory has always been excellent, and even now, in my seventy-first year, I can oftentimes recall whole conversations almost word for word.)

When I had finished, Cicely took my arm again, her face troubled. ‘Do you think this paper important?’

‘Mark does; so important that he visited Father Boniface as soon as he could after finding it, to discover if the priest could shed any light on its meaning.’

‘Do you think Mark has told Aunt Joan about it?’

‘No. If he had, she would have told me, for she would see no need for secrecy.’

‘He might have sworn her to silence.’

I shook my head. ‘She is an open-hearted woman and would not keep either of us in the dark.’

Cicely sighed. ‘You’re right. But why would Mark keep his find a secret? Why did he not mention it while we were having dinner?’

I shook my head. I had no more idea than she did. ‘What is equally to the point,’ I said, ‘is where did he find it? And where has he hidden it now?’

‘You must demand a sight of it as soon as we get home,’ Cicely urged. ‘Mark’s surely bound to have returned by now.’

She stumbled over a loose stone in the road and I put an arm about her waist to steady her. Some travelling players, who were passing in their gaily painted and beribboned cart, gave a cheer, and one shouted a well-intentioned (but highly reprehensible) remark. I glared at the offender, but Cicely did not even blush, and I realized that she was too innocent to have understood its meaning. She had been sheltered all her short life and, as yet, knew very little of existence, in spite of her desire to present herself as a woman of the world. I hoped that she would not have too rude an awakening.

We arrived at the Gildersleeves’ house, footsore and tired and late for supper, to be met on the doorstep by Dame Joan in a greater state of agitation than when we had left her, and I realized that the second of my predictions had also been wrong.

‘Mark still hasn’t come back,’ she told us, ‘and Rob has discovered that Dorabella is missing from the stable.’

Chapter Eight

‘We should have guessed that Mark would have ridden, not walked, to Beckery,’ I said.

Cicely, Dame Joan and I were seated at the kitchen table, together with the two apprentices, while Lydia scuttled around behind us, ladling a savoury-smelling stew on to our plates. As well as the rich scent of the meat, with its juices and gravy, the whiff of rosemary and garlic and sweet wild thyme teased my nostrils and made my mouth water. A basket of hot oatcakes graced the centre of the board alongside a jug of ale, filled to the brim and running over. In spite of the heat, my walk had made me ravenous, and it was all I could do to wait for my hostess to say a benediction over the food before falling to. Cicely, although hot and tired, had clearly also developed an appetite, and it was not until we had blunted the edge of our hunger that Mark’s continued absence was discussed.

‘I don’t see why he couldn’t have walked to Beckery,’ Dame Joan complained. ‘Dorabella has been ridden hard these past few days and could do with a rest. It’s only a mile and wouldn’t have taken him much more than half an hour on foot.’

‘And another half-hour back again,’ I pointed out, adding with a certain amount of feeling, ‘An hour too much, perhaps, in this broiling sun.’ I spooned stew into my mouth and went on thickly, ‘But maybe he meant to ride on somewhere else when he had concluded his business with Father Boniface.’ I swallowed and turned to Rob Undershaft. ‘Did Master Gildersleeve give any hint to you, or John Longbones here, concerning his intentions?’

Both apprentices shook their heads vigorously, continuing to wolf down their belated supper. At last John, the first one of them to clear his plate, said, ‘Master told us he was going to Beckery, that was all. Told us the priest there was in need of a sheet of vellum, which he’d promised to let him have today.’

Rob nodded in confirmation.

‘An untruth,’ I declared flatly. ‘Father Boniface was neither expecting, nor in need of, a sheet of vellum.’

Dame Joan cut in. ‘But why should Mark lie? Tell me again, if you please, exactly what passed between you and the good Father.’

So, with more hindrance than help from Cicely, I repeated my conversation with the priest as accurately as I could, but left my hostess almost as bewildered as before.

‘Peter said no word to me of any gift received from the Father.’ She considered this for a moment, then continued fair-mindedly, ‘Although I have to admit that he did not often show me his books or parchments, for what would have been the use, knowing I cannot read? No, I suppose there was no reason why he should have mentioned this particular paper to me, if it had no pictures. For it’s the pictures I like to look at. I can understand those.’

‘There were no pictures in this manuscript,’ I assured her gently. ‘Nor, apparently, any words that were recognizable as such, if the priest is to be believed.’ And I repeated Father Boniface’s description of the strange arrangement of lines.

With a furtive gesture, so that the apprentices should not notice, Dame Joan made the sign to ward off evil before addressing me again.

‘And you think Mark must have come across this paper sometime today?’

I nodded and she turned a scared face towards me. ‘Do you think these strange symbols have anything to do with Peter’s disappearance? And have they now worked their evil spell on Mark?’

I noticed that she had started to tremble, and took the liberty of reaching out a hand and squeezing one of hers. But what comfort could I offer when I was not sure myself of the answer?

‘Dame Joan,’ I urged, ‘we don’t yet know that anything
has
happened to your younger son. The fact that he rode to Beckery instead of walking hints that he intended to travel further afield if he got no satisfactory answer from the priest. We cannot know where, or for what purpose, but there is every likelihood that he will return home before dark.’

She smiled tremulously. ‘Yes. Yes, of course.’ Her look became less strained and anxious. ‘But did you learn nothing from Abel Fairchild or the Pennards that could explain what might have happened to Peter?’

‘Nothing more than what you have already told me. I’m sorry.’

‘And Abel remains constant in his story that Peter vanished within moments?’ Once again I nodded. ‘But are
you
satisfied that there was no other means of concealment anywhere at hand?’

‘Apart from the hut? No, I’m afraid not, and Master Gildersleeve was not inside it. Abel had wit enough, seemingly, to look behind the door, but there was no one there. The interior of the hut is small, with nothing but a pile of sacking in one corner. There is nowhere else anyone could hide in such a short time.’

‘So what is to be done now?’ my hostess demanded tearfully. ‘Tongues are already wagging, and will do so in earnest if Peter’s fate is not discovered soon. And if it should prove that Mark, too, has vanished…’ She did not finish, but let the conclusion go as something too awful to contemplate.

Even Cicely seemed struck by the seriousness of the situation. She rose from her place and went to comfort her aunt, kneeling beside the older woman’s chair, putting her arms around her and kissing the suddenly careworn cheek. Then she raised her head and glared fiercely at me.

‘Can’t you do something, Roger? According to you, you’re so clever at solving mysteries! Why is it that you can’t solve this one?’

‘I only arrived here yesterday evening!’ I protested warmly. ‘You’re unreasonable, Mistress!’

Dame Joan agreed, at the same time smoothing her niece’s hair, anxious to antagonize no one. ‘Roger has done a great deal already, my love. And he has done it out of the goodness of his heart, for he is under no obligation to assist us.’

Cicely gave her aunt a final hug and returned to her place, grimacing at me across the kitchen table. ‘I know. I’m sorry,’ she said, and blew me a kiss.

Dame Joan gave a strangled cry of protest.

*   *   *

Later, walking with Cicely in the little garden, the scent of blown roses all about us, thick as incense, I took her to task, reminding her of her betrothal to her elder cousin.

‘It was a marriage arranged by our parents. I’m not in love with Peter,’ she whispered, and I was aware of the gleam of tears in those huge violet eyes upraised to mine.

‘And you’re not in love with me either, my girl,’ I answered briskly, ‘any more than I am with you.’

The tears miraculously vanished. ‘You’re horrid and rude, and I hate you!’ she retorted with venom.

I laughed. ‘So you’ve told me once already this afternoon. Just try to remember how much you dislike me and we shall rub along very well together. Your aunt is in great distress. Her burden should not be increased by anxiety about your conduct.’

The violet eyes gleamed again, but this time with pure temper. ‘I’m going indoors,’ Cicely announced. ‘Don’t dare to follow me!’

‘I am yours to command!’

I thought for a moment that she would strike me yet again, but after half raising her hand, she must have decided that a dignified departure would be more impressive; so, gathering up her skirts, she swung on her heel and disappeared inside the house.

I smiled to myself and sat down on the stone bench that ran along the wall beneath the workroom window. From the kitchen I could hear the clatter of pots and dishes as Lydia went about the evening’s work, assisted by her good-natured mistress, and the low rumble of the apprentices’ voices as they discussed, no doubt, this latest development in their hitherto uneventful lives. Their future prospects must look bleak to them at present, I thought, with first Peter, and now possibly Mark Gildersleeve missing.

The westering sun speared through the branches of both the medlar tree and an apple tree that grew in one corner of the garden. The round, reddening globes of fruit nestled against the velvety darkness of the leaves, and the slender trunk rippled like water under the running light. Birds sang in the branches, for it was still far too early for them to go to roost, and just for a moment I let my body slacken and cleared my mind of thoughts, refusing to contemplate the Gordian knot which I had yet to unravel … and in no time at all I was sound asleep.