The Brothers of Glastonbury (17 page)

‘Oh, ay! Honeyman, that was his name. A beekeeper, I mind it now. He had panniers attached to his saddle and said he was in Glastonbury on business.’

The two stable-boys murmured confirmation. ‘We already told him that,’ said the freckled one.

Edgar ignored him. ‘So, where would he be going? Not selling from door to door; the abbey hives supply most of the town with honey, though the brothers keep the best wax for their own candles. If this man’s as well-heeled as he looks, I reckon he’s a Bee Master and must have a fair-sized apiary, so the probability is that he’s come with a load of the stuff for the chandler. Anyway, if I were you, I’d try there first. Martin Toogood on Fisher’s Hill.’

I smiled at him. ‘Master Shapwick, I think I should enlist your aid to help me solve this riddle. You’ve a thinking brain.’

He coloured, disclaimed, but looked pleased none the less and sent the stable-boys off about their work with renewed authority.

I turned to Rob Undershaft. ‘I’ll speak to this Gilbert Honeyman if I can find him. Go home,’ I instructed, ‘and tell Dame Joan what’s happened and where I’ve gone. I’ll follow you before I visit Brother Hilarion at the abbey. Ask Mistress Cicely to look out one of Master Peter’s books for me from the chest in the workshop. One with a good, stout cover.’

Rob stared in perplexity for a moment, then shrugged, sensibly coming to the conclusion that the less he knew the better. I added, ‘There’s no need to spread the news about Dorabella yet a while.’ I glanced at the stable-boys, whispering together as they mucked out one of the stalls, and sighed. ‘It’ll get around fast enough, heaven knows!’

‘You can rely on John and me,’ Rob answered gruffly, and I suddenly felt sure that I could.

I watched him leave and said my farewells to Edgar Shapwick.

‘Tell the Dame not to worry about the mare,’ he said. ‘I’ll take good care of her. By the way, your cob’s getting restive. He needs exercise.’

‘Get one of the lads to ride him,’ I suggested, as I took the hint and handed over the day’s payment for Barnabas. ‘I may have need of him later.’

He nodded and swung on his heel, jingling the coins in his pocket. I crossed the stableyard to leave, but as I was about to step outside I heard the patter of feet behind me, and someone tugged at my sleeve. Turning, I saw the freckle-faced stable-boy holding something clenched tightly in his fist.

‘What is it?’ I asked.

Carefully he unfurled his grubby fingers to display a coil of brown thread. ‘This was snarled up in the mare’s mane,’ he said. ‘I don’t suppose it’s important, but I thought you might like to see it. Do you want it, or shall I throw it away?’

I took the thread and stretched it to its length, revealing it as a piece of rough homespun yarn. It had certainly not been torn from anything that Mark Gildersleeve was wearing.

I placed it in my pouch along with the folded parchment. ‘I’ll keep it,’ I told the boy. ‘You never know, it might have some significance. Thank you. You’re a clever lad.’

He grinned cockily. ‘So my mother says! I’ll tell you something else,’ he went on, ‘which I don’t think the gaffer mentioned – leastways, not that I overheard. There are bits of straw in the mare’s coat, like she’s been shut up in a stable or a barn, and flecks of … well, something sticky.’

‘Sticky?’ I queried, puzzled.

The boy nodded, beginning to move away. ‘I’d better get back to work. I thought you’d like to know, that’s all.’

I thanked him yet again and turned slowly into Northload Street on my way to Fisher’s Hill, unsure as yet just what value this information had.

Chapter Twelve

I had no need to go as far as the chandler’s shop. I met Gilbert Honeyman at the bottom of Fisher’s Hill, riding a brown bay and travelling northwards along Magdalene Street in the direction of Market Place. I guessed it must be him by the two large panniers, one on either side of his mount, swinging loose and bumping against the animal’s flanks, and obviously empty. A big man, middle-aged, with a thick grey beard and very dark blue eyes, he had that indefinable air of prosperity about him which had made Edgar Shapwick describe him as ‘well-heeled’.

He drew rein when I hailed him by name, and regarded me curiously.

‘Do I know you, lad?’ he asked. ‘If you’re wanting to buy wax you’re unlucky. I’ve just sold my whole stock to the chandler, and I shan’t be back this way now for a month or two. It’ll most likely be October before I’m in Glastonbury again, but you could always ask at the abbey if a small quantity is all you’re needing.’

‘No, no,’ I assured him, ‘I don’t wish to buy wax. I want to talk to you about the horse you found wandering on the moors. If you can spare me a moment or two of your time, that is.’

Gilbert Honeyman swung himself out of the saddle. ‘There’s nothing much to tell,’ he said, ‘but such as there is might as well be told over a drink, instead of full in the sun’s glare in this hot, dusty street.’ He indicated the row of houses opposite the western wall of the abbey precinct – and one in particular, which sported a bunch of leaves on a pole outside its door. ‘Shall we try there? It’s clean and wholesome, if I remember rightly. The beakers are properly scoured and the rushes changed regularly. But that’s probably something you know already.’

I didn’t bother to contradict him, and waited while he tethered the bay to the rail which fronted the house before following him inside.

It was too early in the day for the tavern to be over-full, although there was still a surprising number of people occupying the tables and benches. We found seats in a secluded corner and Master Honeyman called for the pot-boy and ordered two mazers of their finest mead.

‘One of your metheglins,’ he warned, ‘properly flavoured with herbs and spices. None of that rubbish which is usually palmed off on unwary drinkers: just honeycomb washings with a little pepper added. I shan’t have it, and neither will my friend! And I shan’t pay for it either, you can tell your master so. Disgusting swill of that sort isn’t even fit for pigs!’

Having delivered himself of this diatribe on what was plainly one of his favourite topics, the Bee Master then settled himself to his satisfaction and turned to me. ‘Right, my lad. You know my name. What’s yours?’

I told him, and because he was a man who inspired confidence and trust I allowed my tongue to run away with me. By the time the metheglin was set before us – certainly one of the finest meads I had ever tasted – Master Honeyman was in possession of most of the facts concerning Mark and Peter Gildersleeve, and my involvement with them. When, at last, I finished my story, he pulled thoughtfully at his beard.

‘A strange business,’ he commented. ‘A very strange business indeed! Well, all I can tell you about the mare is that I found her this morning, early, wandering on the moors. I left home yesterday and spent the night at Priddy. I was on my way again just after daybreak, and came down over Mendip by the Holly Brook and started off along the causeway which joins the Wells road. I’d gone about a furlong when I noticed this horse, roaming loose and riderless, and stopping every now and then to crop the grass. I was too far away at that point to be able to see much of the animal, and thought it one of the moorland strays. But later, as I approached Glastonbury along the main track, near the turning which leads to Godney, I saw it again – this time close to – and I could tell at once that it was a thoroughbred, even though the coat was rough and staring. There was no bridle or saddle, but she’s a docile, well-mannered creature and came to me when I called. Luckily I had a stout piece of twine in my saddle-bag and I was able to use it as a leading rein. I’d noted the stables in Northload Street on one of my previous visits to the town, so I took her there. To my relief, the owner recognized her right away, and I was able to get on about my own affairs with a clear conscience, knowing that she was in safe hands. But I’d no idea that she was a part of such an intriguing tale.’

‘How long do you think she’d been riderless?’

Gilbert Honeyman swallowed a deep, satisfying draught of his mead before replying. ‘Judging by the state of her, I’d reckon a day, maybe even longer.’

‘That’s Master Shapwick’s opinion too. And he rules out Mark having been thrown, because of the lack of saddle and bridle.’

The Bee Master cavilled at that. ‘There are plenty of unscrupulous folk about, unfortunately. A loose horse and no one near … well, it could tempt an honest man to his limits in these difficult times. A good saddle would fetch a fair price, and no questions asked.’ Once more he stroked the luxuriant beard. ‘No, I wouldn’t rule out the possibility that the mare’s rider had been unseated, and might, even now, be lying out there somewhere with a broken leg, or maybe worse.’ He glanced at my face and added, ‘Now, what have I said to make you look like that?’

I smiled ruefully. ‘You’ve put me in a dilemma. I feel now that I’ve no option but to abandon all my plans and ride out across the moors to look for Mark, although I’m convinced it will prove a fruitless errand.’

Gilbert Honeyman frowned. ‘In that case, why not notify the Sheriff’s Officer and get him to raise a posse from amongst the townsfolk?’

‘No, no! That wouldn’t do at all. The longer we can conceal Mark’s disappearance from people the better it will be for Dame Joan and her niece. There are too many whispers about Peter Gildersleeve and his dabbling in the black arts already. If the inhabitants were to know for certain that his brother has vanished as well, it would only make matters worse for them. I shall have to go myself.’

‘It will be worth it, however, if you find this Mark Gildersleeve…’ Master Honeyman was beginning, but I shook my head.

‘I’ve told you, I don’t believe I shall. I’ll just be wasting my time.’

The Bee Master finished his mead, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and continued to stare into the empty mazer for several seconds. Then, coming to a decision, he pushed it away and turned his head to look at me.

‘Let me search for this friend of yours,’ he offered. ‘I’ve completed my business more quickly than I expected. I thought to be here for at least another twenty-four hours, and I shan’t be looked for at home until early next week, today being Friday and Sunday being a day of rest.’

I stared at him in sudden hope – but felt, nevertheless, that I ought to protest. ‘I can’t possibly let you do it. Why should you become embroiled?’

He spread strong, blunt-fingered hands. ‘Why should
you?
As far as I can gather from your story, these Gildersleeves have been thrust upon you quite by chance. Your part was played when you delivered the girl safely to her aunt. But you stayed on and are doing your best to solve this mystery. We’re all put on this earth to help one another, lad. And if I’m honest I have to admit that this tale interests me more than somewhat. So, what do you say?’

Misinterpreting my hesitation, he continued; ‘If you feel you know too little about me, I can soon remedy that. I’m a bee-keeper – as my father was before me, his father before him, and many of my forebears – well-known and well respected in the village of Keynsham, where I live. I’m fifty-nine years old, a widower with one daughter about your own age, which I judge to be three or maybe four-and-twenty. Am I right? Ay, I thought as much.’ He sighed. ‘Rowena’s a headstrong, masterful lass, as unlike her dear mother as can be. The saints alone know where she gets it from.’ He slapped his hands on the table and rose to his feet. ‘Now, let’s proceed! Tell me which is Dame Gildersleeve’s house, and I’ll report there as soon as I return from my mission, probably close on suppertime. Meanwhile, lad, you can go about your business, whatever it is you have in mind to do.’

I thanked him fervently, but had another proposal to make. ‘I’m returning to the house now, before I visit my old friend and mentor Brother Hilarion at the abbey. If you’d like to accompany me there, we can acquaint Dame Joan and her niece of our plans and seek their approval before you set out.’

*   *   *

Dame Joan, aroused from an uneasy doze by Cicely, descended from her bedchamber to give us her blessing. Both women seemed unflatteringly grateful to have such a solidly respectable citizen on their side, a man whose advanced years bestowed upon him the wisdom which they were afraid I lacked. Master Honeyman was persuaded to stay to dinner before pursuing his quest, and during the meal – which was served, to save Lydia’s legs, in the kitchen – I was amused to note that our hostess’s appetite had been miraculously restored to her. Instead of the broth which she had earlier requested from Lydia, Dame Joan did full justice to a baked carp in Galentyne sauce, with a side dish of buttered vegetables, followed by strawberries stewed in red wine. It was, by pure chance, one of Lydia’s better meals, and the Bee Master was plainly impressed.

He listened intently while the two women regaled him with the circumstances of Peter’s disappearance, politely suppressing any hint that I had already told him the story.

‘Young man,’ he said, addressing me across the table as their recital ended, ‘when you have solved this mystery, you must call upon me on your way home and let me know the answer to this riddle.’

‘If he manages to solve it,’ Cicely snorted, unable to resist the jibe.

‘He’ll do his best, you can be certain of that,’ my new friend assured her heartily – but without, I felt, expressing too much confidence in my powers of deduction. ‘My guess is that he’s cleverer than he looks.’

With this dubious accolade still ringing in my ears, I went after dinner to collect the book which Cicely had, at Rob’s request, searched out for me. She had chosen well, demonstrating unexpected common sense in her selection of a quarto not too rich in appearance, which would draw little attention to what I was carrying. It was bound in a strong, plain cloth made of hemp or jute, with only a few copper studs for decoration, and it had ties of the same material at both top and bottom and in the middle, with which the covers could be safely held together. I eased the parchment from the pouch at my waist, laid it carefully between two of the pages and fastened the strings.

I took my leave of Dame Joan and her niece, with a word of sincere thanks to the latter, and said farewell to Master Honeyman, expressing the hope of seeing him again at supper.