The Brothers of Glastonbury (21 page)

It did not, however, solve the problem of either brother’s whereabouts. When Mark had visited Beckery the day before yesterday he had not long discovered the parchment in the secret drawer, and had hoped that Father Boniface could enlighten him as to its meaning. When that had proved not to be the case, he had gone off on on some quest of his own. But where? And for what purpose? The only clue was that Dorabella had been found wandering on the other side of the moor …

I suddenly remembered Gilbert Honeyman and wondered if, by any chance, he had discovered Mark, lying out there with an injured leg or ankle, or even a broken skull. It became still more imperative that I get back to the house, and I said a somewhat perfunctory goodbye to Blethyn Goode. He merely grunted in reply, shifting from the stool to his former seat on the bed without glancing up. Nor did the three old men, now cosily ensconced on the bench, show any further interest in me. They did not bother to answer my valediction, but continued to cackle with laughter over some piece of gossip they were sharing. I went out under the arch and turned northwards along Magdalene Street.

*   *   *

Gilbert Honeyman had drawn a blank, as I had prophesied he would.

The Bee Master had retraced his ride of the morning, across the raised causeway leading to Wells, and then taken the path to the Holly Brook where he had begun his search.

‘From there, I went as far as I could in all directions but, alas, to no avail. There was no sign of anyone lying injured on the ground. But I do assure you, Dame Joan, that only my own and my horse’s weariness stopped me from starting all over again.’

‘You have done more than anyone could expect of you,’ that worthy assured him, her voice tremulous with gratitude, and she laid a hand on his arm. Master Honeyman patted it sustainingly.

We were eating supper, again in the kitchen, and I had promised to tell my news as soon as we had finished. Consequently, once the meal was over, although the dirty dishes were cleared from the table, no effort was made to wash them. Everyone, including Lydia, resumed his or her seat and waited eagerly to hear what I had to say.

When I had recounted the day’s events, there was a moment’s silence. Then Dame Joan let out a sigh.

‘Does this mean that Peter wasn’t dabbling in sorcery after all?’ she asked.

Both Cicely and I, with assistance from Gilbert Honeyman, did our utmost to reassure her on that score. But her next two questions – ‘Where is he then?’ and ‘What’s happened to him and Mark?’ – were as unanswerable as ever.

‘You must give me more time,’ I pleaded, ‘to try to work things out in the light of this new knowledge.’

‘Do you have any ideas at all?’ the Bee Master demanded bluntly.

‘There’s a thought stirring at the back of my mind,’ I admitted, ‘but I’d rather keep it to myself for now.’ I didn’t add that the idea was so absurd I could barely give it credence, and was certainly not prepared to hold myself up to ridicule by sharing it.

‘That’s not fair!’ Cicely exclaimed hotly. ‘This is as much our mystery as it is yours, and I don’t see why you have to be so horridly secretive!’

Dame Joan immediately reprimanded her for her impertinence, but it was obvious that she was inclined to share her niece’s sentiments. Master Honeyman, on the other hand, looked as though he recognized only too well the headstrong, impulsively outspoken female of the species, and sent me a sympathetic glance.

‘I’m not being horridly secretive,’ I answered gently, ‘it’s just that I can’t yet see where my idea is leading me, even supposing that there’s something in it, which may not be the case. I need to speak to Brother Hilarion again. I’ll pay him a visit this evening and see if I can talk to him sometime between Vespers and Compline. But don’t expect me to tell you anything on my return. I shall need to be on my own, to think.’

This in no way placated Cicely, who continued to sulk. Master Honeyman decided on a strategic withdrawal and announced that he must be on his way. ‘I shall be at the abbey hostelry at the bottom of the street, should you need me,’ he said, gallantly bowing over Dame Joan’s hand. ‘I’ve already paid my shot and stabled my horse there. If I may, I shall visit you again tomorrow, to find out how matters stand then.’

‘Don’t waste your time, sir,’ Cicely advised him with a toss of her head, ‘for I’m sure we shan’t be any the wiser than we are now – except Master Chapman, of course.’

Gilbert clapped me on the shoulder and pulled down the corners of his mouth. ‘You’re making an enemy there, my lad,’ he hissed in my ear.

I winked in reply and rose to my feet. ‘I’ll come with you,’ I said, ‘as far as the abbey’s north gate.’

Once we had left the house, it was only a step or two before we parted company, but time enough for him to say, ‘What a termagant! She reminds me of my own Rowena.’ He laughed. ‘God preserve us from the female race!’

I smiled and waved him on his way; then I roused the gate-porter and begged admittance for the second time that day.

‘Oh, it’s you again,’ he grumbled. ‘The brothers are in the refectory, at supper.’

‘I can wait,’ I said. ‘But I must speak with Brother Hilarion when he’s finished eating.’

He made no further objection and let me pass. The precincts were just as busy as they had been earlier, and I reflected that it was an abbey which never seemed to sleep. The only truly quiet time was in the small hours of the morning, when the monks roused themselves in the cold, dark dorter and went in procession down the night stairs to sing Vigils in the church, a great pool of darkness starred with a few, faint, flickering lights. (I regret to say that when I was a novice there, I often fell into a doze while chanting my psalms, and had to be nudged awake by my neighbours.)

To pass the time I skirted the Lady Chapel, threaded a path through the old cemetery and past the cloisters towards the dorters, situated between the refectory and the latrines. Away to my right, wonderful, mouth-watering smells were issuing forth from the abbot’s kitchen, and I wondered which local dignitary was being entertained this evening in the adjacent hall. No such appetizing aromas came from the monks’ kitchen as I passed it; a bowlful of thin gruel or broth would have constituted their evening meal, and I recalled with almost physical agony the pangs of hunger from which I used to suffer during my novitiate.

Out of curiosity, I mounted the stairs to the deserted dormitory over the undercroft. Nothing had changed. The same two rows of blankets, straw-filled pillows and rush-mats – only the old and the sick had mattresses – lined each wall, and the same bleak crucifix hung at one end. The door leading to the night-corridor and stairs was shut, but icy draughts still seeped beneath it. As for myself, I was seized with the same urgent longing for escape that had so frequently afflicted me in the past, and I descended into the fresh air again with almost indecent haste.

I returned to the cloisters and found Brother Hilarion’s carrel, hoping that he would come there for meditation, or to read the Scriptures quietly until it was the hour for Compline (always a little later in the summer months). I was not disappointed, and when supper was over and grace said, the brothers entered from the refectory and went each to his own place, some taking up pen or brush again to resume their labours on psalter or Bible or other holy book.

Brother Hilarion did not immediately perceive me, for I was sitting in shadow at the carrel’s further end. When I moved, he started back with a cry.

‘It’s all right, Brother,’ I whispered. ‘It’s only me again.’

‘R-Roger? How you startled me! What do you want?’

‘Can we talk here?’

He nodded. ‘Yes, but we must be very quiet.’ He slid on to the seat beside me. ‘Have you discovered anything since this morning, concerning Peter Gildersleeve?’

Keeping my voice as low as possible, I told him all that had happened, producing for his perusal both the original parchment belonging to Gerald of Clonmel and also the translation made by Blethyn Goode.

His frown deepened as he looked at them. ‘This is certainly no evil spell or incantation. So what can it have to do with Master Gildersleeve’s disappearance?’

I countered with a question of my own. ‘Have you ever heard of any great relic which was housed here in the olden days?’

He shook his head. ‘This is before the coming of our Saxon forefathers. After their conversion by Saint Augustine we might have seen the bones of Saint Patrick and Saint Aidan, relics which we still retain. And three of our Saxon kings were buried here: Edmund, Edgar the Peacable, and Ethelraed Unraed’s son, Edmund Ironside. But what was here in ancient times, I have no idea. Maybe you should speak to Brother Librarian. He might have some thoughts on the subject.’

I pointed to a phrase in the translation.

‘It says here that the relic was brought to the Abbey by “the one who came from over the water”.’ I hesitated, then continued, ‘This morning, you were teaching the novices about Joseph of Arimathea, who is, we are told, the Founding Father of this place.’ Again I paused, uncertain whether to proceed in case Brother Hilarion should think me suddenly bereft of my senses. But I plucked up my courage and said, ‘What about the cup that Joseph is said to have brought with him from Palestine? The Passover cup, used by Our Lord at the Last Supper?’

‘Ah!’ The faded blue eyes opened wide in wonder and astonishment as they met mine. ‘You are … You are talking of the Holy Grail.’

Chapter Fifteen

There was a profound silence, broken only by the whispered voices of two other Brothers speaking together in the next carrel. Then Brother Hilarion repeated on a low, wondering sigh, ‘The Holy Grail.’

‘Could it have been?’ I asked, trembling with excitement, and grateful that my suggestion had not been immediately dismissed as the ravings of an unsound mind. ‘What would it have looked like?’

My old friend and mentor raised a trembling hand, pressing it to his lips while he considered his answer. At last he said, ‘If the story is true, if … if indeed the Grail was ever brought to this country, if…’ He broke off in confusion, afraid to confirm or deny the existence of so legendary an object, and worried that any denial would call in question the very sources from which the abbey drew its wealth.

‘Yes?’ I urged him.

‘Well … It would probably have been a plain olivewood bowl, Our Lord and the Blessed Disciples being poor men.’ He must have seen my doubtful expression, for he went on hastily, ‘But naturally, a reliquary of gold and precious stones would have been made for it, which would explain why, in the stories of King Arthur, it is depicted as a chalice of beauty and worth.’

‘Yes, of course,’ I breathed. ‘Of course! That would be the answer.’

‘My child!’ Brother Hilarion admonished me gently. ‘Don’t let your imagination run away with you. There must have been other relics which the monks of those days would have prized. Furthermore – and you tell me that Blethyn Goode has already pointed this out to you – anything from almost a thousand years ago is very unlikely to have survived. Even if there was in fact a shrine or chapel beside a brook known as Charon’s stream, it would surely have been looted by the Saxons during their final advance.’

There was so much excellent sense in what he said that my heart plummeted, and I once more began to feel foolish. But after a few moments my natural optimism reasserted itself as I reflected that Peter Gildersleeve had thought the parchment ‘valuable beyond price’. Why? Was it possible that he had come to the same conclusion as I had done? And if so, what did his disappearance have to do with it?

My thoughts were interrupted by my companion. ‘Let’s pay a visit to Brother Librarian and ask his opinion of the matter. He knows more about the history of this abbey than any of us. There’s time, I think, before Compline.’

I was again reluctant both to expose my theory to ridicule and to be forced to repeat my story; nevertheless, I eventually gave in and meekly followed Brother Hilarion to the library, where my fears were proved unfounded. Brother Librarian, a small, rotund, pink-faced man, whom I vaguely recollected from my novice days, not only grasped the essentials of my tale with amazing speed, but also listened gravely to the conclusion that I had drawn. When I had finished, however, he shook his head.

‘I should very much doubt it being a reference to the Holy Grail. I’m not saying it couldn’t be, you understand – but I think it far more likely that the relic in question was an ossuary containing the bones of Saint Patrick.’

‘Saint Patrick? But surely he died and is buried in Ireland!’

The button mouth pursed itself into a tiny, fleshy, pink rosebud. ‘So the Irish would have us believe. Yet there is a strong tradition of links between the saint and the church at Ynys Witrin. It is not improbable – not improbable at all! – that Patrick was born in Somerset, and that when, as a boy, he was carried off by Irish raiders, it was from around these parts; for in those days, the coast was constantly harried by the pirates and sea-scavengers of many different countries. And if that were indeed the case, would it not be natural that an old man should wish to return to his birthplace towards the end of his life? William of Malmesbury, in his
De Antiquitate Glastoniensis Ecclesiae,
tells us definitely that after coming back to Somerset, Patrick “chanced upon the Isle of Ynys Witrin, wherein he found a place holy and ancient, sanctified in honour of Mary, the Pure Virgin”. And also that he climbed the Tor, where he discovered a ruined oratory and an ancient tome recording the acts of Saint Faganus and Saint Deruvianus, who had founded the chapel in honour of Saint Michael. Our Lord Himself appeared to Saint Patrick in a dream to confirm that the summit of the Tor was holy ground which must always be dedicated to the worship of the Archangel.’

‘Then you believe,’ I said slowly, ‘that an ossuary containing the bones of Saint Patrick must be the relic referred to in Brother Begninus’s letter?’

Once more, Brother Librarian’s mouth formed a small, round O, but this time one of uncertainty rather than conviction. He was wary of committing himself unreservedly to the idea that the saint had been buried here, realizing how contentious the notion would be not only amongst our Irish neighbours, but also to many of the Church’s chief dignitaries, who were constantly alert to the danger of Glastonbury setting itself up in rivalry to Canterbury.