The Brothers of Glastonbury

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.

‘You will, lad! You will! And if Mark Gildersleeve’s out there to be found, I’ll find him.’

I squeezed his arm in unspoken gratitude, but was certain in my own mind that he would have nothing to report when he returned for the afternoon meal. Then I crossed the road and entered the abbey by the north gate, the porter deciding after a long, hard stare that there was little in my appearance to which he could take exception. I knew that, at that time of the morning, the Chapter meeting would be over and the monks all busy about their various employments. Brother Hilarion would be at his task of instructing the oblates and novices; and from my own past experience, I remembered that when the weather was fine he often conducted his classes in the cloister garth, deeming it sensible for his pupils to be in the open air as much as possible.

As ever, the abbey precincts were teeming with people, both lay and clerical, for Glastonbury has always been one of the most important religious foundations in the country, and is almost certainly the wealthiest. (How does the old saw go? ‘If the Abbot of Glastonbury were to marry the Abbess of Shaftesbury, they’d be richer than both King and Pope together.’) Messengers came and went, to and from the Abbot’s parlour; a cart laden with building stone nearly ran me down, accompanied by curses from the driver; and pilgrims jostled for position as they made their way inside the Abbey. It was this constant stream of humanity, ensuring daily contact with the outside world, which had been yet another factor in my desire to quit the monastic life. I had never experienced the peace and quiet of a lesser church, and so had had no real chance to settle.

Brother Hilarion was indeed in the cloister garth, his pupils ranged about him in a semi-circle on the grass. His subject for the morning’s lesson — I could hear him holding forth as I approached — was Joseph of Arimathea and his connections with the abbey, how he had come across the sea to Britain after the Crucifixion to establish the first Christian church at Glastonbury. I recalled that this was a subject dear to Abbot Selwood’s heart, as indeed it had been to the hearts of many of his predecessors, for the claim established not only Glastonbury’s superiority over Canterbury, but also over the entire ecclesiastical world. And it encouraged, too, a greater flow of pilgrims, legend linking Joseph to the Arthurian stories as the ancestor of Lancelot and Galahad.

As I trod soft-footed across the grass to stand behind him, Brother Hilarion had just reached the hotly-debated argument concerning the actual date of Joseph’s arrival in Britain: 31 AD or some years later.

‘At the Council of Pisa, and again at the Council of Constance, the French bishops demanded precedence over the English because, they said, Saint Denis had brought the faith to Paris not long after his conversion by Saint Paul. But our bishops, in their turn, demanded precedence over the French on account of Joseph of Arimathea, who had come to this country immediately after the Passion of Our Lord. And at the Council of Siena the great Richard Fleming, Bishop of Lincoln, upheld England’s claim against the combined opposition of French. Castilians and Scots. Less than fifty years ago, at the Council of Basle, we took on the mighty Alphonso Garcia de Sancta Maria, doctor of law and Dean of the Churches of Compostella and Segovia…’

He broke off, suddenly aware of someone watching him, and turned his head to see who it was. When he saw me, his gentle old face creased into a smile, and he welcomed me with a hand raised in blessing.

‘You’ve come then.’

‘I said I should.’ I looked towards the novices. ‘Are you too busy to spare me a few moments of your time?’

‘No, no. Brother Oswald here is in training to take my place when I grow too old to cope any longer with the vagaries and high spirits of youth.’ He smiled and indicated a young monk who had been standing a few paces in the rear, his head respectfully bent, listening intently. ‘Brother Oswald, pray continue with the life of Joseph while I have a word with my friend. I think, at this point, that you might deal with the miracle of the Holy Thorn and the founding of the early Celtic Church.’

He took my arm and drew me apart into the shelter of the cloister and lowered his voice. ‘Now, is there any news yet of Peter Gildersleeve? And there are also rumours that Mark is missing, including further gossip this morning that the mare, Dorabella, has been brought in riderless. Is this true?’

‘Alas, yes,’ I said. And as briefly as I could — for I was beginning to tire of repeating the story — I told him as much as I knew and of my part in it. He listened without interruption until I had finished and then sighed, pulling down the corners of his mouth.

‘It sounds worse than I feared. The testimony of the shepherd lad will prove to be the most damning, of course. Had Peter Gildersleeve not vanished into thin air before his eyes, it might have been possible to still people’s clacking tongues with some plausible explanation. As it is…!’

‘Brother Hilarion,’ I reproached him, ‘you don’t believe that a man can vanish into thin air, as you put it. That would be to say that you believe in magic.’

He made the sign of the cross and glanced furtively about him. ‘My child,’ he whispered, ‘this whole realm of Avalon is full of magic. In their time, great wizards have lived here: Merlin and Gwyn ap Nud, the Lord of the Wild Hunt, to name but two. And Satan is about his work both night and day. We cannot deny that his evil presence is constantly amongst us, even though we acknowledge that Christ will triumph in the end.’

‘And you seriously believe that Peter Gildersleeve had truck with the Devil?’

Brother Hilarion shook his head sadly. ‘My child, I pray hourly that it is not so, for the sake of his immortal soul and of his family.’ He hesitated a moment, before adding, ‘There is one thing…’

‘What?’ I queried sharply.

He looked uncomfortable. ‘It may mean nothing at all. I probably shouldn’t mention it.’

‘Tell me anyway,’ I implored him.

My old teacher continued to look unhappy, and fidgeted with the rope girdle that encircled his waist.

‘Tell me!’ I repeated, desperate for any crumb of information in this increasingly baffling affair.

Brother Hilarion glanced sideways at one of the novices, a tow-haired lad, paying scant attention to Brother Oswald’s lecture, and nodded in his direction.

‘A month or so back — maybe a little longer, maybe less — Humphrey there was assisting Father Elwyn in Saint Michael’s Chapel, on the Tor, working in the bakehouse — for he knows something about bread-making, his father being a baker by trade-’

‘Yes, yes!’ I interrupted impatiently.

Brother Hilarion went on, slightly ruffled, ‘Well, it would seem that during this time — the time, that is, that Humphrey spent assisting at Saint Michael’s — Peter Gildersleeve visited Father Elwyn to consult with him on some private matter.’

‘So?’

‘So, I overheard Humphrey telling one of his fellow novices about it yesterday, during a discussion between them concerning Master Peter’s disappearance. Of course, I reprimanded them severely for discussing the subject at all, when there are so many more important things to occupy their minds-’

Once again I cut in ruthlessly. ‘What significance did young Humphrey attach to this visit? Did he say?’

‘No, nor did I ask him.’ Brother Hilarion was offended. ‘To do so would have been to encourage the gossip. I feel that I have been very wrong in repeating it to you now, for the visit was doubtless entirely innocent. Indeed, what reason is there to place any other construction upon it?’

‘None at all,’ I agreed. But Brother Hilarion had thought it worthy of repetition. And he told me that something in the young novice’s tone of voice and general demeanour had implied that he thought there might be a connection between Peter’s call on Father Elwyn and his later disappearance. I did not pursue the matter, however, merely asking, ‘Do you truly believe that Joseph of Arimathea founded the original church at Glastonbury? Do you indeed have faith that he came here at all?’

After a momentary confusion caused by this abrupt change of subject, and after an even briefer attempt to look scandalized at such heresy, Brother Hilarion gave my question the same grave consideration which he had always given my past doubts and queries. He was not a man easily shocked.

‘My child,’ he said at length, ‘I cannot answer you with the certainty of Father Abbot or even of some of my brothers. All I can say is that where a tale or a person is strongly connected with a particular place, as Joseph is with Glastonbury, and where that belief persists down through the centuries, handed on from father to son for endless generations, I think there is good reason to believe that the story could be true — in spite of the Dean of Compostella and Segovia’s contention that Joseph was still imprisoned in Jerusalem as late as 70 AD. But this is between ourselves, Roger. I can trust you not to make my doubts known.’

‘You seem to have very few doubts,’ I reassured him. ‘Yet why should Joseph come to Britain? Had he indeed been here before, in order to purchase lead from the Romans?’

‘Ah!’ Brother Hilarion smiled. ‘The story of the Christ Child lodging at Priddy! A charming conceit, but not one to which I give much credence.’ I did not embarrass him by asking why not, seeing it was as old a story in these parts as the other, but let him continue. ‘No, no! I think Joseph was directed here by God, as Mary Magdalene was directed to France — at least, so the southerners of that country claim.’

‘And what of the story that he is the ancestor of Lancelot and Galahad?’

Brother Hilarion shrugged noncommitally, indicating neither belief nor disbelief in this part of the tale. ‘There’s no proof that Joseph ever had children,’ was his answer.

He glanced anxiously over his shoulder at his charges, but apart from the errant Humphrey — and there is always a Humphrey, in every group of people I have ever known — they were perfectly well behaved. Nevertheless, he sighed and indicated that he must return to them.

I thanked him, and once more he raised his hand in blessing.

‘What will you do now?’ he asked.

‘I must visit Saint Michael’s on the Tor to find out, if I can, what Peter Gildersleeve wanted with Father Elwyn.’

Brother Hilarion nodded. ‘Then let us pray that the good Father will be able to shed some light on this sorry matter.’